I screamed at the first hint of pain, my voice high and childish. I imagined the burn boring into the bone. I could smell the singed skin. He lit another cigarette and held my left hand. This time the pain felt brighter. I couldn’t think of anything besides how much it hurt—it was as though I had never lived a single moment without this sensation, that burning, white-hot scald, that awful smell.
When he was done I forced myself to look down at the marks. The wounds were an angry red, perfect circles dug out of my skin. The tears fell in a thick patter, rolling off of my chin and into my lap. He watched me cry, then reached for the buckle of his pants. I listened to him come, the strangled cry escaping through his gritted teeth, like any pleasure was something he was trying to keep in. He washed his hands before he untied me, the wounds throbbing. He left three hundred dollars on the table. I could hardly pick it up. I couldn’t decide if it was a lot—after all, I hadn’t had to touch him—or not nearly enough.
Back in the apartment, I smeared the wounds with ointment and wrapped Band-Aids around them. It took me longer than it should have, but my hands wouldn’t stop shaking. The dread I had felt all summer was like a knot in my throat. I took the cash from my pocket and smoothed it into the back pages of my book. I counted again: $650. Enough for the bus, for the taxi ride to my mother’s place. It should have soothed me a little, made it feelworth it. But I could feel my pulse in each wound, and the thudding of it in my ears when I tried to go to sleep.
WITH EVERYTHINGelse that was going on, finding Peaches, and the woman who had run away, gave me purpose, though the strangeness, the pressure of it all, was getting to me—I had started to jump at even the smallest of noises when I was alone, or suffer crying jags that swelled up suddenly, full-body sobs that left me feeling used up. The day after the man burned me, I forced myself to leave the apartment, even though all I wanted to do was curl up and sleep.
Out on the street, a jitney swerved around a taxi, both drivers leaning on their horns. A few drunk college students swayed down the street, bickering about where to go next.This place is a fucking joke, one of them complained.The chicks here are fucking busted.
I walked toward Zeg’s pawnshop. I hadn’t been there for a while and for once had nothing to sell, but I was lonely enough that I was willing to listen to his scolding for the afternoon, just to talk to another person, to hear my own voice out loud. I once had a vision of Zeg helping a man who must have been his father at a shoe store: his father would hold out a shoe to a customer, and Zeg would hurry into the back room to look for the proper size among the stacks of white shoeboxes. In the vision I could see out the front window to what must have been Atlantic Avenue, the marquee of the old movie house. The theater was closed now and the store across the way, where Zeg’s father’s shop would have been, was now a fried chicken restaurant. So that explained Zeg, I guessed. He was just like the rest of us. He couldn’t let go of what he had lost and would spend the rest of his days hoarding the wrong things trying to make up for it. Maybe his father had gone out of business when the casinos were built. Maybe his pawnshop was his small way of getting back: collecting gamblers’wedding rings and lucky coins when they came to him pleading, liquor wafting out of their pores, eyes bloodshot, hands shaking, giving them a tenth of what their most prized possessions were worth. Maybe he felt like he was getting his revenge by being exacting, cheap.
A strip of bells attached to a leather strap jingled when I pushed through the door. Zeg was bent over a copy of thePress of Atlantic City, and I could see the thinning hair at the top of his head. His store was a mess, but he knew where everything was, as though at the end of the day he brought home a map of his inventory and studied it before heslept.
Below him, a glass case gleamed with rhinestone necklaces, tarnished silver spoons, gold bracelets and earrings, old watches, all stopped at different times, and a few newer ones that told the times in other cities, too: London, Tokyo. I loved looking at the things in his case, but he was as indifferent to all of it as thoughthey were tabs from soda cans, bits of penny candy, tokens from the arcade. They were like the visions in a way. Scraps of a life, clues. And then I had an idea.
“Good morning,” I called. Flirting didn’t work for Zeg, and stealing from him was out of the question—he was way too vigilant for that, one of the few people I knew who actually paid attention to how other people moved through space. I always wondered, what did he want, other than to read his paper and exact his revenge, piece by piece, pawn by pawn? I couldn’t tell.
“If you’re bringing me some old movie poster or a porcelain doll, you can forget it. I’m up to my neck in goddamned porcelain dolls. And I don’t want to deal with paper goods. They don’t hold up, too much salt and water in the air.”
“No dolls. I’m here as a customer today.”
“A customer? That’s rich.”
I didn’t say anything, but crouched to look at the sleeves in a box of old records.
“Where’s Des been? Haven’t seen either of you around much lately.”
“Des? Your guess is as good as mine.”
“So, what are you looking for, anyway?” He must have felt sorry for me—his voice had softened.
I glanced at the trays of rings. The blonde woman had that pale band of skin on her finger. She had rubbed it as she spoke. “Hey. Has anyone pawned any wedding rings here lately?”
“By lately you mean what, today?”
“Like three weeks ago. A woman. Sandy-blonde hair. About as long as mine. Locket around her neck.”
“How do you know that? She steal something that you stole first? She was real shifty when she came in. I would have rather had that necklace, to be honest. You have no idea how many wedding rings walk in here each week. Lockets, not so much.”
“Which ring was it?”
“Christ, you think I remember?”
“Zeg, I know you remember.”
He sighed, produced another tray from the case, scanned the rows of rings. I thought of the reading I gave her: the Four of Wands, the happy home life. That ring had meant something to her, once. Zeg plucked a gold band from the tray and handed it to me. It had a pattern of tiny flowers engraved on the outside. I tilted it to get a look at the inside. In scrolling cursive:Victoria and Zachary, 7-13-14. I felt gratified that the reading had been accurate, until I realized that also meant there was something bad waiting for her.
“Victoria,” I said out loud. I don’t know why it felt so good to have a name—a name didn’t tell me anything else about her, didn’t help explain where she had come from, why she had been so nervous around me, or where she had gone. It didn’t explain why, after she came to me, I saw images of her baby, heard its cries rip through my brain. But it was some sort of comfort, one more thing that helped make her feel real.
“You done with that?” Zeg asked.
I held the ring in my palm, traced it with my fingertip, then clicked it onto the counter. “Yeah. But what can I get for twenty bucks?”
“Nothing.”
“Oh, come on. Not true.” Zeg rolled his eyes and crouched to pull a few trays from the case. A row of vintage buttons with rhinestone centers, still sewn into the card. A single shoe buckle. A glass marble. A thimble. I lifted each item, weighed it in my hand. I was stalling, because it had felt good to come see Zeg, like when things were simpler. When I was just busy plucking bracelets from drunk ladies’ wrists, stealing wallets from senior citizens.
“What are you smiling about?” he asked.
