to rise.” Farmers did it. Fishermen. Even those yuppies with some 6:00 spinning class at the gym. She said that getting up before 5:30 meant you were anxious or a nut of some kind or a workaholic. Katy liked sleeping in. In her ideal life, she said she’d like to be able to rise clean and clear-headed with the sun so she could watch the night turn to day. She said that as if she believed it. But Katy never got up early unless she had to. She wanted to be the kind of person who got up early, greeted the day just for the beauty of it, but people did that only in the books she liked to read.
If she were there, she’d reach, stroke his back softly with her nails. She’d pull him to her where he could smell coconut, amber, some sweet-smelling cream she used. He’d nuzzle at her neck while she softly rubbed her fingers across the back of his head. “Come to bed,” she’d whisper, even when he was already there. He’d just nuzzle closer, breathing her sweetness.
He flicked on the light, threw a t-shirt over the lampshade to soften the glare. Katy hated when he did that, said he’d forget the shirt one day and burn the place down. Right now he didn’t care. He looked around the room as if looking would reveal some sign of her, as if all that time he was looking she was right there, the way you looked for a drill bit you needed in a toolbox. You looked and sifted and looked, and you gave up, made some other drill bit work. You went to put it back, and there it was—the drill bit you needed was sitting right there.
He ran his hands over the tangle of sheets. Katy would have had them smooth, tight, and clean. He could see a stain. She hated stains on a sheet, kept saying she wanted new sheets. And so he’d bought these eight-hundred-thread-count sheets she’d wanted. He was saving them for a wedding present. Their first night married, they’d sleep on those ivory-colored eight-hundred-count sheets. “Katy,” he said, “I got you those great sheets you’ve been wanting. Come home.”
The cops had said it was probably prewedding jitters. He was worried she had run back to Frank, the asshole who never remembered her birthday or Valentine’s Day. Frank, who seemed to want her just enough to hurt her. Some guys were like that, and some girls just couldn’t leave it alone. And now there was this other guy called Randy. Who the hell was Randy? Katy’s mother suspected Frank. But even Olivia—he could hear it in her voice—was scared. Olivia didn’t know about some guy named Randy. Billy didn’t want anybody to know about Randy. He’d read about him in the journal, the journal he’d promised not to read. She’d written, “Randy the randy man. Yikes! Ha ha!” What kind of grown woman wrote things like that? No hearts around Randy’s name the way she did with Frank, just little doodles of firecrackers and stars
He glanced at his bedside table, the half-empty bottle of Jim Beam, the bag of pot. Nothing worked. He sat, nerves jangly at 3:35 A.M. If he finished the bottle, took a couple hits of weed, he could sleep again and maybe wake again when it was a civil time to rise. But his mouth was thick and dry as cotton, so he drank the glass of water instead, what should be Katy’s glass of water, and there it was, in case she came in, on his side of the bed.
He grabbed his phone, punched in Frank’s number—of course he remembered Frank’s number. He’d gotten it off her phone when they’d first gotten together. She knew he’d done it. After that the phone stayed locked. It was a sign of guilt that she had to keep her phone locked. She just sighed and shook her head when he asked about Frank. “We’re friends, Billy. Old history. Sometimes old lovers, the chemistry dries out. I’m marrying you, Billy.” She said it like it was the biggest news of the world. Then she’d turn away, say something like “Sometimes old lovers can just be friends.” Yeah, he knew that. But he knew she was lying. He’d seen the heat between them, the kind of heat that never fully went away. And now he had some guy named Randy to worry about too.
He listened as the phone rang a few times, wondered if Frank would bother to answer. Probably not. He’d be with some girl. Maybe Katy. The phone kept ringing. Well, it was 3:45 A.M. Hardly a civil time. It switched to voice mail, blah blah, Frank’s voice, “Leave a message.” He sat in the silence. What could he say at 3:45 A.M.? Frank had to be sick of him calling just to ask, “Is Katy there? Tell me the truth, is she there?”
Then there was a click and the deep, thick voice. Frank, with the kind of voice women liked, dark and smooth. A goddamned white Isaac Hayes. Shaft and you can dig it. The voice said, “Hello,” but Billy could hear it really saying, Yeah, what now?
“It’s me,” Billy said.
“Billy,” Frank said, “I’ve got caller ID.” Billy could hear him sitting up, maybe readjusting the pillows. “She’s not here, Billy. I swear I’ve got no idea where she is.”
“Yeah,” Billy said. “I’m sorry, man. I know you said that. But you’d tell me if she’s there? ’Cause I’m going crazy not knowing. I mean I’ve called her mom. Nobody knows where she is, and I just keep thinking if it’s anybody, it’s you. ’Cause, oh, hell.” He sucked back a breath. “Hell, everybody knew she still loved you. I was just the safe guy. You’re the danger guy, and the girls, they like the danger guy.”
“Billy,” Frank said, calm like a doctor, like his daddy, who had this preacher’s soft way of saying just about everything.
“What?”
“She’s not here, Billy. I haven’t seen her since y’all came back here for the engagement party.”
“Are you alone?” Billy said. There was a pause. “You’re not alone, are you, Frank? Shit, guys like you never sleep alone.”
“I’m gonna hang up in one minute, Billy. I’m just trying to be decent here. I’m trying to help, but I got no idea where she is. Hell, I wish she was here, and I don’t mean for me but for you. I know it’s been three days, and I know this ain’t like Katy.”
“Her mom’s coming,” Billy said. “Her mom’s so worried, she’s coming down.” Billy didn’t know why, but it soothed him just to have her mom come down.
Billy heard Frank saying something, then the mumbling of a girl’s voice in the background. She sounded sleepy. She sounded pissed. It wasn’t Katy. “I’m sorry, man,” Frank said. “It’s just three days. Sometimes girls run off longer than that.”
“Maybe the kind of girls you go out with. Girls I go out with don’t run off. They want to marry me. She wants to marry me.” Billy felt the crying in his voice. He leaned toward the ashtray, picked up the half-smoked joint. Relit it. Held it. Breathed. Billy held the joint away from the phone as if that could hide what he was doing.
“Get some sleep, man,” Frank said. “We’ll all feel better if we can get some sleep.”
“Yeah.” Billy rubbed the joint out, looked at the bottle of Jim Beam.
“Look,” Frank said, “call me if you hear something.”
“Sure,” Billy said. “Sorry, man.” He flicked the phone shut, opened the bottle, but when he went for a swig, a heaving rose in his gut, and he ran to the john to throw up.
He retched and heaved until his whole body was shaking and tears ran down his face. He leaned back against the cold tub, grabbed a towel off the rack, and wrapped it around his shoulders. He pulled the bath mat under him for a little cushion and leaned back against the tub.
He reached up to the sink, ran the water cold, filled a glass, leaned back and sipped. Easy, now, he thought. Small sips. He leaned back, closed his eyes, felt the pounding in his chest ease. Olivia had said it would be all right. Olivia had said that there was an explanation for these things, that her daughter would never run off, but
