Glass (28 page)

And two bowls later,

Brad calls me downstairs.

Without his saying a single

word, I know I’m leaving.

Angela has already left,

and she took the kids with

her. Not a good sign for me.

But what about for Brad?

Angela wants to try again.

He pauses to let it sink in.

I don’t know if it’s the

right thing to do, Kristina.

But the girls miss her so

much. I have to think about

what’s best for them, right?

His eyes hold massive hope.

I want him to be happy.

“I don’t guess she wants

a live-in nanny, huh?” I

reach for an honest smile.

He shakes his head.
I’ll help

you find a place, okay? Oh.

There’s more. I have to give

up the ice. I don’t know if I can.

Wow. He really does love her.

Could I give up the monster

for Trey? I don’t know either.

Luckily, it isn’t an issue.

I’ll make you a deal. Take

my stash. Pay me when you can.

And I’ll introduce you to my

connection. You’ll be okay.

I feel like I swallowed

a plate of mercury. Still, I go

over to Brad, look up into

his eyes. “Sure. I’ll be fine.”

Everything’s different.

Just like that, everything’s

changed.

Just like that, every

vestige of imagined

stability,

like a time-worried

weave, has come

unraveled.

Not long ago, I believed

I wanted complete

independence.

But living here with

a borrowed family

demolished

that idea. I don’t

want to be without

companionship.

And the monster

doesn’t count.

In a weekly

motel, in a

not-real-nice

part of Reno,

I look at my

possessions,

every damn

thing I own,

contained in

one medium

size suitcase

and one box.

At least the

place is clean,

no noteworthy

bugs or stains.

I sit in the red

vinyl chair, flip

on the twelve-

inch TV, stare

mindlessly at

whatever’s on.

And only now

do I let myself

Despite the desperate voice

mails I left. I can’t stand

sitting here, alone. No one

to talk to. No one to laugh

with. Only the monster for

company. What fun is that?

I’m going crazy. Fucking

crazy. Even hanging with

Mom and Scott would be

better than this. At least

I’d have Hunter to play

with. A sudden wave of

guilt rolls over me. With

it comes a thought. Would

they let me move back in?

I dial the house, but get

the machine. Aagh! Maybe

I should just get in my car.

and drive out there. [No

one’s home, idiot.] I’ve

got to talk to someone.

Who can I call? Robyn?

[She’s yanking off some

guy from Toledo.] I know.

I open the address book

on my cell, punch some

numbers, cross my fingers

that a real, living being will

actually answer. He does,

first ring. “Hello, Quade?”

He’s kind, but not overly

sympathetic.
You’ve made

some rotten choices. They

caught up with you is all.

The meth makes me want to do

more than talk. I want to confess.

“Have you ever slept with

two women at the same time?”

You mean “every guy’s

fantasy”? I had the chance

several times but no, I never

took advantage of it.

He
is
lead singer in a band.

He describes a couple of

times he had the chance

to play sandwich meat.

But for me sex is more

than just about feeling good.

It’s about feeling something

special for someone.

“You mean love.” It’s

a statement, not a question.

Loveless sex is meaningless.

Has Trey concluded that?

Exactly. The other guys

in the band don’t feel

the same way, but singing

for sex negates the art.

Okay, he’s a little strange.

But I really, really like him.

And I really need a friend.

“Is it okay if I call again?”

Anytime, little sister.

Anytime at all. You know

I’ve always cared for you.

That hasn’t changed a bit.

Intense. He cares for me.

But does he care for me

as a friend? Potential lover?

Or—heaven forbid—little sister?

Bleeding. Bored out of my tree, I decide

to take a walk. This part of town is run

down, with cracked sidewalks and pot

holed streets and dirty people, huddled

against weary buildings. A few yellow

streetlights buzz with effort, but don’t do

much against the moonless night. Still, down

town is only a few blocks away, and there’s

plenty of light there—neon light, in rainbow

colors, fountaining up casino towers. It’s spring

break, so even though it’s very late, a lot of

people flow along the main avenues. Strangers.

They’re strangers, but I don’t care. I want to be

among them. Flow with them. Bodies. Faces.

Most from any place but here. I like looking

at the faces. All races. Expressions. Joyful (winners).

Hateful (losers). Confused (users). Suddenly

a single face falls into focus. Familiar. Loved.

“Chase!” I run toward him, parting the crowd.

He sees me. Smiles. Frowns. Half-waves.

I see now he’s walking with someone. Holding her

hand. She’s prettier than me. And she’s pregnant.

I want to turn. Flee.

Act cowardly. But we’re

practically touching.

[Play the game.] “Hey,

Chase. Long time, no see.”

He drops the girl’s hand,

dares to reach out and hug

me.
God, it’s good to see

you.
He backs away.
Oh,

this is my wife, Amanda.

Wife? Yep. Matching

gold bands. [Don’t you

dare cry. Suck it up.]

“Hi, Amanda. I’m Kristina.

Chase and I…are friends.”

Amanda tosses her long

blond hair. Smiles.
Good

to meet you. I’ve heard

a lot about you. You were

a hard act to follow.

Chase told her about me?

Yes, I guess that’s like

him. Honest till it hurts.

I don’t know what to say

except, “Home for a visit?”

Chase nods.
We eloped,

so my mom hadn’t met

Amanda yet. Thought

we should fix that

before the baby’s born.

We make small talk

for a few minutes, my

end of the conversation

minuscule, compared

to all of Chase’s news.

Finally he decides,

It’s pretty late. We’d

better go before Mom

decides we skipped

town. Take care.

“You too. And let me

know when the baby

comes, okay?” I watch

them walk hip-to-hip

down the street. And

despite all the people—

bodies, faces—swarming

around me like pissed

yellow jackets, I have

never felt so abandoned.

On a bench along

the River Walk,

listen to

the opera of

the Truckee

River at night.

The water

is high, after our

massive winter.

It rushes past,

calling

over the rocks,

You’re not alone.

I’m here, aren’t I?

Coaxing,

Oh, the places I

can take you. Ride

along with me.

Cajoling,

Come on. It’s easy.

Just walk to the railing.

One quick step over…

Chanting,

Easy. It’s easy. One

quick step. It’s easy.

I’ll sing you to sleep.

One quick step.

I go to the railing,

tilt my face over, into

a cold, black breeze.

Into death,

reaching out for me.

It touches my face,

tempting me,

It’s easy.

No! Not yet. I throw

myself into reverse,

head back to the motel.

The next morning, Brad

calls on his way to work.

Glad you’re up. Is

everything okay?

“I’ve been up since day

before yesterday. And

everything’s fucked,

like anyone gives a shit.”

Okay, I’m kind of bitchy.

Several reasons for that.

Brad ignores the jab.
I talked

to Cesar. He’s good with

meeting you. After work?

“Sure. Pick me up? You

know where to find me.”

For the second time I’m

about to become intertwined

with La Eme. Mexican Mafia.

Some totally tough Latinos.

Definitely not the kind of

guys you want to mess over.

No problem. I’ll play straight

with them. Cash and carry.

That’s the only way to deal

with Cesar and La Eme.

Right on time. I figured we’d

head for the projects. Instead,

he drives well east of the city,

to the little bedroom community

of Fernley. It’s a silent twenty-

minute drive. What’s left to say?

Cesar lives in a well-kept

mobile home on a ten-acre

piece of high desert ground.

When we pull through the gate,

we are greeted by a rottweiler

the size of a Shetland pony.

The animal woofs like a bear,

and drool slides from his jowls.

The commotion brings Cesar

(I assume) to the front door.

León! Abajo! he commands.

The dog drops to the ground.

He’ll expect us to stay at

least a half hour,
Brad says.

But he doesn’t use, so don’t

even go there.
He opens the

door, slips from beneath the

wheel, and I follow him inside.

Furnishings are sparse. We

sit around a small card table.

Brad handles the introductions,

and Cesar regards me carefully.

After a few tense moments, he

nods, deciding I’m not the heat.

I don’t deal less than quarter

pounds, and won’t front until

I know you’re a regular. Then

we can talk. How much today?

His eyes travel back and forth

between Brad and me.

A quarter pound? Holy shit.

Brad never mentioned that.

I don’t have that kind of money.

Do my eyes reflect the terror I

feel?
We’ll take a quarter.

Brad produces a wad of cash.

Apparently, we’re now partners.

Cesar shrugs and goes into the

other room.
We’ll split the

profit, okay?
says Brad.

Move the quarter, you’ll

have plenty of cash to score.

I hope he’s willing to share

his customer list too. I need

to off the stuff as quickly as

possible, for several reasons.

Four ounces? I have graduated

again—to the major league.