Hell's Half Acre

seventeen.

THIS WAY, GENTLEMEN.

Our waiter is a male model in a perfect white shirt. He leads us through a shadowy dining room to an outdoor grotto where smoking, by God, is allowed. Small miracles keep me afloat. Jude and Molly sit at a table in the back. Two women, dark and fair. They sit across from each other, drinking red wine. Their heads rise and fall at opposing angles like two predatory birds warily feeding on the same kill. Miller moves to greet them. I hesitate, confused because there is a movie playing silently on the brick wall behind them. Unsettling because no one else pays it any mind and so I assume that only I can see it. Cool Hand Luke. Paul Newman is coming out of the box in a white nightgown. He looks like an angel with a hangover. Molly smiles when she see us and stands up to brush Miller’s mouth with her lips. His expression remains neutral. Molly wears dark suede jeans and a white shirt, open at the throat. Behind her, Paul Newman is ten feet tall, as he should be.

Jude does not stand, but she looks at me in that way that tugs at my belly. Assimilation, husbandry. Her eyes glitter like wet green glass and her scar is a bright white line across her face. I realize how glad I am that she doesn’t try to hide it. I jerk my head at Molly and mutter hello as I sit down next to Jude, who immediately puts her hand on my thigh. I am very pleased to see her. I tend to be uncomfortable in these social situations and somehow she puts me at ease. Because she is familiar, because she smells like memory. She smells like my own disordered thoughts. Paul Newman is running through the swamp. The dogs are on his ass. Jude wears a slim green dress and a black leather motorcycle jacket, zipped to the throat. Her hair is loose and I remember dimly that the reason I left the hotel room and got so drunk and subsequently was arrested for murder was that I was angry at her.

They put him in the box because his mother died, because they thought he would run.

Jude’s breath is a hot whisper in my ear. You did it, baby.

What?

Sugar Finch, she says.

It wasn’t easy.

Thank you.

Jude kisses me and I feel like our heads will come screaming off. I feel like every fucked-up thing I’ve ever done has been worth it, worth this kiss. Miller smokes his cigar, meanwhile, and Molly watches us with the unblinking eyes of a cat.

Cocktails? says the waiter. He speaks to Miller in a dry, civilized voice.

Miller orders a whiskey sour and nods at me.

What is this place? I say.

Foreign Cinema, says Miller.

What the fuck does that mean?

It’s the name of the restaurant.

And they show American movies on the wall, I say.

Miller glances over his shoulder. Brilliant, isn’t it.

Indeed.

Would you like a drink…sir? The waiter is staring at me with pure hatred.

Yes. I want a glass of water.

The waiter sighs and turns on his heel.

Dot com, says Miller. This place is filthy with dot com dollars.

What?

Dot com, baby.

Is that an adjective or a noun? I say.

He grunts. I believe it’s an obscenity.

Molly smiles at me. I don’t think the waiter likes you.

They never do, I say.

Why not? says Molly.

Look around, says Miller. This place is thick with the privileged, the chosen. Handsome educated white people with tasteful hair and clothes. Phineas is not one of them.

I shrug. I went to college.

But you understand that you are dying, yes?

Of course, I say.

Most of these people are not yet thirty, he says. And they believe they will never die. They believe the world is a giant yellow peach waiting to be eaten.

Jude snorts. Did not Al Pacino teach us that the world is a giant pussy?

Miller smiles at her. And one should not eat pussy unless invited.

The two of them should write greeting cards. Then the other psychopaths would have something nice to send their mothers on holidays. Molly turns to watch the movie. Paul Newman is bruised and weary and the man with no eyes stands over him with a rifle. The sun is low and fierce, throwing razor blades off those mirrored shades. Molly twists a strand of hair around and around with the little finger of her left hand. Her ears are small as a child’s. Her throat is long and fine. Jude strokes my thigh and whispers, how pretty she is. I glance at Miller, who is studying the menu.

Have you fucked him? I say softly.

Jude hums, studying her menu.

Miller looks up. Do you know what you want?

I’m not sure, I say.

Jude leans close to me, bites my ear. Puritan, she says.

The lamb is generally good, he says.

I jerk my head away from Jude, dizzy and irritated.

And by the way, says Miller. The answer is not yet.

What? says Molly.

The waiter returns, scowling. Are you ready to order?

I will have the lamb, says Jude.

Miller nods. The same.

The steak, I say. Medium.

Molly politely orders the chicken, and the waiter goes away. I take a drink of my water and decide to ask for a big glass of gin as soon as the bastard comes back. Jude has not fucked Miller, yet. I pat my psyche down, wondering if I care. Molly is staring at me.

How long have you two been together? she says.

Oh, I say. We’re not really together.

What does that mean?

Yes. What does that mean? says Jude.

Molly leans forward, her elbows on the table. Her mouth is red with wine and falling slightly open and I can just see the tip of her tongue. Her gray eyes are sharp and I wonder if she ever tortures Miller, if she ever fucks with his mind. I wonder if he ever thrashes awake beside her, his arms wild and twisting in the dark because he is unable to breathe and when he tries to pull her small strong hands away from his throat there’s nothing there, if she then kisses him and tells him that he’s only dreaming. I wonder if he ever wakes in the morning to find her naked and crouched beside him, studying him in the first blue breath of light as if he were not her lover but a strange new insect that crawled into her bed.

We aren’t married, I say.

Molly shrugs. That hardly matters.

I wonder if he ever feels like an insect she may or may not impale on a slab of foam.

And we have been separated for…a while.

Why’d you split up?

You ask a lot of questions.

Does it bother you? says Miller.

Why did we split up? says Jude. I would like to know.

I slouch low in my chair. The three of them are like wolves and it occurs to me that evolution is a funny business. I don’t particularly want to tell the kidney story. It never goes over well and anyway it’s not nice dinner conversation. Paul Newman is getting his ass kicked good and proper. The waiter hovers at the edge of my peripheral vision and I turn to face him with what I hope is a friendly smile.

I would like a large glass of gin, please.

Excellent choice, he says. Would you like that mixed with something?

No. Thank you.

Jude smiles at the waiter, apologetically.

Anything else? he says.

Champagne, says Molly.

The waiter fucks off and I turn to Jude.

What was that?

What, she says.

That look. The look that says my poor stepbrother is retarded.

You are so paranoid.

He wants to change the subject, says Miller.

Paul Newman is digging his own grave in the prison yard and in a minute one of the guards will tell him to fill it again and start over.

Answer the question, says Jude.

I smile at her. I despise couples who fight in public, I say. You know that. But in about two minutes I’m going to politely tell you to shut the fuck up.

I look at Molly and she smiles, as if to encourage me. Molly seems very relaxed and I wonder if she’s not drifting on a private little ocean of prescription tranquilizers. Now the waiter arrives with my gin and I decide he’s not such a bad guy. I have four inches of gin in what looks like an actual jelly jar, a big one. I take a drink and watch as he tries to open the champagne. He looks uneasy, our waiter. His upper lips is damp with sweat. He’s having a spot of trouble with that bottle. The four of us are staring holes through him and I imagine the vibes coming from this table are nasty. After what seems like forever he pops the cork and slithers away and I feel relieved for him.

I raise my jar.

To the truth, says Miller.

Which truth?

Come on. Tell us how it is to live with Jude.

I stare at him. It gets weird sometimes. One day she drags me into a public bathroom and hands me a gun. I ask her what the gun is for and she tells me to kill the man in the blue suit and meet her outside in five minutes. Then she asks if I want to get a latte.

Miller nods, sympathetic.

And for my birthday one year, she took me to Mexico City for the weekend. What a sick time that was. Our second day in the city, she turned to me on the street and gave me a mask. What is the mask for? I said. Didn’t I tell you? she said. We’re going to rob this bank. And then we’re inside the bank and everybody is freaking out and I don’t know what to do because I never robbed a bank before and I don’t speak Spanish. And then Jude shoots the little blind bank teller because she won’t stop screaming.

What the hell are you babbling about? says Jude.

Huh?

That was a bad dream you had, she says. You were sleeping right next to me. I remember the night you dreamed that.

Well. That is peculiar.

You and I never robbed a bank together, says Jude.

False memory. I got hit in the head a while back.

Interesting, says Miller. The artificial flashback. A feeble attempt by the subconscious to cover something more painful.

I wonder would anyone notice if I went ahead and bit off a chunk of my jelly jar and swallowed it whole. On the wall above us, Paul Newman is a wreck. He’s in worse shape than me, anyway. He’s crawling before the guards like a dog, begging them not to hit him anymore and I think, what we have here is a failure to communicate.