The Drifter(46)

That night, the only thing that seemed to run wild in that town was music, and small bands played everywhere, in the backs of bars, on the sidewalks, even in the middle of the street sometimes. For a few hours, Betsy felt normal, maybe even a little happy, and deeply aware of the fact that it wasn’t going to last.

When they got back to Miss June’s, well after ten, they fumbled noisily with the key out front. Every single step in the stairwell squealed under their weight, and they’d fully forgotten which one of the unmarked doors along the hall was theirs. They wondered, Are we the only guests? The key fit into the third door that they tried.

“If you don’t stop with the laughing Miss June’s going to have to crochet you a ball gag,” he said, pulling her inside the room.

“It’ll go nicely with my straitjacket,” she said, reaching up to put her arms around his neck. “You know I’m not crazy, right?”

“Oh I know you’re crazy,” he said. “Because if you think I’m having sex with you in that ancient, broken bed you are out of your mind.”

“Come on! It’ll hold up for one more night,” she said, grateful that he couldn’t see her face, flushed like a radish in the dark. “It’s built to last. Just think of how many times it’s been given a good workout over the years.”

“Holy hell, now there is no way that’s happening. We could be the latest of thousands of people to be naked in that bed,” he laughed, and then stopped abruptly. “Actually, I might vomit.”

“Sexy,” she said, using her big toe to pry off her boots. She lifted her face to kiss him.

Betsy was used to the fumbling, the clumsy grasping for zippers and buttons, racing through the motions to speed through what felt like the humiliation of her own desire. Somehow, she still thought of that yearning as improper, unladylike. She was deeply aware of balancing her longing with her need to keep her number in the acceptable, if not exactly prudent, five-to-ten range until she graduated from college. Even if no one else was counting, she would remember the Georges of her life. With Gavin, it was different. She let him peel the T-shirt away from her torso, easing it past her shoulders and over her head. She moved her hands across his lower back. To him, she was already exposed. Her weaknesses, all of her doubts, had been splashed across the last couple of days.

“I’ve thought about this at least a hundred times,” he said, burying his face in her neck. “I’d see you out somewhere, lurking in the back so no one would notice you, and I’d think, ‘How the hell does that girl think she’s invisible?’ I would look at you until I was sure you could feel me staring, but you never did.”

“You’re so full of shit,” she said, turning her face so her mouth was near his ear.

“Usually, yeah, but not about this,” he said, softly. “I said to Newland, ‘You know that Betsy girl, the one who works at the bagel place? What’s her story?’ He was like, ‘Nah, man. No idea.’ Next thing I knew, he was all over you.”

He kissed the curve of her shoulder and sat down on the bed as Betsy stood before him, his hands around her waist. She pulled his shirt over his head and smoothed out his hair, the dim glow of the streetlight making the outline of his features just visible.

“What about the rickety bed?” she said, letting her jeans drop to her ankles.

“One more round won’t seal its fate.”

IN THE MORNING, they were surprised to see three or four older couples seated at two crowded dining tables, draped with extra large doilies, talking about jazz over pastries and coffee in still more chipped porcelain cups. The two of them ate their biscuits, fresh this time, bleary-eyed and sheepish, with a mug of strong coffee on the porch and prayed that no one had heard them stumble through the cramped hallway, or the tired springs of the seventy-five-year-old bed. Betsy went to the hallway to call her mom with her calling card. She was an adult, after all, mostly. She could handle the interrogation.

“Hey, Gavin, check the paper for news about Gainesville, will you?” The story was by now making headlines everywhere. She was sure there’d be something written about it.

Miss June held the screen door open for Betsy and then walked out to see Gavin.

“Y’all from Florida you said, right?”

“Right, we drove here from Gainesville,” said Gavin. “Some crazy shit happening down there.”

“You better believe it,” she said. “Some more of that crazy shit in that paper today.”

Gavin scanned the headlines and found the story on the second page. Two more bodies found. He dropped the paper and ran inside, just as he heard Betsy let out a long, low wail.

“He was in the house. I knew it. She’s gone,” she said through tears. She closed her eyes and covered her face with her hands. She’s gone.





PART 2





CHAPTER 11


EVERGREEN


August 31, 1990

Betsy’s eyes kept closing. She’d focus all of her effort to force them open, straining against the Valium, the Percocet she took an hour after the Valium, and the sandpaper texture her inner lids had acquired after forty-eight hours of sobbing. In a matter of seconds, they closed again. In the brief moments when they were open, her view was strangely menacing. From the passenger seat of Gavin’s car, which she’d reclined to a nearly horizontal position, the midmorning light was diffused through a giant, old cypress tree. Spanish moss hung from its branches like tattered lace, or decaying flesh decomposing from spindly bones. She would open her eyes, shudder slightly, and then they’d close again. How long she’d been repeating that cycle, she didn’t know. Finally, Gavin spoke, and Betsy was startled. She kept forgetting that he was sitting next to her.