She looks in the bag. Looks up.
– Joe, what is this?
– You should put that down, baby.
– What is it, Joe?
I adjust my grip on the handle of the blood-filled cooler.
– That’s the job, baby. That’s what I do.
She opens her mouth. Closes it. Bites her lip. Talks.
– You need to tell me.
She holds the bag out at arm’s length.
– You need to tell me about the job. Now.
I think about the new job. I think about trying to explain that to her. I think about telling her the truth. I think about losing her.
It’s a decision she should make for herself. One for which she will need the truth.
I take a deep breath.
– I’m a courier. For organ dealers. I move body parts.
The bright red bag dangles from her hand.
I take a step. I set the cooler on the floor.
– Some people, they need money. They need it bad.
I place the shoe box on top of the cooler.
– They need it so bad, they sell pieces of themselves.
I take the bag from her.
– Kidneys.
I squat in front of the closet and stuff the bag in the fridge.
– Eyes sometimes.
My back to her, I look at the lock that Hurley twisted off.
– Lengths of intestine.
I’ll need a new lock now. For my secrets.
– An artery.
I look at her over my shoulder.
– Skin.
Her face doesn’t change, but tears trickle down her cheeks.
I sit on the floor, my back against the wall, keeping my distance from her.
– These things have to be moved quickly. I do that.
I take out a cigarette.
– But sometimes there’s a problem. Someone balks. The money doesn’t come through.
A book of matches is on the floor near my hand. I pick it up.
– Alternate buyers are always standing by. But the material has to be stored briefly while things are worked out. Held in escrow. I do that, too.
I light my smoke.
– I have to be on call. I have to go where they say when they say.
I take out my gun and set it on the floor between us.
– And it’s dangerous.
I inhale smoke.
– It’s dangerous to know about it.
I close my eyes and blow smoke.
– So I don’t tell people.
It’s quiet for awhile. I keep my eyes closed. I don’t want to open them, see her looking at me, know what she’s thinking about me. I keep my eyes closed and listen to her cry.
She stops.
– Joe.
– Yeah.
– What’s in the cooler?
I open my eyes. She’s not looking at me. She’s looking at the cooler.
I get up. I cross the room and get the cooler and the shoe box. I set them both in front of her. I squat and open the cooler.
She looks at the bags piled inside, an alien depth of color. Strange fruit.
She touches one, lays her hand on top of it. Looks up at my face.
– Is this for me, Joe?
I shake my head.
– Not this, baby.
I tip the lid from the shoe box.
– But I’m gonna get you what you need. Anything you need, I’m gonna get it.
She reaches for me.
Her arms go around my neck.
She puts her lips next to my ear.
– I’d rather have your blood, Joe. I’d rather have you inside me.
Something catches in my throat, snagged on the lie. But I can live with that.
– My blood’s no good for you, baby.
Her hands clutch the back of my neck, they find the tear in the collar of my jacket. She works her fingers into it.
– Oh, Joe, your jacket.
– I know. I’m sorry.
She tugs my head lower so she can see the ribboned leather.
– I don’t know if I can fix it.
I pull her face back to mine.
– I can live with it.
She squeezes me tight.
And it’s uncomfortable, squatting there, Evie hanging from my neck.
But I can live with that, too.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
CHARLIE HUSTON’s novels include
