Dead and Gone

I didn’t say anything.

She walked out of the room. Came back in a minute with the wooden straight chair that had been next to the writing desk in the living room. She placed it ceremoniously between the bed and the candle, so it was backlit. Then she stepped to the side and gestured, as if parting a curtain to a display.

“Do you see this?”

“Sure.”

“What do you see?”

“A chair. What are you—?”

“Watch!” she whispered. Then she sat down on the chair, facing me, knees together, hands in her lap. That’s when I saw she was wearing the schoolgirl outfit. “When you think of the chair, you will see me, yes?”

“I … guess so.”

“Hmmm … but what will you see, Burke? A girl, or …” She stood up, hiked up her skirt, turned, and sat, her legs straddling the chair this time, body facing away from me, looking back over her shoulder. “…  a woman?” she asked, silk-voiced.

“A woman,” I told her.

“Ah. A woman with too many clothes on, yes?”

“Yes.”

She stripped right there on the chair, never taking her eyes off me, wiggling and squirming to slip her underpants down to her thighs.

Then she stood up, still facing away from me, pulled the panties all the way off, spun around, and sat back down in the same pose she’d used at first.

“It is not the same chair anymore, is it?” she said. Shifting her hips slightly to underline every word.

“No.”

She came over to the bed. Bent at the waist and untied the drawstring of my pajama pants. Then she nipped at my thigh until I reached up and grabbed a fistful of her night-gleaming hair and pulled her closer to where I wanted her.

“A little bit now,” she whispered against me. “Next time some more. And, some sweet night, Burke, the window that opens will be the one you wish.”

I was afraid she’d want to talk about it the next morning, but the only thing that came out of her mouth was a demand for breakfast.

Fair enough. I left her still half asleep, face buried in a pillow, and went into the living room to order from room service. When I saw the wooden chair standing by itself against the back window, I realized Gem had gotten up during the night.

And when I looked at the chair, I could see … that she was right.

Gem wanted to return to the poolroom and practice some more. I wasn’t crazy about the idea, thinking the same two clowns might be there, but she quickly pointed out that there were lots of places to choose from … and we weren’t in a hurry, anyway.

That last was true. I couldn’t make a move until I heard from Byron. And we had the cell phone, so …

We took a ride, just meandering, looking to stumble across the right place. South of Portland, I saw a sign that said we were entering Milwaukie. Wondered if it was a misspelling. A candy-apple-red Honda Accord coupe with mirrored checkerboard graphics angling across its flanks rolled up next to us at a light. It squatted on huge chrome wheels, with tires that looked like rubber bands, the sidewalls were so thin. It was major-league slammed, lowered so radically that I couldn’t see an inch of ground clearance. The driver had a knife-edged buzz cut, set off by wraparound orange-lensed sunglasses. He blipped the throttle, letting me hear his turbo kick in, cocked his head in an invitation.

I was going to ignore him, but Gem pounded both little fists on the dash. “Yes, yes, yes!” she yelped.

The road was clear ahead as far as I could see … but that wasn’t very far. I didn’t know how the Subaru would do off the line, but the Honda looked more like a canyon-racer than a dragster anyway. I returned the guy’s nod, switched my attention to the light, and gave the knurled knob next to the gearshift a quick twist to the right.

We both launched an eyeblink before the green, but it was no contest—the Subaru’s tractor heritage showed as it out-torqued the Honda with a two-length leave. By the time the Honda got up on its cams and its turbo started to whine, I was already backing off in third gear, letting the engine brake me for the next light.

The Honda driver pointed ahead through his windshield, then gestured for me to follow him. So he was a canyon-racer after all. No way I was going to try the twistees with that guy, especially in daylight. I tapped my wristwatch to tell him I didn’t have the time. He aimed a finger at me, cocked his thumb, mimed cranking off a round. Meaning: next time, he’d make sure we played on his field.

“Aren’t we going to—?” Gem protested.

“I don’t know where he wants to go, but this isn’t the time,” I told her. “The last thing we need is some law- enforcement attention.”

“All right,” she pouted.

“Hey, come on. We raced him like you wanted.”

“I thought it would be longer.”

“Maybe sometime.”

“Do you promise?”

“I promise to try, okay?”