Berkeley Noir Page 3

  "It doesn't matter."

  I wish I hadn't seen it. That he'd dumped the body in the bay or kept driving past Patrick Bloom's house to Tilden and found somewhere to leave it among the rotting eucalyptus trees. But the fact is that I'm standing there looking at it and now I cannot unsee it. I reach in and touch the bag. I feel a jumble of body parts. The knob of an elbow. Stiff flesh, like an unripe tomato.

  "The owner's coming back tomorrow," I say.

  "He won't know."

  It is late, so late that all the lights in all of the houses on the street are off. No one sees us as we pull the bag from the car and carry it to the side plot where nothing grows but weeds. After that, it is Jack's work to bury the body, not mine. He hands me a shopping bag containing khaki shorts, sneakers, boxers, and a short-sleeved plaid button-up. I wince when I feel where the bloodstained patches of fabric have gone cold, but I try not to think about it. I nod off as I wash the man's clothes in the laundry machine. When I'm done, I go into the basement and stuff them in the bottom of a box labeled, Goodwill.

  For the rest of the night my consciousness ebbs and flows. Eventually I am in bed, though I do not know how I got upstairs. The last thing I remember is Jack whispering that he hadn't planned this. His voice shimmers like the lights of the city twinkling in the distance. He tells me that, sometimes, the impulsive plan is the best plan, the hardest one to track. And when I sent him the image of the garden, and when I said that I was alone house-sitting, and when I kept calling and calling, well, it seemed a little like fate.

  I should be worried, but I'm not. We are far away, Jack and I. Above the world in our cave. Everything below us is a blanket of stars. And when I sleep, I dream of falling headlong into Jack's wide-open eyes.

  * * *

  I wake to the sound of the front door opening.

  I think I imagined all of this. Then I feel a weight in the bed next to me. Bile lurches at the back of my throat.

  Jack stretches his arms overhead, yawning. His white teeth glisten. At some point he shaved, and now I can see the little scar where his lip piercing used to be. He's not wearing a shirt. His body is a tight braid of muscle and there's a tattoo etched onto his chest that I've never seen—an eagle, screaming, its talons outstretched, like it's about to snatch up his nipple. It's not something I would have ever pictured on Jack's skin, but then again, I don't really know Jack anymore, do I?

  When his eyes find mine, I give him a look to ask, Is it done? and he nods. I slide out of bed and go downstairs.

  In the kitchen, Patrick Bloom straightens up from where he was crouched over the zucchini that remained on the table, wilting.

  "Sorry, I overslept," I say.

  Patrick Bloom's eyes land on something behind me. Jack has followed me. Patrick Bloom gives Jack a smirk, like he is pleased for him. He assumes that we fucked.

  "I'm Phil," Jack says, reaching out for a shake. Dread sinks in, heavy as a stone. I don't know if he's lying to save himself or to create a convincing story, but if the body is discovered, I will be the only identifiable person.

  Patrick Bloom is the kind of guy who takes a hand that's offered to him. He tells us he has to hop in the shower. He has a conference in downtown Berkeley that afternoon.

  Jack curls a finger around the hair that falls between my shoulder blades. It's the touch of someone playing at lover; I have to force myself not to flinch.

  I wait for Patrick Bloom to finish talking before I rush to collect my things. When I go to wash my dishes, Patrick Bloom tells me not to bother. The housekeeper will be by later today.

  He hands me two crisp hundred-dollar bills and thanks me. I sling my duffel bag over my shoulder, unlock my bike, walk Jack to the car he parked down the street. We do not say anything. He just gives me a half hug, gets in his car, and then he's gone.

  It's much easier to bike home now that I'm heading downhill.

  * * *

  Months pass and I keep expecting something to happen. For Patrick Bloom to tell me that he found something in the dirt, worms coiled among bones. For the cops to bang down my door. For my life to be destroyed. But nothing does. Jack disappears again. For good, I think. I try calling, but his line has been disconnected. Eloise must have heard about my supposed boyfriend showing up at Patrick Bloom's house, because she picks another student to be her successor and every time she sees me on campus, she glares. I finish my first year of grad school. I return to New York City over the summer for an internship. I don't come back.

  THE TANGY BRINE OF DARK NIGHT

  by Lucy Jane Bledsoe

  Berkeley Marina

  Kaylie's grandma weighed only ninety pounds by now, and so carrying her out to the car wasn't too difficult. She cradled the old woman, one arm under her knees and the other under her shoulders, and gently placed her, lying down, along the bench of the backseat. She saw that she'd left her grandma's sneakers untied, so she made secure knots in the laces and then straightened the purple windbreaker, which had bunched up around her bony hips. Kaylie gently shut the door.

  Would the trunk be better? Just the thought sent a prickling uneasiness down the backs of Kaylie's arms. She would not put her grandma in the trunk. Period. Besides, she'd need to put the kayak in there. She pointed the remote at the garage door, afraid that it wouldn't open—her grandma hadn't taken the car out in months—but it did. The old white Pontiac started too, and Kaylie backed into the street, carefully straightened the wheels, and put the automatic transmission in park.

  This whole plan was fucking crazy. So much so that, if she got caught, she could probably plead insanity. Which was worse, the psych ward or prison? She tried to think of a way out of the course she'd started down, but none came to mind, and so she quietly exited the car and walked over to her neighbor's side yard where they left the kayak, which hadn't been used in so long that lichen crusted its hull. She'd return it before they even realized it was gone. Luckily it was a short boat, with an open deck, none of those scary little hatches to get stuck inside, but it was heavy. Kaylie ended up having to drag it to the car, the pavement grating the plastic, as loud as a cement mixer. If any neighbors looked out their windows, who knew what they'd surmise. Thankfully the Pontiac's trunk was the size of a small room, and she managed to stuff about half of the kayak in, bow first. She put a hand on the stern and pressed down. It didn't wiggle. Not much. It was only a mile or two to the pier—and downhill. Gravity ought to keep the kayak in place.

  Kaylie jumped into the driver's seat and began the short journey. As she turned left on San Pablo Avenue, panic fluttered in her chest. The stern end of the kayak angled out of the trunk like an erection. She should have attached a red flag. She should have secured a seat belt around Grandma.

  Never mind. She was almost there, and no place calmed her frayed nerves more than the Berkeley Pier, the way that long wooden structure stretched far out into the bay, a lovely straight line conveying people into the world of fish and salt water and sky. Grandma and she had spent their happiest hours sitting in their short chairs, sipping iced tea, Grandma smoking Chesterfields, hands cradling the grips of their fishing rods, gazing at the most profound intersection on earth, the one between sky and sea. They rarely talked while fishing, not to each other, anyway. They didn't have to. Water, fish, air, time. What else did a person need?

  Kaylie had almost relaxed, at least she'd regained that gathering of resolve right behind her breastbone, the knowledge of doing right, when that damn Jimi Hendrix guitar riff vibrated in her pocket. Her sister Savannah had been calling repeatedly all day, at first once an hour, and recently about every twenty minutes, as if by calling multiple times today she could make up for the weeks and months she hadn't called. When they had talked, the times when Kaylie thought Savannah would want to know about developments in their grandma's condition, Savannah liked to cite her three children, making it crystal clear that Kaylie's childlessness put her in a complete fog of ignorance about what real life entailed. "Three children," Savannah would
practically shout, as if parenthood was on par with being the CEO of a prison. She'd also note her "handful" husband. Or her "high-maintenance" husband, if she was irritated with him. Or her "demanding" husband, if she was outright angry with the man, which she often was. And yet all of these adjectives were spoken with pride, emphasizing the heft of her family responsibility load, how full her life was with this man—all to communicate that helping with Grandma was inconsequential compared to what she had on her plate. A man. A family.

  Kaylie had tried to keep her resentment, her anger, in check: she too might have had someone "on her plate," had she not spent the last few years caring for Grandma. Don't mind that ragged cough in the next room, that's just my grandma dying of emphysema. Very romantic.

  Kaylie let the repetitive Jimi Hendrix phrase play out and then tried to return to her memories of hot summer nights, much like this one, on the pier with Grandma. But a siren, just a few streets away, pierced her thoughts. Even the sound of the Pontiac's big rubber tires peeling along the still-sizzling pavement unnerved her. Noises tonight were too loud, as if the god she didn't believe in had turned up the volume. Kaylie twisted on the radio and almost laughed at the sound of Frank Sinatra's voice. Her grandma's favorite. But of course Savannah wouldn't allow a moment of respite—oh no, the woman could be fucking telepathic when it came to moments of joy that needed to be destroyed. Jimi Hendrix began playing his bit, yet again, and Kaylie couldn't help it, she pulled her phone out of her pocket and looked, hoping it might be someone benign, like the woman she'd met at a conference in Dallas a couple of weeks ago, but no, of course it was Savannah. Again. She should have turned off her ringer, but somehow her sister's angsty presence was almost a comfort. At least it was familiar. And the only family she had left. She tapped Ignore and kept driving.

  Stopping at the intersection of University and San Pablo, Kaylie put her head out the window and breathed deeply, hoping for a hint of that fishy rotten-wood smell of the pier. Of course she was still a half mile away, but knowing that it was just there, in front of her, another couple of minutes, relieved her. She knew she was doing not just the right thing, but the exact perfect thing. Savannah could go to hell.

  A pulsing red light swarmed into the Pontiac. Kaylie was riding the crest of her confidence, and she felt sorry for the poor sop getting pulled over. She strained her eyes toward the dark horizon, toward the bay, pretended she could maybe see, if she looked hard enough, the Golden Gate. That put her in mind of the future, her future, and the possibility that, at long last, she'd be free to pursue a life. A real life. Maybe she'd take a trip to Dallas. She and that woman had had a lovely one-night stand, and it'd felt authentic, not like a quickie, more like a glint of possibility. Kaylie had told Grandma all about it when she got home and Grandma had said, yanking off the tubes running to her oxygen tank so she could speak as forcefully as she wanted to speak, "For fuck's sake, get on a goddamn plane for Dallas. I got a few months at best. Pull my damn plug and go get that woman."

  Kaylie had laughed and lied, saying, "Nah. She wasn't my type. Besides, I'm not going anywhere."

  "You can sell my house when I'm gone. That'll be a nice grubstake for you."

  "I'll retire," Kaylie said, lying again. Her grandma's termite-infested house needed a new roof, a few coats of paint, and probably a new foundation. She wouldn't be leaving her job or chasing some woman in Dallas, at least not for a couple of decades.

  The pulsing red light, as viscous and deeply colored as cough syrup, kept flooding the interior of the Pontiac. Of course Kaylie was that poor sop getting pulled over.

  Breathe, she counseled herself. Just breathe through this. Make sure the cop doesn't try to wake up Grandma, that was key. For all Kaylie knew, the Pontiac's registration hadn't been renewed in years. She drove through the intersection, hands at two o'clock and ten o'clock on the steering wheel, and carefully pulled into the Blick Art Materials parking lot. The patrol car followed. The wait, both of them in their cars, felt interminable. Kaylie carefully took her driver's license out of her wallet, and actually found a paid, up-to-date registration in the glove compartment. The uniform finally approached, coming from the rear with a hand on the grip of her gun. Kaylie thanked all the deities for the pale shade of her skin, her fucking whiteness, an accident of fate that would increase her chances of finessing her way through the encounter.

  The cop hefted a huge flashlight to shoulder height, as if it were a spiked javelin. She blinded Kaylie by shining it right in her face. Kaylie fumbled her license and registration out the car window as fast as she could. She might have white skin, but other variables in this situation—the contents of the backseat, the kayak in the trunk, and the ancient Pontiac itself—were not going to be helpful. As the cop turned the flashlight's beam on the documents, Kaylie tried to memorize the information on her badge. Officer Marta Ramirez was pretty, even with her hair pulled back in a tight bun, and wore no makeup—a hopeful sign—and carried a nice solid build. She might have been family, but Kaylie knew flirting would not be a good idea in this situation. Still, she might be able to signal sisterhood. Uh, did you go to Pride this year? Or, How does your wife like your uniform?

  Of course that could backfire if she was in fact straight. Or even if she wasn't. Kaylie kept her mouth shut.

  Marta (and why not be on a first-name basis in the privacy of Kaylie's own mind?) shined her light into the backseat. "Who's this?"

  "That's my grandma."

  "Why is she—"

  "She's ninety-three. Full-on Alzheimer's. Sleeping is so difficult for her. You've heard of sundown syndrome?"

  The cop's whole body loosened, slumped a little. Her eyes softened. "Oh, yeah. My grandma too."

  "Really? I'm sorry to hear that. Anyway, Grandma's like a baby who can only fall asleep in a moving car. So I take her out at night sometimes, just drive her around so she can sleep." Kaylie was pleased with her quick thinking, and as she spoke, she tried to come up with as good of an explanation for the kayak.

  "You should put the seat belt on her."

  "I know! I usually do. I was just realizing that when you pulled me over."

  "I pulled you over because the kayak is improperly secured." The cop shot the beam of her massive flashlight at the erect kayak stern. "That's a real hazard. It doesn't look like you've tied it at all. If it slides out, someone could get killed."

  "God, I'm sorry. Stupid of me. Yeah, I borrowed the kayak from a friend this past weekend. I figured if I was going to drive Grandma around tonight, I might as well use the opportunity to return the kayak. I mean, she won't wake up when I get to my friend's house. I just have to slide the kayak out and drag it to her side yard."

  Just shut the fuck up. Less is more, idiot. Stop talking.

  The cop paused for far too long. Kaylie could see all the questions flashing through her mind. The woman took a deep breath of assessment.

  "I'm sorry," Kaylie repeated, with lots of feeling.

  Officer Marta Ramirez (Kaylie returned, in her mind, to the more respectful full title and name) began a slow circumnavigation of the Pontiac, using her flashlight to examine all four tires, and even look under the carriage. She shined her light into the passenger-side back window and gazed at Kaylie's grandma for a long time. A very long time. Long enough for Kaylie to wonder if prison was really like Orange Is the New Black, long enough for her to consider the possibility that behind bars she might actually, at long last, find a girlfriend. She wouldn't have to worry about fixing up or selling the house. She wouldn't have to lift anyone in and out of a bathtub, clean sheets soaked with piss or streaked with shit, listen to the painful sounds of someone she loved trying to breathe. That part was all over now—it was as if she realized this for the first time, just now as the cop stared at her grandma in the backseat—whether she went to prison or not.

  When Officer Ramirez circled back to the driver's window, she pressed her lips together and made eye contact. "Okay. I'm not going to write you a ticket."
<
br />   Wait. Kaylie had almost begun looking forward to prison. To not having a single job other than surviving. If she'd been given another few moments, she might have started fantasizing about prison sex. Maybe instead she should start fantasizing policewoman sex, gratitude sex.

  "I really, really, really appreciate that," Kaylie said. "Thank you."

  "Get Grandma home. And get a rack for that kayak."

  "I will! Tomorrow. I mean, I'll get Grandma home right now, and a rack for the kayak tomorrow. I mean, for next time I borrow it."

  Now that their official interaction was over, could Kaylie ask Marta Ramirez for her phone number? She imagined cracking that joke, if it was one, for Grandma, and Grandma's loud honking laugh. Do it! the ghost of Grandma shouted. Do it!

  "Hey," Kaylie said as the cop started walking away. "I mean, I don't know if you're married or not. But I wondered if maybe some time you'd like—"

  The woman spun around on the soles of her shiny black practical tie-up shoes. "Really?" she responded. "I just let you off. I mean, I just let you off, and—"

  "And I said thank you. Good night." Kaylie rolled up her window and started the engine, the car lurched forward, and she almost hit a parked car as she tried to turn the huge tank around. Marta Ramirez was busy getting into her own vehicle and didn't bother to look up again.

  Five minutes later, Kaylie parked the car in one of the spots along the Berkeley waterfront, on the east side of the pier. She rolled down her window and sat listening to the wavelets lapping against the giant stones which formed the barrier between the bay and the parking spaces. It was high tide, and the water splashed within feet of her car. At last she could fill her nostrils with the salty wet smell of the bay.

  Twisting around in her seat, she couldn't see much of Grandma in the dark, but Kaylie knew exactly what she looked like: the sparse pale smoke hair, the tissuey skin with deep laugh lines, her thin frail limbs, knobby with arthritis.