Rose of No Man's Land (22 page)

You like Harry?
the monster garbled at me.
He’s my father.

He Seems Like A Real Nice Guy, I said.

He keeps me alive. I’d be living on a bench across the street, wasn’t for him.
The monster regarded me with his deep blue eyes. His face was craggy like the inside of a cracked rock. Sedimentary layers of lines, shades of pink and tan, orange and red, settled down his cheeks. Stubble was scattered on his chin like sand. He was sitting on a twin bed, a kid’s bed, his hands twined across his melon-belly. The eagle on his T-shirt glared out from the taut mound.
Beside the twin bed shoved into a shadowy corner of the room there was another bed, a bigger one, clearly busted, the lumpy mattress careening downward at a severe slope. The headboard was dark plastic with fake-wood grain. Across from it a dresser held a lamp on its surface, plus a framed eight-by-ten of a young girl in a dance costume. One of those spangled jobs, canary-yellow with sparkly bits of silver all over it, fringe like Christmas tree tinsel dangling from her ass, a poof of yellow fuzz frizzing out from her redheaded head. She was one of those redheaded kids who always look like they’re drooling. She held her arms out stiffly, demonstrating a dazzle of silver at her wrists. Her expression was stiff too, like someone had grabbed a big metal tool and wrenched a smile across her face. She looked cramped with happiness.

The monster cleared his throat, but when he spoke it still sounded phlegmy.
You girls do a poor imitation of Kimmy. No offense.
From the shadows behind his bed he wrestled with something on his wall. He stretched his arm and tugged, and the lamplight from the dresser washed over his skin and made the mottled colors glow there, bruises and redness in the crook of his elbow. When his hand returned from the shadows all I saw were the tits cupped in his palm. Air Freshener? I asked. But it was a Polaroid. Of Kim Porciatti. Naked Kim Porciatti. If I had ever wanted to know what lay beneath the tight jeans and the buttery cardigans, if I had ever cared, it would have been a happy moment.
Here’s my Kimmy
, he said.
Maybe you never seen her this way. Maybe not, though. You girls get naked for each other all the time, don’tcha? At, like, your
sleepover parties and whatnot.

We don’t get invited to Kim Porciatti’s sleepover parties
, Rose said. Her voice sounded dull.

I’m just saying, I know that girls are more comfortable with their bodies together than men are. Men don’t like each other naked. Here, take a look.
He offered us the picture, dark in its white frame. Kim Porciatti, her little tummy, her two tits staring straight at me, the nipples giving me dirty looks. Got a staring problem, the nipples asked. Take a picture, it lasts longer, they invited. Kim’s face was turned to the side, her mouth slightly open, maybe she was saying something. Maybe she was saying,
I don’t know
, or
Promise you won’t
, or
Just one.
Her pubic hair was a spidery smudge, her arms were clasped behind her waist, pulling her shoulders back. I could see her rib cage laddering up her edges, disappearing beneath the emergence of tits. Kim Porciatti’s body. It was very tan in color, like the goopy insides of candy bars. There was her famous hair in its sleek ponytail. But mostly is was her face. At first glance it looked sort of blank, the way people look in pictures that aren’t posed — caught in a thought, mouth open to a passing idea. Then I felt the rising need to giggle, a terrible laugh storm growing inside me, and the Kim in the picture seemed happy, her mouth rising slightly at the corners. So I experimented. I tried to see if I could make Kim look angry. I could. I could make her look horrified. I could make her look like someone had stolen her clothes. Like a monster dude was just out of reach, her Ohmigod! threads crunched in his grubby paw, bunched in the crook of his rotting elbow, held above his head, out of reach. Her
clothes stomped under his shit kickers as he aimed the hunk of camera at her. He hit the button and the Polaroid spit out a souvenir of her skankiest moment. It promised she’d live forever above a monster’s pillow. In the photo before me Kim Porciatti was now on the verge of tears. I waved it away before it started bleeding from the eyes like a cursed church statue.

Wow, how’d you get her to do that?
asked Rose. Her eyes were stuck to the plasticky square of Kim.

You’re lucky you even saw this
, the man smiled proudly. He shook it in the air like it was still wet, like there was still more naked Kim to emerge from the slick film.
You’re lucky I showed that to you. I don’t show it to most people.
He turned and pinned it back inside the shadows. Rose rolled her eyes.

Yeah, I feel really lucky.
The guy started at the sarcasm in her voice and I felt a quick chill roll my arms. He wasn’t totally dumb, he could read tone, could tell when he was being made fun of.

She’s Just Kidding, I said fast. I was embarrassed at how ass-kissy my voice sounded. I shook my hair into my face and tried to look unaffected. Totally blasé about his weird bedroom, about the painfully cheery dancer girl on his dresser, about his deformed stomach and discolored arms and the liberties he’d taken with Kim Porciatti.

Serious
, Rose said. She was smiling now.
How’d you get her to let you take her picture like that?

His bear paw gave the underside of his ponytail a vicious scratching.
Why don’t you tell me where she is, or how you got her phone or something? Why don’t you let me
ask you some questions.

Rose shrugged.
She stole it.
She twitched her head in my direction. So casual, as if stealing was not a secret thing. As if it were not private information.

I Didn’t Steal It, I protested. I swung my face toward Rose and cranked my mouth open so she could know what a jerk she was. I gave her jerk-eyes as well. I Worked With Her And She Left It Behind So I Took It.

I’ve been callin’ and callin’.
He leaned forward on his little bed, his hands on his legs. He had jeans on. Black jeans and boots and a Harley shirt. Work boots. Shit kickers.
I would think she’d have called me. She usually calls me.

She tried to kill herself.
The dude squinted his eyes at Rose, like if he focused he could see what she was telling him. His mouth was open. Rose gave a short little laugh. It was a mean sound, and it comforted me. I didn’t know where I fit in the room. I wanted nothing more than to go out into the smoke glob and watch TV with Old Harry. Have him explain football to me, where the ball was supposed to go, why one man just hopped onto another man, why anybody gave a shit about it. Let his secondhand smoke spread like black lace across my lungs, who cares. A laugh chimed out of Rose, a burst and then a tinkle, like a car window getting smashed.
I can’t believe you didn’t know that. Everyone knows that. I don’t even know Kim and I know that.

I can’t know everything
, he said simply.
I can’t know things nobody tells me.
Then he was quiet, he nodded his head like he was agreeing with himself.
She shoulda called me. She was only crashing. I told her to just call me whenever
and I’d meet her anywhere. I don’t deliver but I’d deliver to her. You can feel real low when you’re crashing. You stop making any kind of sense to yourself.

What was she crashing from? Crystal?

He snapped his head back and filled his face with a somber expression.
What about you? I don’t even know you. You don’t even know Kim. What, did someone hire you? I’m not saying nothin’ to you.

Please! I laughed. You Already Showed Us A Naked Picture.

Yeah, really
, Rose chimed.
It’s a little late to get worried. Plus we’re just a couple of regular girls anyway. Are you a drug dealer?
Rose leaned against the dresser, then with a backward swoop lifted herself onto it. She kicked her legs against the drawers like a baby in a high chair. The framed picture of the canary dancing girl was lifted onto her lap. She gazed down at it, tapping the dusty glass with her chipped black fingertips.
Who’s this, your daughter?

My cousin.

You got a daughter? You got any kids or anyone?

Nah.

Just Harry out in the room?

His name ain’t Harry. It’s Chester. We just like to call each other Harry.

That’s cute. Harry and Harry. So, this is your cousin. That —
she pointed into the darkness behind the dude’s head —
is Kim Porciatti. I am Rose and this is Trisha. What’s your name?

The monster’s name was Paul. Paulie. And he didn’t have anyone except Old Harry Chester, who slept on the
wildly crooked other bed while Paulie snuggled on his narrow child’s bed, beneath a creepy naked Polaroid of Kim Porciatti. Paulie confirmed that he had had a mother, but that’s as far as he went with that. I hoped the lady had hightailed it to a better place. I hoped she was hunkered at the tip of a better beach, one with a permanent carnival lacking gun-toting teenagers. I hoped she was playing bingo somewhere excellent, with a faceful of too-bright makeup and no regrets. He’d had a wife once for three months, and it didn’t work out so he’d moved back in with Old Harry Chester and that was the end of their story. OHC collected old-person checks and Paulie sold something called crystal, which was not the fancy place settings rich people eat from on TV shows. It was also not the magical-looking rocks Ma once balanced on her head while she lay on the couch. It was a phase. They were beautiful, the crystals, like thick jagged glass with pink smoke trapped inside, but Ma looked like a fool laying around with them rolling on her face. She’d seen some show about crystal healing and tried it for a while and then was done with them. Kristy has them now. I’ve seen them in her room, on her dresser, and I bet she lays around with them on her head too. She says she only likes how pretty they are but she can’t fool me.

Monster Paulie was crouched on his knees, his head stuck under his bed. This minor physical maneuver required maximum huffage and puffage. That giant ball in his belly really got in the way of basic motion. He leaned over it to dip beneath the bed, coming out with the cardboard box his shit kickers came in.

Shut the door
, he said to Rose, and she did. She popped
off the dresser and clicked shut the door.
How’d you meet Kim Porciatti?
she wanted to know.

You want to know everything
, he said, shuffling through his box.
How did you meet me, huh? How did you two meet each other? What’s your story, you two?

Rose looked at me and shrugged and laughed. The deep randomness of all of this was staggering. I guess that’s what happens in life — you do one sort of innocent thing, like get a job or rather, lie to get a job and then, wham, a giant chain of causes and effects grows and grows until you’re trapped in this thing, your life.
We just met today
, Rose said.
We don’t really know each other.
This is the circumstance, I thought. The one I was supposed to avoid becoming victimized by. Rose was the circumstance.

Well, you two can’t really trust each other
, Paulie said.
And I can’t trust either of you. And I don’t like to sell crystal to people I can’t trust. That’s no good. How am I gonna trust you? What are you gonna give me? I need to have something over you ’cause you’re gonna have something over me. Life’s got to be equal. Business life.

I got money
, Rose said.
I’m not asking you for free drugs.

Everybody’s got money, sweetheart.

I Don’t, I offered. Paulie ignored me.

I’m just dealing with you here, right? This is between you and me?

Rose looked annoyed. She glanced at me.
Yeah, I got the money.

I need collateral. Kimmy gave me the photo.
He hefted a dark block of camera from the box.

No Way, I said. I bolted for the door.

Trisha
, Rose snapped, halting me.

Don’t worry, there. I just need a picture from one of you. You gonna give me a picture?
The room was quiet. I could hear the vague cheers from the television, the hearty, confident jabber of a sportscaster explaining the explainable. Why the football hero had been able to do what he had done. Why the team was so mighty. What this meant for the future. His voice was spilling with joy.

Can I just flash you?
Rose was negotiating.
You can take a picture from here —
she held a hand to her throat —
and here
— and one at her belly.

It’s not like I need any more clients
, Paulie said.
You can get out of here. Your friend wants to leave.
He looked at me.
Right?

Yeah, Totally, I nodded. Rose sighed.

Okay quick, come on
, she said. She whipped her dress-thing over her head, creating a new wind inside the stuffy room. A clean and showery smell, powdery. It flapped like a bat above her head, whooshing to the floor. No bra. I averted my eyes from Rose’s boobs, just sitting there blatant on her body. I thought of Kim Porciatti’s accusing nipples. I did not want to receive the glare of Rose’s. I kept my eyes turned down at Paulie’s crappy carpet. The bristles of fabric were thick and frayed, clumped with stains. It didn’t quite cover the room, thin strips of wood were visible alongside the walls, studded with giant staples. The feel of the room was wild and swirling.

I’m not taking my sneakers off
, Rose’s voice was tough, like she was really putting her foot down. Her duct-taped moldy sneakers stayed on. There was a flash and a whine
and I could hear the camera cough up a picture. I glanced at Rose. She was tugging up her drawers, her nightgown veiling the dresser behind her. I looked back to the carpet, to my feet in their flops, my toes still an absurd color. They looked like someone else’s feet, like when I was little and would cut up Ma’s
Women’s Day
and
Family Circle
magazines, slicing the models into heads, torsos, and legs, then mixing and matching them. I kept them in little envelopes, smiling paper heads in one, bodies in one, legs in another. If I was a boy doing that you know they’d have flung me at a psychiatrist or something, to make sure I didn’t wind up a mass murderer, but since I was female they just thought, what the hell, and let me keep chopping up all these ladies.