When Mrs. J__ reaches for her fancy handbag Hawkeye gives it to Ponytail.

  For safekeeping, Hawkeye says. Not a bag you want to lose.

  Mrs. J__ tries to protest. An intelligent woman, Ponytail thinks, marvels at how intimidated she is by Hawkeye, like he has a leash around her neck, all he needs to do is give it a shake, she’s his.

  Reverse of a snake charmer, where the cobra is enthralled by the flute player. Here, the woman is enthralled by the cobra.

  Because she wants to be loved by him. Because she thinks there is that possibility—loved by Hawkeye.

  There were guys who’d shared that delusion, at the Mission. Hawkeye was their protector, they’d wanted to think, at the motel parties, and to some extent that was true, but finally not.

  If Mister R__ wanted you, you went. Sometimes you were returned, and sometimes not.

  Money changed hands: from Mister R__ to Hawkeye. That, you knew. But you never saw it.

  Hawkeye walks Mrs. J__ into the outer room and to the door of the suite. Wanting badly to be rid of the woman but speaking in a low soothing voice to her, hypnotic cobra voice (if a cobra could speak!) telling her she’s safe, in trusted hands, she’ll be home soon.

  Safe, in trusted hands, home soon.

  Know I love you, right?—darling.

  If you knew Hawkeye you’d know this was a joke. You’d laugh in his face. But, Mrs. J__ doesn’t know.

  Hawkeye’s fist gripping her upper arm, got to hurt the way he’s keeping her upright if her weak knees buckle.

  Ponytail has seen Hawkeye console others. Times of crisis. High on drugs, staggering drunk, stricken with shame, despondent and sobbing. Boys like Mikey, but also (adult) men.

  Hell of a surprise, a shock, when Mikey first saw an adult man cry.

  Lose all respect for them. Cocksucker fags.

  But there’s Hawkeye soft-speaking. He, Hawkeye, there to help. Everything will be all right, nothing to worry about, soon you will be home and in your own bed safe.

  Though never has Ponytail heard Hawkeye tell anyone Know I love you, right?

  Never, calling anyone darling.

  Mrs. J__ squints up at Hawkeye. The swollen mouth tries to smile. She’s grateful, he will lie to her. For Hawkeye doesn’t care enough for most people, to lie.

  At the door Hawkeye will kiss the bruised mouth, quick, as a cobra might kiss. Turning the woman over to Ponytail, to “expedite.”

  Hawkeye peels off several hundred-dollar bills from a roll carried loose in his pocket, for Ponytail. Ponytail isn’t sure how many of these bills he’s being given, could be five or six, isn’t counting. His style is to feign disinterest. A matter of respect for Hawkeye, trust.

  That’s got to impress the coldhearted motherfucker, right?

  Hawkeye’s actual name, no one seemed to know. Ponytail had heard that a long time ago he’d been a boy at the Mission, when Father McKenzie was a young priest there, but Ponytail had also heard that Hawkeye wasn’t from Detroit or (possibly) born in the United States. Hawkeye spoke in so low and rapid a voice you couldn’t tell if he spoke with an accent, nor was it known how he’d come to be called “Hawkeye”—who’d been the first to note how with his heavy-lidded eyes and sharp-boned face he resembled a bird of prey.

  A hungry bird of prey: Yet no one had ever seen him eat, or drink, at any of the motel all-nighters.

  Definitely it was said, it might’ve been Father McKenzie who first said it, that Hawkeye had been some kind of bomber pilot in some war dropping bombs and vaporizing the enemy, Ponytail figured it had to be the Vietnam War he’d heard about when he was just a kid.

  Cool, Ponytail thought. Fly high enough, nobody can catch you. You can’t see anybody, below. Or anything that happens to them because of you.

  Like, a test. Can you pull the lever, can you drop the bomb? Bombs?

  Could you, feeling pissed, drop a ton of bombs, blow up the entire fucking world?

  Why the fuck not, if nobody stops you. Goddamn God’s fault, He doesn’t stop you from doing the worst you can do.

  Outside in the corridor Ponytail turns, a little panicked, has a question for Hawkeye but the door is shutting behind him. Christ!

  Ma’am, c’mon. This way.

  Best way is gripping her upper arm. Walking her like you’d walk a drunk.

  Elevator, down. Falling-down-fast, Ponytail shuts his eyes so as not to feel nauseated.

  Scared shitless walking the (drunk?) woman through the glitzy lobby. Got to know that every security cop in sight is watching him. Doormen, bellboys in monkey uniforms watching Ponytail, sneering at Ponytail’s straggly hair, have to wonder who the woman is, what the fuck’s he doing with her? Steels himself for some hassle but walking Mrs. J__ through the lobby isn’t as difficult as he’d anticipated since the lobby is crowded with conferees, loud-talking, drinks in hand, spilling out of a pub on the first floor. Mrs. J__ unsteady on her feet doesn’t merit a second glance.

  Christ!—Ponytail has been worried about this, turns out it’s nothing.

  Whatever you are thinking Father McKenzie used to console, a warm hand on a shoulder, an arm, a thigh think again, my child.

  Outside in fresh air! Ponytail exchanges a level look with the parking attendant, guy his own age, light-dark-skinned, thin mustache on his upper lip, what’s this dude thinking, Mrs. J__ is Ponytail’s woman? His woman?

  Not likely his mother. Too classy to be Ponytail’s mother.

  “Okay, man, ‘expedite’ this”—Ponytail hands the attendant the parking ticket with a folded twenty-dollar bill.

  Liking the attendant flashing a smile at him—genuine, surprised.

  Hey, man. Thanks!

  Liking the attendant observing the skill with which Ponytail “helps” the (blond, white) woman into the rear of the fancy car where she collapses boneless, unresisting. Eyes rolling back in her skull the way, if she was fucked, without knowing who was fucking her, the eyes would roll back, the wet mouth would fall open.

  Ponytail shudders, repelled. He wouldn’t touch a female that age, the thought is disgusting.

  Prada handbag, Ponytail tosses into the rear with Mrs. J__ so she can cling to it as a small child might cling to a stuffed animal.

  And yes: Makes sure she isn’t on her back as Hawkeye instructed.

  Yah man, you have a good ev’nin’—the light-dark-skinned dude says to Ponytail with (almost) a wink, Ponytail grins back at him, elated.

  Yah man. Sure will.

  Broken

  Where am I, what time is this.

  … desperate to return home. Hours late returning home.

  Children clamoring for Mommy at home, Mommy is so, so ashamed …

  There is a husband, too. A man whose face she can see but his name—she has forgotten his name …

  The husband is not happy with her. The husband is staring at her in disgust.

  Joker Daddy is edging close. Joker Daddy has never been impressed with the husband.

  Futile to think you could replace me with him!—Joker Daddy sputters with laughter.

  Desperate to return home to hurry upstairs, remove her soiled clothing, stagger into the shower. Shame of her odorous body, worst smells are female smells, not drunk but her legs are as weak as a drunkard’s, pained feet in high-heeled open-toed shoes, only her lover’s fist closed about her arm keeps her upright.

  Bruises circling her upper arm.

  Disgusted with her. But he has taken mercy on her, he has told her he loves her.

  Calling her darling!

  Though he’d made no plan or promise to see her again. And no apology, for how he has treated her.

  Handing her over to the boy, couldn’t get rid of her fast enough. Swaggering kid in his early twenties, three-day beard, coarse hair in a ponytail, black T-shirt, black trousers, sunglasses hiding eyes narrowed in surprise/contempt.

  Where the ponytailed boy has come from, she has no idea.

  (Was he in the suite all along? Was he a—witness? Hannah is sick with shame.)

  (Is he someone Hannah knows? Is supposed to know? One of the uniformed staff at the hotel? Is she expected to tip him, after he drives her home?)

  (Her lover has rid himself of her, she is bereft, lost.)

  (She will confess everything to her husband. She is not worthy to touch their children.)

  Collapsed in the backseat of her own car, hears the ponytailed driver calling her ma’am, Goddamn she is not ma’am! Too tired to lift her head. Too tired to protest. Fumbling with her handbag looking for a tissue. Lipstick tube (Revlon), emery boards, rat-tail comb, wallet. Is she expected to tip the driver, must remember to tip the driver. Must stay awake and alert but sinks into a stupor-sleep as soon as the Buick enters the ramp, glides onto the Lodge Expressway north, north to her home, head lolling loose on her shoulders, smudged eyes shut and mouth agape in wonder as the mouth of a shuddering fish tossed down onto a pier.

  In the morning slow to wake. Silt has settled inside her head.

  Dark, darkness. Sifting silt, muck.

  It is another time! She has survived to this time.

  But: Exhausted from crawling. Dragging her (useless) legs through the night. Between her legs a bleeding wound. Festering wound.

  Exhausted from trying to explain where she has been, why this has happened to her, not sure to whom she is trying to explain, the stark white clown-face is blurred and shimmering, indeed there are several faces whose features she can’t discern except to know that they recognize Hannah, they have always known Hannah and are passing a harsh judgment on Hannah, and a harsh sentence.

  Die, why don’t you die. You are female filth, you don’t deserve to live.

  Morning sunlight splotched against a wall of the bedroom. Shimmering reflections, amoeba-like, through half-shut eyes she watches mesmerized.

  Trying now to wake up. Open her swollen eyes.

  Barbiturate numbness like cotton batting is smothering her brain. She’d been desperate to sleep the night before, forget the hotel room, the hard cruel hands and pounding body of the lover. The ponytailed boy who’d been entrusted to drive her home.

  He had wanted her gone, that was clear. Fear in his voice that she couldn’t be made to wake up, erratic breathing and then her heart would stop … He’d had to slap her face, to wake her. Even then, she hadn’t (fully) wakened.

  Seeing through swollen eyes the expression of dread, disgust on her lover’s face when he’d thought for a split second that she might be dead.

  As soon as she’d arrived home taking two sleeping pills.

  Staggering into the guest room, collapsing onto the bed.

  As long as she’s asleep she won’t remember—pity in her lover’s voice. Know I love you, right? The ponytailed boy staring at her through dark-tinted aviator glasses calling her ma’am.

  Wordless glance of shared bemusement between the ponytailed driver and the parking attendant at the hotel—young guys (white, Black) united in contempt for the (rich) (white) (blond) woman owner of the Buick Riviera standing weak-kneed in ridiculous high-heeled shoes helpless to protest But—this is my car! You have no right …

  Laughing at her, rudely. But no—they hadn’t laughed aloud.

  The ponytailed driver made a show of tipping the parking attendant. Peeling a bill out of a small roll of bills in his pocket with the swagger of one who has observed this gesture in another.

  Must’ve been a generous tip, the parking attendant responded with the alacrity of a light switched on—Hey, man. Thanks!

  Now they didn’t trouble to disguise their laughter. Hannah knew, directed at her.

  Crude young-male sexual laughter, contempt for the female no longer young, desirable. Yet not old enough to merit their sexual indifference, nor certainly their respect.

  Yah man, you have a good ev’nin’—the parking attendant calls after them with derisive hilarity.

  Yah man. Sure will.

  How has Hannah’s life come to this.

  Back of the Buick like an invalid. Like a drunk. Sprawled, near-comatose. Jolting ride out of the city, blurred cityscape, overpasses, signs, flashing lights. When your total concentration is to resist nausea, vomiting.

  For much of the drive convinced that she is being taken to a hospital. (Beaumont General, in Birmingham? Where they’d taken Katya?) A blinding light will be shone into her scummy eyes, her stomach will be pumped.

  The bleeding wound that is her vagina, discovered by staring strangers. For Hannah will be too weak to hide her shame with her hands.

  Is this an ambulance? Whistling jeering noise in her ears.

  The dread is: When she wakes fully her head will be encased in a vise of pain.

  That is why we never wish to wake fully.

  Why our hands grope about on a bedside table, too exhausted to rise on our elbows, searching for the plastic pill container—desperate to sleep just another hour …

  Hesitantly the door is being opened. Who?

  Mrs. Jarrett?—ma’am? Familiar voice, familiar face leaning above her, concerned.

  Ma’am? You’ve been sleeping for a long time, ma’am.

  … drove them to school, told them that Mommy has a headache.

  The children! Hannah has forgotten the children.

  Her children. Unnatural for a mother to forget her children.

  Grateful for the Filipina housekeeper. Impossible to have a secret life without Ismelda whom the children love also.

  Yet: Hannah winces when Ismelda touches her shoulder.

  For Hannah’s skin has become hypersensitive as if she has been flayed. Every nerve in her body is a taut quivering wire. Her very scalp aches. Lightning flashes at the base of her brain, a migraine warning. And between her legs, the soft pale flesh of her inner thighs, a sensation of burning welts …

  Raking her with his nails. Before forcing himself inside her.

  (But had that really happened? Hannah isn’t sure.)

  A quick deft hand stifling her screams.

  Later, weeping with gratitude that she has been brought safely home.

  Grateful for such kindness. Helped out of the casket-cushiony rear of the Buick by a boy’s hard-knuckled hands. Ponytailed driver fastidiously averting his eyes from Hannah spread-legged in awkwardness, disheveled female old enough to be his mother.

  Not true!—Hannah thinks indignantly. She is not old enough to be the ponytailed boy’s Goddamned mother.

  Not wearing the stiletto heels at least. Abandoned these in the rear of the car where the driver, concerned for her, urged her to lie down, shut your eyes, rest while he drove her home to Far Hills.

  Nausea quivering in her gut as in a container of water filled to the very top, the slightest jolt will cause the water to spill over.

  Still wanting to know, demanding to know why this was happening, this insult, why wasn’t she allowed to drive her own damned car, what right did they (men!) have to take her car key from her; to treat her like a common drunk, to treat her like a fool, a tramp, a slut; but the ponytailed driver seemed not to hear, insulting Hannah by laughing outright at her with the parking attendant but now driving the Buick Riviera north on I-75 he was sober, professional, a skillful driver undaunted by late-afternoon traffic that would have intimidated Hannah.

  Giving herself up to him, whoever the hell he was. Praying she wouldn’t become carsick and humiliate herself further.

  So it happened, Hannah was delivered to the house at 96 Cradle Rock Road, Far Hills, in the early evening as lights were coming on.

  As her lover had promised, home.

  The ponytailed driver would ease the Buick sedan into the garage in exactly the space where it belonged beside the Ford Pinto.

  Another space in the three-car garage for the Grand Safari station wagon—but Wes wasn’t home yet …

  Okay ma’am you’re home now. See?

  This is home—okay? Where you live, ma’am.

  Just—go inside, Okay? I’m leaving now.

  Entering her own house by the rear door from the garage. Holding her breath, steeling herself against a fit of vomiting.

  Take care, ma’am. See ya!

  Even in her dry-mouthed daze shrewd enough to avoid the kitchen and the family room, lighted rooms in which her children and their sharp-eyed nanny awaited Mommy. Taking the back stairs. Narrow, plain plank wood, stairs for servants in another era, very different from the carpeted spiral stairs at the front of the house.

  And again faint with gratitude making her way shoeless, barefoot up the plain plank stairs, so weak she had to crawl the last several steps like an animal on hands and knees but grateful for even this, unseen.

  Oh, to avoid them!—the needy children, the staring nanny.

  Avoid gagging, vomiting. Poisoned swill of her being, exploding out.

  He would be disgusted, seeing her now.

  Explaining (later) to Ismelda that she had a terrible migraine. She’d taken her medication and was going to bed now. No, she can’t see the children! The children are too excitable, she is in too much pain. Please explain to the children, Mommy has a bad headache.

  Please explain to Mr. Jarrett that she will spend the night in the guest room so that he won’t wake her when he comes home and if she’s sick to her stomach in the night she won’t wake him.

  Please don’t wake me under any circumstances.

  In the morning Hannah will be herself again: She will wake before Wes does, she will prepare breakfast for him and the children, and she will drive the children to school. All will return to normal as if nothing had happened and this as if will become all that Hannah will recall.

  Grateful for sleep, oblivion. Grateful for Ismelda to leave her, gently shutting the door of the guest room.

  For Zekiel Jones, less than twenty-four hours to live.

  Opening her eyes with a jolt. The lewdly dancing sun splotches on the wall beside the bed have moved and are brighter.

  It must be late morning. Or later?

  Wes has left the house without disturbing her deep slumber, the children have been driven to school by Ismelda—that has happened … Or was that yesterday?