Sorrow Floats Read online

  Armand put his hand on my arm. “Come inside, Maurey. You’re getting wet.”

  I shrugged off his hand. I felt manipulated, but I didn’t know who’d manipulated me. I didn’t want to stay in this rain forest with a hairy pill popper. I wanted to hold Hugo Jr. I wanted to sit in the front seat beside Lloyd. The two-bottles thing seemed especially petty—a crappy note to end on. From somewhere in Moby Dick I heard Merle mewing. How had I managed to fence myself into this stupid situation?

  I was all set to swallow my pride and say “Forget it, guys, I was only joking,” when Shane spoke.

  “Maurey, you’ve been nothing but a bitch and a drunk since we allowed you to join us. I am glad to abandon you with this psychotic thug.”

  Slam—last door shut. Last bridge burned. I stood in the rain and watched Moby Dick climb the hill and roll out of sight. Hugo Sr. drove across the road, then backed, then turned and followed. I stared at the spot where they’d disappeared, wishing my headache would go away. It felt like Dad’s funeral.

  Armand draped his arm around my shoulders. “How on Earth did you ever get mixed up with that bunch of losers?”

  42

  I stayed in the shower until the water turned cold, which must have been over an hour. I imagined a huge, two-hundred-gallon water heater hidden somewhere in the house, heating water as fast as house inhabitants could use it. The shower stall itself was the opposite end of the scale from the Calhoun Arms. Two spigots gave the option of rinsing your front and back at the same time or separately without having to turn around. The walls and floor were covered by heavy, dark tile with no gunk in the grout. I sat on the floor, leaning back against the wall, holding Armand’s soap-on-a-rope with both hands and letting the twin streams of water rain down on my body.

  My God, I was tired. And hollow. I didn’t care if I ever saw alcohol again. At that moment I didn’t care if I ever saw anything again. Once I left Armand’s shower, life would resume itself. People would come at me and people would go away. I would drink and pee, eat and shit. Getting by would take every drop of energy I would ever have, then someday I would stop getting by and be dead.

  Big deal.

  Armand came in the bathroom and opened and closed the medicine cabinet. “You alive in there?” he asked.

  “Compared to what?”

  “I’ll be working in the barn. Find whatever you can to eat.”

  Guess he didn’t mind my touching his property in the refrigerator. “I’ll probably take a nap.”

  The bathroom door closed and he was gone.

  ***

  I slept most of the day, dreaming variations on the smother motif—snakes wound around my neck; my tongue swelled up and closed my throat; Dothan Talbot tied a plastic dry-cleaning bag over my head; I drowned a dozen deaths. Some dreams take all the rest out of sleep.

  Every few hours I awoke to find Armand in the bathroom mix-and-matching his pills. I’m not sure if he was inbibing primarily in ups or downs, but whatever they were made him sweat.

  Once he saw me awake and asked, “You want medication? I can make you feel any way you want to feel.”

  “No, thanks, I feel like sleeping.”

  “How about a drink? After last night you must need a drink.”

  “No, thanks.”

  Late in the afternoon I stood at the window and watched him work. He had the double barn doors thrown open and he stood before a misshapen mass of metal in the full welding mask and no shirt. With his hair, muscles, and sweat, and his torch spitting a white-blue flame, Armand took on an unsavory Greek god look—Vulcan, maybe, or Hades.

  ***

  The kitchen downstairs had ivory-colored walls and pastel green appliances. I found an unopened jar of peanut butter and a spoon and poked around while I ate. The upright freezer contained about fifty steaks and a gallon of Scotch. I’d seen two or three microwave ovens before and heard pros and cons about them, mostly cons, but I’d never been in a spot where I could try one out. I put the spoon globbed with peanut butter in and turned the dial. The microwave made a popping sound and tiny lightning bolts flashed inside; I didn’t eat the peanut butter.

  Outside the rain had let up temporarily, so I walked past the barn down to the cliff overlooking the river. The rocks were wet, but I sat on one anyway. I always think best when I can hear running water. Dad taught me that. I told Sam Callahan and he fixed Lydia’s toilet so it ran all night. He said Shannon slept better that way and she would grow up to be a calmer person. I don’t see how anyone could grow up calm being raised by Sam and Lydia.

  The river shot through the gorge gray-green with sprays of whitewater. I was surprised to find Whitewater in the East. Stephen Foster Sewanee River-type songs gave me the impression eastern rivers were lazy. High up on the other side a wooden flume ran parallel to the river. I’d seen a flume over near Dubois, but it ran straight down the side of the mountain. Old-timey timberjacks sent logs to the river that way. I couldn’t figure out why anyone would build a flume parallel to a river. Growing up in Wyoming is great, but it leaves certain holes in your education.

  ***

  Our senior year at GroVont High Sam Callahan’s grandfather, Caspar, started having little strokes. I guess they’re like alcohol blackouts. He was driving down the highway and suddenly woke up high-centered on the median fifteen miles away. As a bribe, he offered to pay for Sam’s college if Sam would move to North Carolina and live in what Lydia called the manor house. Anybody with eyes and brains could tell Sam would never move anywhere without Shannon. They were inseparable. He took her on dates and everything, which tended to put off local girls. Teenagers don’t like the guy showing up with a toddler.

  I knew Sam would want to take her, but I didn’t think about it. My mind was on more important things—senior play, the prom, graduation. I was enrolled in UW next fall, mostly to escape Dothan Talbot, and I just figured Shannon would be taken care of the same as she had been all her life.

  Sam brought her over the Saturday afternoon before the prom. He knew I’d be too busy with my hair and formal and all to put up much of a fight. Sam’s sneaky that way. Everyone thinks he’s all intellectual and spacey, but a lot of that oblivious doo-dah stuff is an act.

  I was sitting in front of my vanity mirror, performing damage control on a zit. Shannon squealed and ran across the room, hugged me, and crawled in my lap. “How’s my little girl today?” I asked.

  “She has a new tooth,” Sam said. “Show Mama your new tooth.”

  Proudly, Shannon opened her mouth wide for me to inspect the little rows of teeth. I couldn’t tell which one was new, but I oohed anyway. “Will the tooth fairy bring you a dime now?”

  “That’s when she loses teeth, not grows them,” Sam said. Shannon looked disappointed in me. What kind of mother doesn’t know tooth fairy protocol?

  “Do me,” she said. She pointed to her eyes. Our favorite—in fact, our only—mother-daughter game was putting on makeup.

  “I like your hair better down,” Sam said.

  “I just spent two hours putting it up. What do you think of my dress?” This pink satin number with a dipping neckline, low back, and spaghetti straps hung on a hanger on the closet door. I was doing the vanity thing in my bra and panties. Ever since seventh grade Sam and I have walked in on each other in underwear or the bathtub or wherever the one being walked in on happens to be. Mom didn’t like it at first. To me, it’s nice being able to talk to a guy without sexual tension.

  Sam didn’t compliment my taste in dresses. Instead, he sat on my bed. “I’m starting writing school in Chapel Hill next fall,” he said.

  With my right-hand little finger, I rubbed shadow on Shannon’s lids. “You’re going to hate North Carolina,” I said. “The humidity will kill you.”

  “Shannon is going with me.”

  I stopped to look at him. Sam had that false casualness he assumes wh
en he’s tense. “But she’s my daughter.”

  “When was the last time you saw her?”

  I tried to remember. I’d been awfully busy lately, but I seemed to recall sometime the end of last week.

  Shannon stirred on my lap. “Mama?”

  “Okay, eyeliner next, honey.” I looked in the mirror at her face below my own. We look amazingly alike, except she has brown eyes and I have blue. “Sam, that’s not fair. You can’t make a decision like this on your own.”

  “They won’t let you keep a child in the freshman dorms.”

  “I thought she’d stay with Lydia.” Which wasn’t exactly true, I hadn’t thought anything till that moment. “That way we can both see her when we come home for holidays and summers.”

  Sam’s nose wrinkled. “My mother can’t raise a child.”

  He had a point there—just look at Sam. I drew a dark line across her lower lids, then applied mascara to her lashes. They were dark and beautiful even without mascara. Shannon was an extraordinarily beautiful child, and I’m not saying that because I gave birth to her. Solid cheekbones, long neck, thick hair—she was much cuter than that prissy little girl in the Breck ads. I’d always pictured Shannon and me growing up together. I’d teach her horsemanship and how to control boys. She’d brush my hair while I explained the facts of life. Sam couldn’t explain the facts of life to a little girl. The only facts of life he’d ever known got me pregnant.

  “Listen, Sam, can we talk about this later? Dothan’s coming any minute.”

  “I thought you deserved to know.”

  “We’ll talk later. Are you going to the prom stag?”

  Sam stood up. “I promised Shannon I’d read her William Blake’s ‘Visions of the Daughters of Albion.’ She gets a kick out of de-flowerment scenes.” Shannon leaned her head back, looked up in my face with her beautiful eyes, and laughed.

  Of course, we never talked later. That August I waved good-bye from the terminal building as my best friend and my daughter boarded a plane and flew away, and child number one slipped through my fingers.

  ***

  When you drink it’s easy to lose track of the point of what you’ve been doing. The point of this damn journey was not some fat sicko’s grandmother’s farm. I didn’t come all this way to bond with a band of roving vagrants, and I sure didn’t come all this way to wind up mistress to a pharmaceutical welder. I came to see Sam Callahan and Shannon. By seeking out two of the three most important people in my world, I’d hoped to gain strength for the battle to get back the most important person—Auburn. Instead of gaining strength I’d wallowed in alcoholic self-pity and lost track of my point.

  Okay, now—find the track and get back on it. Sam and Shannon were in Greensboro, North Carolina, so I had no business sitting on a wet rock in Tennessee.

  ***

  Back upstairs, I dumped the contents of my suitcase and day pack on the bed and took stock. Wasn’t that much, really, as the two pairs of boots I hadn’t worn yet filled most of the suitcase space. I gathered panties, socks, shirts, and the spare Wrangler’s into a pile and went in search of this laundry room where Armand found Shane’s tape. The washer and dryer were the same pastel green as the refrigerator and stove. Everything must have arrived at once, which is the rich-person way of decorating.

  After starting the washer, I took another shower—a real one this time, where cleanliness counted more than psychological collapse. I washed and conditioned my hair, shaved my legs, and sudsed up my crotch to root out any residual weirdness from last night. Just because Armand woke up in a rubber doesn’t mean he penetrated with one.

  The clothes dried in a half hour or so, then I brought them back up to repack. For some reason, when I dressed I put on a bra and my town cowboy boots. I think the reason had to do with Armand. I was fixing to walk out there into the barn and say “Gee, Armand, it was swell, but do you mind running me into town now?” and I wasn’t totally comfortable about his reaction. You never know, he might have interpreted last night’s whatever-it-was as romance.

  Armand being a southern gentleman, I figured if I dressed properly, he would behave properly. More than once I’ve heard men say any woman not wearing a bra “wants it.”

  ***

  Because I was a little nervous, and a little queasy, I circled through the kitchen and poured myself a juice glass of Scotch. One snort wouldn’t knock me off track.

  The rain had picked up again into a steady downpour. I stood outside in the gathering darkness watching Armand work. Rivulets of sweat ran down his back, staining the butt of his gray slacks. He moved in quick jerks and metallic clangings. Empty Coors bottles littered the concrete floor beneath his work area, which I took as a bad sign. No matter what disgusting depths I’d sunk to the last couple of weeks, I’d never stooped so low as to drink Coors.

  Armand turned and faced me straight on. He held the flaming torch in his right hand and a piece of angle iron in his left. The structure he was cutting on reminded me of those molecule models we made in high school, only this one had been run over by a bus. With his hooded mask pulled down and his body slick with sweat, Armand produced a threatening, alien effect. Everyone says don’t look at the welder’s flame or you’ll go blind, and like anything else people tell you not to look at or you’ll go blind, the overpowering urge was to look.

  “You mind shutting that thing off?” I asked.

  He didn’t move a few seconds, then he bent over a tank and turned a valve, and the flame sputtered out. I hadn’t realized until it was silent how loud the hiss had been.

  “I was hoping to talk to you a minute,” I said. “If you have time.”

  More seconds ticked by. The rain drizzled on the roof and wet ground behind me. This wasn’t going well. I couldn’t see his face. All I saw was my own face, blurry in his mask, and talking to a mirror with someone behind it is intimidating.

  “I need to be getting on to my daughter’s place,” I said, “in Greensboro. That’s North Carolina. And I was wondering if you’d loan me some money for a bus ticket and a motel room tonight. I can leave the beer and horse trailer to cover the loan.”

  Armand didn’t move. I was afraid the pills had blown his hearing.

  “Or maybe you’d rather buy the trailer. However we do it I’d like to thank you for your help with the police and all, but I really need to be going now.”

  The sucker had turned statue. Made me nervous.

  “Or if a motel room is too much, you might just drop me off at the bus station.”

  This was getting ridiculous.

  “I don’t even have to borrow the money. If you can give me a lift into town, I’ll call my daughter’s father and have him wire enough for a ticket.”

  Now he was pissing me off. The only way to fight intimidation is with intimidation. I walked right up to him and knocked on his hood like it was a door.

  “Anybody in there?”

  Slowly, Armand’s hand rose and he lifted the mask off his face. “You’re not going anywhere.”

  “Come on, Armand. Get real. You can’t kidnap me, my friends know where I am.”

  “No woman cock teases Armand Castle.”

  I should have known. If you’re not friendly, it’s cunt; friendly but not friendly enough, cock tease; friendly as can be, slut. Those are the categories—take your pick.

  “What cock tease, Armand? You got your action last night, now take me to town.”

  His chin stuck out like Andrew’s when you don’t feed him. “No woman cock teases Armand Castle.”

  I leaned one hand on my hip. “You already said that. Did something happen last night I don’t know about?”

  “You were a cock tease. You were all over me, then when it came time you said you’d lost your pills and made me go put on a condom. When I came back to bed you were passed out.”

  The scenario sounded funny
, so I laughed. “You mean we didn’t fuck last night?”

  He blinked about ten times in a row—like a machine gun. “Yeah, we fucked.”

  I stared at his black eyes. Yesterday he’d been suave, urbane, a little dangerous; now he was just stupid. It took a minute for what he said to sink in. The son of a bitch nailed me while I was unconscious.

  I slapped him hard. He looked surprised, blinked three or four times real fast, and slugged me in the stomach. When I gasped and bent over he hit me in the back of the head with his mask. I fell at his feet and bit the shit out of his big toe.

  The man went insane. He kicked and I saw bright red pain in my eyes. He stomped again, driving my chin into the concrete. I tried to crawl away, but he pulled me upright by my hair and drove his knee into my spine. Blindly I found a Coors bottle and swung it into his body; I couldn’t see well enough to know what part I hit.

  The weird thing was the noise. There wasn’t any. Neither one of us made a sound other than heavy breathing and the fist-on-flesh thonks when he hit me. A person hiding in the corner would have thought we were making love.

  Which to Armand, in some sick, rotted part of his mind, we were. The blows came with a sexual rhythm. After working on my face, he moved on to the breasts, then lower. He tore my shirt off, then the bra. I kneed him in the crotch, and he hit me with a backhand that sent me sprawling across the floor. My hand landed on the hot end of the welding torch and I jerked away, smelling of burnt skin.

  Then he was on me again. As he tore at the buttons on my jeans, I gave up and stopped fighting. When Armand realized this he stood over my inert body and dropped his pants. He knelt, pulled off my right boot, and threw it across the barn. He did the same with my left boot, then he lifted my legs to pull off my jeans.

  That’s when I nailed him in the balls with the welding torch. Armand screamed and fell to the floor. I took off.