So Much Pretty (22 page)

“No.”

“Well, you need to feel somebody. You need some weight pressing against you, and eight hours is a long drive for me, so I suggest you get it taken care of.”

“I’ll consider it.”

“Good. You know we miss you, man. It’s gonna be okay. Things
are going to get better. Don’t get caught up in this shit—write your big-picture story and come the fuck home to Cleveland.”

“What if this
is
the big-picture story?”

“It’s not,” he said. “I’ll call you later.”

I hung up the phone and opened the refrigerator to find no more beer. I knew Brian was right. I’d written seven articles about this case and related cases that I would never file, in addition to my quota of fluff pieces and coverage of community events. I had a houseful of stories on abducted women. And I hadn’t listened to anything but the interview tapes for weeks. I downloaded them to my iPod. I hadn’t listened to anything else in the car for five months. I was living inside the story, and I had to get out of there, at least for a little while.

I put my hair up in a knot, grabbed my hoodie, and walked two blocks through the nowhere that led into town, past my office and into the Rooster.

It was later than I thought, nearly closing time. The bar was almost empty, just the bluegrass band that had been playing, a few regulars, and the crazy-eyed guy in the ambulance-driver uniform, so I sat next to him. I’d seen him set a broken leg at a high school football game and pull a drunk out of the mashed hunk of metal that had been a car. But I’d never really talked to him. I ordered a double Jameson’s and then asked Mr. Uniform if he always drank on duty.

“I’m off. Just haven’t taken
this
off. Yet.”

“Shift just end?”

“Nah. It ended this afternoon, but I fell right asleep and didn’t change.”

“You just really like your uniform, don’t you?”

He looked over at me and smiled, and it was startling. I could feel a whole world of exhaustion and pain and pride recoil and then rest heavily against me. I was not prepared for his look. Hadn’t seen that kind of expression from a human being since moving to this godforsaken town.

“I do like it.” He nodded. “Yeah. Do you like your job?”

And then I saw what it was in his eyes. They looked glassy. They looked like they were coated with something thin and shiny. Something that hurt him a little to see through. He was drunk and going mad, like I was, and it was all pouring forth. I had to talk myself down from putting too much meaning in his look. They were just eyes. Glassy, tired, beautiful.

“I do like my job,” I said. “I love my job. I wouldn’t do anything else.”

“Me either, man.” He grinned. “If you had a uniform, you’d probably wear it all day, too. Wait. Don’t you? I think I seen you in that outfit before.”

He was making me laugh, either for real or because of the Jameson’s, and it didn’t matter which because I could feel something other than a knot in my stomach.

Then he said, “I read that thing you wrote.”

“Oh yeah?” I laughed again. “Kinda hard to read the paper otherwise. It’s just me.”

“No shit, man. I feel that shit. It’s just me over at the VFD, too. I switch shifts with Elmville’s guys—otherwise it’s me, me, and me. I sleep with the scanner.”

“Jesus. I sleep with the scanner, too,” I told him. “It’s actually kind of comforting.”

He nodded like it was a given. Then he closed his eyes for a minute, and at that point I realized he was actually pretty drunk. “The problem with being the only one on the job,” he said finally, “is I keep worrying someone ran over a kid in the middle of nowhere—and there’s no cell phone, or there is a cell phone and I’m somewhere too far away taking care of a stubbed toe, or I get there and it wasn’t fast enough. I get out there and it’s too late. You know?” He looked at me, and his eyes were wet. “Yeah,” he said. “You
do
know.”

Clearly, I knew. And I didn’t want to talk about it.

“Fuck, though!” He smiled his big goofy grin again. “You get
used to it. But there’s no way it’s good for sleeping, you know it? It’d be nice to have some help, but whatever, I guess we just do it that way, huh? You know? We’re just wired that way.”

“Let’s get out of here,” I said.

He stood and grabbed his short blue jacket off the chair, put his arm around me, and we walked out of the bar, said nothing for two blocks, and said nothing as we followed a little trail down to the river’s edge beneath the bridge on Rabbit Run Road. And I said nothing as I unbuttoned and unzipped his pants and he was already hard, pressing me up against the side of the bridge. I was holding him tight against me, holding his ass, feeling his sinewy muscles, his thigh muscles pressing me against the wall and his warm stomach pressing against my breasts. He smelled like pHisoderm and alcohol and dryer sheets and sweat. His mouth was all over mine and my hands were in his hair, on his neck, on his chest, up his shirt to feel his body, thin and strong.

I slipped down the wall, and we sat on the cold stones, his back against the bridge, kissing, and he was making a soft humming sound. That made me stand and step out of my pants, and then I pushed him back gently into the stones and mud and brush and straddled him with one hand pressed against the concrete arch.

He cupped my head and neck in his wide palm, and then we were moving slowly, uncomfortably, my knees pressed into the rocks, until he sat up and leaned against the bridge, held me in his lap, kissed my neck. Breathing steadily now in some incredulous joyful exhale. I kissed his mouth, and he was holding my hips and pulling me down on him, and then I felt it all at once in the base of my spine. And I was contracting and fucking him faster, so fast, until he grabbed my hips tighter and pushed me up and off of him, and he was gasping, spilled into the mud, onto my thighs. Then he was laughing, breathing, exhaling.

I squinted in the moonlight to find my pants, pulled them right side in, and put them on. By the time I got it straight, he was zipped up and standing, his hair wrecked, smiling, leaning
against the concrete arch. “C’mere,” he said lazily, and held out his arms to me.

I walked in to him, put my face on his chest, shaking my head, laughing but amazed, really. My whole body felt good, my back, everything. My shoulders. My thighs. My gut. My jaw. He held me to his chest, leaning there, kissed the top of my head. Breathed in and smelled my hair.

“My name is Tom Cutting,” he said quietly. “And right now I’m pretty sure I was put on this planet to fuck you.”

I leaned gratefully against him and felt the heat of his skin. “I better be getting home,” I told him.

“Oh yeah?” he said. “Don’t want the scanner to be waiting up worrying.”

We walked up the embankment together and stood on the bridge for a minute, looking into the river. I said his name under my breath while I walked home. Partly to remember it. Partly to hear how it sounded.

EVIDENCE
P47911

4/16/09 9:28
A.M
.

Sgt. Anthony Giles

December 12, 2008

Dear Theo
,

You were right about that Carolyn Merchant book. Especially her thing on nature existing in three states: liberty, error, or bondage. How is soccer going? Swim is fan-fucking-tastic and we are faster than ever. This is going to be our season! (I hope.) I have meets the first part of your break so maybe you’ll see what I mean by fast. We have awesome songs for practice too. The Yeah Yeah Yeahs for warm-up and to psych out the little fish from Elmville. And the Distillers (my picks with your help)
.

In other news . . . Thinking much about that last night in the tent? I am. I wish I could get a real boyfriend here—but the natural state for Haeden guys would seem to be error. When you and I fall asleep together, there’s always this point where I wake up and I don’t even feel you holding me or me holding you. It’s weird. I feel like I am alone. There must be some ratio in our respective morphologies that causes this. Nature is filled with these complementary numbers. And ours add up. Or as Claire would say—maybe you’re in love with him. HA!

I also can’t stop thinking about the conversation we had about correcting errors. (Is this why you wanted me to read
Death of Nature?)
Also thinking seriously about the idea of “the world having nothing to learn from evil” and all that stuff you read from the Gnostic Bible that night in the tent—or was that just to get me inside the sleeping bag?

And you’re right. It’s hard to believe we tolerate the things we do. Like being good is going to make it all go away. The tent’s packed up and under the bed and there are no Gnostics in town
.

They still haven’t found that girl. I shouldn’t call her that girl, because she was a swimmer and I know her, but for some reason I have been. Last week Gene and Claire and Ross and I walked through 30 acres of fields with a bunch of other people—looking for her. It was really cold out. And I was glad we didn’t find her, because I guess it means there’s still a chance she ran away. Claire was really upset about it. I like to think she must have gone somewhere more interesting
.

But in the newspaper her parents said she never wanted to leave Haeden. (I know, bizarre.) She worked at the Alibi. I don’t know why these people don’t know where she is. No one else is missing from town. I guess she could have had a secret life or hitchhiked away. Megan knows her pretty well and is friends with her friends. Also a couple of seniors on swim team. And you remember her cousin Donna White from elementary school? She was really nice. It’s some weird shit, man. I only remember Wendy from a couple of times, swim things and when Ross took us to the Alibi (bluegrass night)
.

I wish you were here sooooooo much. I am learning to ride a unicycle. Gene made it out of the old no-speed. I’ll show you when you get home. Pretty easy—though I still have to pedal fast. Your legs might be too long. Megan can’t ride it. She freaks out after it starts moving and takes her feet off the pedals
.

What’s going on with what’s-her-name? As your relationship consultant I advise you to immediately quit messing around and just fucking ask her!!!!! T, you know she’s going to say yes. You are so beautiful. Last year maybe not—but since the summer? Come on. And you’re funny!

Which, speaking of, I finished your hat with the rabbit-fur dog ears. They flop—but only on the tips. Amazing craftsmanship, I have never knit anything this thick. It could stop a bullet. The stitch is like the one we used to make the dinosaur cave that was under the couch. I wanted to keep it for myself. But it would go better with your nose
.

I really miss you, Tea-ho. I can’t wait for break. School is so boring and I have some good ideas for Circus but need you to be here because you’re tall, and they involve me standing on you. And no, to answer your question, the parents will not be getting me a computer—which is fine
.

Also! I’ve been target shooting with Ross (the little Glock). Sooooooo much better now it’s not even funny, though I don’t know how to work it into my Comprehensive Life Plan (the CLP keeps getting twistier) and Gene hates the whole gun thing. So this means hours of discussion on the nature of power. B-O-R-I-N-G. They are still blah blah blah about Hannah Arendt
.

G&C say I should get a camera to “shoot with” and focus on “becoming the media” (I am so embarrassed that they said “become the media” I didn’t even want to write that part to you). Wow, what a shock. Becoming the “new” farmers really worked out well for them, and it actually changed the world too!!! GAH!! Whatevuh. I know you love them. But they’re not your parents. Where are your parents anyway? (I know, not funny.)

The other part of the CLP is volunteering at the Haeden Medical Center. THIS is truly fun. You should think about doing it this summer when you’re home. We can ride our bikes there in like ten minutes—you can actually take the trail from our spot right to 24 and then you’re there. Mostly it’s crappy work—but you get to wear scrubs and watch what everybody does
.

Claire keeps asking me if I am anxious about Wendy and if that’s why I’m shooting and thinking about studying medicine. And then they said they think I’m angry about something. Claire’s probably right in some way. But Jesus, what if I have to catch food to eat one day? What would she and Gene do if they had to? Ask the animal if it was okay to kill it? And besides, they’re the ones who gave me the Ward Churchill and Derrick Jensen books! But now Gene says
Pacifism as Pathology
is “flawed.” (Did you read Jensen’s
Endgame
yet? That’s the one that’s more flawed in my opinion. He fully thinks hackers are going to save the day and people are going to blow up dams in the name of salmon. Seriously? I mean seriously? In the name of salmon before in the name of humanity?) And what about all that Simone de Beauvoir and Monique Wittig and Naomi Wolf they gave me in like fucking middle school? I mean okay—you probably shouldn’t go through puberty without it, but seriously? Try to apply these conceptual models in a sixth-grade health or history class. I’m fucking sick of it. I’m sick of reading about things. All I want to do now is swim and play magic and shoot. You are the only person with whom I want to discuss books. I will say it. I am alone. I am totally alone
.

So that’s what’s going on with me, Moley. Sorry for bitching. I can’t wait to see you. Good luck with the Keira Knightly look-alike. She will fall in love with you if you tell her those string jokes. Hope you like the kissing pictures. Write soon. Dog-hat-on-its-way. Love. Love. Love. Love. Alice
.

Haeden, NY

APRIL 3, 2009

H
E DIDN’T KNOW
when he got the idea, but it was like it was always there. Not like he got it but like it had just been uncovered. Like it was sitting there in the corner with a sheet thrown over it. He laughed now at that thought. “Sounds a lot like somebody we know, doesn’t it?” he said out loud, waiting for the light to change.