All right.
He managed to get to his feet and stumbled, with her arms around him, out of the bathroom and into the hall and then into his bedroom. He had never purchased a bed frame and so the mattress lay on the stained carpet in the corner of the room, the bedding strewn amidst piles of dirty clothes above which was tacked a velvet black-light poster of a panther in fluorescent orange and yellow and, beside it, a poster of Van Halen, the band’s flying VH logo centered in gold around which the four band members were caught in motion as if onstage, their instruments glowing, their singer, David Lee Roth, shirtless and leaning forward as if ready to leap out of the image and into the apartment. It looked to Nat, in that moment, the pathetic squalid room it was.
He managed to slide into a sitting position, Susan holding him all the while, and then lay back upon the mattress. She sat next to him there, her hand sliding his sweat-soaked hair off his forehead. You don’t feel warm, she said, but you’re sweating like crazy.
He closed his eyes.
Rick’ll be here soon, she said. You’ll feel a lot better once you get some medicine in you.
Thanks.
Taking care of my guys, she said. That’s my job.
Come here, he said. He raised his left arm, eyes open now, the broken hand still clutched to his chest. She leaned in and when he leaned up to kiss her it was as if an instinct had taken over. The pain. The crashing of his fear and anguish and anger. He could feel her lips for that brief moment and was sure she was kissing him in return.
Then it was over.
You should try to get some sleep, she said.
I love you, he said.
Shhh. You’re just tired.
There’s something wrong with me.
Get some rest. Rick’ll be here soon with the medicine.
What am I gonna do?
Sleep, she said. That’s what you’re gonna do.
He was looking at her, so close, her face watching him with an expression that was pure concern and care and worry. And then he felt himself drifting outside. He hovered over an endless icteric plain: sagebrush and horsebrush, Mormon tea and shadscale. There were animals in the shadows. He could feel them there, could see their eyes reflecting back at him from the darkness. From somewhere, a murmur of voices: Rick’s voice and Susan’s, the sound a spectral echo drifting against a sky awash in the thin high feathers of alto cirrus clouds.
It’s not your problem.
Yes, it is.
How, Rick? You weren’t even here when he got himself in this shit.
That doesn’t matter.
Yeah? Why not?
Because it doesn’t, Susan. You take care of your people. That’s what you do.
Blah blah blah.
Don’t do that.
I don’t know what else to say. He got himself into this, not you. And what about your mom, Rick? What about that? Don’t you think you’ve got your own problems to worry about?
He seemed to be asleep then, although he could still hear the faint hum of their voices from somewhere farther away, and then he could see her at the door that night when Rick was still in prison, three or four months into his sentence, the day of the rainstorm. A knock and there she was, drenched, her breasts showing through the wet T-shirt, hair dragging in her face like something out of one of his secret fantasies. I need your help, she had said. It all seemed to spin out before him now. Even the feeling he had in that moment, the trembling rise of heat in his chest. It was all he had ever wanted to hear her say, not that she needed help but that she needed him, even though he hardly would have admitted such a thing, even to himself. How he had looked at her in those moments when neither she nor Rick would notice him looking. How he had imagined what her body might feel like in his hands. And then there she was, standing in the doorway, asking him for his help. He would have done anything, told himself as much and ascribed that telling to her status as his best friend’s girlfriend. Was he not supposed to help her? Is that not what Rick would expect him to do?
She asked him to take her to the clinic because she was pregnant and did not want to have a baby, told him that the baby was Rick’s, of course it was. He did not think about his response. Instead, he only said yes yes over and over again, his whole heart and soul shivering inside his skeleton as if a great string had been plucked and stood vibrating along the length of his spine. Now he thought this betrayal, the betrayal of his heart, the betrayal of being party to the secret abortion of Rick’s child, was worse, much much worse, than the sexual betrayal that would come later.
He took her to the clinic and paid the full bill, much of which came from a recent loan from Johnny Aguirre, and then waited for her in the lobby, flipping through the various magazines there with a kind of manic fury, as if waiting for the birth of a child. He wondered how she would feel when it was done, hoping that she would need him to take care of her, already planning his call into work in the morning to tell them he was too sick to come in.
When she returned to the lobby she told him he could take her home now and thanked him and then fell quiet as he drove, the wet streets reversing casino towers as grainy and specular ghost images, their colored neon shapes pushing under a surface that rolled forever under his wheels. Occasionally she would murmur a direction until at last he pulled over next to an apartment building on the east side of the Virginia Street casinos, a two-story slab of cracked stucco and concrete not unlike the building he lived in.
This is where you live? The rain had stopped now but the clouds continued to roil atop the mountains to the west. The desert everywhere had already sucked its water down under the sand.
No, this is just a friend’s place. I’m staying here for a while.
Oh, he said. Is your friend home?
I don’t know.
Do you want me to come up?