Portland Noir

collectible baseball cards.”

And Kit: “Well, I heard she has this son who corners people in alleys and clubs them to death with a baseball bat.”

Worms in my stomach.

My favorite ring.

My grandmother’s ring.

Rhonda sneering: “I heard those crooked eyes of hers can put you in a trance.”

Kit slurring: “Well, I heard in reality she’s the Pied Piper!”

I’m frantic eyes at the ground under my chair, at cracks in the sidewalk. The conversation moves on to how much Rhonda hates her mother, but I can’t listen, and I can’t stop watching that woman.

“Mother is always trying to control me,” Rhonda says. “All her fucking little guilt trips. You want to know what I think? It comes down to control. Everything we do, everything we feel. What’s marriage? Control. Rape? Control. A mother’s love? Control. Charity?” Rhonda looks at me. “Dorothy over there? What a fraud. She knows how to use guilt better than anyone I know. Yeah, the minute you locked eyes with her, you surrendered control to that old woman.”

I don’t answer. I’ve got my hand in my purse in some pathetic search all through the slink of coins at the bottom.

Dorothy swivels and sets her crooked eyes at me.

Nine-thirty

We toss crumpled-up bills out to settle the check. In my body is that perfect drone that says I’ve had just the right amount of too much to drink. The sun’s gone down past that place where it does any good in the sky, so now everything’s blue-going-to-black. It’s time to hug and say, Wow, is it really that late? We’ve got to do this more often. Rhonda and Kit set off down the sidewalk. Kit big, flappy waves and blue smiles, while I’m stalling by the table. Hand in my bag like looking for keys or lipstick. Wait until they’ve turned the corner. Sit back down. Old, dead drink glasses and the empty pommes frites paper cone all brown and greasy.

I sit and watch the old woman.

“I hear she lives in this big Craftsman off Belmont and breeds award-winning pugs.”

It’s the waiter with the shaved head and the tiny braid beard. He nods big at me as if now we share a special secret. Turns. Goes off, back inside.

And the corner is empty.

I’m on my feet fast. A glass topples. I see she’s not far. Walking in this slow shuffle like when you’re a kid pretending your socks are roller skates. Grab my purse and start down the sidewalk, but it’s the opposite sidewalk, and parallel means I’m not following, not really. I’m not even looking at her, just keeping her at the corner of my eye. Not-following-just-walking past the wine bar. Not-following-just-walking past the coffee house. Am I being crazy? Is my ring sitting in the dish by the bathtub? I open my hand. At the base of my finger the halo of skin is smooth and glossy.

Look up, and she’s passing right in front of me.

So close, the blur of her sparks into a moment of detail: cheek like a half-deflated balloon, velvety sag of a thousand wrinkles, white whiskers, and her eye, the droop of a red rim and a flash of watery blue right at me.

Takes me a moment to catch my breath. In that moment, I could point myself in the direction of home. Instead, I wait long enough to get about fifteen feet between us. Turn, and now we’re off on a little crazy-stalky tour of the city and I’m thinking she’s crazy and I’m stalky, although I suppose I could be both. We see the sights. Endless shop windows, mannequins sexy with no heads. Getting darker, but the Pearl District is upscale and therefore safe, and I’ve got just enough rum in me to make up for my total lack of personal strength.

Whoever we pass she holds her hand out, spare change, pretty jewelry. Finally some couple stops to give her something. I get closer. Blond hair and lipstick, black hair and mustache up over Dorothy’s head, smiling down. Both in a state of grace. They pass, glance at me as they go. I watch the hunch of her body as she shoves whatever they gave her down in some deep pocket of her dress. She starts up walking again, and now I’m right behind her. Trying to see around her arm to that pocket. She has my ring in that pocket.

And then I realize: I’m right on top of her as if I’m some mugger. I feel out of control. What’s that Rhonda was saying about control? Whatever, I’ve got to stop this now. Powell’s is right at the next block. I’ll stop off there. I’ll quit.

She steps into the street, and I step in after.

Sudden blaze at the side of my eyes.

A car. Right at me.

My muscles jam up, panic-stupid, and I can’t move. Eyes pinned on Dorothy’s back. The car jerks to a stop, bumper right at my calf, and there I am standing in the middle of the street, and in my chest is the steady pound of oh-what-the-fuck-just-happened.

Headlights flash and for a moment light up the back of Dorothy’s dress. The driver shaking his hands at me. Should go forward, but I’ll run right into her. Should fucking go back, but somehow I can’t.

The guy shouts something muffled through the windshield. My lungs are a tight fist around an inch and a half of air. Dorothy finally steps up onto the far curb.

And I can move.

The car pulls off behind me. This time his fuck-you is loud enough to make out.

I walk on in a strange daze of comprehension. Down past the bookstore where I was never actually going to stop off, now, was I? Past closed-up restaurants, empty parking lots. Dark folding in. It’s a Pied Piper dark, thick and rat black. And it’s pulling me right back into Old Town. And all along I’m still asking myself what just happened, but the thing is, I know what the fuck just happened. I was pinned in the middle of the fucking street because I was not going to let that old woman out of my sight.

Ten-fifteen

Stubby, hunched buildings lumped along the sidewalk, worn-out Victorians peeling paint. Bars and abandoned storefronts.

Some guy pissing on the side of a dumpster. Wine bottle in his hand-yes, this lovely, little pinot gris has a delicate bouquet with notes of urine and rotting burrito.

If I am to be a crazy stalker, I might as well get my method down. I set my distance at about fifteen feet, set my pace at old-lady slow. Most stalkers probably have some idea what their plan is, but I’m new to this so I just keep following. On and on through Old Town. Stalkers should wear better shoes. We walk past windows like oil-black mirrors. And I watch Dorothy’s head turn. First to her reflection, then back to mine, then she swivels and she’s looking right at me.

I get the egg-on-the-head thing, the kick to the gut, but my eyes grab hold of hers and don’t let go. Panic turns so easy into thrill. I stare her down until she turns away.

And we’re on into the part of Old Town that’s also Chinatown. Chinese restaurants, some abandoned. Cheesy gift shops. A pile of trash in the darkness of a doorway or maybe someone sleeping. As Dorothy cocks a look back, I step up closer.

Ten feet. The stiffness of her body, the folding-in along her back as she walks-she’s totally focused on me.

Nine feet. Stray strings of tinsel at the back of her neck.

Eight feet. The clink of her bracelets, the uneven huff of her breathing.

I let my footsteps go loud on the sidewalk to make sure she hears me.

Rhonda’s right, of course. It’s all about control. But now I’m the one who has the control. Dorothy can keep walking all night, but she can’t get away.

Five feet. If I reached out, my fingertips could slip right in there at the back of her collar.

Behind me is the sandpaper scuff of shoe on pavement. I glance over my shoulder. There’s some man back there, walking down the sidewalk after us. I turn back to Dorothy, steady myself. Move away from her-slowly-so it looks like I’m not following.