Ghosted - A Novel Part 16

It was obvious that Soon, well versed in the lexicon of suicide, knew there'd be resistance to commemoration of any sort: You will no doubt balk at the engraving of names. But I want you to think about it again-about redemption, about the fact that sometimes the fallen can rise, as can ideas once thwarted. And please remember that rethinking is an essential step toward meaningful creation-the blessing known as hope.

23. When a door closes, a window opens.

24. I'd like to be a fighter pilot.

The last file was labelled "The Victor." The first page was a letter congratulating Soon on being a runner-up. It had been torn into six pieces, then taped back together. The rest of the file was a copy of the winning proposal, ent.i.tled "The Saving Grace."

For now, though, Mason had read enough. He felt bad for Soon and even worse for the thirty dozen people whose suicides he'd been forced to consider. He was jittery and anxious, out of booze and almost out of c.o.ke. It was time to hit the Cave.

Uncle Fishy was working the door. There was supposed to be a ten-dollar cover charge but Mason rolled his eyes and pushed on through. Fortunately Chaz got to him before the bouncers did.

"You owe him hundreds of dollars!" said Chaz, grinning.

"I thought the door goes to the house."

"Well, you're into me me for a lot more!" for a lot more!"

"Sure. But there's no way I'm paying cover."

"Course not," said Chaz, his arm around him as they pushed through the curtains, Fishy left twitching in the doorway. "He thinks you're going to lose his Dogmobile in a poker game."

Mason laughed. "It hadn't even occurred to me." He pulled out the six hundred.

Chaz looked at him but didn't say anything-just went to get him chips.

The game was relatively steep: blinds of five and ten dollars, no limit. You could feasibly lose five hundred dollars every few minutes, from 2 a.m. till noon, every day. This made some people edgy.

Mason sat down. He was loose and wound up at the same time. The combination of booze, cocaine, poker and too much reading about suicide will do that to you. He decided tonight was his night. Of course, he decided that a lot, and in many different ways: his night to win, his night to lose, his night to find love, his night to overdose, his night to show these guys something they'd never seen.

Within an hour he'd lost the six hundred, plus another four he'd borrowed from the house. But he could feel his cards coming, his game hitting, just around the corner. He did rails at a quicker rate, to find more energy, to focus it-but then something started to mess with his focus.

c.o.ked-up gamblers aren't easily distracted. The felt is a dark green galaxy. Even in the Cave, where every night was New Year's on Mars, Mason's attention rarely strayed from the game. But now he kept glancing at the girl in the wheelchair.

If he looked beyond the smoky solar system of the table she was right in his line of sight. She'd been pushed there by another girl-just sort of dumped, like yard clippings. It felt like a while ago now, and the way time disappeared at the poker table it was probably twice that at least. It was hard to see her face out there, but it seemed like she was watching him-a busted satellite, stuck in orbit, waiting ...

And then Mason was out of chips again, and needed another drink. He had to get by her wheelchair to reach the bar, but it lurched forward and he stumbled into it.

"Are you okay?" he said.

"I'm paralyzed."

"Oh ... really?"

"Yes, really," she said and smiled. "Are you getting more chips?"

"I dunno...," said Mason.

"You're not very lucky."

She had a slow deliberate way of talking, her head tilted to one side. Her right hand was on the wheel, rolling it back and forth. The left lay in her lap.

"Poker's not about luck," said Mason.

"I sit corrected," said the girl. "You're not very good." good."

He was about to explain it to her, then stopped. "You want a drink? Let's go to the bar."

"I can only go around in circles."

"What?"

"Circles."

He pushed her to a table near the bar, then got them a couple of Jamesons.

They introduced themselves.

"What's w.i.l.l.y short for?" said Mason.

"It's long for Will," she said.

"You're kind of feminine for a Will."

"And short for a tall girl ... s.h.i.+t happens."

They drank whisky and Mason chopped some lines on the table.

"I like drug addicts," said w.i.l.l.y. Mason laughed, offered her a rolled-up bill, and she shook her head-slow and methodical, like a bird on a branch looking both ways. "Not for me."

Mason kept drinking and doing lines. He was buzzed, chatty and the music was thumping, so it was a while before he noticed she'd stopped chatting back. "What's up?" he said.

"I have to pee."

"No problem."

w.i.l.l.y s.h.i.+fted in her chair. "My friend's supposed to be back."

"Oh," said Mason. "Oh ... and you need to pee."

"I've drunk a lot."

"Oh ..."

"You keep saying that."

"Sorry."

She was staring at him intently.

"Do you want some help?" he finally asked.

"Sure," she said, and Mason got up.

He pushed her through the crowded Cave and into the bathroom. It took a moment to adjust to the light. Looking in the mirror, he got his first clear sight of w.i.l.l.y. Her lips were red and full, her hair black, tied in a ponytail, her skin so alabaster white it radiated blue in the shadows. Her eyes were green, her teeth pointed. There was a bruise on her collarbone. It reminded Mason of a sea urchin. Her b.r.e.a.s.t.s were large, pressing against the tight weave of a dark blue sweater.

"What are you looking at?"

"Your teeth," he said. He looked over at the stalls. All four were occupied, and none accessible to wheelchairs. He hadn't noticed that before. He'd have to talk to Chaz.

"So. This friend of yours ...," he said, and then one of the doors opened. A guy and a girl came out.

Mason turned to look at w.i.l.l.y. "How do we do this?"

"It's going to be awkward."

"Awkward's my middle name."

w.i.l.l.y snorted. "You'll have to pick me up."

Leaning down to her, he felt how drunk he was. He curled an arm beneath her legs and the other beneath her arms. She smelled of bubblegum and ashes. He began to lift and she gasped. "Sorry," he said.

"It's okay."

She was halfway out of the chair.

"What should I do?"

"Try again. You can be rough-especially on my right side. I've got no feeling there."

He yanked and heaved and eventually w.i.l.l.y was in his arms. He stumbled forward and her head smacked into the stall.

"Ow!"

"Sorry." They tumbled into the toilet. There was a thud and a splash. Most of her landed upright, somewhat on the seat. Mason was on his knees at her feet, his arm still wedged beneath her legs, his hand in the toilet water. "Well, that that was easy," he said. was easy," he said.

w.i.l.l.y laughed. "You know you're not done."

"The pants?"

"The pants."

"Should I just pull ...?"

"Well, undo them first. You've taken a girl's pants off before ..."

The people in the next stall over started banging around and moaning. Mason undid the top b.u.t.ton, pulled down the zipper. Her underwear was pink. s.h.i.+fting the waistband back and forth he s.h.i.+mmied her jeans down over her hips, down below her knees. There was soft golden hair on her legs. He reached up and, trying not to look, yanked her panties from under her a.s.s: one quick movement, like whipping a tablecloth from beneath china.

"Okay?"

"Yep."

"I'll close the door, then. You okay?"

"Yep. Sure."

He backed out of the stall and closed the door behind him and went to wash his hands. He stood next to w.i.l.l.y's wheelchair. "I'll just wait here," he said, calling through the door.

"Okay."

He turned the tap back on-he thought the running water might help her pee. After a while she said, "You still there?"

"Yep."

Then there was silence again. No sound of peeing even. He sat down in her chair.

"Are you sitting in my chair?"

"Yeah ... Sorry." He moved to get up.

"No, it's okay. I kind of like it." Finally he could hear her start to pee.

He wheeled himself over to the counter and cut up some lines. The peeing stopped.

"I'm still going to be a while," said w.i.l.l.y.

"Okay," said Mason. The stalls on either side emptied out-little punks and tramps sniffing and giggling, spilling forth like strung out clowns from a small stinky car. They looked at themselves in the mirror, then tumbled back into the Cave. Mason rolled over to the stalls. He faced the closed door. "I don't really get it."

"What's that?"

"I'm just confused about ... um ... what kind of paralyzed are you? Do you mind if I ask you that?"

"I'm hemiplegic."

"You're what?"

"I can only move half of me, split right down the middle. Only the right side can move."

"And you can only feel your left."

"Right."

Mason rolled closer to the door, half a rotation. "Are you telling me you can only feel half your body, and it's the side you can't move?"

"Uh-huh."

"And ... and the side you can can move, you can't feel at all?" move, you can't feel at all?"

"Yep."