Gina ran a hand through her hair, feeling the sweat on her forehead and the scratch of her nails against her scalp. Jim sat seething in the driver’s seat. Gina was careful not to stare at him. His labored breathing and ugly frown made asking him a question -- even a logical one like “Jim, why are we parked in the middle of the bridge?” – a possible catalyst for violence. Jim leaned against the steering wheel, a hulking figure in the darkness, breathing heavily.
Gina turned toward at the river. The muddy Missouri stretched out, black, wide, seemingly endless. The barges below shone their lights, puny and insignificant, against the black waters. Gina shuddered.
Jim’s head rested on the wheel. He mumbled to himself, a prison habit.
“Worthless, fucking sluts,” he said. “Can’t bring no money. Don’t bring no money.”
If she’d only done what Jim told her – lure Pete out of the bar – then Jim wouldn’t be so bent. But the question had been whom to betray, Jim or Pete?
Gina twisted a beer bottle open softly to keep it from hissing too loudly when the cap came off. She waited a long time, trying not to look at Jim or the river. She focused instead on the cars driving past, some honking at the parked vehicle. Please stop, she thought. One of you stop and offer to help. Then she thought, Don’t stop. Jim will kill you.
Finally she found her voice, a fragile, meek thing. “Jim, we need to go,” she said. “What if a cop sees us stopped on the bridge?”
Jim lifted his head. A passing headlight illuminated his face. He had a broad face and close-cropped, black hair – the face of a man more suited for farm life than the life he now led. The shadow of the rearview mirror made a black cross form over his face, the wider horizontal bar covering his heavy brow and burning eyes, eyes that were bright from methamphetamine. Then the light was gone, leaving only his eyes shining.
“Get out,” he said.
“Jim, I can’t get out here.”
He reached across her, his rough arm brushing against her breasts, to open her door.
“Get out.”
Gina grabbed her purse and hugged it to her body. Jim leaned on her shoulder. Gina set her feet on the pavement and stood. Jim moved the car forward, the open door banging once against her and knocking her off balance. She was pitched into the guardrail. Part of her beer splashed out. She threw the bottle over, never hearing it splash when it hit the water.
She leaned over the rail and retched. For several minutes, she stood gazing out at the river, shaking from the violence of the vomiting. The Missouri loomed black and abysmal. The gaudily lit casinos along the river, whores themselves, burned their artificial brightness in mockery of her. She had to turn away. In the direction that Jim had driven, the taillights of his car glowed near the end of the bridge.
Which way should I go? she thought. Four blocks past Jim’s end of the bridge is a gas station with a phone. He won’t let me get by him. I could go the other way, to the Flamingo. Maybe I’ll find a john in the casino. Maybe I can call Pete.
The taillights burned malevolently. He’s waiting. He’ll get me any way I go. Maybe it will be all right if I go to him. Maybe making me walk is his way of punishing me.
Gina started walking. Her high heels made her dizzy. She slipped her feet out and carried the shoes.
Jim’s car began to back toward her, its taillights two predatory eyes. Gina froze. She imagined herself to be a deer, staring briefly at a hunter lining her up his sights. She realized how alone she was. A damp wind chilled her. She smelled the foul river mist.
Yet she told herself, it’s going to be all right. He’s just coming back for me.
She remained mesmerized by the red lights until the black outline behind them became a car, until the car became huge and distinct, fumes stinking, brakes screeching. Then, like the deer recovering from its momentary paralysis, Gina bolted. She ran toward the other end of the bridge, holding her purse and shoes high against her breasts.
“Gina, come here,” Jim shouted, and still she ran.
She ran, feeling her heart thumping, the vibrations pulsating through the arteries of her neck. She heard her quick steps landing with a soft, stocking-hose “plop” into the heavy bridge dust. She was surprised by how thick the dust was. Behind her sounded the thud of Jim’s boots, punctuated by his panting breaths. It wasn’t much of a race. A large hand clawed her arm, spun her around, and forced her to face Jim.
“Where the hell are you going?”
“You told me to get out. I got out.”
“You saw me coming back.”
“Jim, you’re hurting me.” The pressure from his fingers bruised her arm.
“I ought to throw you off this fucking bridge. You don’t make me no money. You run away from me.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You’re sorry? Did you see the wad of cash that john had? We could have got it all. He wanted you.”
“I’m sorry, Jim. I’m really sorry.”
“You whored around all the time I was in the penitentiary. You can whore for me now. You do what I tell you.”
“Okay, Jim. I’m sorry.”
“Sorry, hell. What happened tonight?”
“I was scared, Jim. I’m scared of Pete. He’s a pervert. He does weird things to me.” Gina hoped that the sincerity of her tone sounded fraudulent only to her.
“I was going to roll him, Gina. All you had to do was get him outside the bar.”
“I know but I was scared, Jim.”
“You ain’t been scared yet.”
Jim grabbed Gina’s thigh with his free hand and lifted her up. Gina screamed. She dropped her purse and shoes. She flailed at Jim with her nails. Jim held her over the guardrail at arm’s length. Below her the river waited to swallow her, to fill her with its wet, foul nothingness. This was the kind of fate her mother had warned her about.
“Oh, Jim! Oh, Jim!”
“Oh, Jim what? You sorry again? What good are you? Who’s going to miss you?”
“Oh, Jim, don’t.”
Her thoughts streamed rapidly, like several trains running simultaneously on different tracks, carrying bits and pieces of her life and worries about what was to come. It only lasted for a few seconds but seemed like an eternity dense with memories.
On one track she prayed, reciting the prayers from her Catholic girlhood. Our Father, who art in heaven . . . she prayed, interspersing the formal prayers with pleas and bargains for her life.
On another track, she was mopping the floors of her parochial high school, smelling the ammonia in her mop bucket. Except for two other girls from poor families and the custodian, she was the only student still in school after the bell. She mopped the floors and her mother worked in the cafeteria to pay her tuition to a school she didn’t want to attend. All those afternoons she could have enjoyed with her friends dripping into the foamy, brown water of the bucket.
Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee . . .
Another track found her still in high school, in the hallway between classes, overhearing a group of boys laughing at Mark, a slender, wisecracking boy, who was telling them the story of how he popped her cherry. Then a bedroom of a bungalow near Independence Avenue with Mark beside her on the bed. Two of his friends, Jerry and Sam, waited outside the bedroom door. “Don’t cry,” he said. “You’re not the first girl to pull a train.”
And then to a seedy apartment off Linwood and Troost. Jim was in the bedroom then, an Illinois farm boy tired of hard work, Sunday meetings and family ties. At least, he claimed to have been a farm boy but the farm was all out of him by the time Gina met him. Instead, he lived off burglaries, armed robberies, and adrenaline. Brash, callous with other men, though sweet with her, he was the antidote to immature parochial school boys. He was also the antidote to her drudgery. He was the promise of an exciting life.
Now Jim’s arms shook. “Who’s going to miss you?” he screamed into the wind.
Gina thought about Taylor, Jared and Torri. None of them were Jim’s kids; they were all born while he was in prison. What will happen to them? Sis won’t raise them. It’ll be foster care. And they won’t even know what happened to me.
The prayers raced down their track. Mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death. Amen.
Jim lifted her higher into the air. His arms shook from the strain. His face gleamed like he was having a religious experience. A ritual sacrifice.
“No, Jim, no, Jim, no, no, no, no.”
Gina closed her eyes. She felt Jim move, felt him stagger and then he dropped her. She screamed. Then she felt his arms holding her again, gently now. She could feel her feet touch the dust and concrete of the bridge deck. She opened her eyes to see Jim’s face, still maniacal and gleaming. He released her and she collapsed. All the tracks of her mind momentarily stopped.
Jim walked away. The vibrations of his footsteps shook the bridge beneath Gina’s body. She lay sobbing, face down on the pavement. She inhaled dust. The cold river wind enveloped her body. She was a dead thing, as though Jim had actually killed her.
“Gina, get in,” he yelled.
Gina struggled to rise. All her senses came back to her as acute pain, as lucid awareness of her humiliation.
She began collecting items that had fallen out of her purse. She found one shoe. The other was gone. It must have fallen over the edge. She raised her arm to pitch the useless shoe over the rail. Only she could not. She couldn’t bear to throw another part of herself into that river. She walked to the car, carrying her purse and the one shoe.
Damn it, Pete. You really owe me one.
Jim had a pocket-sized mirror on the dash. On it, he cut a line of methamphetamine powder.
Stupid bastard, Gina thought. That crank is what’s going to get him. He can’t get busted with that while he’s on parole. He’ll be back in prison and I’ll be free. Maybe I’ll make the call to turn him in tomorrow.
She began planning. Maybe her old pimp, Shorty, would take her back. Maybe, she wondered vaguely, she could get a job. Mostly, she just thought, Jim is going to go down and I’ll be free.
“Get in,” Jim said, never looking at her. Gina got in beside him and closed the door. Jim rolled up a dollar bill and used it as a straw to inhale the drug.
Snort away, you stupid bastard!
He turned toward her. She saw by his face that he was shaken also. His eyes no longer burned with malice. He looked broken, vulnerable. He wrapped an arm around her. She felt her skin crawl.
“Gina,” he said. “I love you.”
Damn him, why the hell did he say that? What right does he have to say it?
He drew her near and kissed her. She shuddered. She tried to fake a response but was unable to carry it off. Bridge dust was on her lips and gritty on her gums. Dust to dust. She felt like there were worms crawling across her lips. Vaguely, she recalled the valley of Gehenna, another useless bit of information from her Catholic girlhood, where the worm never dies.
He released her. She shrank against the passenger door. Jim put the car into gear and they drove on. They both stared straight ahead.
Damn, Gina said to herself. He said, “I love you.” Love, love, love, love, love, love. The word rattled around her mind, like a marble in a maze, trying to get out.
