Sunset City (13 page)

“Oh my god, Charlotte, I had no idea.”

“Yeah, well.”

“I'm sorry.”

“She was murdered,” I said. “I've had to talk to the cops. I've visited her mother. I went to the memorial service. At a fucking
church. That's what I've been up to while you've been fucking around with your ex-girlfriend.”

I turned around and walked back the way we came. He trotted behind me to catch up.

“Michael, I'm going home,” I said.

“Okay.”

“I don't want you to come with me.”

“Charlotte, if I'd known you were dealing with all this—”

“Then what? You wouldn't have told me about what's-her-name?”

“No, I—”

“You would have kept lying to me a little longer?”

“Charlotte, I care about you. I love you. I want to be your friend, I can be here for you, will you stop?”

I was walking so fast I might as well have been running. He was sweating through his T-shirt. He reached out to grab my shoulder. I stopped and closed my eyes, trying not to cry. He stepped close and hugged me. I felt crushed, not from the pressure of his embrace, but some other force. It was like my chest imploded and my arms hung loose from an empty frame. We stood together, breathing, on the street in front of the muddy ditch.

“Charlotte, I'm sorry,” he whispered into my hair.

“I know,” I said.

“Let me walk you home.”

“No. It's too late,” I said. “Or too soon, or something.”

He nodded. “Will you be okay?”

“I'm fine,” I said. “Don't worry about me.”

I left him standing on the sidewalk. I passed the new townhomes with their Home Depot lanterns and then the dingy apartment complexes on my block. I went up the steps and inside. I thought about the mornings Michael used to stay over.
We'd sit on the couch facing each other, drinking coffee, and he would put his bare feet on top of my feet and we'd talk about what we had to go do that day. It was nice. He was pleasant to be around. Still, half the time I wished he'd leave so I could be alone. He didn't understand certain truths about life—its sadness. Its difficulty. He'd had a happy childhood. He didn't know the way I'd grown up. I never told him about it. No one knew, except my mom, and Danielle. Only dead people.

I felt worn out, thinking of all the people whose lives were suddenly intertwined with mine: Audrey, Brandon, Sally, Danielle. What did any of them have to do with me, really? I ought to try to get my job back. Or some job, anyway, maybe a different one. I vowed to do it tomorrow. Either call my boss or go fill out some applications. I got a beer from the fridge and watched some crappy TV, relieved to be by myself and not think.

I
slept late the next day and woke up to my ringing phone. I answered when I saw Audrey's name on the caller ID.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“Sleeping.”

“Come with me to Brandon's. I'm worried about him.”

“Why? What's wrong?”

“He's not answering his phone. He does that when he gets too depressed. Let's go cheer him up.”

“I don't know,” I said. I didn't feel too great about seeing Brandon. I kind of wanted a break from Audrey, too.

“Oh, come on. I'm right by your house, anyways.”

“I was gonna go do some stuff. Look for a job.”

“Well, I'm coming over. I'll be there in a few.” She hung up.

It was after noon. I showered and drank coffee, made a peanut butter sandwich. I was eating it when she got there.

“Hey,” she said at the top of the steps. “Let's smoke real quick.”

She loaded a wooden pipe and lit it, handed it to me.

“I can't go,” I said, taking the pipe.

“Oh, come on. You're not seriously going to look for a job right now, are you?”

“Sure,” I said. “Maybe I shouldn't be smoking.”

“Come on, I don't want to hang out with Brandon by myself, it's too depressing. All he does is cry and talk about Danielle. If you're there maybe he'll make more of an effort.”

“The cops think he killed her,” I said.

“Well, he didn't.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, I'm fucking sure.”

“But what if they're right?”

“Look, I know him. Do you think he did it? Can you picture it?”

“No. Not really.”

“So what's your deal? Why are you being all sketchy? Just come with me.”

I took another hit from the pipe and held it. I decided to tell her.

“I had sex with him,” I said. “It was before you and me, you know . . . it only happened once. We did some ketamine and smoked and it just happened.”

“He's such a slut,” she said.

“You're not upset?”

“Whatever, I can tell you like me.”

I smiled.

“I did K once,” she said. “With him and Dani. I mean, Dani didn't do it, she only smoked weed. It freaked the fuck out of me. I couldn't move and the walls turned into trees with hands, and they couldn't move either. And we couldn't find each other. It was the worst.”

“Trees with hands?”

“They went to grab me. We were paralyzed and couldn't get away. And they kept changing colors. I would not touch that shit again.”

“Sounds horrible,” I said.

“Please come help me cheer him up?”

“There's something else, too,” I said.

Audrey refilled the pipe and hit it. “What?” she said around the smoke.

“I told the detective about him and Danielle fighting. I feel terrible about it.”

“Jesus.”

“That's bad, right?”

“I don't know. Maybe.”

“Brandon doesn't know it was me, probably. I thought he'd already told them.”

She thought for a minute. “Well, it happened. Their fight, I mean. You didn't lie.”

“No.”

“And you didn't mean to. You worry too much. Maybe we can take him to the movies. He loves movies.”

“You really want me to go with you, huh?”

“Is it obvious?” She reached over and took hold of my hair, pulling me towards her. The kiss left me empty-headed and gasping.

“You're very persuasive,” I said.

“Good. Let's go.”

In the car I said, “Has that detective been talking to you, too? Ash?”

“He asked me a bunch of questions. Pain in the ass.”

“Yeah, totally. What'd you tell him?”

“Nothing. I don't know what happened. He finally let me go.”

“I hope he catches the guy,” I said.

“Yeah.”

“Can I ask you something? Do you think he's kind of hot?”

She looked at me like I was nuts. “He's a cop,” she said.

“I know, but still.”

“I can't believe you like him,” she said.

“I don't like him. I think he's attractive, that's all.”

“You have weird taste.”

“All right, forget I said anything.”

“I wonder if he's, like, into handcuffs and stuff like that. Like role-playing, uniforms.”

“I don't get the whole uniform fetish,” I said. “To me people always look uncomfortable in them.”

“Once I had to dress up like a prison warden for a shoot,” Audrey said. “It was so silly. I wore this khaki outfit with a badge on it, and platform heels.”

“I wouldn't mind seeing that.”

“Well, you can, it's on the fucking Internet. I carried this nightstick, too. But it was actually a dildo.”

We dissolved into giggles.

She said, “I hope Brandon will be okay. He told me he's been calling in sick to work.”

“Maybe that's good,” I said. “He could probably use a break. To grieve, you know?”

“Yeah, no shit he could use a break. Have you seen the public-access channel?”

“No, I don't have cable.”

“It's weird, it has these shows like ‘My Skin Is on Fire: Living with Psoriasis.' I have it.”

“You have psoriasis?”

“Ha ha,” she said.

“What is psoriasis, anyway?” I asked.

“I think it's where your skin is on fire. If you had cable you would know this.”

I smiled.

At Brandon's house we rang the bell. His car was in the drive, but he didn't answer the door.

“He's probably asleep,” she said. “I know how to get in.”

We went around to a screened porch in the back, cluttered with plastic furniture. A pot of dirt sat on a wicker table by the kitchen door. Audrey lifted it and retrieved a spare key, unlocked the door, and pushed it open to the kitchen. The air inside was stuffy and smelled like rotting garbage. I followed behind her, listening, trying to sense anyone in the house.

“Brandon, what the F?” Audrey called out. “Wake up!”

She lit a cigarette and opened the fridge, grabbed a can of Diet Coke. I walked past her into the dining room. A vintage movie poster on foam core was nailed to the yellow wall. Piles of mail littered the table, along with DVDs in paper envelopes. Through the archway I could see the living room and the front window. The smell was terrible.

The couch was missing a cushion. I saw the corner of it on the floor, behind the coffee table, on his Ikea rug with the oversized green and red floral design. Thin hardwood boards ran diagonally, like they made in the twenties. I was wondering, Could this house be that old? as I stepped around the table. Brandon lay on the floor, faceup, wedged between the couch and table, his body twisted. One arm was pinned under him.

“Audrey!” I yelled.

Bad sweetness bloomed off him, filling the room. Vomit had dried on his face and the rug. He wore shorts and scuffed white tennis shoes, with one lace partway undone. I tried to take a breath and retched, gripping the table for support. Bile burned my throat. I vomited on the floor. A chair lay on its side next to me. Had it been that way or had I knocked it over? I
took a deep breath but there was no air, only the smell. His body filled my throat, my nose. I retched again and ran, bumping into Audrey.

“Outside,” I gasped, grabbing her arm.

We stumbled through the yard and I leaned against the tree by the fence, far from the house. I squatted down, hunched over, hugged my knees. Audrey stood over me, trying to balance in the yard on her high heels.

“What?” she asked. “Charlotte, you're freaking me out.”

I gulped air, forced my breath deep and even. The smell was not as strong out here. “He's dead,” I said, when I could talk.

“No, he's not,” she said. “Quit it. What's wrong with you?” She was backing away from me and turning towards the house.

“Audrey, don't go in there,” I said. She ignored me. I watched her disappear through the kitchen door. She came out a minute later looking white, shaky.

“He's dead,” she said.

“Yes. We need to call the cops,” I said.

“I don't know,” she said.

“Yes, that's what we do.” I was thinking clearly then. “Let's go to the car. I'll call Ash, and you . . .” I thought for a minute. “Drugs,” I said. “Weed, coke, whatever you have on you, in your car, you have to get rid of it. We'll hide it somewhere.”

I stood, took her hand, and led her out of the yard and to the car. Audrey was like a doll whose limbs you had to manually move. She walked slowly alongside me, the cigarette forgotten between her fingers. She was so unresponsive. It was starting to scare me. “It's going to be okay,” I told her, then repeated it.

Some kids were playing on swings at the park across the street, their tummies draped over the seats, arms and legs
dangling in the grooves of dirt. I watched them, confused. How could they be there, in the same world as me and Audrey and everyone who was dead? I got hold of my phone and dialed.

“Ash,” he answered.

“Charlotte,” I said. “It's Charlotte Ford.”

“Charlotte, what's wrong?”

“I'm at Brandon's house,” I said.

“I told you to stay away from him.”

“He's dead.”

“Shit,” he said. “I'm coming now. Stay where you are and talk to the officers when they arrive. Are you hurt?”

“No,” I said.

“I'll be there soon as I can, okay?”

“Okay.” I hung up.

“He's on his way,” I said to Audrey.

She sat in the driver's seat, frozen, not responding.

“Audrey, where's the weed?” I said. “We have to hide it.”

She didn't answer. Her eyes did not seem to focus.

“Come on,” I said. “They'll be here soon.”

Finally she looked at me.

“No,” she said. “I don't want to see the cops.”

“We have to.”

“And tell them what?” she said. “We don't know anything.”

“Audrey, we can't leave. I already called them.”

“You stay if you want,” she said. She closed the car door and put her seat belt on. “I'm sorry. I can't.” She turned the key, shifted into drive, and pulled away.

I walked up and down the sidewalk in front of Brandon's house. Cars honked on Main, a few blocks down. The sidewalk slab buckled under an old bur oak and the roots showed through. The formation of roots made a contorted shape that
resembled a dog. A squad car turned the corner and parked in front of the house. Two uniformed cops got out.

“Charlotte Ford?” one of them said.

I nodded.

“Tell me what happened,” he said.

“Brandon's dead,” I said. “I went in the kitchen door. It's unlocked.”

“Wait here,” the man said.

They walked around back. I leaned against the tree until they came out, and I answered their questions. What time had I arrived? Why was I there? When had I last seen Brandon, heard from him? What was the nature of our relationship, what had I touched inside the house? It went on and on. I didn't mention Audrey. I didn't want to get her in trouble.

Soon the street filled with vehicles. An ambulance pulled quietly behind the squad car. Ash parked his SUV and got out, nodded to me, and walked up Brandon's steps. Another squad car came. I sat on a bench across the street and smoked cigarette after cigarette, lining the butts on the sidewalk next to my foot. The light slanted into dusk on the bench. All the time I worried about Audrey.

Eventually Ash came outside and sat on the bench next to me.

“What are you doing here, Charlotte? I told you to steer clear.”

“Well, he's not going to hurt anybody now, is he,” I said.

He sighed. “Tell me what happened.”

“I already told the other guy all of this.”

“Now tell me,” he said.

I went through it again, and as I described finding Brandon's body, it seemed unreal, like I was making it up. Why was I talking about any of this stuff, when we were right there in front of Brandon's house and I ought to go in and sit on the couch and him and me and Audrey could smoke a bowl and
talk and go to the movies like we planned. It was so absurd to be out here on the bench instead that I started to laugh. But the laughter sounded wrong, like fucked-up coughing, and I stopped.

“I'm sorry,” I said.

“For what?”

“I don't know.”

I figured something must be my fault. Before I came into these people's lives they were fine, they were okay. I bit down, imagined my teeth cracking from the pressure. My thoughts were heavy objects falling from a great height. They hit the ground without bouncing; they sank and disappeared. I had a vision in which my eyes retreated deep into their sockets and vanished, and I never had to see again. I seemed to be crying.

Ash was talking. “Looks like he overdosed, Charlotte.”

“Why did he do it? How did it happen?”

“They'll do tests. We found ketamine in the house. We see that sometimes, with club drugs. Especially injecting, it's hard to gauge the dose.”

“Injecting? He used needles?”

“Apparently we're waiting on forensics. We'll find out more. When did you last talk to him?”

“A few days ago. Before I saw you last.”

“How did he seem?”

“Sad. He was sad.”

Ash nodded.

“I saw a dead person before,” I said. “My mom. I found her, too.”

“That's hard,” he said. “I'm sorry.”

The front door opened and the ambulance guys were bringing a stretcher through. It had Brandon on it, covered up. Ash went to talk to them and I was alone on the bench. After a few minutes, I walked down the street through the neighborhood,
away from Brandon's house and his body and all the police cars. I passed tidy houses flickering with television. People washed dishes, their cats perched on their front steps, the coals in their grills burned themselves out. It was a toy world, unreal. On North Main the traffic streamed by in rivulets of light. I turned and walked past gas stations and closed shops until I found a bar.