“Paul? You fadin’ on me again?”
Paul sighed. “The first day I sat with him this week,” he said, to the crown of Callie’s head, “Colonel said to me, ‘Welcome to the good life, Professor.’ ”
Callie looked up at him again. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“The obvious, I guess,” Paul said. “I’ve got a permanent job and a salary and a dental plan. A better ID badge. Web access. The American Dream.”
“It’s more than a lot of people got,” Callie said. He could feel her tense up against him.
“I’m not complaining, Callie, truly I’m not.” And why should I? he thought. It’s better than what I had before.
“It’s not like you’re better than anybody else,” she said.
She might as well have slipped a shiv between his ribs. He lifted his arm away from her. “Olivia Haddock told me the same thing,” he said.
Callie sat up with her back to Paul, her cheekbone and breast limned by the silvery light from the TV. “Sorry.” She glanced back at him. “It’s just. .”
“It’s just what?” Paul said icily.
Callie spoke to the TV screen, hunched over in bed. “Well, ever since I met you, all you done is. . complain about how far you’ve fallen, and now when things are looking up, when you’re making a little progress, you seem. .”
“You were going to say ‘whine’ just now, weren’t you?” Paul’s fear and anger were contending in equal measure just now; the returning memory of Saturday morning was scaring the bejesus out of him. The image of Olivia Haddock’s last stand had popped up uncomfortably a number of times during the week: while he was drowsing before his monitor, surfing the Web, or in between forkfuls of enchilada at lunch with Colonel, or even when he was tumbling happily in bed with Callie. No matter what he was doing, he could see behind his eyeballs Olivia’s legs flailing in the air; the pale hand descending from the gap in the ceiling to slap him; the fish-eyed gaze of Boy G.
“Look, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to sound like the Red Queen,” Callie said, chopping the air with her hand, “but why can’t you be happy with what you got? Why can’t you be happy with. .”
“The Red Queen?” Paul laughed. “Jesus, where’d you come up with that?”
“It’s from—”
“I know what it’s from,” he said. “How do you know what it’s from?”
Callie whirled on him in bed, looming over him with her finger inches from his nose. “Don’t you dare condescend to me,” she said. “Don’t you dare.”
Paul started to get aroused. “We all like a ride on a frisky young colt,” Colonel had said. “Do you love her?” He smiled and slid his hand around her hip to the small of her back, and he tried to work his thigh between her legs, but Callie pushed herself away from him. She bounded awkwardly off the bed and stumbled through the clothes on the floor. She crossed her arm over her breasts and clutched her shoulder, and she stooped to pick through the limp jeans and underwear.
“Oh, c’mon,” said Paul, pulling the sheet over his tumescent lap. “Aren’t we going to work this out?”
“I ain’t in the mood for ‘working it out.’ ” Callie gestured a pair of quotation marks in the air, without looking at Paul.
“Callie, I’m sorry.” Paul scootched to the edge of the bed and tried to catch her eye. “I’m being a jerk.”
Callie tugged on her panties and then her jeans. All Paul heard from her was the angry hiss of her breath. She stooped again for her shirt.
Paul mouthed a silent fuck and flopped back on the bed. On the TV screen the Born Free lions sprawled across a rock in the African sun, their fat tongues lolling between their enormous canines. On top of the TV Charlotte sprawled in exactly the same attitude, her front paws pushed forward, her head sunk between them, eyes half open. Her back legs were splayed off the edge of the set, and her tail strobed slowly back and forth across the screen. Paul glanced at Callie to see if she had noticed, but she was buttoning her shirt with her back to him. Paul let his head drop onto the pillow, and he watched the TV’s light flicker across the ceiling.
“Callie,” he said, “without you. .”
She looked at him over her shoulder. “Without me, what?” she said.
“Without you. .,” Paul began. He had no idea how to finish the sentence.
Callie turned and stooped for her sandals, dangling them by their straps, and to Paul’s surprise she dropped to her knees next to the bed. She set the sandals neatly to one side, and she leaned over Paul, her hand lightly on the sheet over his chest.
“Let’s go,” she said.
“Okay,” murmured Paul, and he pushed himself up to kiss her. But she pushed him back.
“That’s not what I mean.” Her eyes were clear, and she watched him calmly. “I mean, let’s go. Let’s git. Let’s get out of this town and not come back.”
“What?” Paul said.
She met his gaze with her own; wherever he tried to look, she was looking back at him. “You hate Texas, you hate the heat, you hate your job, you hate the folks you work with.”
“Yeah, but. .,” breathed Paul. All his muscles were pulling tight under the sheet. His stomach was clenching.
“Well, me too, cowboy.” Her hand was warm and firm against his chest. “Don’t let it go to your head, ’cause it ain’t saying much, but you’re the best thing to happen to me in this whole goddamn state.”
“Really?” said Paul.
“There’s nothing in this shitty little apartment that’s yours, ‘cept your clothes, right? So let’s toss ’em in my truck and take off. We could be in Mexico by sunup.”
“Mexico?” He felt his stomach clench.
“Or wherever. We could be in California the day after tomorrow.”
Finally Paul managed to lift himself on his elbows. Her hand pressed lightly on his chest. “Are you serious?” he said.
“Serious as a heart attack, lover.” She slid her hand over his shoulder and curled her fingers around the back of his neck. “I followed one boy to Tulsa, and another boy here, but I never asked a boy to follow me before.”
“Wow,” said Paul.
Callie moved her face close to his, her eyes half shut. “C’mon, Paul,” she breathed. “Let’s. Just. Go.”
She kissed him very tenderly, and Paul stopped breathing. He could feel his blood pulsing in his lips. Callie pulled away, and he couldn’t help himself: He turned his gaze away from hers and looked down the bed at black-eyed Charlotte on top of the TV, her tail swishing metronomically across the screen. Callie half turned to see what he was looking at, but caught herself. She pushed back from the bed and stood; she stubbed her feet into her sandals.
“She ain’t there, Paul,” she said quietly, as if to a sleepless child.
“Yes she is,” said Paul, unable to take his eyes off the cat. “Turn around and look.”
“I don’t have to. She ain’t there.” Callie bent over the bed and kissed Paul on the forehead. “She’s in here.” Then she turned and crossed to the door, swinging her hips.