The Heart is Deceitful above All Things Page 9

  It’s empty, like I knew it would be. There’s a black garbage bag sitting on the black tar between oil spots. Our stuff is inside, mostly Sarah’s. I find my comic books next to her red spiked heels. I dig around and find the markers I’d stolen from a truck stop goods shop in Georgia.

  I tear out a piece of paper from a small notebook I stole. I write on it with a red marker and fold it up. In my notebook I have written five words on each page. As we drove, I wrote stories but only put one word of it down here and there, so when Sarah grabs it to see what’s so damned interesting she won’t know the code, won’t know the story, and can’t take it from me. But I see the words fit snugly between the printed ones and could read the story the same way fifty times. I sit on the plastic bag and wait for her return.

  I hear her heels clicking, echoing down the rows of sleeping trucks. I peel my cheek, glued with drool, away from the garbage bag. She says nothing, only moves her eyes over the empty space like it must be a reverse mirage, seeing nothing when something is really there. Her makeup is smeared, and her wig is crooked. I reach up and hand her the folded notebook paper. She holds it close, reads it, laughs, and drops it. ‘That orange truck . . . there . . .’ She points down the line. ‘I’ll be in there.’ Her voice slides around the edges of her words, not quite pronouncing them, but I understand her. ‘Come by tomorrow and you’re my sister.’ I nod. She steps on the note, the words melting into the oil. ‘Somebody stabbed you,’ she says, and points to the ketchup stains across my chest. She turns and wobbly walks toward the orange truck. ‘Bring the bag,’ she says over her shoulder. As she walks she reaches up and yanks down on an invisible chain three times.

  I stare at the note, almost drowned in oil. ‘I love you’ is covered, the red ‘Goodbye’ slowly slips into black.

  In the morning I find the Schneider National truck, not shiny and covered in lights like Kenny’s, but ugly and bright orange, like construction site cones, which is why truckers call the cones Schneider eggs. ‘What’s your name, darlin’?’ He makes a tight-lipped smile, but because of his droopy eyes it looks more like a frown.

  ‘Chrissy, that’s Chrissy,’ Sarah says, taking the garbage bag from me and pulling out her red heels. I nod hello and watch him dance his fingertips along his leather belt and then through his crew cut.

  ‘Pretty sister you got, Stacy,’ he says to Sarah.

  ‘Uh-huh,’ Sarah says, stuffing balled-up tissues into her bra.

  ‘Sure is pretty.’

  I smile back and blink my eyes like the bleach blond waitresses do on the trucker side.

  I don’t like the smell of Schneider Truck. His moldy flannel mixed with women’s flowery deodorant nauseates me. His hands are pale, and his fingers are long and floppy like daisy stems, not cracked and heavy like Kenny’s, not the kind that can crush you quickly if they wanted to, and for some reason that makes me feel cold and hot at the same time they just don’t. Schneider Truck pinches my ass when I move past him. He rubs my cheek with fingers that feel slippery and wet like spaghetti. He tells me I’m a pretty girl like my sister. I like that, and I smile while looking away from his filmy gray eyes. Sarah hates him. He doesn’t understand her medicine. He won’t help her tie her arm for it, so I do while he paces in front of the cab and whines for her to hurry up. She gives him the finger behind his back; sometimes he turns, catching her, and she pretends to be picking her nose. He doesn’t like punk, either. He only listens to boring radio talk shows. He shakes his head when they talk about the perverts teaching in our schools. ‘They should be castigated,’ he says.

  He gets a room for us, paid for one month while he’s away. Sarah wants it far from the truck stop but still in Orlando, on Orange Blossom Trail. He likes her away from the stop, but, ‘Orange Blossom Trail ain’t no place for my future wife . . .’

  ‘It’s cheap, ain’t it,’ she yells as we drive down the wide dark street, passing gated deserted warehouse lots and neon ‘GIRLS, GIRLS, GIRLS’ signs every two blocks. She heard from someone that it’s the place to stay. Schneider Truck doesn’t like it being situated right behind the sleaziest striphouse he ever saw. ‘It’s cheap, ain’t it?’ Sarah says again, and they go to check in.

  I sleep in the cab that night. They sleep in the efficiency motel room. She insists they get the room with the gas stove so she can cook for me. The next day Sarah gets a job stripping at the club in front of the motel. ‘Fuckin’ Mickey Mouse tips again.’ She pulls the fake Disney dollars mixed with real dollars out of her bra. ‘They think they’re so original . . .’

  Schneider Truck calls every day for a month. Since there’s no phone in the room, he rings on the pay phone at the end of the line of chipped-wood motel doors. Sarah either isn’t around or won’t answer when someone bangs on our door for the phone. I go instead.

  ‘How’s your sister, sweetie?’ His voice has a raspy, lung-cancerous tone to it.

  ‘Fine, sir.’ I run my dirty nails over the silver metal armadillo back phone cord.

  ‘What’s she up to . . . no good, honey?’ He coughs and laughs nervously.

  I look at the flashing blue neon outline of a naked girl on the club about a stone’s throw away. ‘It’s all fine, sir,’ I say.

  ‘You can tell, baby . . . I’m gonna be almost like your daddy, buy you lots of pretty little dresses . . .’

  I dig my nail in the black rubber under a chink in the phone cord’s armor. The idea of going shopping for dresses makes me happy. ‘I’ve seen a real nice Sunday dress at T. J. Maxx,’ I tell him.

  ‘What color is it, sweetie?’ he asks.

  I wrap the cord around me and pull the phone in tighter. I turn away from the club. ‘Kinda pink,’ I say quietly.

  ‘You got––’ he coughs–– ‘got panties to match, sweetie? Little pretty pink panties to match?’ His voice is high, like he’s talking to a puppy.

  ‘No’––I dig my nail in deeper to the sticky rubber–– ‘sir.’

  ‘I’ll get ya some, for you, sweet-pie.’

  ‘OK . . .’ I push dirt with my sneaker over a busy anthole.

  ‘Tell your sister I love her . . .’

  ‘OK . . .’

  ‘I love you, too, sweetie . . .’ I nod. ‘Now say you love your daddy.’

  The ants are scurrying, searching for the entrance to their home. ‘Say you love your daddy,’ he repeats louder, but he sounds like he’s cupping the phone.

  Some of the ants have found another way in, a back door five inches away from the main one.

  ‘Don’tcha love your daddy?’ He coughs.

  I’m mad at myself for not covering them both.

  ‘Sweetie? Chrissy baby?’

  I lean over and kick dirt over their back hole.

  ‘You still there?’

  Now they’re panicking again. I smile.

  ‘Chrissy!’ he shouts.

  ‘Yes, sir . . .’

  ‘I got to go . . . kiss your sister for me.’

  ‘I saw a pretty yellow dress, too,’ I say.

  ‘Anything you want. I love you, sweet-pie.’

  I nod and press my nail in so hard into the crack in the phone cord that I can feel the wires.

  ‘Bye’––he coughs–– ‘love to your sister . . . my two pretty girls.’

  I nod. I wonder if I can get electrocuted if I go too deep in.

  ‘You there? . . . I’m hangin’ up now . . . Hello? Good-bye . . . bye-bye . . .’

  The phone clicks. I push my nail in as far as it can go. Nothing happens. I hang up the phone and stomp on ants. One morning from our room I hear Sarah screaming into the pay phone. Schneider Truck must have caught her on the way home from the club. ‘Fuck off, pervert fucker!’ she screams. ‘No, you ain’t comin’ back, unless you want your shriveled-up balls as a butt plug.’

  I turn the Bugs Bunny cartoon louder, but I can still hear the phone slam down again and again. The dresses weren’t really that nice anyway.

  I don’t leave our room much. We go to a d
iner for Cheerios, and there’s a Hostess outlet nearby, where I walk every two days to buy us Ding-Dongs.

  The police are after me again because the evil is in me again. Sarah said a cop came to the strip club and flashed a picture of me. I didn’t believe her at first, but a week later sirens and blue lights surrounded the club.

  I hide under the bed. The police bang on the doors, straight down the line of rooms. I hear keys jingle outside the door, then in the lock. I flatten myself to the dusty, moldy rug. ‘See, prostitutes no here, amigo,’ the Cuban manager says. Flashlights sweep across the floor. I can see their thick black shoes walking toward me. ‘No here! No here!’ he says. The shoes walk to the bed, I hold my breath. They pause and then move past into the bathroom. I see the flashlight shine into it. ‘No here, see?’

  Sarah doesn’t come back for three days. ‘I was fuckin’ arrested!’ she yells. She pulls off her heels and throws them at me. I don’t step out of the way this time. ‘Thank fucking God the club got us out . . . or I’d’ve turned you in!’ Her face is yellowish, and her hands shake.

  I had pretty much stayed under the bed while she was gone. I came out to grab the Ding-Dongs and to sneak into the bathroom, but sometimes I was too scared to make it. I prayed to Jesus to heal me, to save me, to restore me. I recited every psalm, every proverb, every chapter and verse I knew, hundreds of times, till it filled my dreams when I slept.

  ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry,’ I whisper to Sarah. ‘I’ve . . . I’ve tried to cast Satan from my soul . . .’

  ‘Well . . . you’re gonna have to fuckin’ try harder!’ Her eyes are rimmed raw like chopped meat. She sits on the bed, her head between her legs. Her body raises up with a sob.

  ‘I prayed for Jesus to bring you back. I prayed and prayed . . .’

  ‘Shut the fuck up.’

  ‘The . . . the . . . police might not want me anymore, though, He might have cured me. He brought you home . . . “In God is my salvation and my glory: the rock of my strength”.’

  She reaches fast over to the night table and grabs a heavy motel glass. It hits me on the collarbone with a thud. I hear the crack. ‘You’re lucky . . . I was aimin’ for your ugly-ass fuckin’ face!’ Pain races like an ice shear through me, but I don’t move. I blink the tears away. ‘Don’t stare at me like that, you evil fuckin’ piece of shit. What? You think you’re better’n me? If it weren’t for me, you’d be burnin’ in hell right now!’ She reaches for the glass where it bounced off me and rolled near her feet.

  ‘I p-prayed very hard,’ I whisper.

  ‘You forgot how to shut the fuck up!’ I watch in slow motion as she winds her arm back and hurls the glass again. My eyes close against the coming impact across my face. It hits me in my stomach. I lean over from the force of it and gasp. ‘You’ve gotta learn when to shut the fuck up!’ I lean down and try to catch my breath.

  She didn’t hit my face. I smile up at her. She didn’t even aim for it. I wrap my arms around my stomach and rock myself gently, feeling soothed and comforted.

  ‘Get the fuck out,’ she says, her voice throaty and raw. ‘You’re a fuckin’ demon.’ The smile stays frozen on my face, and I hold on to my stomach and keep rocking. She staggers over to me. She grabs a handful of my hair and pulls me backward. Without thinking I put my hand up and over her hand so I won’t be carried only by my hair. My collarbone throbs as I lift my arm. ‘You possessed piece of shit.’ I try to walk my legs backward, but I can’t stand. The room is blurry. I hear her opening the door. ‘I never should have come for you.’ The skin on her hand is soft like polished leather.

  ‘Let go of me, let go, you evil fuck!’ She’s shaking her hand in my hair. I feel a thud on my side, then another. It’s her foot. I let go of her hand and fall backward, half out of the door. ‘Go to hell,’ she says in a low, hushed voice, and kicks again so I’m out the door. ‘If the police find ya, they’re gonna burn you up. First they’ll chop you up.’ She spits down at me. It hits my mouth. ‘Then you burn . . . in hell. So if I was you . . . I’d stay away from cops!’ She looks nervously both ways down the row of room doors. ‘If I so much as see you, I’ll call them myself.’ Then she closes the door softly, as if she were shutting it on a friendly salesman.

  I sit there staring at the footprints and dents on the bottom half of the door. Someone once kicked hard to try to get back in. I lick the spit off my lips with my tongue and listen to the flux of pain like rotating arcade lights, the throb moving from my scalp to my collarbone to wherever. I get on my hands and knees and pull myself up. I blink away the blurriness. The lights are off at the club. There’s only the hum of moths batting against the caged-in light bulb in the middle of the row, crickets, and the low rumble of an isolated truck driving down Orange Blossom Trail.

  I walk around the motel to the clump of bushes and trees. I’ve often seen men fast asleep back here, smelling of alcohol and urine, their cars the only ones left in the lot at the club. I crawl into a flattened patch and curl up. She didn’t aim for my face, I repeat to myself, and I taste her saliva in my mouth.

  The next day I stay hidden behind the motel. I drink from a leaky spigot. I cover myself with fallen palm leaves and sleep. When I hear a police siren race by, I wet myself.

  At night I listen to the different women chatting, going off to the club or coming back. Finally I hear her. ‘I better get my pay, that’s all,’ Sarah says.

  ‘They might raid again,’ another woman says.

  ‘That’s what happens when cops get stiffed on their fuckin’ bribes,’ she says.

  ‘Just keep your shit away from the club, is all I heard, or your ass gets fired on the spot . . .’

  ‘I better get my pay, that’s all,’ she says again, and I hear the loud click of her red heels along the concrete walk. I walk around the back to the manager’s office. He’s a small, brawny Cuban with a single thin eyebrow across his forehead. He recently put new bedspreads in the rooms, bright Day-Glo with hallucinogenic geometric shapes on them. Whenever he sees any of the women with lit cigarettes, he screams. If he sees Sarah walking from the club back to the room, a cigarette dangling from her red, shimmering lips, he runs out of his stale, fart-smelling office where he sits all day blasting soccer games in Spanish, ringing the service bell on his counter when his team scores.

  Usually she grins and tosses the cigarette, crushing it under her high heels, her leg stepped forward and twisted from her fluid hips. Her eyes hold his gaze, causing the dark stain under his armpits to spread. Other times when she’s had too many Mickey Mouse money tips and not enough medicine, she flicks the cigarette at his feet, making it spray like an electric spark while he yells at her.

  I knock on the screen door that he always keeps locked on the inside. ‘Qué?’ He doesn’t look up from the soccer game.

  ‘I’m locked out.’ I mumble.

  ‘Qué? Qué?’

  I look past the tiny mesh stitches of the screen door and glimpse chubby little legs sticking out from behind a wall. Their kid, that Sarah told me about. ‘He’s retarded or something, and they treat him like a dog, feed him from dog bowls,’ she said. ‘Heard they tie him up sometimes, too. See, you don’t even got it so bad.’

  The manager hits wildly at the bell. ‘Goal, goal!’ he yells. When I look back the fat baby legs are gone.

  I start to knock again, but he moves from around the counter.

  ‘I hear you once, you think I don’t hear you, I hear you.’ He opens the door and walks past me, jingling the keys. The sound gives me a chill. He stops at our door and opens it.

  ‘Gracias,’ I whisper.

  ‘You look not so good,’ he says, and turns and walks away. I close the door, turn on the light. I pull the chair over to the cabinet above the sink. I climb up stiffly and take down the bottle of Wild Turkey. ‘Chicken,’ I whisper. I grab the glass still on the floor and fill it halfway. I run the tap, wait till the rust clears as much as it will, and hold the bottle under it, then my glass. I put the bottle back.<
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  I swallow down the drink as fast as I can while walking into the bathroom. I slowly take off my clothes. The ache in my shoulder is starting to fade fast. I climb into the tub and turn the water on as hot as I can stand. I wish I had a scrub brush.

  BABY DOLL

  WHEN JESUS DIED angels cried and their tears turned to stones. My mom’s new boyfriend is born again, so we scour the dirt like gold panners for the fingernailsize rocks with crosses naturally formed on them. Angel tears. We try to escape from the busload of Baptists giving praises and hallelujahs, which echo loudly all through the forest of Fairy Stone Park, Virginia.

  I always find the best ones, with clearly defined crosses rising out of the brown stones, not the broken crumbly ones my mom finds.

  ‘You find ’em like an old horse finds glue, don’t ya?’ Her eyes squeeze up jealously, her nostrils widening.

  ‘Lord smiling on you today, son.’ I look up into his big face, long and black bearded exactly like Paul Bunyon, smiling down at me, with the emerald treetops shifting the light above his head in glints and glimmers.

  He reaches down and takes the cross stone from my outstretched palm. ‘Have to show this one at services.’ He nods. ‘Let the Lord guide you to more, son.’ He pats my ass as I turn away. I catch my mom’s jagged glare and my smile folds. We continue to hunt, bent over the dark peaty moist earth in silence.

  ‘Look at this one, Jackson!’ My mom rushes over to him. She holds out her hand like I did, her other hand pushing her yellow hair back against her skull repeatedly. He leans over her palm, she shifts back and forth, he turns it over and shakes his head.