Finally the silence demands her eyes. She looks up and around at us, expression startled by our flat and stubborn, unspoken answers. She's treating us like we're strangers. Maybe she's pretending that we are. None of us will play that game, though. Surely she can't believe we are the type of men who would leave her side now. Does she feel obligated to turn us loose and can she really think that we'll go? Fuck.
Does she not realize we're all in love with her in some way or another?
Chapter 7 Slow Drag Night
Isaiah
She didn't speak much when we left the hotel late in the afternoon, or when we got to the restaurant for dinner. She completely ignored the other diners and staff, the blatant appreciative stares of random men. She actually smiled at the brothers when they swept her up in a giant hug.
They've been in business with us for a long time. They were more than ecstatic to feed us and provide a temporary base of operations. She tipped the server twenty dollars and she slipped out the back as the rest of us filled in Jack and Noah with a few details.
I find her behind the restaurant, sitting on the Caddy in the light of a weak bulb above the back door, smoking a joint of some high-grade pot. I can smell the dank smoke blending with the aroma of food.
The car is slung up on a patch of grass beside the private parking spaces for the boys. She's stretched out on the dirt-covered hood, oblivious of the southern dust, leaning back against the windshield with a Negra Modelo in her other hand. She lets out a stream of smoke as her eyes roll to me. Her cheeks are wet.
Silently, I take a seat on the Caddy's nose beside her feet. She nudges me softly with her toe to get my attention. I turn to find the joint stretched in offering to me. It feels like the hood of the car is the size of a football field, a hundred yards between our goal lines. I accept. It's a nice night for a slow drag. I let my muscles go slack, resting my elbows on my knees.
Back here it smells like jambalaya and weeds. The sounds of Creedence Clearwater Revival's hard truths drift from the kitchen. Some folks are born silver spoon in hand. I pass the smoke, feeling the burn deep down. I won't press any issues yet. Some of them I will never even touch, like the dark curiosity I sometimes see when I catch her looking at me, or her final conquest of Josh's little boy heart.
I hold my breath until my lungs force out the smoke, then let it waft toward the clear sky, watching it obscure a patch of stars for a moment. Around the fringes of my perception, I hear night bugs, cars on the street, cooks laughing through the wall. They're expendable. My whole world is expendable if it’s not on this car hood at this very moment.
I hear her beer slosh around a little as she takes a drink. I don't even look at her face when the joint returns to me. The thing burns hot like her emotions, jagged and black, unevenly consuming the paper. She does love the long draw. The end is slightly damp. I try not to think of her mouth.
Finally she says, “You were there when he died, weren't you?”
I take another heavy hit. It ain't me. It ain't me! I grimace through the sudden emotional wave. The green seems to be kicking in already. Of course it would, she won't smoke less than the best product. It dulls the edge.
I nod, the cherry making tracers in front of my face in the darkness. The humidity has abated a little, pushing against me in a subtle comfort rather than an oppressive hand. She moves through it effortlessly, lover of the southern, summer spirits. The music of liquid against the glass bottle is my only indication that she's moving closer. She scoots herself to the end of the hood beside me to take her turn.
“I'm sorry I left you,” she says, eyes scanning the beat-up '67 Mustang and the small pickup beside us. She takes a deep drink to the end, then uses her bottle as an ashtray. She has dried her cheeks. The joint is almost gone.
“You're the boss,” I say vaguely, throwing what bravado I can muster into pretending I don't care.
I know she has turned her bewildered expression on me. Surely she realizes I'm full of shit. I avoid the probing look that covers me like the finest olive oil on hot tortillas, like the concern she's shown for me over her amazing huevos rancheros. She likes to cook for her boys when they're down. Tonight she wouldn't have eaten if we hadn't pushed her to do it.
And when you ask them, how much should we give, they only answer more, more, more.
“You're right,” she snaps.
Then she looks away again, ritualistically inhaling smoke. I watch her in my periphery as the tension leaves her face. She doesn't have the heart to fight. I don't have the heart to spill any truths, so I hand control of the situation to her as she passes the smoke that's left to me.
“I'm still sorry,” she softly adds.
I make the joint's finale as hard and consuming as possible with the hope that if it blasts me well enough, I can fade from this conversation. Maybe if I never exhale, I'll float away and be higher than emotion, and I'll forget everyone and everything.
It ain't me. It ain't me! Dammit, C.C.R.
My chest feels like a compactor. Pressure builds in my forehead until, bitterly, I lose the battle against my body and
