Getting Off

“Isn’t there a Eureka as well?”

“There is,” she said, “and my own theory is that they were trying to call it that and found out there already was one, so they changed how they spelled it. I mean, they were both Gold Rush boomtowns, right? But Mark Twain had another explanation.”

“Oh?”

“Something about a sign for a bakery, and it was reverse-printed on glass so it read backwards, Y-R-E-K-A, and the B was worn off. But that seems farfetched to me.”

“Because the letters would be backwards,” he said. “The R and the K, anyway.”

“What I think happened,” she said, “is Mark Twain noticed that the town’s name spelled backwards was Akery, and he just made up the story from there. I mean, he made things up, didn’t he?”

“You mean A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur’s Court didn’t really happen? Another illusion shattered. But you’re getting along all right in Yreka? Your aunt’s not driving you around the bend?”

“I’m okay,” she said. “And that’s really great news about the board. That’s a lot more important than how this place got its dumb name.”

Of course she wasn’t in Yreka, or anywhere in California. She was in Baltimore, in a three-story house on the edge of Fell’s Point, where she’d managed to rent a room. She got a part-time job clerking in a copy shop that doubled as an Internet cafe. One of her perks was free use of a computer during her off-hours, and she spent a lot of time free-associating her way from website to website. That was how she’d come by all that information about Yreka, which she’d passed on to Peter the next time she spoke with him.

And the following day she looked up A Connecticut Yankee. That led her to Bing Crosby, who starred in one of the film adaptations, and that led her somewhere else. The Internet, she thought, was like life itself. One thing kept leading to another.

There were singles bars nearby, and shops and restaurants that drew out-of-towners. But she kept a low profile and didn’t wander far afield. She worked and surfed the net, she took her meals at a cafeteria around the corner from the copy shop, and she watched TV.

Now and then she used the phone.

“A halfway house,” she said. “And it’s in New York City? Oh, in the Bronx? Well, that could be a good thing, Peter. And that’s just where you’ll be living, isn’t it? You can come and go as you please.”

They talked about it as a way of easing the transition from imprisonment to freedom, but what she liked was the coincidence of the location. All of this had started in the Bronx, in the Riverdale section, and it was fitting that it should end there.

“I wish I could be there when you walk through the gates,” she said. “But maybe it’s better that you’ll have a week to settle in at the halfway house first.”

Just a few more weeks now…

She picked up her phone, keyed in the number she’d looked up earlier. Four rings, and then the machine picked up, and clear across the country in Kirkland, Washington, Rita’s voice invited her to leave a message.

She broke the connection.

She found the halfway house on Laconia Avenue at 225th Street, somewhere around the border between two Bronx neighborhoods, Williamsbridge and Edenwald. It was an unprepossessing four-story building, its crumbling brick exterior imperfectly sheathed in aluminum siding. Four men sat on the front stoop, smoking cigarettes, and it wasn’t hard to believe they’d done time upstate.

The three-story building to the right housed a bodega, its window filled with neon beer signs. There was an empty lot on the other side, rubble-strewn, girded with a cyclone fence. To keep the rubble in? To keep the rabble out?

Well, she supposed the place had a certain raffish charm. But she didn’t figure it would be hard to coax Peter away from it.

The apartment she chose was in Riverdale, and just blocks from the one where Peter Fuhrmann had fed her a Roofie and she’d returned the favor by spiking his vodka. There was a certain symmetry that appealed to her, but she picked the neighborhood because it was easier to find a nice anonymous sublet there than in Williamsbridge or Edenwald. Riverdale was filled with Yuppies, and they were forever moving in and moving out and moving on, losing their jobs or getting better ones, breaking up with significant others, finding new lovers to move in with, and otherwise keeping the real estate market humming.

The man she sublet from was a junior executive with one of the major accounting firms, on his way to a new post in Wichita. Their deal was simple, and ideal for her purposes; it was unofficial, with no paper signed, and he’d continue to send a monthly check to the landlord while she’d send money orders to him at his new office.

Meanwhile, she gave him cash for a month’s rent, and they shook hands, and that was that. By the time he started wondering where the money order was, she’d be out of the apartment, the city, and the state.

He suggested going out for a drink to seal the bargain, and it was clear that he had more than a drink in mind. He’d been checking her out since she walked in the door. And he was cute, and she wouldn’t have minded, not in the least. Take him out for a drink, bring him home to what had just become her apartment, take him to bed and fuck his brains out, and then what? Kill him and look for another sublet?

“I really wish I could,” she said. “But these days my life’s complicated enough as it is. But some other time, huh? I mean, you never know when I might find myself in Wichita.”

There was probably a shop in Riverdale that sold sex toys, the potential customer base was certainly present, but she remembered the Pleasure Chest on Seventh Avenue, and it was just a subway ride away.

She picked out a batch of items, and as she was paying for them she set one aside and asked if the store could ship it for her. She wrote out the name and address.

It would be no problem, the clerk assured her. And would she like to enclose a card?

She shook her head. “She’ll know who it’s from,” she said.

She’d been staying on the cheap in a Jersey City rooming house, but once she’d sublet the Riverdale apartment she moved right in. The furniture was generic, but everything was new and neat and clean, and it would be comfortable enough for the week or two she’d be using it.

Every few days she called Peter, and was pleased when they released him right on schedule. “I’m in the van now,” he said. “It seats ten, but there’s just me and the driver. He’s taking me all the way to the halfway house.”

“In the movies,” she said, “they give you ten dollars and a cheap suit and you’re on your own.”

“They gave me the suit I was wearing when I got here. Got there, I should say, because I’m not there anymore. It doesn’t fit as well as it used to.”

“Still, I bet you look nicer in it than in the orange outfit.”

“Jesus, I hope so. They give you a ride to the halfway house because otherwise too many guys don’t make it that far.”

“They lose their way?”

“In a manner of speaking. And I can understand why. All I am right now is outside the walls, maybe thirty miles down the road, and already it feels scary.”

“Being free.”

“Yeah.”

“Well,” she said, “if you miss it too much, all you have to do is find some sweet young thing and kill her. They’ll take you back in a hot second.”

The silence was profound. Had she gone too far?

“I’m sorry,” she said. “That was supposed to be a joke, but I guess it wasn’t what you wanted to hear.”

“It just came out of the blue,” he said. “Took me by surprise.”

“I can see where it would. Forgive me?”

“Nothing to forgive, Audrey.”

“Well, I intend to make it up to you,” she said. “I got a place for us to be together. I know you have to spend nights at the halfway house, but that leaves a lot of hours in the day. It’s a nice modern building, and the apartment’s all furnished and there’s even a view. Plus I went shopping.”