The Heart Goes Last Read online

  Last week, Sandi and Veronica asked her if she'd like to turn a few. She could make more that way than she was making behind the bar; way more, if she'd go offsite. They had a couple of rooms nearby they could use, classier than the Fuck Tank, they had beds. Charmaine had a fresh look: the clients liked sweet, big-eyed, kiddie-faced blondes like her.

  Oh no, Charmaine said. Oh no, I couldn't! Though she'd had a tiny flash of excitement, like peering in through a window and seeing another version of herself inside, leading a second life; a more raucous and rewarding second life. At least more rewarding financially, and she'd be doing it for Stan, wouldn't she? Which would excuse whatever happened. Those things with strange men, different things. What would it be like?

  But no, she couldn't, because it was way too dangerous. You never knew what men like that would do, they could get carried away. They might get started on the self-expression. And what if Stan found out? He'd never go for it, no matter how much they needed the cash. He'd be destroyed. Besides, it was wrong.

  STUMPED

  Stan tries Conor's last known address, a boarded-up bungalow on a street that's only semi-inhabited. There might be faces looking out of some of the windows, there might not. Possibly they're only tricks of the light. There's what might once have been a communal garden, with what might be some withered pea vines. A few wooden stakes poking up from the spiky knee-high weeds. On the broken sidewalk leading up to the porch there's a skull painted in red, like the one he and Con had decorated their tool shack clubhouse with when he was ten. What had they intended? Pirates, no doubt. Weird how the symbols persist.

  This house was where Con was squatting when Stan last saw him, two or was it three years ago. He'd had a message from Con, which had sounded urgent, but when he'd got here it was only the usual: Con needed a loan.

  He'd found Con in a tank top and Speedo shorts, a line of spiders tattooed up his arm, throwing a knife at an inside wall - to be precise, throwing it at the outline of a naked woman drawn in purple marker - while a few of his witless buddies passed spliffs and cheered him on. Stan still had a job then and was feeling self-righteous, so he'd done the big brother thing and chewed Con out over his shiftless ways, and Con had told him to sodomize himself. One of the buddies had offered to rip Stan's head off, but Con had only laughed and said that if there were any heads to be ripped off he could do it himself, then adding, "He's my bro, he always doles out this uptight shit before the high finance." After some glaring, they'd done the double back pat and Stan had lent Con a couple of hundred, which he hasn't seen since but would sure like to have now. Then Stan had made a mistake and asked about that long-ago Swiss Army knife, and Con had laughed at him for getting so bent out of shape about a stupid knife, and they'd ended up trading angry insults just as if they were nine.

  Stan knocks on the blistered green door. No answer, so he pushes at the door, which is unlocked. Some arsonist must have set fire to the place from within because it's semi-carbonized; hot sunlight glints off the shards of window scattered across the floor. He has the queasy idea that Conor might still be somewhere inside the house in blackened skeletal form, but there's nobody in any of the charred and roofless rooms. The smell of smoke oozes from the singed, mouse-riddled furniture.

  When he comes back out there's a man peering into his car, with larceny in mind no doubt. The guy looks scrawny enough and doesn't appear to be holding a weapon, so Stan could tackle him if need be. Still, best to stand well back.

  "Hey," he says to the dingy grey shirt and balding skull. The guy whips round.

  "Just looking," he says. "Nice car." Ingratiating smile, but Stan isn't fooled: there's a cunning flicker in the sunken eyes. Maybe a knife?

  "I'm Conor's brother," he says. "He used to live here." Something shifts: whatever the guy was planning, he won't try it now. That means Con must still be alive, with even more of an evil reputation than he had two years ago.

  "He's not here," says the guy.

  "Yeah, I can see that," says Stan. There's a silence. Either the guy knows where Conor is, or he doesn't. He's trying to assess what it's worth to Stan. Then he will either lie and try to lead Stan astray, or not. A few years ago Stan would have found this situation more frightening than he does now.

  Finally the man says, "But I know where."

  "So, you can take me there," says Stan.

  "Three bucks," says the guy, holding out his hand.

  "Two. Once I see him," says Stan, keeping his left hand in his pocket. He has no intention of paying for a blank space with no Conor in it. He has no intention of paying anyway, since he doesn't have two bucks on him. But Con will have two bucks. Con can pay. That, or mash the guy's teeth in, what's left of them.

  "How do I know he wants to see you?" says the guy. "Maybe you're not his brother."

  "That's the chance you take," says Stan, smiling. "Do we drive?" This could be hazardous - he'll need to let the guy sit in the front seat with him, and there might still be a weapon. But he has to risk it.

  They get in, each of them wary. Down the street, around the corner. Along another street, this one with a few ratty kids kicking a deflated soccer ball. Finally, a trailer park, or at least some parked trailers. Couple of slitty-eyed guys at the entrance, one brown, one not, blocking their way. So, a fortress of sorts.

  Stan stops the car, lowers the window. "I'm here to see Conor," he says. "I'm Stan. His brother."

  "That's what he told me," says the guy beside him, covering his ass.

  One of the guards kicks the left front car tire half-heartedly. The other talks briefly on his cellphone. He peers through the window, then talks some more - a description of Stan, no doubt. Then motions him to get out of the car.

  "Don't worry, we'll watch it for you," says the phone-wielder, reading Stan's mind, which features at the moment a car with no tires left on it and not much of anything else. "Just go through. Herb'll take you."

  "Pray he's the brother," the second man says to Herb. "Or you'll be digging two holes."

  --

  Conor's out behind the farthest trailer, in a weedy open space that might once have been a house lot. He looks taller. He's lost weight; he had a slob period there for a while, but now he's trim. He's shooting at a beer can on a stump; no, a stack of bricks. The rifle is an old airgun Stan remembers from his boyhood. It used to be his, but Conor won it off him in an arm-wrestling tournament. Con's idea of a tournament was simple: you played until he won, then you stopped. It wasn't that he was bigger than Stan, but he was more devious. Also he was considerably more violent. His Off switch never worked too well when he was a kid.

  Ping! goes the pellet against the can. Stan's guide doesn't interrupt, but he moves around to the side so Conor can't help seeing him.

  A couple more pings: Con's making them wait. Finally he stops, leans the airgun against a cement block, and turns. Fuck, he's even shaved. What's got into him? "Stan the man," he says, grinning. "How're you keeping?" He steps forward, arms wide, and they do an awkward version of the hug-and-back-pat thing.

  "I brought him here," says the scrawny man. "You told me to watch the house."

  "Good job, Herb," says Conor. "Talk to Rikki, he'll give you something." The guy shambles off. "Brain-dead fuck. Let's have a beer," Conor says, and they go into one of the trailers. An Airstream: high end.

  It's surprisingly cool and clean in the main room. Conor hasn't fouled it up: no contemptuous garbage or in-your-face crotch-grabbing rock posters, unlike Con's teenaged bedroom. Stan used to defend him, stick up for him to the parents, claim he'd straighten out. Maybe not such a bad thing that he hasn't. At least he seems to have a source of income, and a good one, judging from the results.

  Pale grey decor, small aluminum cubes of hi-tech placed discreetly here and there, window curtains, good taste: does Con have a woman around, is that it? A tidy woman, not a slut. Or is he just making a bundle? "It's nice," Stan says ruefully, thinking of his own cramped, smelly car.

  Con goes to th
e fridge, produces a couple of beers. "I'm making do," he says. "How about you?"

  "Not so good," says Stan. They sit at the built-in table, upending the beers.

  "Lost your job," says Con after the right amount of silence. It's not a question.

  "How'd you know?" says Stan.

  "Otherwise why come looking for me?" says Con in a neutral voice. There's no point denying it, so Stan doesn't.

  "I wondered maybe," he says.

  "Yeah, I owe you," says Con. He stands up, turns his back, rummages in a jacket that's hanging on the door. "Couple of hundred do you for now?" he says. Stan grates out a gruff thank-you, pockets the bills. "Need another job?"

  "Doing what?" says Stan.

  "Oh, you know," says Con. "This and that. You could keep track of stuff. Like, money. Take it offshore for us. Stash it here and there. Make us look respectable."

  "What're you up to?" says Stan.

  "It's cool," says Conor. "Nothing dangerous. Custom stuff. On order."

  Stan wonders if he's stealing artwork. But where would there be any of that around here any more? "Thanks," he says. "Maybe later." He has no real wish to work for his little brother, even in a safe way. It would be like family welfare. Now that he has a bit of cash and some breathing room, he can look around. Find something decent.

  "Any time," says Con. "You need a phone or anything? Fully loaded. Good for maybe a month, if you're careful."

  Why not have a second phone? That way, Charmaine and he can phone each other. While the top-up lasts. "Where'd you get it?" says Stan.

  "Don't worry, it's wiped," says Con. "Can't be traced."

  Stan slips the phone into his pocket. "How's the wife?" says Con. "Charmaine?"

  "Good, good," says Stan.

  "I bet she's good," says Con. "I trust your taste. But how is she?"

  "She's fine," says Stan. It's always made him nervous when Con took an interest in a girl of his. Con thought Stan should share, willingly or unwillingly. A couple of Stan's girls had agreed with him on that. It still rankles.

  He wants to ask Con for a firearm of some sort to thwart the nighttime thugs, but he's in a weak position and he can hear what Con would say: "You were crap with the Nerf gun, you'd shoot your foot off." Or worse: "What'll you trade me? Time in the sack with the wife? She'd enjoy it. Hey! Joke!" Or: "Sure, if you come work for me." So he doesn't try.

  The two guards walk Stan back to his car. They're much friendlier now, they even stick out their hands for a shake.

  "Rikki."

  "Jerold."

  "Stan," says Stan. As if they don't know.

  As he's getting into his car, another car pulls up in front of the trailer-park entrance; a fancy hybrid, black and sleek, with tinted windows. Con has some upmarket playmates, it looks like.

  "Here comes business," says Jerold. Stan's curious to see who gets out, but nobody does. They're waiting for him to leave.

  PITCH

  Charmaine likes to be busy, but sometimes in the afternoons at Dust there's not much to be busy about. She's already wiped down the bar counter twice, she's rearranged some glasses. She could watch the nearest flatscreen, where a baseball replay is going on, but she isn't much interested in sports; she doesn't see why a bunch of men chasing each other around a field and trying to hit a ball and then hugging and patting butts and jumping up and down and yelling can get people so worked up.

  The sound's turned down low, but when the ads are on it gets louder, and also they run the words across the bottom just to make sure you get the message. Usually the ads are cars and beer, on the sports shows, but all of a sudden there's something different.

  It's a man in a suit, just the head and the shoulders, looking straight out of the screen, right into her eyes. There's something convincing about him even before he speaks - he's so serious, like what he's about to say is very important. And when he does speak, she could swear he's reading her mind.

  "Tired of living in your car?" he says to her. Really, straight to her! It can't be, because how would he even know she exists, but it feels like that. He smiles, such an understanding smile. "Of course you are! You didn't sign up for this. You had other dreams. You deserve better." Oh yes, breathes Charmaine. Better! It's everything she feels.

  Next there's a shot of a gateway in something that looks like a shiny black-glass wall, with people walking in - young couples, holding hands, energetic and smiling. Pastel clothing, springlike. Then a house, a neat, freshly painted house with a hedge and a lawn, no junked cars or wrecked sofas lying on it, and then the camera zooms in through the second-floor window, past the curtains - curtains! - and moves through the room. Spacious! Gracious! Those words they use in the real estate ads for places in the countryside and on beaches, far away and in other countries. Through the open bathroom door there's a charming deep-sided tub with lots of giant fluffy white towels hanging beside it. The bed is king-sized, with nice clean sheets in a cheerful floral design, blue and pink, and four pillows. Every muscle in Charmaine's body yearns for that bed, those pillows. Oh, to stretch out! To fall into a comfortable sleep, with that safe, cozy feeling she used to have at Grandma Win's.

  Not that Grandma Win's house was exactly the same as this one. It was a lot smaller. But it was tidy. She more or less remembers a different house, from when she was little; it might have been like the house onscreen. No: it could have been like that if it hadn't been such a mess. Clothes rumpled on the floor, dirty dishes in the kitchen. Was there a cat? Perhaps, briefly. Something bad about the cat. She'd found it on the hall floor, but it was the wrong shape and ooze was coming out of it. Clean that up! Don't talk back! She hadn't talked back - crying wasn't talking - but that hadn't made any difference, she was wrong all the same.

  There was a hole in her bedroom wall the size of a large fist. Not surprising, because that was what made it, a fist. She used to hide things in that hole. A Beanie Baby. A cloth handkerchief with lace on the corner, whose was that? A dollar she'd found. She used to think that if she pushed her hand in deep enough, it would go right through, and there would be water, with blind fish and other things, things with dark teeth, and they might get out. So she was careful.

  "Remember what your life used to be like?" says the man's voice, during the tour of the sheets and pillows. "Before the dependable world we used to know was disrupted? At the Positron Project in the town of Consilience, it can be like that again. We offer not only full employment but also protection from the dangerous elements that afflict so many at this time. Work with like-minded others! Help solve the nation's problems of joblessness and crime while solving your own! Accentuate the positive!"

  Back to the man's face. Not a handsome face as such, but a face you could trust. Sort of like a math teacher, or a minister. You can tell he's sincere, and sincere is better than handsome. Really handsome men were a bad idea, said Grandma Win, because they had too much to choose from. Too much what? Charmaine had asked her, and Grandma Win said, Never mind.

  "The Positron Project is accepting new members now," says the man. "If you meet our needs, we'll meet yours. We offer training in many professional areas. Be the person you've always wanted to be! Sign up now!" That smile again, as if he's gazing deep inside her head. Not in a scary way though, in a kindly way. He only wants the best for her. She can be the person she's always wanted to be, after it was safe to want things for herself.

  Come here. Don't think you can hide. Look at me. You're a bad girl, aren't you? No was the wrong answer to that, but so was Yes.

  Stop that noise. Shut up, I said shut up! You don't even know what hurt is.

  Forget those sad things, honey, Grandma Win would say. Let's make popcorn. Look, I picked some flowers. Grandma Win had a little patch at the front of the house. Nasturtiums, zinnias. Think about those flowers instead, and you'll be asleep in no time.

  --

  Halfway through the ad, Sandi and Veronica come in. Now they're sitting at the bar having Diet Cokes and watching the ad too. "Looks gr
eat," Veronica says.

  "No free lunch," says Sandi. "Too good to be true. That guy looks like a lousy tipper."

  "It wouldn't hurt to try," Veronica says. "Can't be worse than the Fuck Tank. I'd go for those towels!"

  "I wonder what's their game?" says Sandi.

  "Poker," says Veronica, and they both laugh.

  Charmaine wonders why that's funny. She isn't sure that they're the kind of people the man is looking for, but it would be way too snobby and also discouraging to say so, and they are nice girls at heart, so instead she says, "Sandi! I bet you could be a nurse!" There's a website and a phone number scrolling across the bottom of the screen; Charmaine scribbles them down. She's so excited! When Stan picks her up, they can use their phone to view the details. She can feel the griminess of her body, she can smell the stale odour coming from her clothes, from her hair, from the rancid fat smell of the chicken-wings place next door. All of that can be shed, it can peel off her like an onion skin, and she can step out of that skin and be a different person.

  Will there be a washer and dryer in that new home? Of course there will. And a dining table. Recipes: she'll be able to cook recipes again, the way she did after she and Stan got married. Lunches, intimate dinners, just the two of them. They'll sit on chairs while eating, they'll have real china instead of plastic. Maybe even candles.

  Stan will be happy too: how could he not be happy? He'll stop being so grouchy. True, there's a grouchy part she'll have to guide him through first, the part where he'll say it's sure to be a scam like everything else, it's some kind of ripoff, and why bother applying because they won't get in. But nothing ventured, nothing gained, she'll say, and why don't they just try? She'll persuade him to do it, one way or another.

  Worse comes to worst, she'll dangle the promise of sex. Sex in a luxurious king-sized bed, with clean sheets - wouldn't Stan like that? With no maniacs trying to break in through the window. If necessary, she'll even put up with that cramped back-seat car ordeal tonight, as a reward if he says yes. It won't be that much fun for her, but fun can wait until later. Until they're inside their new house.