Up ahead the road bends to the right, around an island of snow-buried land that she assumes was once Stoneview's town common. There is a bench, two or three bare trees, and in the middle, there is another statue. She says his name aloud.
'Isaac Hamilton.'
As her headlights reach out to touch it Sue can see the statue plainly. And it's different again. This time it's just a head, body, and legs. Both arms are missing.
Now she slows down, magnetized. There's a small amount of snow on it but she can still tell right away, the arms were never there. It's not like a bunch of kids came along and cut them off as a prank or ran their car into it and knocked the arms off. The sculptor deliberately left them off, fashioning smooth stumps at either shoulder. Beneath the statue, the pedestal has the same plaque as the others, and Sue thinks of the lines inscribed upon it, lines that she never bothered to read though, somehow, she'd always thought they were poetry, by virtue of the way they were laid out.
She thinks of the poem that Jeff quoted. She squints at the old copperplate type-difficult enough to read already, abraded further by the passing decades. Though it's impossible to tell without getting out of her car (she's not getting out of her car, not here, not now, no sir), she thinks it looks long enough to be the poem.
So what? So they wrote some poem about Hamilton, so what is that supposed to mean?
Her eyes shift away. Behind the statue the road rises and falls again. Instead of a cemetery, the hill behind the statue gives way to an unexpected surge of red neon, a glowing cigarette tip aimed at the flat, windowless structure cowering beneath it like a blind dog.
Babe's is a roadhouse surrounded with crookedly parked vehicles. Travelers like herself, Sue thinks, caught in the storm. She pulls in and cuts the engine. Already she can hear the music playing inside, a machinelike thud of pure distortion, skinned of all melody. Bending forward to climb out triggers something in her stomach and she almost gets sick, managing to hold it back at the last second.
The cell rings.
'I'm here,' she says.
'I see that.'
Sue stops and turns around, her eyes searching the lot until she sees what she's looking for. The van sits shivering in a handicapped spot with a rag of exhaust dangling from its tailpipe. She can see nothing inside.
'What am I doing here?'
'I'll let you know when the time comes,' the voice says. 'Go around to the back. Go through the kitchen. Inside you'll find another door, marked Employees Only. Go through it. And keep that phone handy.'
She starts walking. There's a freshly shoveled pathway leading around the side of the building and Sue follows it until she hears voices murmuring quietly in Spanish or perhaps Portuguese, she can't tell. There's a light mounted on the roof, aimed down, and a giant fan blasts the smell of fried onions mixed with garbage and cooking grease. Two men in aprons and bandannas are passing a joint back and forth behind the Dumpster. They flick their eyes up at her for the briefest of appraisals and then resume their conversation.
Sue passes them on the way to the door, a featureless steel plate propped open by a plastic yellow mop bucket. She slips inside without touching it and finds herself in a filthy kitchen. The music that she heard outside is louder back here, bouncing off the dirty tiles and pans dangling over the stove, and she can hear men's voices shouting and whistling on the far side of a pair of swinging doors. A roach scuttles across the sink and disappears under a bag of frozen chicken wings.
She puts her shoulder to the doors but they won't budge. There is another door off to her left, markedEMPLOYEES ONLY, a strange sign to post inside the kitchen. Sue turns the handle and steps into a dark dressing room that smells like perfume and sweat. It's shaped like a railroad car with a long counter covered in Kleenex wads and jars of cotton balls and makeup kits. There's just one light, a dim lamp without a shade burning in the corner, the wattage so low that it hardly casts a shadow.
On the far side of the room a red curtain hangs and the roar coming from the other side is somehow bestial and benign at the same time, like a crowd at a ballgame. Suddenly she understands that the place isn't called Babe's but Babes, and what the voice on the phone expects her to do here at one in the morning.
'Where are you now?' the voice asks.
'I'm in the room.'
'Take off your clothes.'
'What?'
'You heard me.'
I want to look at you. I want you to look at yourself.
Sue doesn't move.
'Take off your clothes and I'll let you see Veda. She's right on the other side of that curtain.' It's not clear whether the voice is teasing her or not. 'You do believe me, don't you, Susan?'
In the end it doesn't really matter. Laying the cell phone faceup on the counter next to a jar of nail polish, Sue takes off her bloody coat and drops it on the back of a chair. Then she unbuttons her blouse. There's a lot of blood on it too and more on her skirt, making the fabric stiff and tacky as it slithers off her hips-funny how she only notices that as she's taking it off. She unhooks her bra and peels off her underwear, letting it drop to the dirty floor where it lies like a dead jellyfish among the footprints and cigarette butts.
Naked, she's neither hot nor cold, the thermostat in the room being perfectly adjusted for nakedness, but that's not the first thing she thinks. The first thing she thinks is how infrequently she's taken off her clothes without a mirror, as if for some reason she needs one to get undressed, the way you need a mirror to put on makeup or fix your hair. She's always watched herself undress, she realizes. Whether it's in the bedroom or bathroom or a dressing room at Bloomingdale's, her stare has always inevitably found its way to the glassy rectangle reflecting the white cave-drawing of scars that crisscrosses her stomach and slashes over her breast to puncture and divide her right nipple.
But there aren't any mirrors in this changing room, an odd thing to leave out. But then, why would a stripper need a mirror when it's only skin she's presenting?
She picks the phone back up, holds it to her ear. 'All right.'
'Now step through the curtain.'
Sue does. The curtain slides off her arm and her bare thigh and she's standing out on a stage with a white spotlight blasting her in the face. She can hear a zoo of men whistling and cheering at her. Sue squints into the light and it's like staring right at the sun. She can only make out the vague shapes of tables with men at them, and the music, tribal and deep, pouring out of speakers that surround her head. Her eyeballs vibrate in their sockets. The music somehow seems to be making it harder to see.
Looking behind her Sue sees another woman standing next to her, arms hanging at her sides. The stripper looks pale and awkward, with wild eyes and a drugged-out whorish expression, a zombie fucked back to life. But she's so raunchily gorgeous standing there, so exotically out of her mind that despite everything Sue finds herself staring at her until she realizes it's her own reflection.
The back of the stage is a giant mirror.
Only the woman in the mirror doesn't have any scars on her belly or her breast.
She looks down. Sue doesn't have those scars anymore either.
She doesn't have her scars anymore either.
Slowly she runs her fingertips down over the smooth terrain of her stomach, then back up over her newly restored nipple. The crowd, taking it for showmanship, screams gleefully back in encouragement.
The spotlight leaves her and sweeps through them, picking out clusters of wide-eyed, openmouthed faces like a sniper from a tree. One by one the faces fall away from the light. They scream and vanish, scream and vanish.
The light keeps sweeping.
Sue stares at it, following it with her eyes.
Then in the front row Sue glimpses Veda.
1:24A.M.
