The Two Deaths of Daniel Hayes (2 page)

The two-track led to a dirt road. The dirt road led to a paved one only slightly less bumpy. Eventually that intersected two lanes of faded blacktop with a sign marking it US-1, north to Machias, south to Ellsworth.

He pulled to the shoulder and sat watching. A weather-beaten pickup passed heading south. A minute later came a northbound Civic.

“Life goes on,” he said, and laughed a little hysterically. Had he always talked to himself?
Maybe. Maybe you chew bottle caps. Sodomize midgets. Kill people for a secret government—
He pulled onto the highway heading south.
The sky was clearing, the gray patchwork not lifting so much as coalescing into separate regions of dense cloud broken by vivid blue. The BMW reduced the outside world to a soft hum. His eyes felt grainy, his hands and head heavy. But he was pleased to note that the license plates read “MAINE” at the top.
So he hadn’t lost his mind. Maybe just misplaced it a little.
Assuming that his first conscious act hadn’t been to steal a car, and that the insurance was up-to-date, that meant that he’d driven three thousand miles. Three thousand miles followed by a swim in an ocean cold enough to stop his heart. Why?
Daniel rubbed at his eyes. His hands were raw. He could barely keep his eyes open. He needed to find a motel, sleep for a week. When he woke up, this would all be better. He’d remember who—
Don’t admit that. Madness lies that way.
—what he was doing here. It would come clear.
He passed a blink of a town, white clapboard and a sagging church. A girl pedaled a bicycle with streamers flowing from the handlebars. Sidewalks and a town hall and a VFW with a Friday fish fry. A mile the other side, a roadside marquee announced vacancies at something called the Pines Motel, a low-slung cinder-block building huddled along the highway. Fine. Good. Perfect.
The lot was gravel that popped under the tires. He stepped out into birdsong and chilly sunlight, tramped past a handful of dusty pickup trucks sporting rifle racks and hand-painted camouflage.
The lobby was just an alcove off the main hall with a desk tucked into it. No one there. Hanging on the wall was a surprisingly skilled painting of a deer bounding over a fallen tree. The artist had caught the animal’s panic, the brushstrokes menacing, the woods turned into the darkest sort of fairy tale. He could sense the hunter beyond the border of the painting, the threat closer and more dangerous than the animal could know.
“Help you?”
Daniel whirled. A woman held a bead curtain half-parted. He couldn’t tell if she was a rugged thirty or an attractive fifty. “Yeah, sorry. Just admiring the painting.”
“My husband. Don’t know why he bothers, myself. No use to the things. Keep trying to get him to paint over the old ones, but he likes to save them.”
“He should,” Daniel said. “He’s got a lot of talent.”
“A lot of time is what he’s got. Don’t know about talent.”
And what a lucky man he is to have you for a wife.
“I, ah, I need a room.”
“Single or double?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“Single’s cheaper.”
“Single, then. A single will be fine.”
The woman sat behind the computer, began punching keys. “Forty dollars. How long?”
“I’m—I’m not sure. What day is today?”
She gave him a look that read
city folk
, but said, “Wednesday.”
“Okay. Just tonight for now.” Wednesday. Nope. Nothing. He set the bank envelope on the counter, made sure she got a look at it. “You said forty?”
She nodded, and he pulled out two twenties.
“Name?”
“Daniel Hayes.”
“Credit card?”
“Huh?”
“For a deposit.”
“I lost my wallet. How about I just give you an extra forty as a deposit?”
Her eyes narrowed, but she took the money. “Checkout is noon. No smoking. You’re in seven.”
“The room has cable, right?” he asked anxiously, and then did a double take.
Huh?
The words had come out of his mouth unbidden. What did he care about— She was staring at him, so he said, “You know, television?”
“Television. The magic picture box?”
“Right. Sorry.” He rubbed at his eyes. “I’m a little hazy.”
She handed him a key on a heavy brass fob, pointed down the hall. “That way. Ice and vending at the end.”
Room seven turned out to be a ten-by-twenty rectangle with a twin bed. The furniture was particleboard, and the remote control was tethered to the nightstand. The windows were draped in yellowed lace, giving the room a funereal feeling. It smelled of chemical air freshener.
Home sweet home.
Daniel dropped the envelope on the dresser, went to the bathroom. He hesitated outside the door, his hand on the light switch.
Probably the moment he did it, everything would come clear. The shock would part like fog. He’d remember everything. Have a laugh, then fall asleep with a light heart.
So why are you hesitating?
It wasn’t hard to figure out. What happened if you looked in the mirror and didn’t recognize yourself?
Do it.
Daniel flipped the switch. Fluorescent light flickered on, revealing linoleum floors and Formica counters.
No fog parted. No veil lifted. The man in the mirror offered no answers.
He looked exhausted, bruised and worn and dark-circled, but more or less familiar. For a vertiginous moment, Daniel lost track of which was him and which was the reflection, like one was a doppelganger that could break free and act independently, as he seemed to have snapped free from his life.
“I don’t feel crazy,” he said, and the man in the mirror agreed. “I just don’t . . . I don’t—”
A sour taste rose in his throat. He slapped at the light. Stepped out of the bathroom, pulling the dirty undershirt over his head as he went.
Sleep. He would sleep for a long time, and when he woke up, he would remember. He would. He had to.
Dear god.
Please.

His dreams were sweaty things full of looming shapes and pointing fingers and the sense of imminent disaster. The context changed from dream to dream—he leaned over the edge of a tall building, he fumbled with the seat belt of a car spinning out of control, he stepped into shadows beneath a bridge where something terrible waited—but the essence was the same. In each of them he was filthy and lost and helpless to prevent tragedy.

The blast of an air horn and the roar of tires woke him, an eighteen-wheeler barreling by. He jerked upright, sure that he had fallen asleep at the wheel again. The sheets were tangled and wet, and the pillow bore a sodden outline of his head.

The alarm clock read 4:17
_P.M.
He’d slept about five hours. Daniel pushed the curtain aside and looked out at the dreary motel sign and the gas station across the street and the flaming sky beyond. Four o’clock and the sun was setting. These people got screwed.

Weird. You know you don’t belong here, and it’s not a matter of license plates and insurance cards. You just know it’s not home.
Daniel extricated himself from the blankets and padded to the bathroom. Left the light off as he ran cold water and splashed double handfuls on his face and neck.
It was time to acknowledge the facts. Somehow he had forgotten who he was.
So what
do
you know?
He’d woken on a beach, half-dead, naked. Could he have been drugged or knocked unconscious, taken there against his will? But if someone had done that, why leave the car for him to find?
More likely, he had gone there himself. Judging by the contents of the car, the whiskey and the ephedrine and the profusion of crap, he’d been driving for a while, maybe all the way from California. From sunny Malibu to that dark ocean, that hidden bluff, where he . . .
He . . .
Jesus.
He tried to kill himself.
How else to explain it? No wallet in the car, no clothes on the beach, no cell phone. He must have gone into the ocean. He could picture it, the cold light of dawn barely breaking the horizon. Habit might have made him kick off his shoes, take off his watch, then realize how unnecessary the actions were. Walking into the water, wincing at the shock, the bone-snapping cold of the waves. Walking until he could dive, and then swimming, stripping off his remaining clothing as he went. Past the breakers. His mind in turmoil, desperate to die, fighting to live. Diving deep into the womb-darkness, and opening his mouth to invite it inside—
Flair for the dramatic, Daniel?
He didn’t know anything like that, not really. Maybe he’d just wanted to take a dip. Hell, maybe he wasn’t Daniel Hayes. He couldn’t know any of it for sure.
First things first. A shower. And food. He was starving. If he wanted to be more than an animal, if he wanted to believe that he was still a man even if he wasn’t a whole one, then may as well start with the simple stuff.
In the bathroom he spun the tap to hot, stripped off the boxer briefs and tossed them on the toilet tank, then, while the water warmed, looked at his body in the mirror. His skin was on the pasty end of the spectrum, and though his arms had some definition, his belly had that early-thirties softness. Scratches crisscrossed his shoulders and back.
I’ve got a feeling I’ve looked better.
He stepped into the shower and let it wash over him.
Afterward, a towel around his waist, he explored his room. There was another canvas on the wall, this one a gray outcropping of rock lashed by black-blue waves. Spray flew high, spatters of white against storm clouds. The scene was intensely lonely, all that fury and foam without a hint of humanity to soften it. The only bright spot was in the sky, a tear in the clouds, small and far away.
Yeah, well, if you were married to that woman, hope would look small and far away to you too.
Daniel picked up the remote control from the nightstand, turned on the TV. Five-forty-eight, not time yet. He flipped until he found CNN, Wolf Blitzer myopically paternal. The Palestinians and the Israelis were still going at it, Darfur was still hell, Russia was still backsliding. Daniel hit mute.
His stomach twisted. God, he was ravenous. Have to do something about that soon.
First, though, let’s see if you can get some help.
The telephone was black and battered. He lifted the receiver, punched 411, and was rewarded by a mechanical tone followed by a mechanical voice. “Welcome to Directory Assistance. For English, please press one.
Para Español—
”
He hit one.
“Please say the city and state.”
“Los Angeles, California.”
“Say the name of the person or business you are—” “Daniel Hayes.”
“One moment please.”
He waited, twisting the cord between his fingers. After a moment, the silence gave way to the muted buzz of a call center and an operator’s bored voice. “Thank you for calling AT&T Directory Assistance calls may be recorded for quality assurance please spell the name you’re looking for.”
“Hayes, H-A-Y-E-S, first name Daniel.”
“Thank you.” The clacking of keys. “I’m sorry sir, that number is unlisted.”
“Listen, it’s an emergency. I absolutely have to talk to, to Daniel.”
“I’m sorry sir, I can’t give out unlisted phone numbers.”
“Could you connect me directly?”
“I’m sorry sir, I can’t do that.”
“Come on,” he said, trying to keep the frustration from his voice, “what’s the worst that could happen if you connect me? I still won’t know the number.”
“I’m sorry sir, I—”
“Can’t do fuck all. Yeah.” He hung up the phone hard enough to jar the bell. Five fifty-eight, almost time. He punched channels until he came to FX, the wrap-up of some cop show. Calling had been a long shot, but he’d been hoping that someone might answer the phone, someone who would recognize his voice. A roommate, a lover, a brother, a wife, someone he could trust to guide him—
Wait a second.
Almost time? For what?

His shoulders tingled like they’d been brushed with feathers. When he checked into the motel, he’d confirmed the room had cable. And earlier, shit, he hadn’t even noticed, but as he’d turned on the TV he’d thought that it wasn’t time
yet
.

Daniel sat up straight against the cheap headboard. Unmuted the television. Commercials: bad credit, no credit, you could get a loan; a Swiffer made it all worthwhile for a grinning housewife; a Mustang drove at unlikely speeds across abandoned roads.

A sexy pop song kicked in, synced to a quick-cut montage: a couple in bed, then a close-up of the man’s fingers tracing the woman’s back. Night traffic on a highway, headlights blurred and grainy. The flashing thighs of a girl in a nightclub. People around a bonfire, the lights of the Santa Monica Pier behind. A sun-blurred mural of Jim Morrison on the side of a building. Manicured nails holding the stem of a martini glass. Finally, three women—blonde, brunette, and redhead—laughing so hard that the redhead collapsed on the sidewalk. As the song wound up, the title
Candy Girls
glittered across the screen.

Daniel stared. It wasn’t the show, which revealed itself to be a sort of lurid cross between
Felicity
and
Melrose Place
, a melodrama about three sisters seeking their fortune in Hollywood, the kind of program that purported to be about learning and loving but was really about fighting and fucking. The writing was solid and the production slick, but that wasn’t what caught him. Nor was it the fantasy of eternal youth on the left coast or the stylish editing or catchy soundtrack.