I manage a couple hours’ sleep. I don’t dream about the girl, so that’s good. But I do dream about Evie. Normally dreaming about Evie is as good as it gets, but these aren’t those kind of dreams. These are the other kind. When I wake up I have hours to go to sundown. And still no idea how I’m gonna get my ass above One- ten.
Figure I call Terry, tell him the trail leads Uptown, he’ll have some way of getting me across Coalition territory. I go to the Hood with Terry’s blessing, things won’t be so bad. The Society and the Hood have a relationship. Both Clans were born out of the same revolution, both were snapped off from the Coalition. So yeah, figure that’s how to go about this. Except for the way Lydia got all touchy at the end there. She’s Society, sure. But she’s not rank and file. That queer alliance she put together within the Society has some pull, and she often pulls it her own direction, has her own ideas about how things should be done. She clammed up tight when I started talking new fish. Figure that means something’s up. As if I hadn’t already got that. But now I figure it’s something to do with Terry and Tom. Something to do with the way Tom is trying to put a wall around Terry. And this thing with the new high? Figure that’s Terry’s angle, figure it has something to do with his play, whatever it turns out to be. Fine. But if that’s the case, if this is an angle, if it’s
Got to be that way.
Cause there’s no way in hell I’m going anywhere near the girl.
– Hey, babe.
– Hey.
– How you feeling?
– Fine.
– Good.
I’m upstairs in the big apartment, wandering from living room to kitchen to bedroom to bathroom. Picking up odds and ends of garbage: take-out bags piled on the counter, cards for locksmiths and dog-walkers slipped under the door, an empty Kleenex box on the back of the toilet, stuffing it all into a huge, green plastic garbage sack.
Over the phone I can hear a TV in the background, something with a laugh track; just that and her breathing.
– What’re you doing?
– Watching the tube. What about you?
– Cleaning.
– Excuse me?
– Not with a mop or anything. Just picking up trash upstairs.
– Cleaning the fake apartment.
The channels flip in the background: a commercial, a music video, an infomercial; faster and faster, and then the TV is silent.
– You left me hanging, Joe.
– I know.
– Had a pretty bad fucking day.
– I know.
– And your response was to bail.
– I know.
– One thing about you.
– What’s that?
– When I really need you, you always come through. Makes it so I can take the other shit, you know?
I take a white grocery bag that hangs off the back of the bathroom door, serving as a wastebasket, and stuff it into the sack. It’s full of lipstick-smeared tissues and old tampon wrappers.
– Yeah, I know.
– If that’s not gonna be the case anymore, if it’s getting too stiff now, I need to know. You can’t take it the rest of the way, I need to know now. It’s OK. But I can’t be counting on you if you’re not going to be there.
I flip the lid down on the toilet and sit.
– I hear you, baby.
– Do you? Are you sure? I thought you did, but disappearing on me like you did last night, that made me wonder if you get it.
I feel my breast pocket for my smokes. I left them downstairs.
– I get it.
– Then you need to tell me, Joe. I need you to tell me what it’s gonna be. I’m sick, and, this, this is it, this is the way it’s going to be. It’s not going to get any better than this. It might not get really bad, but this is as easy as it will ever be. If you want to stick around, I need you to do some things. I need you to find out what your blood type is so I know if you can help me with that. I need you to back me up when I have a day like yesterday. I need you to. Oh shit, Joe. Just. I need you, you know? To be there.
She’s crying. She talks through the tears. It’s all very matter of fact. By now she has plenty of experience talking while she’s crying.
I listen to her blow her nose.
– I got to go somewhere for a couple days. Take care of. Something. I don’t know if I’ll be able to call. When I get back.
I feel for my smokes again. Still not in my pocket.
– When I get back, I’ll be there.
– Yeah?
– Yeah, baby. Don’t worry, I’m practically there already.
– OK.
– OK.
– And. Joe. A couple days, that’s Saturday night.
– Uh-huh.
– I’m taking the night off. I’m doing a reading. Reading some of my stuff at Housing Works. A benefit kind of thing.
– Uh-huh.
– You go with me?
– You know I will, babe.
– It’s important.
– I’ll be there.
– OK. Thanks, Joe.
We stay on the phone awhile longer. Until she’s not crying anymore.
Just before sundown I’m looking at the fridge. Two pints. This low, I shouldn’t even be thinking about drinking one of those after I had one yesterday. But I could get stuck Uptown. Could take them with me, just in case. Then again, drink one now, it’ll give me a little extra edge for the trip, give me an extra day maybe if I get stuck. That’s the ticket: drink one, leave one in the fridge. Last thing I want is to come home late and not have any food in the house. I pop the fridge, guzzle a pint and stuff the empty in the biohazard bag.
OK, good to go. Now, where to?
I need a name. I need a name and a ride. I can’t roll up there and just start walking the streets sniffing the air for the Vyrus. What am I gonna do, grab some slob from the Hood and start pummeling him until he gives me something I can use? Besides, just being white up there is gonna make me stand out. I need a name, someone to start with.
Christian might know someone up there. He doesn’t go much above Houston, but back before he got infected
