Voodoo Heart

the morning and got into bed. After a full hour of lying there trying to sleep, I finally gave up and tossed off the sheets.

I still had a while before my girlfriend, Joan, showed up. Her family ran a bus service for old people called the Silver Coach. They had five vehicles in their fleet, which they drove around town along various routes, each route servicing a different set of assisted-living communities. The buses ran to all the places old people would want to go: the mall, the movies, the hospital, the library, the cemetery. On days I was off work, like today, Joan would come by the motel and pick me up and I’d ride with her while she drove her route.

I did what I could to pass the time. I watched a show on cable about black holes. I cleaned up the room, even though I knew the maid would come around that afternoon. I took a long shower, during which I tried and failed to jerk off. I shaved carefully. Then I got dressed and went out onto the balcony to have a smoke.

It was nearly nine by now and the roads were full of decent people heading off to work. I thought about checking in with Roddy, but I couldn’t bring myself to call. When I first came to Florida, he’d been very supportive. He was always telling me to hang in there, to do what I had to do. He said he understood. But the last time I’d spoken with him, he’d sounded different.

“I have one question for you, Max. One,” said Roddy. “Why is my phone telling me you’re still in Florida?”

“I’m just tying things up,” I said.

“You’ve been gone two months already. You know you’re not getting paid this month.”

“I understand. You’ve already been very generous, Rod.”

“You’re right. I have.” He laughed, and then gave a deep sigh. “Please. Just tell me, Max. Is this really about Pearl, or are you having some sort of…I don’t know…breakdown?”

I was lying in bed, watching a caterpillar descend from the air-conditioning vent above my bed. It was bright green, with hundreds of little legs, lowering itself on a silk thread. “I’m okay,” I said. “Really.”

“Because the longer you stay, the worse it looks. The worse you look, is what I mean.”

“I’ll be back before you know it,” I said.

“Now,” he said. “Come back now.”

Before I knew it, three more weeks had passed. For some reason, though, I felt that there was still time. That doors were still open. After all, I had no intention of staying in Florida. Florida? Florida was the rank, swampy bottom of the country. The place people went to end things. Sticking out over the Gulf like a plank. I’d spent two years in business school and three summers interning ten hours a day just to get where I was—or where I’d been, before I left. If I’d been looking to relocate to Florida, I’d have taken a real job; I’d have gone hunting downtown, in the business district. But I wasn’t looking. I wasn’t starting over. I was with Roddy. The only reason I was working at all was to stave off some of the bills piling up back in the city. Things had been lean before I left, with all the new costs generated by the apartment. I needed some kind of income, even if only to live on while I was in Florida. I’d thought about waiting tables. I’d applied to drive a cab. I wanted something that paid cash. Something with no ties, that I could ditch at a moment’s notice.

I’d been about to pawn Pearl’s engagement ring when I’d noticed the HELP WANTED sign on Orlando’s door. The job paid seventeen dollars an hour. More than I expected. Pawnshops got robbed a lot, Orlando explained, and, I admit, the danger factor held a certain appeal for me. I was in Florida because my fiancee had left me for a brain-damaged country singer: there were plenty of moments in each day that I wished someone would blow my fucking brains out.

More than that, though, the job at Orlando’s was attractive because the work would be so different from what I was used to. No pressure, no stress. I liked the idea of working somewhere I’d never even visit in my real life. This was all just a detour. Plus the shop was less than a mile from my motel.

I sat on the railing of the balcony, watching the traffic pass. After a while the cars became blank panels of color sliding by below. A square of red. A square of gold. A rectangle of apple green. Finally, around ten, the Silver Coach rolled into the motel parking lot. I went down to meet it.

Joan pulled the lever that opened the door. “So, how’d the dumpster treat you last night?” she said as I climbed in.

“Like a star…Good morning!” I said to the few old people already on the bus.

Joan watched me. “Are you okay? You look a little tense.”

“I’m fine. Just tired,” I said, and kissed her.

“Yum.” She swung the door closed and pulled out of the lot.

Joan was twenty-one, ten years younger than me, a smart, beautiful girl. I’d met her at the supermarket near my motel. She was waiting on line ahead of me and her cart was filled with hundreds of mini juices—all for the coach, I eventually learned.

I’d taken a liking to her right away. She was responsible and driven for her age, a go-getter, always helping out her family. And yet there was still a touch of girlish rebellion to her—a wild streak—which I found thrilling. Some nights, after we’d dropped all the riders at their homes, Joan would park in a field near the bus lot and we’d make love in the shuttle. The springs were especially loud, creaking and groaning in a way that made even the gentlest sex feel wild. Whenever I saw Joan’s naked body, golden but for three small kites of untanned flesh over her softest parts, I’d begin to ache like I’d never ached for Pearl.

I always took a moment to appreciate this fact. I’d almost say it out loud: Pearl never compared to this. And then I’d give Joan a big kiss on her ass.

I watched her as she piloted the Coach out into traffic. She was wearing a tank top that exposed her shoulders and the top of her pale, freckled chest.

She caught me looking and winked. “Be good,” she said. She wore her black hair in sharp bangs that came right down to her eyes, darkening them. I’d decided that she was the kind of girl I should have been with from the start.

Joan’s was the longest of the five Silver Coach routes. It consisted of seventeen stops—six at actual communities, eleven at commercial and service sites—and it took a full hour to complete. Some of the old people had nurses who waited with them for the Coach to pull up. Others were still managing by themselves, which always impressed me. We’d drive up and find them waiting on the curb all alone, like packages for us to collect.

I’d ridden with Joan often enough that I knew some of them by now; I knew their stories. Most of the people on her route were still healthy, their minds sharp, their bodies working well. But, of course, there were a few who’d begun to deteriorate. Some were struggling with senility, others were just physically failing, their bodies slowly evicting them. One, a woman named Hattie, for example, had recently taken a bad fall and hit her head on the sink. Since the accident, she’d begun to forget words. It got worse every day.

“So, how are things with that thing of yours?” she said when we picked her up that morning. She sat right behind me with her nurse. Her gray hair was still short from her stitches. I could see the scar on the side of her head, pursed like a baby’s frown just over her ear.

“You know, that thing,” she said, looking at me, then at Joan, her eyes quizzical and terrified.

“My cold?” said Joan.

“That’s right, your thing,” said Hattie, though she seemed even more confused by this.

“It’s almost all gone, Hattie. Thanks for asking.”

“Oh, well, that’s good,” said Hattie. “Did you hear that, Charmagne?” she said to her nurse. “Her thing. That thing.”

I tried to ignore Hattie’s conversation with Charmagne as we continued along our route—first to the park, then the mall, then another mall—but the pathology of her injury was too fascinating: the way the rot was systematically moving through her vocabulary, infecting words, leaving them shapeless lumps. Her mother was a thing. The bus stop was a thing. The world was a thing. I was a thing.

I tried to picture Hattie’s brain, to imagine what the deterioration process looked like, but all I could manage was a kind of gray coral reef couched inside her skull. I remembered what a diving instructor had once told me about coral. I was snorkeling with my family in the Bahamas and he’d warned me to make sure to watch out for coral reefs while swimming. Just touching a reef, he explained, even brushing it with your finger, could start a chain reaction that might bring down the whole organism.

Now, as we neared the second mall, I wondered if maybe this wasn’t so different from how it was with the brain. Of course, a brain could heal from some kinds of trauma, it could rebuild connections, but once touched in