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Show 95 histories that they told one another in the dark or walking at the edge of the Maumee River. How to weigh Past intimacies against this moment? Now Hall has the edge. Right? In their brutal, breathtaking Toledo closeness, who had the edge? Both? Neither? Hall remembers Jewel drew his blood. He wonders what will happen, now, if he reveals himself. Time's gone by - nearly two years. Hall worries about Jewel's blaming him. What if some other person has been cruel in the interim. What if, like her mother, Jewel has free-fallen through a sky of suicide? Hall zooms the camera, shifts, watches Jewel's tongue lick salt from the rim of a marguerita. The image cuts him loose suddenly from guilt. When Hall goes on overtime, because Lew is gone, he moves from console to console, watching Jewel drift the casino. He sees her in the North cocktail lounge, appearing to wait. He sends for scotch. "Management's gonna be pissed," another worker tells him. "Fuck it," Hall says and sees Jewel playing slots. He sees her back in her room. He sees her confused. Pacing. Hall orders more scotch. Jewel is writing, Hall focusing, a postcard to her dead mother: Mother -- is this the sort of place you went to in your mind before you tightened the nylon? Please! Answer me! I read your stories. I brought you cut flowers in Spring. I made a promise that I would never stop trying to love God. Please! Hall can read every word. He sees Jewel stick the postcard onto her mirror, then cry. He almost goes to her door. What is Leah dreaming? Hunt wonders. What's inside? What's on her face? Hall watches Jewel hold ice cubes, from the champaign bucket, up to her forehead, splotching it. He drinks. He watches her sleep. He stays up the entire night and focuses in on Jewel's eyelids, hoping to see, somehow, her dreams. |