The Passenger Read online

  It’s probably not safe, you using my regular e-mail and all. You never know when people are watching you. Use this address instead, if you must.

  Be careful out there.

  R

  P.S. You’re not missing anything.

  November 14, 2005

  To: Ryan

  From: Jo

  Liar. But thanks. I guess that’s the kind of stuff I want to hear about. Although I kind of expected more to have happened since I left. To me it feels like an eternity. You didn’t tell me much about yourself. I suppose that was deliberate. I looked you up. You stayed. Why would you stay there? You could have been anyone.

  Please stop visiting that grave. I’m not in it.

  J

  December 25, 2005

  To: Ryan

  From: Jo

  Re: Merry Christmas

  I guess it’s getting easier to forget about me. I hope you’re having a happy holiday season. I’m alone in a cheap motel in the Midwest watching the Disney parade and eating chocolate pudding from a tin can.

  Here’s the one good thing that’s come from all of this. I don’t love you anymore.

  Jo

  Amelia Keen

  Chapter 3

  * * *

  I TOLD myself I was just window-shopping for a home; I didn’t have to commit to any one place. But at some point I found myself following the signs for Austin, Texas, and when I landed there it felt right. I checked in to a cheap motel the first night, took a walk, got lost on the other side of the river. I asked a middle-aged woman sitting on a bus bench, engrossed in a novel, for directions. She pointed me to Congress Street and told me to cross the bridge and keep going.

  A few blocks later, I saw a gathering of people. Some families, a few couples, most of them with the unmistakable shine of tourists—clothes too bright, shoes too flat, and sunglasses too attached to ropes. They were all leaning over the rails of the bridge; there was a vague hum of anticipation. Like a sheep, I followed, stepping into a gap along the railing. I waited, not knowing what I was waiting for. Then as the last light began to creep away, thousands, maybe hundreds of thousands, of bats emerged from under the bridge, swarming into a beautiful black cloud in the sky. One group was making figure eights as other flocks began to depart in waves. I stayed until every last bat was gone and Congress Bridge was dark.

  On my way back to the hotel, a neon sign beckoned me: MAY’S WELL. I don’t know why it called to me. Maybe because I thought someone named May owned the place and it seemed wise for a single woman in new terrain to patronize an establishment run by a female.

  I opened the heavy mahogany door; it looked like it came from a barn. It had a satisfying weight to it, as if you had to commit to entering this bar. Inside it was cool and dim and the air smelled like spirits, not spilled beer and cheap nuts cemented into the floor. A pretty woman stood behind the counter. She wore a tank top and a skirt just above the knee and white sneakers. I clocked a few other patrons who may have been a few sheets to the wind but seemed harmless enough. By the front door there was a local circular. I picked it up and strode over to the bar.

  I sat two chairs away from a man in a suit. Not a nice suit, but what looked like the man’s only suit. It was wrinkled and dusty. He’d finished it off with a white shirt, a skinny black tie from the eighties, and scuffed brown wingtips. I could feel his eyes on me when I sat down, but then I saw him turn back to his drink. My military jacket was doing its job, I thought.

  “What’ll it be?” the woman behind the bar asked.

  What does Amelia Keen drink? Tanya drank beer or bourbon. That wouldn’t do.

  “Gin and tonic, please.”

  “Any gin preference?”

  In time I ought to cultivate a preference, I thought. But I hadn’t done so yet.

  “Surprise me,” I said.

  “You don’t want the well,” she said, as if sizing me up.

  “No,” I said. What’s the point in starting at the bottom? You always have time to land there.

  “Bombay?”

  “Sure.”

  She had a heavy pour, which would be nice if I liked gin, but the drink was too strong and tasted like it might have some medicinal properties. I drank it, though, trying to convince my taste buds to transform.

  “Blue, can I get another?” Bad Suit asked, pointing at his empty shot glass.

  I’m guessing he called her “Blue” because she had astonishing ice-blue eyes. They were unadorned by cosmetics, as if she were trying to hide them. Unsuccessfully. In fact, her only nod at vanity was a mild cherry stain on her lips. She wore her thick blond hair in a severe braid down her back. In an occupation where tips can be directly linked to your physical attributes, Blue seemed decidedly resistant to pulling in some extra cash.

  The overhead television had the news on mute, which was interrupted by a commercial for some kind of fancy car.

  “If I was a millionaire, that’s the first thing I would buy,” Bad Suit said to Blue, maybe to me, maybe to no one in particular.

  “ ‘If I were a millionaire,’ ” Blue said. “You need to use the subjunctive when you’re speaking of hypothetical situations.”

  “Why are you always telling me how to talk?” Bad Suit asked.

  “I’m simply encouraging respect for the English language,” Blue said.

  “I respect the hell out of it,” Bad Suit said. “But if you’re so keen on doling out lesson plans all day long, why don’t you become a schoolteacher?”

  “I’ll think about it,” Blue said, with a sharp edge in her voice.

  I opened the circular and began looking at job listings. I wasn’t qualified for anything. I didn’t even understand some of the criteria. What the hell was Quark? I knew how to use a computer, sort of. I took typing in high school. I got a C-plus, and I doubted my skills had improved since then. I didn’t have much cash left after buying the Toyota, just under two grand. Apartment, furniture, new clothes, food. How long until the money ran out?

  Bad Suit eventually turned to me, hoping for less educational conversation, I guess. “You new in town?” he said.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Where you from? Pardon me. Where do you hail from?”

  “Oklahoma.”

  “I got people there. Whereabouts?”

  “Norman.”

  “What did you do there?”

  “Nothing much.”

  “What brings you to Austin?” Bad Suit asked.

  “Dennis, you ask too many questions,” Blue said.

  “I’m making conversation,” Dennis said.

  “Maybe this lady does not want to converse. Did that ever occur to you?”

  “No. In fact, it did not. My apologies,” Dennis said with a polite nod. “I had a rough day and I was merely seeking friendly conversation.”

  “You can talk to me, Dennis.”

  “You don’t like to talk, Blue. Everybody knows that.”

  “But I listen,” she said.

  Blue lifted two shot glasses from behind the bar and plucked a bottle of high-shelf bourbon. She poured two shots and slid one in front of Dennis.

  Dennis’s and Blue’s glasses met in the middle.

  Dennis said, “To Margaret Rose Todd, may that old bag rest in peace.”

  “Don’t talk about your mother like that,” Blue said. She poured Dennis one more shot.

  “Do you have a mom?” Dennis asked Blue.

  “Doesn’t everyone?”

  “What was her name?”

  Blue sighed, poured herself another drink, took a sip, and said, “Janet.”

  I would have bet every last penny I had to my fake name that Blue was lying. A stupid lie, it seemed to me. But watching a bad liar made me a little queasy, like maybe it would rub off on me. I needed my skills of deception to be sharper than ever. I finished my antiseptic drink, left a few bills on the bar, and told Blue and Dennis to have a good night.

  “Come back anytime,” Blue said. “No one will bother
you here.”

  BECOMING AMELIA KEEN was a pain in the ass. She needed a place to live, a job, and a Texas driver’s license, which required slicing through so much bureaucratic red tape I was just about ready to move into the Texas backwoods and live off the land. I opened a bank account with my passport and fifteen hundred in cash. I tried to find an apartment, but without a job, references, or agreeing to a credit report, which struck me as a risky move, I was out of luck.

  I found a boardinghouse run by a woman named Ruth. She wore a housecoat from morning until night, her large breasts dangling beneath the flimsy fabric without any sense of modesty. The room was one hundred square feet and one hundred dollars a week. I shared a single restroom with three men. Two of them were filthy pigs, but, blessedly, the third, Marcus, had an intense cleaning disorder. He also had a pronounced tic, which involved a guttural note at the end of every sentence he spoke. This made his company, which was otherwise pleasant, agitating for someone on high alert.

  One of the hurdles between me and a Texas driver’s license was a lease agreement. When I asked Ruth for a formal rental contract, she looked at me as if I’d requested she serenade me to sleep with a violin concerto. I suggested, if she agreed to sign the paperwork, that I would pay her five hundred dollars and sign another document that essentially voided the aforementioned contract. I had a feeling she’d say yes, as long as I drew up all the paperwork.

  I went to the library that afternoon, logged on to the computer, and printed out form leases. While I had access to the Internet, I decided to check the local news in Waterloo, see how wanted a woman I really was. I typed in the website for the local rag and was met face-to-face with a grainy photo of the old me standing behind the bar. I hadn’t been accused of murder just yet. I was merely a “person of interest.” The article suggested the timing of my disappearance was suspicious. A perfectly sound assessment. Blake Shaw, who ran the Waterloo Watch and wrote just about every piece in it, resisted the urge to sensationalize the story and accuse me outright of murder. He might have had a soft spot for me. I’d never refused him service even when he could barely hold himself up on his bar stool. I just asked for his keys and poured the next drink. But it was only a matter of time before Blake and everyone else turned on me.

  I filled in the lease forms, drew up the nullification agreement, and returned to my temporary home. Ruth accepted my bribe and signed the paperwork. The only hitch in my plan was that I needed a vehicle registered in Texas to take the driver’s test. My Toyota had been purchased under my old name and still had temporary Oklahoma plates.

  Marcus had a car. I think he liked me because I didn’t leave tiny hairs in the sink. At least I think I caught him nodding hello once or twice. I decided I’d play nice with him for a while. Always said hello with a smile, which isn’t as easy as it sounds. I offered to get him more coffee in the kitchen, and I was extra careful about cleaning up in the bathroom and publicly shaming Rufus and Tom, my hall-mates, for their slovenly ways. But at night, I couldn’t join in their card games and group television consumption. It was heartbreaking to see three impoverished middle-aged men, living on the fringe, seeking out the only company that would have them.

  There was just one other woman in the house, besides Ruth. She had a basement room with her own bathroom. If you ever caught her eye, you’d know what a person who was irretrievably gone looked like. If I believed in spirits and souls, I would say she was an empty vessel.

  At night I’d eat alone in a diner or a vegetarian restaurant, which Austin seemed to have in shocking numbers. I learned that seitan wasn’t my thing. Actually, I learned that not eating meat wasn’t my thing. After dinner I’d try to find a bar where I felt invisible. For a few nights I frequented a dive by the University of Texas campus called the Hole in the Wall. I liked watching the students try to meld with the regulars, ordering whiskey that was too strong for their new taste buds. And yet they’d always order shots, like they were taking their medicine. I liked that funny grimace they’d make when the elixir cleared their throat. I don’t remember ever making that face. It always felt nice and warm to me. As the evening wore on, their voices would rise as if an outside source were controlling the volume on a stereo. The more foolish they looked, the more envious I became. What a luxury it seemed to have four years to try to figure out who you are.

  On the third night I was at the Hole, a regular who resembled a young Roy Orbison, with that same mop of black hair and tinted glasses—an accessory that I find decidedly untrustworthy—tried to strike up a conversation after he’d lost a game of pool.

  “Haven’t I seen you here before?” Young Roy asked. He said it like it was a normal question, not an old line, but still. He should have known better.

  “I don’t know what you’ve seen or not seen.”

  “You’re a smart one, aren’t you?”

  “Not particularly.”

  “You new around here?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where are you from?”

  “I’m from a lot of places,” I said. Tell the truth when possible. The lies add up and you’ll never keep track.

  “Maybe I know one of them.”

  “Maybe you do.”

  “I’m just being friendly.”

  “Maybe someone else here would be more receptive to your friendliness.”

  “I can take a hint,” Young Roy said, sweeping up his pint and strolling back to the pool table.

  Out of the corner of my eye I saw a man watching our exchange. He didn’t even bother to avert his gaze when he saw me notice him. To the naked eye, he looked far more normal than Young Roy. He was maybe in his early thirties, wearing a starched white shirt and black trousers and steel-rimmed glasses, his suit jacket hung over the back of his chair. His shirt was so crisp it looked like he had just picked it up from the cleaners and slipped it on before he walked through the doors of the Hole. The day was almost done. Everyone in the bar had a pattern of creases drawn on their clothes, but this man was like an Etch A Sketch shook clean. There was even something blank and unreadable about his face. He looked like a cruel accountant.

  I forgot to be invisible for a moment and just stared at him, mouth agape. He didn’t look away; he didn’t smile; he simply regarded me for a moment and then returned his gaze to the newspaper sitting in front of him. Maybe he was just a guy who liked to watch people. It’s a harmless enough pastime, but not one that sits well with me.

  I left a few bills on the bar and returned to my one-hundred-square-foot bedroom and slept in dream-filled fits for the next eight hours. Asleep, I was once again Tanya Pitts-Dubois. Frank was snoring next to me. In my dream I smothered him with a pillow, just to stop the noise. I woke with an aching guilt, eased only slightly when I remembered what really happened.

  THREE DAYS after I landed at Castle Ruth, I went to the DMV and took the written test. I squeaked by with 72 percent. I went to the library every day and searched employment websites for anything that I might be qualified to do, which I discovered wasn’t much. Those seven years I was married to Frank I’d squandered on keeping house and drinking away my free nights, when I could have done something to prepare myself for this day.

  Five days after I began my extra-niceness campaign with Marcus, I asked if I could borrow his car for the driver’s exam. Marcus informed me that his car was registered in Arkansas and he was currently uninsured, which meant that I had been smiling and serving the man coffee for no good reason at all.

  A few days later, I returned to May’s Well, remembering Blue’s promise that I could be left alone. Blue was behind the bar again. Two old men in well-seasoned flannel shirts sat with a lone bar stool dividing them, but clearly they were drinking together.

  I sat down at the other end of the bar, where I could still listen in on the old guys but couldn’t smell them so much.

  “You again,” Blue said.

  “Yes.”

  “Gin and tonic?”

  Fuck, she remembered.

>   “Make it vodka.”

  “Preference?”

  “Surprise me,” I said.

  “May I see some ID?” Blue said with the tone of an apology. “I hear the cops are cracking down.”

  I took out my passport and flipped it open. Blue gently tugged it out of my grip and struck a flashlight on it. She studied it a little too carefully, if you ask me. As if sensing my discomfort, she spoke.

  “I don’t get too many passports in here,” she said.

  “I lost my license,” I said.

  “I’ve done that.”

  She closed the passport and slid it in front of me. I shoved it back in my bag. Blue served me a vodka tonic.

  “Cheers,” she said.

  I picked up the local rag and began reading job listings. Anything that I might be qualified to do would likely plummet me to depths of despair I hadn’t known in years. I hated my old life, but it still resembled a life. I was unconvinced I’d ever be able to duplicate that status. I shoved the paper into my bag and read the etchings on the bar and listened to the old men talk about how the president was on a mission to steal their guns and their human rights.

  “Another?” said Blue.

  “Why not?”

  As Blue mixed my drink, I heard the heavy whine of hinges and saw her clock a new customer. She slid my drink in front of me. I was about to pay, but she patted the bar.

  “It gets easier,” she said.

  “What does?”

  “Starting fresh.”

  She said it like she knew more than she should. I felt like bolting, but that would have looked all wrong and I needed to blend. I was about to say something when I saw Blue scowl at the corner of the bar. The new customer had parked himself at a table and opened a newspaper. When she locked eyes with him, he waved her over.

  “I suppose the professor thinks we have table service,” Blue said.

  The man was wearing a dark brown cable-knit sweater with a shawl collar over a button-down shirt. I suppose there was something academic in the overall effect, even though his forehead was on the brink of Neanderthal.