Lighthouse Nights

20

“what.”

“crap. sorry to bother you, bro.” 

“who are you and what do want?”

“uh, do you need to put some clothes on?”

“no.”

“well, sir, my wife and i were sleepin’ in the next room over, and i guess she heard you screaming. i said ‘chill, baby. leave the guy alone.’ but you know women... am i right? dang bro, are you okay?”

“i’m fine, BRO. tell your wife to get some sleep and to keep her nose out of my business.”

“of course. i’m sorry, i just... i know you want your peace, but i’m a social worker by day so if there’s anything i can do—”

“there is.”

“of course, man. what can i do? the way you were screamin’ i thought you might be—”

“you can squeeze your thumbs into your wife’s throat the next time she comes. if i’m going to hear you fuck all night, might as well get off too.” trevor released the motel-room door and let it slam in the man’s face. 

he dug his nails into his bald scalp.

he paced the room. 

he itched his thigh. 

he sat down on the bed and grabbed the telephone. 

he dialed.

it was an hour earlier in california. dusty would still be awake.

“hello?” said the kid.

“don’t hang up on me, you little prick.”

“i’m not supposed to talk to you—”

“if you give the phone to that woman, i’ll reach my belt through the line and strangle you both.”

“we haven’t heard anything, trev. i don’t know where she is.”

“she hasn’t called?”

“she hasn’t called in two years. but i told you, if she does, i’ve got your back.”

“i know she sends you money. back in the day she’d write those notes and slip you a fifty.”

“only sent twenty last time. she’s gettin’ cheap.”

“last time? dustball, you white-trash cousin-banging rube—”

“i just got the letter a few days ago.”

“does it say where she is?”

“no.” 

“what the fuck does it say?”

“she has a job. told me not to let mom touch the cash; that it’s mine. says there’ll be more. told me to study hard and—”

“what about the postmark?”

“what’s a postmark?”

“on the envelope, sherlock. what city?”

“envelope? it’s midnight, trev...”

“get out of bed. turn on the light. find the envelope.”

dusty groaned.

trevor listened to the sound of rustling sheets and shuffling papers.

“mom’ll be pissed if she finds out you called. said if you ever call here again—”

“she’ll what? shoot me?” trevor stood up and the spiral cord wrapped around his chest. “you tell that pill-poppin’ daughter-pimpin’ hoe that julesie was the only bright spot she’ll ever know in her trailer-park life. you tell that woman that i love my girl to the moon and back; that i treat her right, and that i’m gonna find her. and dustball—”

“what.”

“you MAKE her understand this: when i find jules, i’ll make sure she never has any reason to set a single toe in your shit-smeared-balls of a town. ever. again.”

“found the envelope.”

trevor leaned over the nightstand and pressed his head against the wall. “the postmark?”

“it says, uh... grand harbor. michigan.”

the fur on trevor’s cheeks bristled. he hung up the phone, drew his head back, screamed once—LOUD—and slammed his skull into the wall.

why would jules go back? 

he slammed it again.

the boy was DEAD.

he slammed it again.

why would jules go back?

again.

between his thumping cranium and the postmark’s rambling implications, seemingly trivial inconsistencies from that night on the pier bubbled to the surface of trevor’s mind.

something wasn’t right.