The truck kept coming. My ankle gave way. I was on the ground again, clutching the green duffel and looking up at the sky, blinking against the falling snow. Flakes of ice littered down from a gray sky that reminded me of those large paper snowflakes I used to make in Sunday school.
When was that? Where was it? Again my mind tossed images at me that were blank, like sheets of paper meant to torment me because they were useless, held no information. I closed my eyes.
Someone came over to me. A man. He touched my face, the only warm spot in the whole wide world. He helped me to my feet, took me in his truck, a warm, solid arm around my waist, and drove me to a small cabin. We left puddles in the doorway as we entered.
He engaged me in conversation in which I tried to participate as he deconstructed our short journey. Coats on hooks. A seat found for me. My left sneaker off. My ankle in cool water. Door firmly closed against the weather. Bags on the table.
I answered his questions as best I could, pretending I had the ability to do this, rather like I might if a cop stopped me and I was drunk. If I focused, I could fake my way through the start-and-stop conversation. Only to find a second later that I could not recall what I’d just said.
Everything in my mind swirled around, sharp points darting as the words I said looked for somewhere to alight. Something about a train, and people I should call. People I’d left behind. Only none of it made sense.
It was easier to focus on the coolness of the water around my ankle that soothed the ache there. The warmth of the fire in the river rock fireplace. The warmth of the mug in my hand. The taste of brandy in tea. The gentleness with which he took care of me.
It was also easier to look at the man who said his name was Wolfe. He looked like one. Messy dark hair. Beardgrowth. Rumpled flannel shirt. Steady movements. Broad shoulders. Sturdy thighs. Sharp blue eyes that lacked judgement but that looked and saw and seemed to know. But know what?
I told him my name was Blue. He didn’t believe me, but still called me by it.
“We need to get you cleaned up,” he said. He said it more than once, as though it were a crucial point and I’d actually been arguing with him about it. The truth was, on top of not remembering anything, I could not recall when the last time I had been clean. If this seemed crucial to him, it was crucial to me as well. I felt this, though I didn’t know why or how.
“I have to pee,” I said.
I closed my eyes and caught flickers of a scene, perhaps a memory. Me, standing in the doorway of a room high off the ground. The room swayed. The ground beneath flew past, dry and dusty red, a scarred red horizon in the distance. Cactus. Scrub. Me with my penis out, pissing into the warm wind. Twoother young men doing the same, and we were all laughing. Laughing so hard our guts hurt with it. Our faces ached from grinning.
If that was a life I had lived, if that was my memory, I couldn’t connect with it. Where had I been and who had I been with?
“It’s right there,” he said. He pointed at an open doorway, just beyond the table in the kitchen.
Without the ankle hampering me, I could have made it there in five or so strides. But I could barely stand up, sloshing water from the tub as I attempted to navigate my way out of it.
Without a word, he was at my side, that solid arm slipping around my waist, supporting me on my left side. I hobbled as best I could. Mostly, he carried me all the way into the small bathroom. Inside, there was a sink, a toilet, and a heavy tub. Everything was clean and white, though it all looked old.
As I considered the wall behind the toilet, and the mechanics of leaning against that with my sore wrist, attempting to balance on one foot, and not very well, I paused.
He stepped up behind me, again without a word, and hugged me close to him, steadying me.
“Just take care of business,” he said.
I managed to unbutton and unzip my jeans. The zipper caught on the cloth of my briefs, and I tugged it hard. Felt the zipper break. Ignored that and pulled myself out. Peed. Shuddered as my bladder emptied. Listened to the sounds of water on water. Felt Wolfe breathe, his chest rising, pressing into my back. And realized I was breathing to match him.
When I was finished, I flushed, tucked myself away in briefs that seemed ragged and thin. There was no doing up my zipper. I wiped my palm on my thigh.
“Okay?” he asked. As though there was nothing unusual in the intimacy we’d just shared.
A memory. A dark-haired young man, patting his thigh as a place for me to rest my head. Asking,Okay?A simple nap while I was watched over. My bones feeling every inch of the wooden floor in a room that swayed and creaked beneath me. That smelled of oil and dust.
“Yes,” I said. “Thank you.” I clutched at the waist of my jeans as Wolfe guided me, turning me around.
With his hands on my shoulders, he said, “You might as well strip out of those clothes. They’re falling apart on you. Get in the tub. I’ll run the water and you can get yourself clean. I’ll wash your hair and loan you some clothes.”
I paused.
“Undress,” he said. “Get in.”
He helped me take my clothes off, a soft tug of worn t-shirt drawn over my head. A no-nonsense, almost casual tug of my briefs and jeans. A final tug to remove my black-bottomed sock. A hand to steady me as, naked, I stepped into the tub and sat down. The tub was blocky and cast iron, cool beneath my ass and feet as I curled my good wrist around my knees.
Wolfe ran the water, adjusting it to warm before turning the faucet on full. And, as though I’d been hypnotized, I watched the water run and shivered as it surrounded me. My hair tickled my bare shoulders. A sour smell rose from my skin. From beneath my arms. From my crotch. I was filthy. Why hadn’t I done something about it before this?
Wolfe left the bathroom. I could hear him rummaging around, and soon he came back with something that looked like blue and white striped thermal underwear over his forearm.
