Heavy

Amy woke me up and told me to look at her dry skin. 

“It’s because I’m not drinking, Glen,” she said and showed me a chalk-outlined palm. 

I kissed it. “It’s okay, baby,” I said. I told her all sorts of lies these days. 

She buried her head in my shoulder. I felt her teeth bite into me, and I twitched to make her stop. She sat up, propping herself with her elbows. I guess she had wanted me to say something else, so she started playing with my lips instead. 

“Can’t we just go out for one?” Amy said. 

I wasn’t much of a drinker. Truth is, just couldn’t afford it. I only had enough for the room and gas for the car. I had to go get more money from somewhere. It was hard, starting up again after doing two years. That’s what happens when you rob the wrong person. 

“Why don’t we go back to sleep, sweetheart? Try and get some rest.” 

But I knew she wouldn’t be able to. Saying that only made her shakes worse; she was shivering like an old dog in a nighttime snow. Maybe she was just hungry instead. 

“How about I go get us something to eat. . .” I said, trailing off, as if suddenly, the idea tasted awful. 

She moved around again in the bed, and this time, her hair draped itself over my eyes. It felt nice. I could have swatted it away, but I chuckled instead. She did, too. 

“I think something to eat might be good, Glen,” she said finally. 

“All right,” I said. “I’ll get dressed.” 

But I stayed put. I was cold, and I felt heavy, like I was some dumb, old doll. She nudged me after some time, and I got up, put on pants and boots. I turned on the TV for her, but she didn’t watch it. She kept looking at her hand like it was a maze out of some puzzle book. I shook my head and put on my jacket. My gun was still there. It was nice to know I still had it. 

“Hey, Glen,” Amy said. 

“What’s up, sweetheart?” 

She looked at me finally, a low fire in her eyes. “Bring me back something to drink.” 

“How about some water,” I said. 

She sighed and rolled over on her side, facing the wall away from me. “Never mind. Just do what you have to do.” I knew what she meant by that. She knew all about my past. If you want someone to love you, you have to tell them things, like I said earlier. 

“I’ll be back,” I said with my hand on the door knob. 

But I didn’t move. I just stood there for another second, taking it in. I wasn’t sure why, because there wasn’t much except a sad girl who just wanted a damn drink. 

* * * 

I found a diner a block away from the motel. Since it was so late, there was only one guy there—the cook. I thought that was kind of weird. I ordered two sandwiches to go and waited until he brought them out. As he put them down, I asked if I could take out a small loan. When he laughed, that’s when I knocked him in the ear with the butt of the gun and took him out cold. The register was easy to crack open, thankfully. I took the forty-six dollars out, thanked him for the food, and walked back out into the stupid night. 

If anyone saw me, they didn’t. 

* * *

I walked up the motel steps, and I saw our door open a crack, a thin scratch of light peeking out. I heard old swing  music, and then, Amy happily laughing. I came to the door and stopped. I saw a tall man wearing army fatigues and dog tags. A military duffel bag was on our tiny eating table.

They were on opposite sides of the room, at least. She was still on the bed, playing with her skin. He leaned against the bureau, trying to light a cigarette. The music came from a tiny handheld he brought. I automatically disliked him. 

“He’s our new neighbor,” Amy said, sitting up. 

He glanced at me, finally getting his lighter to work. He took a big puff and eyed me up. He couldn’t have been more than twenty. They keep getting younger. 

“We won’t be here long enough to have neighbors, Amy,” I said, and I placed the bag of food on the table, nudging his duffel bag off just enough that it slumped onto one of the chairs. 

“Hell of a thing to say to a soldier,” he said as he extended his hand. “Name’s Mitchell. On my way home. Needed a place to stay for the night.” 

He rambled some more, but I wasn’t listening to him. I opened up the bag and handed Amy her container. 

“How about a fork?” she said. 

I looked back into the bag. “I guess I forgot forks.” I knew I had forgotten forks. 

“You forgot forks.”

“Seems it,” I said, and I opened up my container. The guy made me the wrong sandwich. I’m glad I hit him hard, then. I looked back at Mitchell. “You want this?” 

Mitchell crossed his arms, and his eyes darkened, like I found his hiding place. Then he gave a wry smile. “What’s the matter, not hungry?” 

“They gave me the wrong thing. I don’t eat mayo.” 

“Scrape it off.” 

“Do you want it or not?” I said. I shook the container. 

Mitchell’s eyes lightened and he reached out. His arms were too skinny to belong to an army boy. “Sure, friend. I’m starved. I was tired of eating that Uncle Sam crap, anyway. Makes me shit a brick.” 

I handed it to him, and I bunched up the bag, threw it into the corner of the room. I sat in the free chair and I watched as the both of them ate their food. I wondered why Amy let him in. Maybe he was looking for a ride. Or a bar. Whatever the case, I didn’t want him to stay. I didn’t want anyone knowing who I was, especially since I just ripped someone off. This needed to go slow and quiet. 

“So, where are you headed?” I said to Mitchell. I had left my jacket on, and I gripped my gun, just to steady my nerves.

“Wichita,” he said. “Ever been?” 

I nodded. “Once. Passed through.” But I hadn’t. I just wanted him to think it. 

“Bring back a six-pack for me, babe?” Amy said. 

I was about to say something, but Mitchell piped up. “Hold on,” he said, in between bites of my sandwich. His voice cracked and squeaked. “I have something. We can share.” Mitchell walked over to where his bag was, stepping right over me, but I didn’t move. I looked past his body and stared at Amy. She had put her hair up in a messy bun. I needed to remember to tell her that I liked it. 

I looked over and saw Mitchell pull out a flask, a silver one with some writing inscribed on it, but I didn’t care to look closer. He walked back to his spot along the bureau, unscrewed the top, and took a sniff. “Bourbon,” he said, holding it up. 

I looked over at Amy. She was transfixed. She had it bad. She had found a river and wanted to lap it all up. I gripped the gun again. 

“Long time since I had a proper drink. Might as well have it with neighbors.” 

“I don’t want any,” I said, a little louder and harder than I anticipated. It surprised me. Amy turned to look at me, but I kept my gaze. Mitchell didn’t notice. He had taken a few sips already. 

“I’d like some,” Amy said. 

“I don’t think you do,” I said. 

“I said I would like some, Glen,” Amy said, glaring. 

“I don’t think that’s for the best.” I turned to Mitchell. “I’d really like you to leave. Take it all and go.” 

“What’s the problem?” Mitchell said. “If she wants a drink, I think she should be allowed to have a drink.” He handed her the flask. Amy grabbed it, and she cradled it briefly, like it was the Holy Grail. Mitchell watched, wide-eyed, as she unscrewed the cap, took a whiff of the bourbon. She thinks it’s going to help her skin. I needed to do something. 

Amy brought it up to her lips as Mitchell stayed glued to the edge of the bed, his dog tags shimmering in the dim motel room light, his tongue slightly wet with liquor and anticipation, like this was his first peep show in months. 

“Amy,” I said, sitting up. 

They heard the cheap wicker chair creak, and they turned, saw me holding my gun. Amy peered at me and set the flask down, spilling bourbon on her blanket. Mitchell stayed stock-still. 

“All right, let’s calm down,” Mitchell said. He turned, and his dog tags no longer shimmered. Maybe they were fake. I started to think that he was one hundred percent fake. He moved slightly. 

“You’ll stay put,” I said. I felt in control again, just like I did back at the diner. But I felt like we were running out of time. I felt like we had to go. 

“Glen,” Amy said. 

She went to pick the flask again. Whether it was to give it back to him or to drink from it, I didn’t much care. I cocked the hammer. I heard Mitchell swallow. I’m beginning to think I was right. 

“We gotta get out of here,” I told Amy. “Pack your shit. Pack it all up.” 

But Amy remained still, eyeing up the flask on the blanket. She refused to move. Mitchell looked like he was going to attack. 

“Amy,” I said. “Get moving.” 

“No,” she said. 

“Goddamn, none of you listen,” I said. I was losing control again. Everything felt so damn heavy. “None of you fucking bastards know how to listen.”

Mitchell straightened. “Glen,” he said. 

He gave me focus, standing up like that, so I pointed the gun again. “Take your flask,” I said. “Before you get a new hole in your body.” 

He swallowed again, and Amy handed it to him. It took her a second, since her hand was shaking so badly. She had been so close. But I didn’t care. Mitchell took it and put it in his back pocket. 

“No, no. You drink it. Right now. Drink it all.”

“Glen,” Amy whispered. “Don’t do that to me.” 

Mitchell started to speak, but I walked toward him. “You’ll drink that goddamn stuff before I stick this gun into your stomach instead.” In my head, I viewed this as a lesson. But I know in my heart it wasn’t. 

Mitchell tried to match my gaze, but he failed, and he took the flask back out again. He unscrewed the cap and gulped the remainder of the bourbon. It spilled down his chin and onto his dog tags. I looked back at Amy. She looked as if I had killed her. He put the flask on the bureau and walked past me, grabbed his bag. He turned like he was going to say something, but I guess he couldn’t find the right sense to do so. His bag went over his shoulder and he walked out into the night. The air in the room felt better right away. 

I turned back to Amy, who still sat in the goddamn bed. 

“Why haven’t you gotten up yet? We have to go.” 

She let her hair drop from her messy bun. It covered the one half of her face. The other eye stared me down, like I was a fire spilling out in the room. I put the gun down on the TV, and I sat on the edge of the bed where Mitchell had been. Still shaking, she made a short, hard noise. 

“What did you say?” I asked her. 

“Nothing, Glen,” she said. 

“We have to go. We can’t stay here any longer. We really have to get moving.” 

“Ok,” she said. 

But she didn’t move. I knew why. She was taking it all in. There was nothing wrong with that, I realized, so I let her sit for a while longer as I loaded up the car.

KEVIN RICHARD WHITE

Kevin Richard White’s fiction appears in Grub Street, The Hunger, Lunch Ticket, The Molotov Cocktail, The Helix, Hypertext, decomP, X-R-A-Y, and Ghost Parachute, among others. He is a flash fiction contributing editor for Barren Magazine and also reads fiction for Quarterly West and The Common. He lives in Philadelphia.