Sigrid Nunez
innocent mistakes
You’d think doing time would age a person, but it was the opposite with Ned. He came out shrunk, both shorter (prison is bad for your posture) and skinnier (he’d lost twenty pounds). His skin had the pale, almost see-through quality you often see in children, and the eyes in his thinner face were wide and round and habitually unfocussed, the eyes of someone dreaming on his feet. He got carded by the new waitress at Lords & Ladies. He was a twenty-eight-year-old ex-con who looked like a helpless dumb kid. Worse, he acted like one.
Rosario had promised to wait for him, a promise that, as she liked to remind everyone, she had kept. But after a year of having to do everything but wipe his butt for him, she’d had enough.
I got a right to life, she said. No point asking her to be more articulate since it was only too clear what she meant.
Shena didn’t blame Rosario. She figured that, in Rosario’s place, she’d probably be dumping Ned too. Not that Rosario had ever been anything like Shena’s favorite person. In spite of everything, Shena still thought Ned was too good for Rosario. And right now she hated Rosario to death. Right now she wanted to snap a picture of Rosario and send it to all her friends so they could see how disgusting she looked in that top. Every guy in the diner was finding some excuse to walk past their booth. One even pretended to drop his baseball cap.
It was at the wedding that Shena had first noticed, because of the dress—more like what you’d wear on the honeymoon than to the church—that Rosario’s breasts and Rosario’s ass-cheeks were exactly the same shape and size. Now, as Rosario leaned forward so that her breasts literally sat down on the table, Shena had a hard time not seeing something more obscene. Also, the cross she was wearing had got embedded in her cleavage. It looked like she’d been stabbed in the chest with a teensy dagger. Or—
I’m not saying I won’t still be there, Rosario said. I’ll always be Ned’s friend.
Shena looked away from Rosario and into the future. Rosario would still be there. She and Ned would stay friends. But soon Rosario would start finding excuses, and they would see each other less and less. Then a new man would enter the picture, and one day Rosario would explain that this man, the one she was hoping to start over with—and how could you hold that against a woman with the best of life (motherhood) still ahead—was the jealous type. Also the macho type: if she didn’t stop seeing Ned, he’d kill them both. After that, whenever Ned ran into Rosario, which would happen cruelly often, he’d torture himself by mentally measuring her stomach. One day he’d sit staring blankly at some papers that had been shoved under his nose until an impatient finger tapped on where to sign, and he’d sign. Then he’d lay down the pen, and he’d lay down his head and sob.
Fuck her, Neddy. You were always too good for that cunt.
Minus the last bit, which went unsaid, this was exactly how things turned out.
* * *
If he was going to live with her, she’d better make some rules. No sleeping half the day away, no hours and hours binging on games or TV. Of course she knew how hard it was going to be for him to find a job (even before his arrest it’d been hard), but he’d have to make more of an effort. Meanwhile, there was plenty of work to be done. Not that she was expecting him to help with the rent just yet, though God knew she could use some of that. But how about cleaning the house. How about picking up the litter passersby threw on the lawn and sometimes even as far as the front step.
Since Scottie had moved out, a lot of things had piled up. The truth was, she wouldn’t have wanted anyone but flesh and blood to see how far matters had got out of hand. Her bedroom door had lost its knob, and the window was covered with plastic. More of her clothes were on the closet floor than up on the hangers. The fridge and the kitchen cabinets held stuff with sell-by dates from the Stone Age. The microwave was totally broken. Actually, quite a few things were broken. Some things (microwave) had broken all by themselves. Others (bedroom window, bedside lamp, kitchen chair) had been part of the damage from Hurricane Scottie, during which two of Shena’s fingers had also managed to get broken, which was a big deal not just because it hurt like hell but because it meant ending up behind the counter at the discount jewelry store in the same mall where up till then she’d been happily (enough) cutting hair.
Not that this part of the story was something Ned needed to know, because it would only complicate things should Scottie realize what a mistake he’d made, what a fool he’d been, and come a-riding back and a-begging her (she tried to picture him on his knees but it wouldn’t work because she wanted to be looking up at him) to forgive him and (maybe here down on one knee?) to be his bride.
Actually, it wasn’t anyone’s goddamn business. At the salon she’d told them she’d slammed her hand in a door, and the way Jackie looked at her and then down at the floor made Shena want, broken fingers or not, to punch out her lights.
So the point was, the house needed repairs. (It was the roof that needed the most repairs, but that was the landlord’s job, and finding him, well, good luck with that, and she-who-is-often-late-with-the-rent can’t exactly be she-who-demands-her- tenant-rights.) Ned was nowhere near as handy as Scottie but at least he could—
Hey! Yoo-hoo, over here! Focus, Ned, focus. Did you even hear what I said?
* * *
His caseworker said it was a kind of PTSD. That was not a good thing for the caseworker to have said. It made him feel like crap. How many people could he name who’d served in Iraq or Afghanistan, or both, and who weren’t doing so hot since they returned? Including his old buddy and brother-in-law (ex-brother-in-law), Cooper.
Though, come to think of it, Cooper, now far away in blue Hawaii with a new girlfriend (what was that word again?) and his own little surf shop, seemed to be doing okay.
Wahini. Man, do not say that word in Shena’s hearing.
Yes, to answer the caseworker’s question, he knew exactly why he felt like crap. He didn’t feel like he had any right to have PTSD. Because he hadn’t exactly served his country, had he. All he’d done was seriously fuck up.
But that’s what Mrs. Wilson said too, remember? Shena reminded him.
Mrs. Wilson was their old social worker. Ned remembered that it was a long time ago, when he and Shena were still in school.
It’s not just for soldiers, Shena said. She said you and me both had PTSD.
Medication had helped Cooper, as Ned recalled, so when the caseworker sent him to a doctor who gave him a prescription—a bunch of prescriptions—he was okay with that. Shena was okay with it, too. She didn’t know about the other pills, but it could not hurt at all to have some extra oxazepam around.
She had to feed him the pills herself every day, or he’d forget to take them.
* * *
There weren’t any rich people around where they lived, but the next town over was another kingdom. One whole area was all mansions, old and big or new and bigger, and just off the freeway that linked the two towns was a mall, not like the mall where Shena worked, which was mainly discount and fast-food chains, but full of rich- people stores like Ralph Lauren and Nieman Marcus and a chocolate shop that sold pound boxes that cost as much as the prime rib at the steakhouse next door.
Nanette’s sold beautiful clothing, mostly cashmere. Nanette herself didn’t come often into the store anymore, content to leave operations to her trusty workaholic manager. In fact, these days Nanette didn’t go out much at all. Since the death of her son she’d become more or less a recluse, and her health was starting to fail. Her breath was short, she had dizzy attacks, and some days she needed a cane. Her appetite was bad. She picked at her lobster salad while, across the table, Father Skye all but wallowed in his prime rib.
They had been meeting like this for lunch once a month for thirty years.
If he’d been convicted of some kind of violence, said Father Skye, of course I’d never suggest it. But we’re not talking about some hardened criminal. Matter of fact, he says he was innocent.
Isn’t that what they all say?
Yes, but in his case I think it’s true. I think the poor guy was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. And you know how it is. If he’d had money for a good lawyer, he might not have gone to prison at all.
What’s he like as a person?
Um, let me see. Very quiet. Decent. Not someone who likes to draw attention to himself. He was a little shell-shocked after his release, but he’s on medication now and doing much better. Still, according to his caseworker—she’s the one who contacted me—he’s got sub-zero self-esteem. He needs some structure in his life, some responsibility. Not to mention income.
What about family?
His wife left him and he’s been living with his older sister. She’s been his main support, though she’s got her own issues. I remember them from when they were kids at St. Peter’s. There were parents once upon a time, but they’ve been out of the picture forever. It’s a bad story. The kids were, like, six and four when they went into foster care. Which turned out to be like going from the frying pan into the fire, if you know what I mean. But let’s not get into all that, it’s not for your ears, dear Nanette, I don’t want to upset you.
Nanette touched her napkin to her lips and took a long drink of water. It never failed to curdle her mood when someone suggested that there was something she was too delicate or coddled to hear. As if you could bury your son, your precious only child, his body destroyed, his soul utterly degraded, and still have any innocence left.
She signed to the waiter to remove her half-eaten salad. Father Skye, still working on his steak, asked to be brought another Belgian ale.
Nanette, he said, you haven’t eaten a thing! Every time I see you, you’ve lost some more weight. I’m worried about you.
Well, don’t be, she snapped. How much food does an old woman need? And nothing pleases God more than a thin body, didn’t Tertullian say?
Which Father Skye pretended not to hear—as he’d long pretended not to know that behind his back Nanette called him Friar Tuck. Not that it didn’t hurt his feelings. Bitch.
He made a little show of quaffing his ale before going on.
I don’t have to tell you what the odds are against an ex-prisoner finding a job, especially in this economy. So when I saw the sign in your window I thought the least I could do was ask. He has some retail experience, and you’ve always been so generous to people in trouble.
It’s true that, with Robin having a baby, we need someone to replace her. But we were really thinking of a woman. And are you sure this man has experience?
Not a lot, I won’t lie to you. But as it turns out, his last job before he got arrested was at the army-navy store.
But does he look okay? I mean, he isn’t all covered with tattoos, I hope?
Well, um, for sure, he’s got a few tattoos! But let’s not judge the book by its cover. He’s actually quite a handsome man. He might have his scruffy days, but I’m sure he cleans up good.
I hate that expression.
I’ll never use it again. But please, Nanette, say you’ll think about it? I know it’s a lot to ask. But if we won’t help people like him, who will?
* * *
As always it soothed her spirits to enter the store, whose air was scented with fine French soaps, and to see the alluring display of clothes, the luxurious sweaters in their rainbow of colors, the exquisite handmade shawls. Was there anything nicer than pure cashmere? How sadly ironic that she herself could no longer wear it, her skin would not tolerate it, or any wool for that matter. Also sad, how much business was down. Cashmere, so warm, so costly, and less and less tempting as the climate changed. Not many people were willing to splurge on a garment they knew wasn’t going to get much wear. It was only during the holidays that sales were strong. Not that hers was the only troubled business in the mall. The florist and the luggage shop had already gone under. Ethan, her longtime manager, whose request to become part owner Nanette had granted after she became a widow three years ago, lived in a state of constant hand-wringing. She knew she ought to be more worried herself. But the truth was, every time they went over the books and had The Talk, in which Ethan tried to convince her that they must expand their merchandise if they wanted to survive, Nanette found her mind wandering. And afterwards, on her way home, the same thought always came: To think that there was a time when all this mattered to me.
The young man had paid his debt to society. He needed a second chance and should not be denied. One should extend a hand. It was the charitable thing to do, and Lord knew there was little enough charity to be found in this heartless, dog-eat-dog world. She had her doubts, of course. It was taking a risk. Needless to say, if he didn’t work out, they were not obliged to keep him. But it was her duty—as a Catholic, as a citizen—it was her duty to help an offender rebuild his life. In any case, she’d made a promise to Friar Tuck, and she wasn’t going to go back on it.
Oh fuck, Ethan thought. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.
He should have seen it coming. Loopy since the death of her shit of a methhead son, the old bat had now lost it completely.
* * *
Shena was jealous. How cool was it to work in a high-end establishment like that— and for almost twice her own hourly wage, might she add. How sick was she of All That Glitters, where half the customers came in just to look or to shoplift (and who do you think got blamed when something vanished from your counter?), and which was so close to the taco stand that the air was always thick with grease. And take today, the lady with the neck like an elephant’s trunk who tries on the pearl choker, looks in the mirror, and says, I can’t wear this, it makes my neck look fat. All huffy, like it’s Shena’s fault. Necklace after necklace Shena has to help this lady with while she just gets madder and madder.
She probably waltzed through the whole mall like that. Lor’, these shoes make me feet look fat. Away with these pants! They make me butt look like a barn.
Shena and Ned had a good laugh over that.
She was jealous, but she was happy. How could she not be happy, seeing Ned, a new man in his sharp new haircut and the smart trousers and belt and shirt he’d been given to wear on the job. He really cleaned up good!
Had he missed a day yet? No. Was he remembering to take his pills without being told? Yes.
Shena didn’t even mind being his personal car service, because obviously it would be a while before he could afford to buy his own wheels.
Things would’ve been perfect were it not for that turd of a boss, who didn’t understand that Ned couldn’t deal with people even looking at him, let alone watching him like a hawk.
He’s just waiting for me to screw up, said Ned, who came home some days flat-out exhausted from the stress.
But no one said it would be that way forever, said Father Skye. It was up to Ned to earn Ethan’s confidence. But first he had to believe in himself.
And how sweet was that, Father Skye (talk about fat!) taking them out for pizza to celebrate the end of Ned’s first week. Giving Ned that pep talk. How half the battle was showing up. Leaving that ginormous tip, even though the waitress acted like he was asking her to pull them out of her nose when Father Skye pointed out that the anchovies they’d ordered had been forgotten.
And it turned out Ned was a darn good roommate. He did his share. (If only the house wasn’t so small!) She hadn’t realized just how horribly lonely she’d been since Scottie left. Not that she wasn’t still lonely, but with Ned around she didn’t seem to be as haunted by thoughts that made her afraid or sad, like the scary-sad thing that happened last year to Liv Teague, a little redheaded stick of dynamite and one of Shena’s favorite clients. It was Shena who first found the ink spot on Liv’s chalk- colored scalp. She missed her next appointment, and when Shena called the Teague house they told her Liv was dead. A high school senior. A spot no bigger than a Valium.
It made sense, if you were alone a lot, you’d end up focusing on bad thoughts instead of good ones.
One very good thought Shena liked to focus on these days was that her fingers were almost healed enough for her to be dexterous with comb and scissors again. Her old job had been snatched up right away, but there was more than one salon on the planet. Her dream was to work at a place like Fayaway’s, in Ned’s mall (listen to her: Ned’s mall, like he owned it!). She remembered how, when she was first looking for work, she’d gone to check out Fayaway’s, how she stood outside, gawking at the creamy marble floor, the awesome flower arrangements, and the glam staff, who could’ve all been models, or at least former models, too shy even to poke her head in. But don’t think she was that insecure little nobody anymore. Not with her skills and experience. Like Father said, you had to believe in yourself, and one thing Shena knew for sure: she was a damned good hair artist.
* * *
Was there anything nicer than pure cashmere? God, it was soft. He couldn’t get over how good it felt, like petting baby rabbits or chicks, he could hardly keep his hands to himself (that is, when he wasn’t being watched). A hot-pink cashmere sweater. He wanted to wrap his dick in it, he wanted to come in it. But still, just a fucking sweater. Even size L didn’t amount to a whole lot of wool. And that L was a joke, anyhow. (Biggest laugh in months: imagining Rosa trying on sweaters here, where the sizes were small, smaller, and smallest.) And it was just wool, for Christ’s sake. How the hell could it cost three hundred bucks?
A hundred for a pair of gloves. Four hundred for a scarf. A thousand for what Ethan called a caftan. Not to mention soap for fifteen dollars a bar. But the whole mall was like that. In the window of a shoe store he’d seen a pair of high-heeled snakeskin boots for twelve hundred, and that was on sale, forty percent off.
He’d done the math. The sweater rack alone could’ve paid for a decent car. The entire stock, maybe a down payment on a house. Throw in the rest of the mall and you could probably get your own private island.
* * *
Nanette closed the curtains and turned out the lights. Without undressing she got into bed. Her head went round and round. Bayonet stabs to her stomach, her bowels, her lower back. Because she wouldn’t see doctors anymore, she couldn’t be sure whether her troubles came from not eating well or from some disease she’d contracted. But recently she had made a discovery. Eat little enough and you’ll start seeing things. At first she was terrified. But then she discovered that, given the right balance of hunger and psychic state, she was sometimes able to produce the hallucinations herself, and that she could bring him back—oh, not the black-toothed cadaverous wreck of recent memory but her noble laughing boy, young and golden with promise.
But today she was too tired, she didn’t have the force. And there seemed to be something in the way. She couldn’t make it out, this dark silhouette, like a figure walking toward you with the sun at its back. Then she knew. Though she’d yet to meet him, she knew it was that man, Father Skye’s felon, the one she’d bullied Ethan into hiring and then immediately repented. It had been wrong of her—a lofty gesture to sweeten her own conscience when in fact it would cost her nothing, while all the burden, the real sacrifice, fell to someone else.
It was too early for bedtime, but she didn’t want to get up again. She hadn’t the strength even to get undressed. Her eyes closed wearily. Moments later they flew open, and she saw that the man was there. She was not afraid, though the snakes on his arms coiled round and round. It touched her that he had come to thank her. She always prayed before she went to sleep. Tonight she would pray for him.
* * *
She was the kind of pretty that gave him butterflies. A blond bunhead with teasing eyes and a nose with a funny little bump on the bridge that kept her from looking too plastic. Size smallest. He was glad that a loose tooth had driven Ethan to the dentist this morning so that Ned could relax and feast his eyes. (Never watch a customer too closely, Ethan warned, in the snippy tone that was the only tone he ever used with Ned. It’s like saying, You look like a crook.)
She was wearing a short fur jacket, leather jeans, and a pair of familiar-looking snakeskin boots.
She took a few ambling turns around the store before picking up a white short-sleeved pullover. He was about to ask if she’d like to try it on when she swept past him and back to the dressing room. In her wake, a scent like the woods first thing in the morning.
She came out of the dressing room and handed him the slightly warmed sweater. I want one in each color, she said. But I’m still looking.
Ned laid the sweater on the counter next to the cash register. Besides white, it came in black, red, pink, lilac, sky blue, navy, yellow, green, maroon, burgundy, and pumpkin.
She seemed normal. But something about her, he noticed, had changed. Her cheeks were all rosy, as if she’d just been paid a compliment, and as she fingered the scarves she started singing to herself like a character in a musical. She was definitely buzzed.
Which meant that maybe she wasn’t so normal. Maybe she was one of those people with a jones, shopaholics who went on binges, buying things they could never afford, landing in debt they could never pay off, going broke and wrecking their whole lives forever. He remembered Shena coming home with a story about some guy begging the store to take back the trunkload of jewelry his crazy wife had bought and hidden under their bed, breaking down when he was told it was too late for a refund. You bastards, he said. How could you bastards take advantage like that.
It hurt to think of anything bad happening to this girl, who looked maybe young enough that she was planning to charge everything to her parents.
He was staring so hard at her he failed to notice that she was staring at him.
Aren’t you going to get me those sweaters? she said, shooting him a smile that made him feel as if he’d been kneecapped.
He tried to put a maximum of nice into his voice. He didn’t want to sound insulting or judgmental. But his heart was pounding.
How about this, he said. How about you go home now, and you think about it. You think about whether you really want all these clothes, and tomorrow, if you still do, you come back here and get them. It’s not like we’re gonna sell out. Whatever you want will still be here. Promise.
Ned watched the color in the girl’s cheeks spread to the rest of her face. He could have sworn the fur she was wearing bristled.
This is a joke, right? she said, not quite interrogatively. You aren’t seriously throwing me out of this store.
No!
Ned searched frantically for the right words.
It’s not like that. I’m just—I’m really sorry, miss. But I can’t—I won’t take advantage of you.
Biting his tongue on You’re too young and too pretty.
Once she was gone it took him some time to calm down. Of course he understood why she was pissed. A girl like that wouldn’t be used to hearing the word no. But all he’d done was suggest that she sleep on it. Was that so terrible? He was certain now she was an addict. Who else drops four thousand dollars on a bunch of little sweaters, all the same except for the color, like they were a roll of Life Savers, for Christ’s sake. And she’d just been getting started. Who knew what the damage would’ve been if he hadn’t stopped her? She was like a kid in a candy shop. One of everything, Daddy! Only a prick wouldn’t have tried to protect her from herself. It was like a bartender refusing to serve a customer who’d already had too much to drink (he’d been there!). Sure, it meant less money in the till. But it was the right thing to do. The girl had left in a rage today, but tomorrow she would thank him.
He was ringing something up for another customer when she returned. At her side was a man, a few inches shorter and many years older, with wavy, mostly gray hair and what looked like a ski tan. He measured Ned head to foot in a way that sent Ned’s heart straight to his shoes. Just then Ethan arrived from the dentist’s.
Mr. and Mrs. Stanley, hello! Nanette mentioned that you were back from vacation. Nice to see you again. But—is there something wrong?
* * *
Fuck Scottie. Fuck Scottie, the bastard. The no-good lousy thief. Totally ruining her one day of the week off. Not that he knew it was her day off, he didn’t know anything about her life these days, she and Scottie hadn’t spoken since they broke up. But he’d kept his keys.
So there she was, still in her p.j.s, thinking about getting into the tub and blissing out on the amazing soap from Nanette’s that Ned had brought her, which smelled like evergreen and lathered like butter, when Scottie walks in. For a tiny instant Shena let herself hope. But one look told her he was in no loving mood.
He’d brought an empty duffle bag, said he’d come for the odds and ends he’d left behind, some clothes, a couple of tools. But since Shena was home he did have something he wished to discuss, which was that he was broke, the bike was in the shop, and he was thinking how, back in April, he’d paid his full share of the month’s rent but moved out two weeks later. Meaning, as he saw it, she owed him a hundred and twelve dollars, which, given his situation, he was going to have to insist on collecting.
Which led to words and some name-calling. Which led to pushing and shoving, then something between a slap and a punch, and then, though they’d stopped hurting a while ago, Shena’s fingers started screaming like they were warning her, and she remembered the drill and ran into the bathroom and locked the door. Where she sat on the toilet and cried and cried, pulling off wads of toilet paper to blow her nose, listening to Scottie tear through the house.
And the only happy thought she could focus on was that just last weekend she and Ned had finally cleaned the kitchen, throwing out all the Stone Age stuff, and that was when she also removed from the back of one cabinet the old mayo jar full of weed which Ned said should have a better hiding place. And she was glad when she heard Scottie slam the cabinet door (with such force that she felt it in the toilet seat), and she shouted I smoked it all, asshole, when in fact there was some stashed under tissues in a Kleenex box in her middle dresser drawer.
After she heard him leave the house she came out and took a look around, and when she walked into her bedroom she gasped and gave a yelp of pain. For it was gone. Her beautiful fringed paisley shawl. Her most favorite possession, which made her feel like a princess whenever she wore it, and which gave her such pleasure just to look at that, when not wearing it, she always kept it draped elegantly over a chair.
The most beautiful thing she’d ever owned. And she hadn’t owned it for long.
A thank-you present, Ned called it. For always being there, for believing in me. Shena had cried then, too, thinking how he was all the family she had, and how badly she’d missed him when he was away, and how much she loved him, right now more than anyone else in the world. And there were times when she could almost believe that she’d be happier like this, that they’d both be better off. No more Coopers or Scotties, no more Rosarios. Just Shena and Ned (Shened, Mrs. Wilson used to call them, they were that close) taking care of each other—would that be so bad? People might accuse them of incest. Now that would be bad. But they had survived worse.
She remembered when she first tried on the shawl—pure cashmere, nothing nicer—afraid to think what it cost, and Ned telling her that he’d made an arrangement with the store manager to pay it off, which didn’t sound at all like this guy Ethan, but someone gives you a gift you don’t give him the third degree. And even after she came to the conclusion that she’d been lied to, she found herself thinking that it was the thought that counts, and no one could deny that all he’d wanted was to make her happy. You deserve it, he said, and Shena was not going to argue with that. And as long as he’d gotten away with it this once and wasn’t planning to make it a habit, well, where was the harm.
But the issue right now was how to get herself through this horrendous day. She no longer had any desire to take a bath. She poured herself a large glass of Jack Daniels, took two of Ned’s oxazepam pills, and went to lie on her bed.
She was staring at the chair where the shawl used to be when she thought of something that made her burst out crying again. What did he want with it? It wasn’t like he could wear it. No. Here was confirmation of her worst fear: Scottie had a new girl.
She got up and went to her dresser and fetched the Kleenex box from the middle drawer. There was half a blunt left over from the last time she and Ned had self-medicated. She lay back and smoked until the stars came out on the ceiling and her arms unfurled and she swayed like a plant underwater.
* * *
No way he was going to call Shena to come pick him up. Better walk. It would take a couple hours, but fuck, time was the one thing he had. And he was in no hurry to see Shena. Also, he needed to cool off. Every time he saw Ethan’s face in his mind he kicked at some imaginary rock in the road.
And the weird thing was, Ethan wasn’t even mad. Oh, in front of the Stanleys he’d been mad, all right, mad as hell—like, as soon as he got Ned alone he was going to give him a good horsewhipping for his insolence. But once they were gone he calmed down completely. For the first time ever he addressed Ned in a tone that was borderline friendly.
It’s not your fault this hasn’t worked out. Our customers are a certain type. It’s not your fault that you don’t know how to read them.
And when Ned tried to stand up for himself Ethan had cut him off, as if there was nothing he could say that Ethan cared to hear (such as that until this mishap Ned had not had any problem reading customers). Lucky for him his jaw was swollen or Ned might not have been able to resist loosening a couple more teeth.
He couldn’t stop thinking (though how often had his caseworker warned that scratching old wounds only reopens them) about another innocent mistake that had got him in trouble, the night Gage Bock called from the street to say his truck wouldn’t start and he needed a ride. No, he had not searched Gage’s backpack before he got in the car—and this was where as far as Ned was concerned it was the cops who were playing dumb. Because if he’d known about the hundred and fifty wax paper bags of heroin in the backpack Gage placed on the floor behind the passenger seat, you can bet your life he would not have neglected to buckle up.
Another surprise was the fact that the police had had their eye on Gage for some time, though admittedly Ned was aware—as what person who knew Gage wasn’t—that since his discharge from the service Gage had been dealing.
But to stick to the night in question, as should have been abundantly clear, all Ned was guilty of was trying to help a friend, who also happened to be a war hero.
But the most outrageous part of all—the part that made Ned want to kill—had to do with the fact that Darby Street, which was where they got pulled over, and at the top of which stood the apartment building where Gage lived, was also where a high school (the very one both Ned and Gage had attended) was located. It wasn’t just that it was nighttime. It happened also to be summertime. But what were these realities beside the twisted logic of the justice system? Somehow possession with intent to sell within a school zone stuck. With failure to wear a seat safety-belt thrown in for comic relief.
Shit. Instead of cooling down, he was getting all worked up.
If his caseworker was right—if he really did have PTSD—he wondered if what was happening to him now was a flashback. What was all this thumping in his chest, and this herky-jerky breathing? Why was he dry-mouthed and drenched in sweat like someone crawling through a desert?
Without realizing it he had been speedwalking, covering ground at such a pace that he reached town sooner than expected.
A good idea would be to slow down and take a break. A good place to do that would be Lords & Ladies.
The bar was an empty cozy dark cave. A man could be forgiven for wanting to hibernate. Ned drank four, or it could have been five, beers before he could tear himself away.
Now he felt it in his shins—he wasn’t used to exercise. He was exhausted, and though the idea of facing Shena still made him sick he was anxious to get home. Among other things, that’s where his pills were. He just had to make it up this last little rise. But the beer weighed down his ankles, did funny things to his gait.
Man, this neighborhood had gone downhill since he was away. Half the houses in their street stood abandoned. And the people were real pigs. Trash everywhere you looked. And right now it smelled like trash burning. And what were these black specks floating in the wind?
* * *
She didn’t care how gross it felt, she was staying put. She remembered Cooper talking about it. He said it happened all the time. You thought it wouldn’t happen to you, but then the shooting started or the bomb exploded and blam, you shat your pants.
Somehow she’d had the wit to grab her phone on the way out.
Across the street was a house that a demolition crew had started working on months ago and then mysteriously quit, leaving an overflowing dumpster behind.
Barefoot and wearing only her shit-loaded pajamas, Shena ran to the back of the dumpster and called 911.
She must have nodded out while the blunt was still burning. It must have fallen right out of her hand, maybe onto the tissue box or a magazine or some clothes lying on the floor. For once she was grateful the house was so small and all on one level. It had taken but seconds to get from bed to front door.
God, she was cold. Peeking from behind the dumpster, she saw that a car had stopped and a tall man in a red trucker hat was getting out. He was on the phone— with 911, she assumed. But the firemen should already be on their way.
The firemen would come and they’d put out the fire, and when the coast was clear she’d sneak back in the house and clean her disgusting self up.
She was still stoned—and that was a blessing. It didn’t feel real at all, standing out here with the shit running down her legs, watching her house with all her belongings burn. She could see that the plastic over the bedroom window had melted and smoke was pouring out like there was a fan blowing on it.
God, where were those firemen? Shouldn’t she at least be hearing sirens by now?
Fuck Scottie! This was all his fault.
Another car pulled up and a whole family tumbled out to gawk, including a fat little boy who jumped up and down all excited like he was at the circus, while his mother took pictures of Shena’s house with her cell.
And wait, wasn’t that Ned? It was Ned! What was he doing home this early, and how did he get here?
* * *
It was their house. Their house was on fire. But where was Shena? There was Shena’s car. Shena’s car was there, but no sign of Shena. Meaning she was in the house? But the house was on fire. But where else would she be if not in the house? She was home today, it was her day off, she always stayed home on her day off. Where else would she go, even with a car? But here came the fire trucks, thank God someone had called them, no doubt one of these people standing around watching. But why wasn’t Shena standing around watching? Why would she leave? Maybe this guy in the red hat knew something. But the guy in the red hat didn’t know anything, not about Shena. The guy in the red hat looked at Ned as if Ned scared him. Just hang on, he said, here come the trucks. Which was true. They would be here in minutes, seconds. But people were known to die in minutes, seconds. One other time in his life Ned had seen a roof catch flame like that, and the next instant the roof had collapsed. He made an animal noise, picturing the roof collapsing on Shena. Focus, Ned, focus. But his head was swimming. Oh fuck, he wished he wasn’t drunk. But no. It was good to be drunk. Being drunk was going to help.
* * *
Oh God, couldn’t he hear her? Could she scream any louder? But who could hear anything over those sirens. The first truck had rounded the corner.
Ned!
But what was he doing? Where was he going? Ned, God dammit! Over here, over here!
She pounded across the street in her slimy bare feet, past the fat little boy, who pointed at her and started laughing, past the woman who was still taking pictures, past the man in the trucker hat, who reached out and grabbed her. She twisted away from him. He grabbed her again. She kicked him, but he held her tight. What, was he kidding? Did he think he could stop her? Was he fucking insane? She sank her teeth into his cheek. She broke free and ran, and with a ferocious cry hurled herself through the door.
Sigrid Nunez has published six novels, including A Feather on the Breath of God, The Last of Her Kind, and, most recently, Salvation City. She is also the author of Sempre Susan: A Memoir of Susan Sontag. Her seventh novel, The Friend, will be published in February, 2018.