When she finally had to move out of her apartment, she did agree to come and stay with him. “But let’s get this straight,” she had said. “The minute you put a hand on me, or come into my room, or make the least sexual suggestion, I am out of there, is that understood?”
“I have no problem with that,” Bill said. “You see, Sabrina, my faith has taught me to be grateful for all I have, and you’d just be doing me a favour in letting me share some of that happiness. No cost to you whatsoever. Except the church. The church deal stays the same.”
When she first moved in, she’d stayed in her room all the time. He had to coax her out of there like a stray, talk her into watching a little TV or sitting in the living room over a beer.
Now and again he would indulge in some Bible talk, trying to open her up to the idea that God is not just for Sundays. When the moment seemed apt, he would call up a telling story from the Old or New Testament. Sometimes she listened, nodding thoughtfully. Often she laughed.
“You’re such a wacko, Bill,” she’d say. “You know that, don’t you? You’re a religious wacko.”
“If by that you mean the life and death of Jesus Christ informs my day from morning to night, then yes, I hope I am a religious wacko.”
“See, only a wacko would say something like that.”
Bill remembered the spark in her eye when she’d said that, the rueful way she shook her head, black hair swinging, and it pricked his heart. It was the good things that hurt the most-her smile, her laugh. His life was a gutted hulk without them, even if Jesus was still around.
“The Lord must want something of me,” Bill told himself, sitting up on the couch. “He’s sending me this pain for a reason. He wants me to learn something. He’s telling me it’s not over. There’s more in this particular lesson plan for Bill Bullard.”
From a cluttered desk drawer he pulled out a portable hard drive, plugged it into his computer, and booted up. Bill did not pride himself on a great many things, Lord knew he had his limitations, but he did have a certain gift of foresight. Sabrina was not always gently amused by his efforts to protect-and, all right, correct-her, and this led to arguments and shouting and even a swat or two. And one night, after things had reached a particularly unpleasant pitch and he was certain that Sabrina was planning to catch the next flight out, he had attached a FireWire to her PowerBook and sucked out a copy of her entire hard drive.
He opened it now on his own computer and warmed up by taking a scroll through her music files, recognizing almost none of the so-called artists listed there. Neil Young, Leonard Cohen, that was about it. What the hell was Arcade Fire? Was that a band? A movie? Bjork? Wolf Parade? How could you listen to people with names like that?
Her photos were more interesting, although ultimately disappointing. A more than passing familiarity with online porn had given Bill the notion that young women liked nothing better than to photograph each other masturbating. Sabrina had apparently resisted the temptation. Even when they were blurred and obviously drunk, her friends remained completely clothed. There were lots of pictures of someone called Aunt Rachel-in fact, she had her own folder. And she occurred a lot in another file called Dallas 2007.
Sabrina’s email was more revealing. Between its Sent file and its address book, it contained everything a man on a mission could want.
At Wickenburg, the highway became 60/89, and Max took the wheel. His nap had left him grumpy and uncommunicative, and the three of them travelled in silence. Owen blasted aliens on his laptop for a while, and read some material he had downloaded about Tucson, but he had trouble concentrating-not because of Sabrina this time. He kept seeing Pookie in his mind’s eye, bald head and goofy smile. Why would anyone want to hurt Pookie?
It was late when they arrived in Tucson, and they had trouble finding the trailer park. As soon as they were parked, they couldn’t wait to escape the Rocket, so they unhitched the car and went into town.
“Ugh,” Max kept saying as they passed miles of concrete buildings on eight-lane streets.
They had a late dinner at a Mexican joint called the Poca Cosa, but even a couple of margaritas failed to cheer Max up. He asked Sabrina what her plans were for the next day.
“I guess I’m not sure,” she said.
“You can still stay with us if you don’t have anywhere to go,” Owen said. “I mean, if you want to come along to El Paso and see your dad …”
Sabrina smiled, shook her head. “That’s okay. You two have been great, but I can look after myself.”
Now it was Owen’s turn to be depressed.
When they got back to the trailer, Max went straight to bed. Owen made popcorn, and Sabrina sat beside him on the couch to watch an old Clint Eastwood western. She fell asleep about halfway through, and Owen-he didn’t exactly stare-but he observed her out of the corner of his eye. She was out like a little kid.
She woke immediately when he switched off the TV.
“Why’d you turn it off?”
“You weren’t watching, and I’ve seen it too often.”
She stretched, revealing a good deal of midriff. “What’s Max so upset about? It’s not because of me, is it?”
“Max is just moody.”
“But he seems different from yesterday. Did something happen in Vegas?”
“We had some bad news. Family news. I don’t want to talk about it.”
“I thought all your relatives were in England.”
“I really can’t talk about it.”
“Okay.”
She reached out and touched his cheek, which made him wince.
“You have a nasty bruise,” she said.
“Yeah. Preacher Bill has a wicked jab.”
Sabrina shifted on the couch and planted a kiss, feather-light, on his cheek. “You’ve been really good to me.”
He turned his face slightly, and this time she kissed him on the mouth. She gave it just a second, then sat back.
“It’s too bad you’re not a girl,” she said. “I’d probably rip your pants right off.”
“How about if I put on one of your dresses? Would that help?”
“I don’t own any dresses. And I don’t ever want to see you in one, either. Even though you are pretty cute.”
“Yeah?”
“Now he’s digging for compliments. That’s it, I’m going to crash.”
Owen lay on the couch staring at the blank television while she got ready for bed. He tried not to listen for the sound of her clothes coming off.
Max woke up in a better mood and was pom-poming and tiddle-tiddle-tiddling under his breath as he fussed around the Rocket’s galley. He sprinkled raisins into the oatmeal, whipping the porridge around the pot as if he were baking a cake. Owen always sat with his back to this, because it gave him a terrible urge to yank the pot from Max’s hand and bonk him over the head with it. Sabrina sat sleepy-eyed over her coffee, not a morning person, apparently.
“We have some time to play tourist today,” Max said. “I trust our navigator has made plans?”
“There’s a couple of options I’m considering.”
He was looking at Sabrina across the table. Even with her eyes all puffy and her hair messed up, she looked great. Especially with her eyes all puffy and her hair messed up. Owen began to understand an advantage of marriage: getting to know a person backstage, so to speak.
Max set bowls of oatmeal before them. “Where are we going, then, my prince?”
“I have the perfect spot for our criminal history theme.”
Owen drove them all to Tombstone, where they walked the wooden sidewalks among locals dressed up in period costumes. They saw a horse-drawn hearse once owned by Wyatt Earp, and in the window of the Tombstone Epitaph a real-estate ad informed them that “the mild year-round climate and low humidity make Tombstone an attractive place for retirement.”