The More They Disappear (28 page)

“Mary Jane? Haven't heard a word.”

“Are you worried?”

“Worrying hasn't gotten me far with my daughter, so I've decided to let her be. Technically she's an adult, even if she doesn't act like one.” Lyda balled the envelope in her fist as if it were trash and dropped it back on the table.

Harlan changed the subject. “I wanted to ask you about Wesley Craycraft and Trip Gaines.”

“What about them?”

“Did Lew ever talk about them?”

“He was friendly with Wes, but it's like I said before, we didn't talk much about our lives.”

“And Trip?”

“I don't think Trip was Lew's favorite, though to be fair, Lew didn't care for any of his family beyond his granddaughters. He said Mabel was a bore, Lewis was spineless, and Lewis's wife, Sophie, was a pain in the ass. That almost made me laugh, Lew talking as if he were parent of the year.” Lyda looked down at the newspapers and sighed. On top she'd placed the edition from the day of Lew's funeral. A steely-eyed portrait of Lew as a young man stared back at them. Harlan couldn't help thinking she'd stacked them that way on purpose.

“Jackson told me you and Lew had a relationship in the past, maybe even before that photo of Lew looking thin was taken. How come you lied?”

“I don't recall the details of our conversation. I was still in shock from the funeral.”

“Had the affair been going on all that time? Twenty years?”

Lyda flipped the paper over. “I really cared for him. That's what Jackson will never understand. I loved Lew. He was married with a kid when we met but I wasn't. Jackson and I were dating, the way kids do. I wanted Lew to leave Mabel but then I … well, it wasn't going to happen. Let's just say that. I married Jackson instead. I guess it would be accurate to say Lew and I have been on and off ever since. More off than on, though.”

“Sounds complicated.”

“Sad might be a better description.”

“What made Lew stay with Mabel?”

“I think he loved her in his way. And there was Lewis, too.”

“And what made you marry Jackson?”

She hesitated. “He asked.”

Harlan figured Lyda had reaped what she'd sowed, but he couldn't help feeling a little sad watching her try and hold it together. “Back to Trip,” he said. “He was paying off Lew's gambling debts. If they didn't get along, why would he do that?”

Lyda shrugged. “That's news to me but not exactly a surprise. I imagine a lot of people loaned Lew money. I can't tell you how much he ‘borrowed' from me over the years. I once sold an antique lamp gathering dust in our basement to help him out.”

“So you knew about his gambling?”

“What are you going to do? I tried to help.” She rubbed her eyes, slipped an elastic band from her wrist, and tied her hair into a ponytail. “I guess I failed.”

Harlan preferred the disheveled Lyda Finley sitting across from him to the actress he'd met the day of Lew's funeral. He believed her when she said she loved Lew but the rest was hazy at best. “Failure,” he said and stood up. “At least we have that in common.”

She tried on a smile. “So you talked to Jackson?”

“Did he mention it?”

“No. But he's been colder than usual.”

“I had to,” Harlan said. “You understand that, right? It's my job.”

She nodded. “If you're interested in Trip, you should talk to Jackson again. Trip was bothering him a while back. I don't know the details but Jackson complained about it once or twice.”

“Point me in the right direction?”

“His office. Just climb the stairs to the top floor.”

Harlan found Jackson listening to opera and staring out a small square window that looked onto the street when he walked in. “I thought I saw an official-looking car down there,” Jackson said.

“Sorry to intrude. But I had a couple more questions.”

“Do we really need to keep digging up these memories, Sheriff?”

“This isn't about that. Its about Trip Gaines.”

Jackson laughed. “What do you want with that asshole?”

“I heard he'd been in contact with you. Why?”

“He wants me to sell him a piece of property.” Jackson took a gold pen from his pocket and started clicking it with his thumb.

“What property?”

“I am the proud owner of a trailer park. The Spanish Manor.”

“No shit,” Harlan said. “I live next door.”

“My father inherited that tract and all the acreage east to Mason County. After the mill burned down, he planned on building a house out there, but he never got around to it. Or he ran out of money. It was his idea to become a slumlord. I have a property manager who collects rents and handles the tenants.”

“There was a fire out there the night Lew died.”

“I know. If it's not one thing, it's another. I try not to get involved.”

“It doesn't sound like you care for the place. Why not sell?”

“The land. It's the nicest track of riverfront property in northern Kentucky. You've been there.”

“It's pretty, all right.”

“The Spanish Manor is just the tip. All those woods that stretch east. They're pristine.”

“What's Trip want with them?”

Jackson made his way to his desk and had a seat. “Says he wants to build a house. Retire and start farming.”

“Become a gentleman rustic?”

“Something like that.”

“Where would he get that kind of money?”

Jackson dropped the pen and let it make a mark on a pad of paper. “Exactly,” he said. “No way he has that kind of cash without other investors, right? I don't trust it. Besides, the price of that land just went up.”

“Why's that?”

“Mussels.”

“I don't follow.”

“You read the paper?”

“I do.”

“Well, the docks for the paper mill are still in good shape. My father rebuilt them before the rest burned, so I figure that might be attractive to a certain gambling ship that needs a new home.” Jackson put one finger in the air just as an Italian woman cried a mournful vowel over rising timpanis. “Beautiful,” he said.

“Do you think Trip knew about the Silver Spoon's environmental troubles when he asked you to sell?”

“I don't know, but it doesn't matter, does it? The land is mine.”

*   *   *

Mary Jane kept two steps ahead of Mark as they walked to the party. When he tried to catch up, she quickened the pace, and he played it off as if he didn't care. She couldn't believe he hadn't apologized, hadn't at least tried to make amends. As they got dressed for the party, he kept talking about how everything was going to work out but she was tired of false promises. The worst part was that Mark wanted to go back to Marathon and hadn't even considered how that might make her feel. When she tried to explain, he brushed off her concerns and said they needed the cash and it wasn't debatable. Mary Jane wished he'd take a leap of faith and leave that moment, but Mark wanted precise instructions, as if there were a set of prerequisites to running away. It was a difference between them that made her doubt whether life in Canada would be all she'd dreamt.

She followed the rumble of drum and bass to the front yard of a falling-apart triplex. The crowd was a mix of punk rockers, hippie girls in flowing skirts, and trust-fund kids sporting blazers. All held red plastic cups. A couple of jocks patrolled the grass, tossing a football in the scant streetlight. The revelry was welcome medicine for the numbed silence that had developed between her and Mark. She turned back to him and said, “I'm going to find Vince.”

“Go ahead,” he replied, fingering the bottle of pills he'd stashed in his pocket.

On the porch a pair of kegs floated in garbage pails of icy water and someone handed her a beer. Inside strobe lights flashed and shadows danced and pressed against one another. Hips clasped, legs wreathed. A dreadlocked boy walked in and Mary Jane thought maybe it was Vince, but this boy was shorter and wore khaki shorts and a collared shirt. A thin blonde hung on his arm, and as he walked by, he handed Mary Jane half a blunt and said, “Finish that for me, love.” The girl laughed as they walked into an empty room and shut the door.

The pulse of a lazy drumbeat looped and Mary Jane leaned against the wall to feel it. Then a mousy girl with a long face and a crown of plastic flowers came out of the haze to share the spliff. She handed Mary Jane a pill that flashed butterfly in the strobe and popped one herself. “It's E,” she whispered. Mary Jane swallowed the pill with the last of her beer and an airy sensation took over. When the blunt burned down to fingertip passes, the girl tossed it to the ground and stamped it with bare feet. Then she took Mary Jane's hands into her own and asked her to spin. And so they spun.

Lights pulsed and Mary Jane's body pulled back into nothingness, but the girl's hands kept her in the present, and through those hands Mary Jane felt the beat of her heart. Their spin slowed into an embrace and they fell cross-legged to the floor. Stars wandered the room, revealing flashes of the girl's face. There was laughter. The girl leaned forward, her bloodshot eyes briefly seen before she fell against Mary Jane's chest. “You're soft,” she murmured. She seemed less girl than creature.

Above them, looming, crooked teeth glowed into a grin. Vince. “Join us.” The girl's voice rose from Mary Jane's chest, its breathiness touching the soft skin of her throat. “Join.” Vince's deep voice reverberated down as the drone of fuzzy guitars glided over a backbeat. His arms lifted them up. Two girls at once! The creature's crown fell and rolled like a coin, settling on a spot in the center of the floor where it was danced upon. Around them bodies lay prone on couches and slouched against walls. Mary Jane's feet followed Vince's to a bedroom decorated with lava lamps and posters of fleshy women and metal bands. Vince strummed an unplugged electric guitar and pulled a handle of vodka from the dark.

More faces appeared and the vodka circled. Mary Jane pulled out a bag of pills and handed it to Vince—the master of ceremonies. Madcap came into the room and checked her tattoo. “Remember to put lotion on it,” he said.

The circle wanted to see and tendered their sincerest compliments. The room was aglow. Someone lit a pipe and the sweet smell of pot rose into the air as a glass tray with lines of Oxy passed clockwise. They broke bread. Everything was beautiful and rhythmic. Toke pass breathe smell smile snort pass breathe. When the world fell into order, such wonderful things seemed possible.

Mary Jane felt herself float above the room, her eyes looking down like a traffic reporter in the sky. People laughed at a joke. Hers! And glancing backs of hands found thighs and laughter brought forth heaving bellies and chests and led to innocent kisses. Then someone broke the circle and others followed, but Mary Jane stayed—a blank look in her eyes.

Vince's touch brought her back. He traced the inside of her leg and Mary Jane held his hand there. The girl creature curled into them and her lips, disconnected things, found Vince and then Mary Jane. Lips upon arms and necks and lips upon lips. The lava lamp kicked onto its side—its dark glob suspended—and clothes separated from bodies and were tossed like bones to the fire. Offerings. Clunky, painful knockings. An elbow against the floor, the palm of a hand against her breast. All of it mixed with the ecstasy of skin touching skin, of not knowing where each body began or ended. Vince led them, guided Mary Jane down. She unbuttoned his pants, took him in her dry, sour mouth. Her swollen tongue throbbed a dull, comforting pain. The girl pulled off Mary Jane's jeans and underwear and reached under her own dress. There were too many sensations—the soft flesh of Vince, the tongue playing against her clit. Pleasure rising into one. Vince came in her mouth and Mary Jane leaned back, eyes lolling in her head like a blind man's while the girl brought her to climax. The door cracked open and Mary Jane turned to look. A familiar face in its sliver of light. “Mark,” she whimpered as she came, her body shuddering as the door shut again.

“What's that?” Vince said, kissing her on the neck. The creature rose and took them in her arms. “Sshhh,” she said. “Sshhh.” The other two turned into sleeping lambs, but Mary Jane couldn't sleep. She didn't belong anymore. She fumbled in the scant light for her clothes. Her skin felt sticky. Vince mumbled, but the creature stroked his chest and soothed him to sleep. Mary Jane tottered away on shaky legs.

The partygoers in the living room danced a boozy ballet. She fell into a girl and laughed a sick laugh, fell into a boy whose push spurred her to another. A bumper-car room. She tumbled her way to the front door and steadied herself in its frame. Mark stood by himself in the yard, the street lamp revealing a bottle of booze in his hand. Mark in mourning. Over her! She staggered to him.

“I'm sorry,” she said. The words came to her without thinking, not really her words. She wasn't sorry. She put a finger through his belt loop. “You know I love you.”

“Fuck you,” Mark snarled.

Mary Jane pushed herself into him. Mark's words couldn't hurt her. Words were meaningless. Fuck words. Fuck those. She risked a hand toward his crotch. You can have me too, it said. He pulled away, but she clutched him. He was such a flimsy boy.

“Don't,” he said, but she didn't listen and his body responded.

“Do it!” someone shouted from behind them.

Mark's feet tripped backward as they moved around the side of the house and found space between two bare shrubs. Mary Jane pushed him to the ground and undid his belt. Her hands were dulled from the drugs and her body told her to stop, but she knew what needed to be done. Mark, spurred on by his erection, took over. Neither of them spoke. He pulled at her underwear with shaky hands, not wanting to continue, not wanting to stop.
How much can you hurt me?
they asked each other.
How much can I hurt myself?