A woman who had been standing at the mirror cleared her throat pointedly. In one hand, she held a wand of lip gloss; with the other, she pinched her nostrils. “I’m sorry, but that is just nasty,” she said.
Manny pivoted on his knee in her direction, his head cocked. “That isn’t very nice, is it? She’s just a little kid.” Was he standing up for her? Kit burned with a feeling that made her forget about the nausea and the mess and all of it.
“I guess so.” The woman, deep in her thirties, had rouged her cheeks so it looked like she’d been whacked on either side of her face with a stick. “You’re not supposed to be in here, mister,” she said. She bit a glittered nail and smiled. “I should scream.”
Kit didn’t like the empty way she was making a threat, her lips pouty, like those of a child.
“Why don’t you be a sweetie and go scream for a mop and some rags?” he said to the woman.
She inserted the wand into its slim bottle, twirled it closed, and dropped it in her purse. Every gesture performed slowly, as if for an audience. She pressed her sticky lips together and walked toward the door, where she paused as if thinking of something to say, then closed the door behind her.
“Ya fuckin’ slut,” he added under his breath. Kit startled at the nastiness of what he said. The comment seemed so unlike the rest of what she’d experienced with this man, she wondered if she had heard him wrong.
“Let’s get you cleaned up,” he said, kindly now; he lowered the toilet cover with a square of paper and flushed. “Don’t mind her.”
Kit nodded, shelving the flash of ugliness he’d just shown her. She wiped the tears and snot from her face and sniffed, detecting a pungent combination of vomit and body odor. She pinned her elbows to her ribs and hoped he couldn’t smell her, too.
“Will you come with me?” he asked.
She was so used to being bossed around or yelled at or physically handled, his asking struck her as a great kindness, and she did not refuse. She took his outstretched hand, a catcher’s mitt that enveloped hers, never minding the mess they were leaving behind, and followed him out of the bathroom.
Although the trip was short, Kit fought to stay awake in the Mustang, its throaty engine and bumpy ride like a lullaby. She noted the easy landmark of the towering cartoon Road Runner which stood above the diner. She tracked their course, noting turns, exit signs, and any resources that would help her out should she need to take off on her own. They pulled up to a motel, a horizontal roadway inn with an empty kidney-shaped pool and a half dozen trucks in the lot. Manny killed the engine and they got out. Kit trudged up the coarse, gravel-inlaid stairs and followed Manny along the flickering outdoor corridor into a chilly room.
“Home sweet home,” he said, cheerful and a touch expectant, as if he hoped she would like it.
“You live here?” she asked, taking in the thick turquoise curtains, the frayed brocade bedspreads, the brass hanging lamp. It was beautiful.
“Well, I roam a bit, I guess. Never did stay in one place too long.”
“Me neither,” she said, turning the dial on the space-age TV set.
“You’re welcome to stay here until the morning, if you like.” He adjusted the air conditioner, beads of humidity gathered around its vents. “No pressure, I just thought you looked pretty beat. I suppose I can take you to your aunt tomorrow.”
She tensed at the prospect of staying in his space, this man whom she’d just met, who seemed too good to be true. She had visions of being whacked across the head and thrown into the trunk of a car, dumped in an alley, or a lake. But she just didn’t get that feeling from Manny. He had left his wallet and keys on the table, right by the door. Who did that? She could just snatch it and run away. He was nice, she thought, not the type. And besides, she was so tired, she couldn’t imagine another night sleeping in the grass, the sound of insects crawling, the swish of coyotes nearby, the incessant threat of being seen and found and taken away.
“You can sleep by the door if it makes you more comfortable,” he said, as if reading her mind. “I’ll be on the floor by the bathroom. The bed’s too lumpy for me anyhow,” he said. With the fingers of both hands, he raked his long hair back and there it stayed, glued by she didn’t know what—wax, gel, its own grime.
Suddenly aware of an urgent need to pee, she went wordlessly to the toilet, embarrassed to admit the errand. She shut the door and relieved herself as she always did—as fast as possible, never knowing when someone would bust in and hijack the bathroom. When she flushed, the paper took a slow orbit around the bowl, but the toilet didn’t empty. She staved off panic at the thought—of what, she wasn’t sure. Him seeing her waste? She had already puked and nearly passed out. What did she care? He was no one to her. Still, there was no way she was leaving her stuff in there. She jiggled the toilet handle, then lifted the heavy lid with a scraping echo, as on a tomb. She fished around for the loose chain at the bottom of the tank and reattached it to the lever that lifted the plug. Outside, Manny was whistling some chirpy ditty. She made sure the door was locked and tested the flush. The toilet gurgled, swished, and swallowed every unwanted trace of her.
Crisis resolved, she inspected Manny’s things: razor and shaving foam on the sink, a fresh tube of toothpaste and a pink toothbrush, three thin towels folded neatly in a stack, a damp washrag hanging to dry on the side of the tub. Tidy as a church. No sour stench of many bodies, no furry grout. No goopy hair products and makeup clutter and loaded litter box wedged by the tub. She ran a finger along the smooth, shiny lip of the sink.
She sighed a little resting sigh.
For the first time since she left the Machers, she saw her reflection in the mirror.
“Wretched,” she whispered. She had heard a social worker describe her once this way. Dark eyes, in color and regard, tangled hair to her shoulders that would be inches longer if she’d kept it brushed (never owned a brush, wouldn’t use it if she had), dirt stenciled along her hairline and jaw, sooty smudges under her nostrils. Under her eye, a raw scar, kinky from her uneven stitches. She took off her shirt, her flat chest ashy blue against the dirty tan of her neck and arms. Skinny, ribby, with a belly slightly bulging. Wretched summed it up.
“You look like a boy,” she said as a matter of fact. Her expression had the vulnerability of someone who is trying hard to be invulnerable.
A rap at the door. Kit dropped to the ground and covered herself with her shirt.
“Jesus H.!”