she didn't report it."
"So were you, and you didn't."
"And so were you. Maybe you ought to tell me why."
So I told him. It paralleled Marty's story in a way that made me sound
as if I was mocking him. When I explained myself, the whole thing with Amber
seemed so puerile, so sentimental, so treacherous. I was suddenly ashamed of
myself, of submitting to my own self-created temptations. For a moment, I saw
us from the outside—Marty Parish and me—two former lovers of a beautiful woman,
nurturing their little hurts, nursing along their little hopes, fueling the
ancient torches, dragging around every lost moment of an idealized time so we
could remember how good it felt to be heartbroken by Amber Mae. It was
disgusting. In that moment, I hated myself.
"Maybe Amber picked us because she knew we'd miss her like
this," said Marty.
"Maybe Amber was just a selfish cunt we should have steered clear
of."
Marty nodded drunkenly. "Funny you'd mention that now that she's
dead."
"What in hell is going on here, Marty? Someone
move
her."
"Cleaned the carpet and brought in a throw rug."
"Painted the walls."
"Cleaned the mirror."
"Closed the sliding door and the screen."
"Took her away."
In trash bags, I thought. "Made the bed."
"Gad, Russ—and she was all packed up to leave. What am I gonna do?
I've got a marriage I'd like to save. I got a job I'd like to keep. I find my
ex-wife dead and I can't say a word or the shit's gonna hit every fan there is.
I'm not going to lose everything I've worked for because of Amber Mae. She took
it all once already. I paid my dues. Christ, do I need a drink."
"Think I'll join you."
Marty ordered up a couple more doubles. I've known only one man who
could drink as much as Martin Parish and still function. I saw Marty make a bet
once at a party that he could drink a fifth of Black Label in one sitting, do a
hundred push-ups, and not puke. He did all those things but still lost the bet,
because I drank a bottle, did 150 push-ups, and held. I also went home that
night, after Marty had fallen asleep, with the date that he had brought to the
party—Amber Mae Wilson, of course. We were young and stupid then.
Now we're just older. "Marty, can you explain... uh... why you
weren't fully clothed when I barged in on you?"
Marty drank more. "I still couldn't believe what I saw last night.
It was like if I closed my eyes and got under those covers... then I heard
someone coming up the stairs."
"It was like if you got under the covers, what?"
"That she'd be there."
"That's your answer?"
"That's it."
"You're a sick dog, Martin."
"Yeah, I know."
"Let's take a walk."
I paid up and we walked out onto the beach. I guided us south, toward
the rocks. I picked my way around to a little cove that closed us off from the
rest of the strand. When Marty was almost beside me, I drove my elbow into him
as hard as I could, right below the sternum. He folded in half, head down, and
I sent my knee into his forehead, hard. Then I grabbed him the hair, pulled him
out to the water, and pushed him in. I got his hair again and leaned into his
backbone with my knee. He was taking big gulps of air when I let him; the rest
of the time he got ocean. "Truth time, Marty. You kill her?"
"No..."
"Come on, I'm a friend."
"No..."
So I jammed his face down again and gave him a good drink. For a while,
he didn't even struggle. He blew bubbles. When I pulled him up, he was just
starting to suck in a big breath. He swilled the air and I asked him again
whether he killed her.
"No..."
Back under for some more quiet time. The water eased in, lifted us in
unison, set us back down on the sand. I yanked up on his hair again. "Then
what the fuck were you doing her house last night—and don't tell me
because you had to see her."
"I had to see her---I swear to..."
I leaned harder on his back. "And you went back again tonight? For
what, Marty? For what?"
"I couldn't figure out why... couldn't figure out why nobody called
it in...
"So were you, and you didn't."
"And so were you. Maybe you ought to tell me why."
So I told him. It paralleled Marty's story in a way that made me sound
as if I was mocking him. When I explained myself, the whole thing with Amber
seemed so puerile, so sentimental, so treacherous. I was suddenly ashamed of
myself, of submitting to my own self-created temptations. For a moment, I saw
us from the outside—Marty Parish and me—two former lovers of a beautiful woman,
nurturing their little hurts, nursing along their little hopes, fueling the
ancient torches, dragging around every lost moment of an idealized time so we
could remember how good it felt to be heartbroken by Amber Mae. It was
disgusting. In that moment, I hated myself.
"Maybe Amber picked us because she knew we'd miss her like
this," said Marty.
"Maybe Amber was just a selfish cunt we should have steered clear
of."
Marty nodded drunkenly. "Funny you'd mention that now that she's
dead."
"What in hell is going on here, Marty? Someone
move
her."
"Cleaned the carpet and brought in a throw rug."
"Painted the walls."
"Cleaned the mirror."
"Closed the sliding door and the screen."
"Took her away."
In trash bags, I thought. "Made the bed."
"Gad, Russ—and she was all packed up to leave. What am I gonna do?
I've got a marriage I'd like to save. I got a job I'd like to keep. I find my
ex-wife dead and I can't say a word or the shit's gonna hit every fan there is.
I'm not going to lose everything I've worked for because of Amber Mae. She took
it all once already. I paid my dues. Christ, do I need a drink."
"Think I'll join you."
Marty ordered up a couple more doubles. I've known only one man who
could drink as much as Martin Parish and still function. I saw Marty make a bet
once at a party that he could drink a fifth of Black Label in one sitting, do a
hundred push-ups, and not puke. He did all those things but still lost the bet,
because I drank a bottle, did 150 push-ups, and held. I also went home that
night, after Marty had fallen asleep, with the date that he had brought to the
party—Amber Mae Wilson, of course. We were young and stupid then.
Now we're just older. "Marty, can you explain... uh... why you
weren't fully clothed when I barged in on you?"
Marty drank more. "I still couldn't believe what I saw last night.
It was like if I closed my eyes and got under those covers... then I heard
someone coming up the stairs."
"It was like if you got under the covers, what?"
"That she'd be there."
"That's your answer?"
"That's it."
"You're a sick dog, Martin."
"Yeah, I know."
"Let's take a walk."
I paid up and we walked out onto the beach. I guided us south, toward
the rocks. I picked my way around to a little cove that closed us off from the
rest of the strand. When Marty was almost beside me, I drove my elbow into him
as hard as I could, right below the sternum. He folded in half, head down, and
I sent my knee into his forehead, hard. Then I grabbed him the hair, pulled him
out to the water, and pushed him in. I got his hair again and leaned into his
backbone with my knee. He was taking big gulps of air when I let him; the rest
of the time he got ocean. "Truth time, Marty. You kill her?"
"No..."
"Come on, I'm a friend."
"No..."
So I jammed his face down again and gave him a good drink. For a while,
he didn't even struggle. He blew bubbles. When I pulled him up, he was just
starting to suck in a big breath. He swilled the air and I asked him again
whether he killed her.
"No..."
Back under for some more quiet time. The water eased in, lifted us in
unison, set us back down on the sand. I yanked up on his hair again. "Then
what the fuck were you doing her house last night—and don't tell me
because you had to see her."
"I had to see her---I swear to..."
I leaned harder on his back. "And you went back again tonight? For
what, Marty? For what?"
"I couldn't figure out why... couldn't figure out why nobody called
it in...
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