Sleep-Rite Motel
Boulder City, Nevada
December 13 (Nightfall)
I will turn my head over my shoulder, a year from now, two days from now, and I will look back at this night and say this is what it meant to be in thrall. A type of drowning, really, very slow and clear but also muffled, dim; a roar in the ears. Shining, like we were looking up at the diffusion of a light moving over the top of the water. As long as we stayed under, as long as we avoided the light, we would be saved.
Our lungs would fill with liquid, eventually, but this was to be preferred to scorched and blackened bones. A natural fear, believed despite the lack of hard evidence.
(I will say to myself, how sheltered we all were, how naive. And then: how quickly we fermented. Aged, but not to perfection. Simply aged.)
I should not indulge so easily in the reflection. It is not the time to meditate; it is the time to say goodbye. Which is in and of itself a mantra, though not a very good one. It has never yet brought me luck.
Jean and Logan returned with white cardboard boxes of Something that smelled vaguely like Chinese but more of stale oil-- not that they had much of a choice, they had to go wherever was safe, to whoever wanted their wallet satisfied more than their curiosity-- and a plan that not even Scott could argue for very long. The beauty is in the simplicity.
A meeting in a train yard, deserted (traditionally), at dark (traditionally) where a freight train carrying refrigerator parts (at least on the official papers) ships us out to a suitably remote location. Waiting commences, two days or two weeks. Then, another meeting, at a formica diner or a roadside bar, to finalize matters. Money passes under the table in exchange for brown manila packets of plastic, paper, and alternate lives. The implants come later, duplicity at the genes. This requires more money, although it is not a problem. I saw the envelopes pass from Scott to Logan before he left; they were thicker than my wrist and there were two of them. Expense is not spared.
Of course there are complications. Namely the eighteen blocks between the hotel and the train.
The eyes are still on us-- a different shade, a woman instead of a man. Heavy on the mascara. She leans against the glass window in a sort of tubercular hunch, pretending to shop for men but the dress ruins the effect. It's too high class for this part of town, as are the shoes. As soon as our room is empty, she'll make the phone call, if she hasn't already. That's the double-edged sword: to leave means we will be hunted but to stay only means they will take us from our beds.
There are contingencies for this. Calculated risks. We will dismember, leave in parts instead of as a whole. Not in the Jeep; they'll have marked that by now. We'll keep our feet on the ground, because it's easier to disappear. Into an alley, out the back door of a crowded beer joint. Down the fire escape. Up against the wall, a last resort, pretending to make love or slobber drunkenly, a sort of insanity in plain sight. No one notices the man on his knees vomiting his whiskey up, at least not in the way they do the man who's on his feet.
We hope it will not come to that; we still have our dignities even if we are more aware how easily they will be compromised. We rely first on the men, for their strength, but they rely on us for our faces, the beautiful or innocent guile. The surprised parting of the lips; the arch of the left eyebrow; the cultivated smoothness, the opaque yet transparent stare that answers all questions by removing the necessity for them. Lying is archaic, clumsy. It is much easier to evade the truth by rendering it superfluous or obsolete. Our faces are water, bending to any mode or shape needed to pass through a hole. A survival requirement, much like their sharpened trigger fingers and honed fighting skills.
Trust is a factor. We believe they will not turn the violence in our direction and they believe that we will not sell them out in smiles.
Now the question, who goes first? An advantage to be sure; whoever is left behind to maintain appearances runs the risk of being caught in the room if suspicions arise and the cavalry is called in early. They will be required to draw attention, to mask the escape of the others. In other words, they get to be the heroes, and we all know what happens to that sort.
Straws were drawn. It was really the only way to decide the matter given the high concentrations of Fearless Leader lying dormant in Logan and Scott. And also, the fear. Neither cares very much who finds them where but there are women and children involved. There always are, but this time it is magnified because it is their women and their children.
Scott won and promptly looked guilty for it. Jean was merely relieved; after all, it's her baby. Logan said nothing, and neither did I; we met eyes before he chose and shared the mutual decision to lose if at all possible. Not so much heroics as logic. They have all the disadvantages--broken ribs, newborn sons. If either of them suspected, they keep their mouth shut. Or rather, Jean kept their mouth shut for both of them. Scott had the itch of a man who would question were it not for a bit of telepathic lecturing on family duty.
So this is where we have ended up, at goodbye. Or, to be precise, the prelude to goodbye, which is mostly silence because there won't be anything to say for a while. We could fill the void with the usual cliches-- be careful, watch your back, good luck, see you soon-- but this would cheapen the words we will use when the time comes for them to walk out the door. I prefer to scrutinize, to focus on specific details and tuck them away in the files I keep on the people I want to remember.
Jean: the red lipstick, thin and tending more to the effect of grease than paint. The meticulous bow at the back of her neck where she tied the straps of her halter dress together. The cracked vinyl handbag, which is important because it will hide the gun. She's trying to decrease her face value. At night, under the streetlights, they won't be able to see the fine lines of her mouth and the delicacy in her eyes. They will see the handbag first, and then the dress and from there on stereotypes take over. There are other details, less obvious but just as important. Her hands, for example, their exceeding paleness, the length of the fingers, also their persistent attraction to Scott. Every other gesture is toward him, in some form or fashion. The tucking in of a collar. The brushing back of hair. This is what I will remember of her love for him, the casual intimacies. The familiarity-- she expects to grow old with him and does not feel the need for fever pitch, for reckless passion.
Scott: the frayed black sweatshirt, too big, worn bare at the elbows and disintegrated into holes in more than one place. The hood, also over-sized, but here it becomes an intention. Certain things need to be hidden, such as sunglasses at night, which would either be excused as a sign of gutter machismo or fingered as an accusation. Also the firmness of the jaw, which contradicts the desired image of harmless street trash, as does the entire face. There is an inherent magnetism, the sort that men envy and women fall in love with. Also, it is oblivious. Surprising, but true; when he is near Jean, when she touches him, he sees nothing else. Or if he does, he filters it through. Orbits around her. This is what I will remember of his love for her, the blindness. The extreme good luck that they did not crash, into each other, into reality, or that they never had the sense to admit it. There is something to be said for illusions.
Logan: the pile of fried rice left on his plate from dinner; the leftovers that mark the extent of his distraction. The fortune cookie he pushes into my hand, crumbled and smelling of vanilla and bananas, read the message, he says. Black and white block-print, easy on the eyes, a semi-authentic Chinese proverb that was most likely Made In Cleveland. (Confucius say, the man who never loves has never lived.) This is what I will remember most about him-- the continual, almost desperate avoidance of his own words at all costs. He tells me he loves me through eyes or hands or another man's words but never his voice. He thinks it breaks too easily, it takes strange turns and come out to mean something entirely different--
Stop, Marie Stop remembering him like this, stop including him on the list of goodbyes. He is staying, this time. Not just tonight but every night after, no matter what. You are together; cut the paranoia and trust him.
No, it's not that. It's not a lack of trust. I remember him now the same way I remember myself. Preserving the details because I know how unrecognizable people can get even if they never leave your side. I know how strange I have become. For myself, I choose only one detail; it is all that is needed. A dark orange sweater, hanging loose around my shoulders, cashmere. A scarf, sheer enough to see your fingers through, chocolate brown and tinted gold. I found it in the duffel bag Logan handed me when I went to take my shower.
(A few things I picked up on the way here, things I thought ya might have missed.)
Strawberry shampoo. Shaving gel, the purple girly kind with Sparkles on the lid. Three pairs of cotton undies, yellow with white flowers, two bras, also cotton. Jeans. And, at the bottom, the orange sweater. So he remembered after all.
"Ready."
Scott's announcement breaks off my distraction, cools the small smile that had began to creep across my face.
"Street's clear." Logan peers through the blinds. "Except for our lady friend, but she's going for another cigarette. Distracted." He waves them to the door. "Go, now. Go."
It comes and goes too fast. Seconds, perhaps a minute, though something in me feels it should have taken longer. There should have been kisses on faces, embraces, last words. After all, we are family. Instead there are a few scattered whispers (Be careful. See you soon) and then nothing. The cliches turn up sooner or later; there's no way to avoid them because what else would we say? If you die, I will mourn you? If you are taken, I will come back for you? This means failure is an option. This is unthinkable. Or are we just afraid we would be lying? That we would forget, that we would not come back?
I add to their words (Watch your back. We'll be there in a minute) and watch them fade out the doorway, into the hall. Already a memory. Already beyond my grasp.
We are alone together, now, Logan and I. An interesting way to put it-- alone. An adjective, not a very good one, used to describe an absence of companionship, a state of isolation. A severed limb, a hand neatly clipped off at the wrist. So how can two people be alone when they are together?
Quite easily, actually. Language isn't as idealistic as we like to think. It accounts for such things as awkward silence and empty words. Or, for the necessity to have companionship in the midst of isolation, to be severed with someone else so that together the two of us can manage. They've taken his right hand; I'll have to open his ketchup bottles. I'm missing one foot; he'll have to carry me up the stairs. This is fine, neither of us minds the extra effort.
I shut the door, lock the dead bolt, shake my head at the precaution. As if a door ever stopped anyone who wanted to get in. There are always windows, or bullets to blow off the locks, or explosives for the less subtle. It's a formality, I suppose. We will be able to say we have done everything we could. That has to count for something.
Across the room from me, he's pulled up the blinds and leans into the windowsill, smoking a cigar. Staring down into the street, at the woman, his eyes lazy and insolent. A distraction. A challenge: Look at me. The lights in the room are turned off; street lamps cut hollows into his face and scoop out the shadows, leaving vacuums of light. Burnt orange, typically, but it should be silver. There should be a moon, a full one, golden yellow or else the color of blood. Stars too, thousands of them. Or if not, there should be turbulence, pitch-black darkness, rain hard as nails and shiny as tin. There should be an extreme, something, anything more than smog and a limp wind and three dead stars on top of the sky. Something to fit the mood, which is extremity. A jump, though not by accident, off a plane. We've already begun to fall.
He watches the street and I watch him. Like a picture, without the benefit of a camera. We never put much stock in that form of remembrance. I once had a single photograph of him, not even in color. A black-and-white print, taken on the excuse of using the last bit of film I bought for an art project. The photo is of him alone, lying on his back under a tree with a book lying across his stomach. Paperback, the title barely visible; 1984. I never knew whether he read it out of actual interest or just to shut me up, but he talked like he enjoyed it. It must have been a hot day; the tree was wilted, the leaves drooping like thin black fingers. On the back of the picture, in tiny sepia letters, was one word. Picnic. No names, no dates; I knew these things, why should I write them down?
He smiled, but the edges were guarded, like a man suddenly in a corner. Caught, but he doesn't know by what, friend or foe. His hand was held up, between himself and the camera, warding off memory. Warding off tomorrow. As if to prevent me from looking back and remembering him in one certain fixed light. As if to protect me from how much he might change.
I kept it too close, I admit, wanting its solidity, wanting permanence. When a mission went bad and I burned, it burned with me. I was salvaged before too much damage had been done, repaired by Logan, but the photograph was past salvation. A curl of brownish-yellow paper, the image charred beyond recognition except for one spot in the middle. A smeared black hand still extended a barrier between the smile and those watching the smile.
He was right, I realized, I could not hold onto him. He changed too fast, too readily. The proof was in the eyes. They did not smile so much, even after my burns healed, they did not lend agreement when Charles spoke of a humanitarian fight and rebuilding the future. Three weeks later, he told me he wasn't going to let me die in someone else's war, and I packed my bag and left the mansion with him to cross the border into Canada before it was too late.
Such intricate, futile attempts at protection.
And here we are, tonight. Still smiling, somehow, though not for the same reasons. Still holding up our hands between our faces and the world, warding off the change that we should just go ahead and recognize as inevitable.
"Penny for your thoughts, baby."
He speaks without looking at me; it's not required. Even in a crowded room, it is recognized in advance that there is no one else he would be talking to, at least not like this.
"Not worth that much. Just thinking about an old photograph."
"Anyone I know?"
"Someone you used to know."
"You'll have to reacquaint us someday."
A soft grin. "Someday."
I am standing behind him now, my arms around his waist, head resting between his shoulders. Comparing heartbeats.
"You should stay away from the window." He turns his head slightly toward me, his hand reaching up to rest over mine. "There's a chance they might think it's just me."
I move, but not away. "Let them see." I stand beside him, face to face. In plain view. "They'll know we're together. Aren't we?"
Hands on his face, allowed to touch because it's through cotton, smoothing out the wrinkles and the worry lines beside his eyes. Tracing the bridge of the nose. The bottom of the lip. So many things could be excused as simple inertia. Two objects set in motion on a collision course. Couldn't be helped. But at the same time I want it to be a choice. Mine, his, ours.
"Yeah, darlin. We are."
His hands move to mine, pulling them away from his face. Over his heart. I am holding it in my palms, cupping the life. Trying not to spill.
"Then why don't we show them?"
I pull the scarf from my neck, hold it out to him. He drops the cigar; his fingers close around the cloth. The golden threads turn bronze in the streetlight. He moves, or I move, or we both move, and then we stop. At the same moment, together.
The kiss is andante sostenuto. Slow, and sustained.
"Tell me if you need space." A whisper, against my cheekbone. "If you need room to breathe."
Who wants to breathe? I am not sure if I say this aloud or not, but I must have said something or nothing because he kisses me again. Con ardente moto. With fire, with motion.
Then the hands tighten on my arms, the shoulders hitch in a muffled curse. Muffled because the words entered my brain but a roaring in my ears prevented me from totally hearing it. All I hear is the squeal of brakes as two, three, four vehicles jerk to a stop in front of the liquor store.
Oh, and the blindness too, let's not forget that. A most unusual loss of sight that has the effect of sharpening everything to a hard, unforgiving clarity that makes it impossible to see as a normal person would. How else can you explain the fact that it is night but I can see every chip and scratch in the black paint of the vans? That I can count the exact number of wires in the mesh that covers the windows in the back. (1,345) Converted dog catchers, I think, they've come to take us to the pound.
It feels like no one else sees this; I am the only one in the room, The only one by the window and so I am required to sound the alarm. Scream, set off a flare, run down the hall shouting fire. But, nothing so melodramatic. I am placid. I am calm as water on glass, though I suspect I have gone white in the face because his eyes are burning before I even speak.
"Looks like we're not going anywhere after all. They're here."
The hands on my arms tighten again, but this time it is the opposite of surprise. It is premeditation, as are the words that follow. He planned for this contingency all along. "Get out."
My body moves toward the door. I haven't given that command, but he's taken control, overridden my personal orders: stay, don't move, don't let him out of your sight again. At the last moment, I remember the counter-measures. Feet dig in, hands tear free.
"No."
"You can make it if you run, out the back, find Jeannie and Scott and stick with em." The hands move up to my shoulders, to my face, this time pleading. A stream of words or at least pieces of words, broken off and thrown at me all at once. "I'll slow 'em down and you run, get out, now...."
"Logan. Stop. Listen to me."
His words dry up. Silence. I lock our fingers together; I lock our eyes. Tying us together, double-checking the knots.
"I'm not leaving."
"Yes, you are. You're getting out and you're going to be safe and--"
"No. I don't want to be safe. I want to stay with you and hold them here to make sure Jean and Scott and their baby get away from this. You won't be able to do it by yourself. Not long enough."
Have to keep it soft, keep it gentle even though it would be a relief to scream. I would if I thought an increase in decibels would merit an increase in understanding.
"I can hold 'em here myself, it'd be pointless if we both went down--"
"Yes. That's just it. If we can remember that staying human is worth it, even when it doesn't have a point, even when it has no result whatsoever, then we've beaten them. And I'm not human when I'm not with you.There are pieces missing. Gaps."
He stares at me for a long second, then a longer second. Granite eyes. Why is it I always characterize him in stone? Because it doesn't bend until it is broken. But there is a secret, too. Behind the stone is a smile. A relief, even though his voice is hoarse, uneven on the edges.
"I keep you human?"
"Yes."
A smile, a spasm across my face because it's too brilliant to be natural. The shine of ice before it cracks.
"Everyone has to have a reason, right? For me it's you."
From below, a shatter of glass. A scream.
The shadows have entered the building. One minute, perhaps ten seconds longer than that, and they will be knocking at the door.
(I'm sorry, we don't live here anymore,)
I will say, through the key hole.
(You think we do because you can see our bodies, but I assure you our true selves have been absent for some time. A sort of journey, you see, another dimension of space. You will understand why we say you cannot follow. You would not know the way.)
"Get on the other side of the dresser," he says. "Push. Over to the door."
After the dresser, the bed: old wood, rotted, growing yellow fungus in the back, but it will slow them down. This is all it's meant to do. Buy time. Make them work for it.
"Listen, kid." Chest moving up and down, breathing heavy. Ragged. "When it starts, I don't want you in it. You don't fight."
"But--"
"When they come at you, just let them--"
(Here my brain interrupts him; he said when not if, it is already a forgone conclusion that we will be taken down. I realized this but of course there is a difference between the moment you realize it and the moment it hits your gut. That moment is now. Tremors in the joints of the knuckles, at the back of the legs.)
He continues.
"--but you don't rush them, not even when they take me out. No matter what you seem them do, you stay back. You go peacefully."
"I won't." An insult; I can take the blows as well as he can. "I'm not going to go anywhere without a fight--"
"Trust. Me." His arms at my elbows, drawing my eyes up to his. "I can get us out of this, I can do it. But it won't work if you get yourself beaten down and dragged out. I'll regain consciousness before we get two miles out; you won't."
"Then you go peacefully too. Let them take you out easy."
A hardening at his jaw; a strange burn in his eye. "No freakin' way, baby. Ain't no way they're gonna get to you to begin with unless I'm put down hard. Just ain't gonna let it happen."
Voices at the end of the hall, shouting to the humans.
(Registration Enforcers, stay in your rooms. I repeat, stay in your rooms.)
Then, to us.
(All non-registered persons come out with your hands raised. Surrender and no use of force will be necessary.)
All lies, of course. Even if we followed the expected cliche and came out waving the white flag, there would be "use of force". Accidental beatings, unfortunate bruises. Mistakes happen. Fists and the door. Pounding. The wood shivers. I flinch.
"This is the Enforcers!! You are under arrest for evading registration and entering city limits without a pass!! Open up!!"
It is not until Logan slides his arms around me, pulling me back against his chest, whispering (it's okay, I got you Marie) that I realize I am shaking. No just at the fingers, anymore. Entire arms and shoulders.
We move back into the corner, the camouflage of shadows. We are digging into the trenches; climbing into the foxholes. Securing the helmets, pulling the pins out of the hand grenades. Counting to three.
Three.
/Pounding, muffled thud like a hammer striking a coffin, then a crack; the door splinters, soon it will break down the middle and they will be climbing over the fortifications and we will be at war./
Two.
/Palms sweating against the gloves, his arms unwrapping from my shoulders and moving in front of me, though his hands linger a moment longer on mine. Fingers wrapped through fingers, locked. Questions, answers.
"Are you still here, Logan?"
"Yeah, baby. Right here."
"You won't let me go?"
"I won't."
"Do you think they got Scott and Jean?"
"No. I think they got away. "
"So do I."/
One.
/The warmth of his body moving away from mine, into a standing position, taint of metal in the air as the claws are released. I'm on my feet behind him, still talking. Last words. Everyone deserves them.
"I was wrong before, when I told you what my best day was."
"How?"
"This is the best day."
"Why?"
"Because it's the day that we are most alive. Right now. This moment."
"I love you, baby."
"You finally got around to saying it again, huh?"
"It's okay if it's just me. I'd understand--"
"I love you."
"Just remember it, okay?"
"Couldn't forget it, darlin. Not even when I wanted to."/
Zero.
Explosion.
/Hands legs bodies pouring through the door too many, too dark to see but the glare is blinding flashlights in the eyes a dirty shot now someone's switched the lights on oh God there are so many they aren't firing they really do want us alive he's in the middle can barely see him through the thick and what are those metal things, cattle prods he can't fight that I have to get the gloves off have to do something leave him alone don't hurt him hurt me instead Logan let me help But. I. Promised./
When the end comes, it is like the final movement of a Beethoven concerto. Prestissimo furore: very fast, with fury. But at the same time very distant and slow as if I am sitting in the far back of the auditorium, picking out each individual note and slur of phrasing. A crescendo, a deafening forte, then silenzio. Silence.
Forgive me, I forget myself and slip into music. This is what really happens--
Logan falls, inevitably. First to one knee, then to the side, and then the cattle prods finish him off although it takes longer than it should. There is blood, too much. This I do not watch, not entirely; when I open my eyes again they are twisting his arms behind his back, wrapping them around a steel bar placed over his shoulders. Manacles at the wrists, all the better to cut off the circulation.
When they turn to me, I expect a deluge, but instead there is a pause. A fermata, I would say, if this was a concerto. But it is not and I am not to speak of it as such again. I hold my hands out, in front of me, a gesture of surrender. Of emptiness but also of defiance. If I have nothing then that is all they can take away.
"Hands behind your head!! Up against the wall."
I move my hands behind my head, slowly, but I do not turn to the wall. They will have to do some things for themselves. A smile, mine, complete with bared teeth, flashed in their faces. Desperation but also triumph.
"Watch the skin, sugar." I say. "It'll kill ya."
They move as one, with necessary use of force even though I am not resisting. Various points of impact-- butt of a gun in the stomach, fist gripping the hair, slamming the face and body against the wall. Another blow to the small of the back, keeping me in place while the hands run over me. Searching for weapons although they know I do not have them. Arms wrenched behind the back, metal bar shoved through, wrists locked into place.
They have not been able to determine why I am smiling; eventually they grow tired of asking and simply bloody my lip. Only this has no effect. They are too late; I am no longer here. I am somewhere entirely different. Another dimension of space, another universe.
I am standing in the back of an alley, beneath the flickering light of a broken street lamp, watching a man lead a woman through the darkness. For a moment, I see them not as I have known them, but in the way a stranger will see them.
The man's sweatshirt is too big for his frame; it hangs off the shoulders. The hood droops over his face and conceals most of the features. Especially the eyes, though you can still see the glint of dark red sunglasses if you stare hard enough. Street trash, most likely, a coke addict or heroin junkie, they're a dime a dozen these days. The oversized shirt will hide the puncture marks in the arms, the bruises on the ribs from the pimp or the loan shark. The sunglasses will hide the burned-out eyes. The vacant stare.
Then the woman, baby on her hip, a cracked vinyl purse slung around her elbow. Pretty enough, beautiful even. She doesn't quite match the cheap cotton halter dress, which is out of season. Doesn't she know that winter can get cold, even in the desert? Just another white trash attempt at style. Those kind would shave their legs with beer bottles just to save the cash.
Both the woman and the man are pathetic. Bland. Invisible in plain sight. Safe.
I smile. They are going to make it.
But now we are moving apart; their figures deeper and deeper into the blackness of the alley and myself deeper and deeper into a blackness of an entirely different sort. I open my mouth to call out a farewell, a last word.
(We shall meet in the place where there is no darkness.)
This is what I want to say, but there is no sound. No sound at all.
One last glimpse of them, but it is strange. They are passing beneath a street lamp, a wash of quicksilver outlines their silhouettes with dim light. An eerie glow, as underwater. Wavery, indistinct, undefinable.
This is my final impression of them, which precludes memory. Three words.
Waterlogged. Drowned. Shining.
Aren't we all.
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