Theresa Monsour

  Keri took advantage of the spilled jar as a diversion and pulled the right sock off all the way. “Gotcha!” She grabbed the left one and got it in one yank. Waved it victoriously over her head. “Hah!”

  Trip walked back in with the towel and got on his knees to blot the carpet dry. Close to the floor, he could smell urine and wondered if his father was having incontinence problems on top of everything else. Next he’d be taking a dump in the middle of the front room.

  Keri was on her knees next to him with Frank’s feet in her lap. “They’re good,” she said, patting them. “As usual, all your fussing was for nothing. Toenails could use a trim, but I ain’t doing them. You got to get to a podiatrist.” Her sweatshirt had crawled up her back. Trip could see a white flash of flesh dotted with pimples and above the waist of her jeans, a tattoo of a frog. He was well familiar with the frog, as well as the lily pad a couple of inches below it. The sleeves of the sweatshirt were cut short, revealing her fat upper arms.

  Frank: “Sweet can clip my nails.”

  “He can’t trim shit,” Keri said. “He breaks the skin and you’re back in the hospital.”

  Trip looked at his pa’s toes and grimaced. The nails were yellow and thick and curling under. That empty spot where the big toe used to be bummed him out. He had no intention of touching those feet. He stood up with the wet rag, righted the Mason jar. The teeth were under the bag of chips. Trip picked them up with two fingers and dropped them into the jar. He looked for the whiskey bottle; his pa usually kept it within arm’s reach. He found it on the couch behind a throw pillow. Trip picked it up and emptied the remainder into the Mason jar. He’d have to make a liquor store run later. Pa had to have his Jim Beam.

  Keri: “Got to check your blood sugar.”

  “You ain’t poking me,” Frank said.

  “The hell I ain’t.” Keri set Frank’s feet down and stood up. She folded her arms over her chest. Trip thought she had small breasts for such a large woman, and they were heading south with the rest of her aging body. She nodded toward the TV tray. “What’s this crap?”

  “Breakfast. Lunch. Probably dinner, unless my son gets his ass in gear.”

  “You can’t keep eating crap. Gonna kill yourself.”

  “Good. Then I won’t have to listen to your nagging.” He turned the volume even higher on the television.

  She shook her head and walked into the kitchen to get the glucose monitor. Trip followed her with the wet towel. Threw it into the sink on top of the pile of dirty dishes. The counter was covered with empty beer cans, opened bags of chips, half-empty cereal boxes. Hardened spatters of something orange. The remains of a fried egg sandwich rested in a skillet on the stove. His pa’s housekeeping had declined along with his health; the place was always filthy when Trip returned from the road. He worried his old man would burn the place down on top of it. Trip suspected his pa couldn’t see well enough to tell if the range was off or on. Trip had arranged once to have some neighbor ladies come in and cook while he was out of town, but his pa had refused to open the door for them. Told Trip they were trying to poison him with slop called “tuna hot dish.”

  Keri was bending over the kitchen table, fiddling with the blood glucose monitor. “He can’t keep drinking like a fish, especially with his diabetes. You’re gonna come home one day and he’s gonna be dead on the couch.”

  “I know,” Trip said tiredly. He started moving plates and cups from one side of the sink to the other so he could plug the drain and start filling the sink with water. The dishes were going to have to soak; he saw dried egg yolk from the week before. A couple of the whiskey glasses had Keri’s lipstick on the rim. How could she lecture about his old man’s drinking one minute and tip a glass with him the next? She was a two-faced bitch not to be trusted. How could he ask Keri about which pills to use on Paris Murphy without telling her what they were for? Maybe he’d have to stick with a known quantity. The date rape pills. He plugged the drain, squirted some dish soap in the bottom of the sink and started filling it with hot water. He swayed as he stood over the counter. He wanted to sleep for a week. He turned off the tap when the suds reached the top and transferred one mound of dishes into the water. Wiped his hands on his pants. Keri’s back was turned to him; she was sorting his pa’s pills on the kitchen table. Putting them in the plastic box with the different compartments. One compartment for each day of the week. Trip came up behind her, massaged her shoulders. Leaned into her ear. “G… got any stuff for me?”

  “Later, Romeo,” she whispered. “Let me finish up with that old bastard in there first.”

  He hated that nickname. Romeo. The way she always said it—with a little smile on her face—made him feel as if she was making fun of his abilities in the bedroom. He walked back into the front room, picked up his suitcase. On television, cowboys were shooting up a town. He didn’t know why they owned a remote; the set never left the western channel. “P… Pa. Lower that shit.” His pa waved him away.

  Trip walked down the hall to his bedroom and threw his suitcase on the bed. The trailer was a steam bath. His pa must have cranked up the heat to eighty degrees without realizing it. Trip unzipped his jacket and pulled it off and tossed it on the bed. Took off his hat. Set it on the dresser. His head itched. He scratched it with his fingertips; a few strands fell into his face and he picked them off. Unbuttoned his shirt down the front and at the cuffs. One of the cuff buttons came off in his hand. “Shitty shirts.” He tossed the button in a wastebasket. Peeled off the shirt. Tossed it on top of the bed. He was sleeping in the same twin-sized bed he’d had since he was a kid, with his legs hanging off the edge every night. He didn’t care. A full-sized bed would take up too much space and he had to have room for his stereo and his knives. The mattress was covered with a bedspread from childhood. Cowboys herding longhorn. One of his pa’s picks. The bedroom curtains carried the same pattern. So did the sheets and pillowcases. While the linen was little-boy Old West, nearly everything else in the room was heavy metal Medieval. Wall rack with four samurai swords mounted horizontally. Spiked mace, South African bush machete and battle-ax, each displayed on its own wall shelf. Metal shield etched with a writhing dragon hanging on the wall over the headboard. Two U.S. Cavalry Artillery Officers’ sabers mounted crossways over the dresser. On top of the dresser, an assortment of daggers and knives. On the nightstand more daggers and knives, as well as a pewter dragon with a round clock set in its belly. He checked the clock. If he fell asleep now he’d probably get up in the middle of the night. Better to stay awake for a few more hours. Besides, he still had to fuck Keri to get his pills. Trip hated the way she made him pay twice: by giving her cash and sleeping with her. He figured his pa was paying her for the sex, and he found that ironic. Some days he’d like to pay her more for the pills to get out of the sex.

  He decided to unpack and hit the shower; a shower would wake him up. He popped open his suitcase. The sock stuffed with the peach purse was sitting on top. He reached inside the sock and pulled out the bag. He’d look at it one more time and dump it later that night.

  “Hey, Romeo. Playing with yourself in there or what?” Keri was standing in the bedroom doorway.

  He threw the purse in the suitcase, slammed it shut and turned toward her. “All finished with P… Pa?”

  “Frank’s passed out on the couch. Sawing logs to beat the band.” She walked over to him and wrapped her arms around his waist. Her biceps were bigger than his; her head barely reached his chest. She pressed her body into his crotch. Cupped his butt with her hands. “Feeling frisky?”

  “Let me shower. I reek.”

  She buried her face in his tee shirt. “I like you kind of smelly and dirty,” she said into his chest.

  “I d… don’t,” he said, and untangled her from his waist. Her arms were sweaty. He was being mauled by a sticky bowling ball.

  “Why don’t I join you then?”

  He took a couple of steps back from her. “What about P… Pa?”

 
“Told you. Sound asleep. He’ll sleep for a few hours.” She pulled something out of the front pocket of her jeans. Held up a pill bottle and shook it. “Timed it right. Gave it to him after he told me you were on your way home.”

  He snatched the bottle from her hand and looked at it. He didn’t recognize the name of the drug, but he could see it wasn’t his old man’s pills. The pharmacy label had another patient’s name on it. In all their years of doing business he’d never asked her how she got the pills she sold him. He figured she stole the bulk of them from her patients.

  “Don’t worry. Only gave him one,” she said.

  “What if we g… gave him a few more? What would that d… do? Make him sleep through the n… night?”

  She threw her head back and laughed. “Sweet Justice! What have you got planned for us tonight, Romeo?” She stepped toward him and plucked the bottle out of his hand.

  “Wait,” he said, trying to grab it back.

  “No freebies,” she said, pulling the bottle out of his reach. She stuffed it back in her pocket. “I don’t give a damn if you fuck me till the cows come home. Still gotta have some cash to go along with it.” She put her hands on her hips and looked around. “Speaking of bedroom, I’ll say it again. This is the weirdest room I have ever laid eyes on. What you planning to do with all this stuff? Start your own war?”

  He didn’t like anyone criticizing his collection. He lowered his eyes. Wanted to hit her in the worst way. Instead, he shoved his hands in his pockets. “N… n… nothing wrong with a few knives. Man can have a f… few knives.”

  She frowned and shook her finger at him. “Don’t tell me you ain’t got the cash to pay for the pills when you got all this expensive hardware.”

  He looked up. “You d… d… didn’t answer my question. What would more p… pills do?”

  “Tell ya what, Romeo.” She pulled her sweatshirt off and dropped it to the floor. Underneath: a white cotton bra and a bulging white midriff. Over her right breast, another frog leaping over a lily pad. Her hair wasn’t showing her age, but her neck was. More lines in it than he could count. “We’ll discuss pharmaceuticals after the shower.”

  “How you g… got time for that? Don’t you got more p… patients to see?”

  “Frank was my last. I’m punched out. Taking some comp time off. Got the rest of the week free, clear through the weekend. Plenty of time for fun.” She raised her right arm, revealing the puff of blond hair buried in her armpit. “Got a razor I can borrow? If you ask real nice, I might let you watch me shave.” He didn’t say anything, shoved his hands back in his pockets and looked away. “Why don’t you start up the shower while I slip out of the rest of these duds? Unless you want to help me undress.” She reached behind her back and started unhooking her bra. Trip left to start the shower.

  THE steam enveloped them and boiled over the shower door, filling the compact bathroom. The radio hanging over the shower arm was turned on. They couldn’t make out the song because of static, but Keri swayed as if she could hear music. Goofy woman, he thought. Trip wondered what the two of them looked like, crammed together in the stall. The tall, thin man and the short, round woman. She stood in front of him, her back to him, while she hogged most of the spray. He didn’t care. Wanted to get it over with. She wanted her back scrubbed. He used a loofah sponge; he didn’t want to touch her wet skin with his bare hands.

  “Don’t forget Mr. Froggie,” she said. “He needs some bubbles, too.”

  Trip moved the sponge down to the small of her back and scrubbed back and forth a couple of times.

  “A little farther south,” she said.

  He sneered and ran the loofah in large circles around her left buttock and then her right. Her rear end was starting to sag. He could hardly stand touching her when she was lying down with her body spread flatter. Even then he kept the sheets pulled up, the lights off, the shades drawn.

  “The shampoo, Romeo.”

  He cracked one eye open and spied the bottle on the shelf above the showerhead; too high for her to reach. He put the loofah on the shelf and took down the shampoo.

  “Squirt some in,” she said, and she bent her head back so her wet hair hung straight down in front of him. He tipped the bottle upside down and squeezed a gob the size of a quarter into her hair. She reached behind her head and scrubbed; he was fiercely jealous of all the hair she had. Wished he had a fraction of it. “What kind is it?” she asked.

  He put the bottle back. “Baby shampoo. G… generic.”

  “Baby shampoo? Ain’t you old enough to use big-boy suds?” She laughed at her own joke and then choked and coughed on some water.

  “Suppose to be g… gentle.”

  She kept scrubbing. “Nothing gonna save your hair, Romeo.”

  She was right. He saw a tangle of black hair accumulated over the drain from the last couple of showers he’d taken. Not a single blond strand had fallen since she stepped in.

  “You’re destined for a rug,” she said, stepping closer to the shower stream and rinsing off the shampoo. “I got a girlfriend who works at a wig store. I’ll ask her to keep her eyes open for a deal.”

  “No,” he said. A wig would be an admission of defeat. The last slam against his virility. Might as well get castrated and get it over with. “No rug.”

  “Sure?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Whatever. Where’s that razor?”

  He paused. He didn’t want to be so close to her when she shaved her armpits. “G… got one in the medicine cabinet.” He stepped around her, pulled open the shower door, stepped out, pulled it shut. He opened the cabinet over the sink, grabbed a disposable razor. Handed it to her over the shower door.

  “Shave cream?” she asked. He took a can off the shelf and handed it to her over the door. He heard her squirt some. “Ain’t you gonna watch? How about I shave my pussy for you?”

  He shuddered at the thought of witnessing that. “I hear P… Pa banging around the kitchen.” He yanked a towel off the bar, wrapped it around his waist, walked out of the steamy bathroom. He exhaled with relief as he shut the door behind him. He went down the hall and poked his head into the front room. His pa was still snoring and the television was still blaring. He wanted to shut it off or at least turn down the volume, but that might wake his old man and it was more peaceful when he was asleep. He went back to his bedroom, threw the towel in a hamper. The dirty clothes were piled high, plus he had a suitcase full of dirty underwear and shirts. He’d have to go to the Laundromat damn soon. He opened his top dresser drawer. Three pairs of clean boxers left and no tee shirts. He stepped into a pair of boxers. Opened the second drawer. One pair of clean jeans inside. Stepped into those. Third drawer. Two sweatshirts left. Grabbed the one with the oval Ford logo across the front and yanked it on over his head.

  “Sweet! Sweet!” His pa bellowing from the front room. He sounded groggy, but he was awake.

  Trip shuffled out of his bedroom and saw Keri in the hall, walking naked out of the bathroom. “Jesus Christ. Get s… something on. Pa’s up. So much for your b… bullshit p… p… pills.”

  “I’m still waiting for a little help with the razor,” she said.

  He looked down at her crotch. Shave cream covered it. The sight made her even more repulsive to him.

  She saw him frowning. “Don’t like it? Fuck you then.” She flipped him the bird, went back into the bathroom. Slammed the door behind her.

  More yelling from the front room. “Sweet!”

  Trip walked into the front room. “What you want, P… Pa?”

  “Supper! I’m getting light-headed! All woozy.”

  Damn pills, Trip thought. All they did was make his old man tired and crabby.

  “Okay, Pa. I’ll whip you up s… something.” He walked into the kitchen. The floor was sticky on his bare feet. For all he knew, he was stepping on dried piss. He needed his shoes. They were in the bedroom. He walked past his pa into the hall, started to step into his bedroom and stopped. Heard som
ething in the bathroom. Stepped next to the closed door and listened. What he heard coming from the other side made him freeze. What he heard told him that after he’d left his bedroom to start the shower, Keri had opened the suitcase. What he heard was Keri singing. “Can’t Help Falling in Love.”

  He opened the bathroom door a crack. She stopped singing. “I knew you’d come back for some action,” she said. “Hurry up. Hot water won’t last forever.” She returned to her singing.

  The two-faced bitch was going to use the purse against him, he thought. “B… be right there,” he yelled into the bathroom and shut the door. Trip went into his bedroom and pulled open his top dresser drawer. Under his boxers was a small cardboard box. He took it out and set it on top of the dresser. He lifted off the cover. Inside, a straight-edge razor. One of his antique finds. He picked it up, unfolded it, ran the edge across his thumb. Sharp. Hiding the straight-edge behind his back, he walked down the hall and looked in the front room again. His old man had fallen back asleep. He went up to the bathroom door. He set the straight-edge down on the floor and stripped, leaving his clothes in a pile in the hallway. He picked up the razor and opened the bathroom door a crack. All he heard was the water running and in the background, some indistinguishable music coming out of the shower radio. He slipped into the bathroom and closed the door behind him, locking it. She was still singing, but a different Elvis song. What was it? “Jailhouse Rock.” She was playing with his mind, he thought.

  She heard him and stopped singing. “Come on, Romeo. Hop back in. The water’s still fine.” He pushed open the shower door with his left and with his right held the straight-edge behind his back. “Got a surprise for me?” she said, turning to face him and putting her back to the shower. She had shaved her crotch clean, but there was some lather in spots.