Jason stepped onto bare dirt, but stopped before reaching the wrecked car. It was a Mercedes two-seater, sideways in the yard, with paint stripped from the fenders and the front end pinned against a tree. Tyra was half out of the front door, both hands in the dirt as the engine ticked, and a shattered turn signal flashed orange.
“Tyra, Jesus. You okay?”
Jason moved to the car, and helped her up. She wore a white skirt and a teal tank top. Her knees were skinned, a trickle of blood at the hairline. She stumbled, and Jason caught her, the top of her head tucked beneath his chin. She could barely stand. She leaned into him, kissed his neck long and slow, then said, “Get your convict hands off me.” Pushing him away, she pulled an arm free, and stumbled again. Mascara smeared the skin beneath her eyes. Her words slurred. “You don’t get to touch me. Not ’til I get what I came for.”
“Tyra. Come on. Take it easy.”
“You don’t get to break up with me. Not you…”
“Tyra…”
“Not some two-bit, pasty-white, deadbeat, convict-looking son of a bitch.”
“Come on. Sit down.”
“I said don’t touch me!”
She swung at him, and he danced back, light as any boxer on Wide World of Sports. Around us, people stood in the street and in other yards. A sign was down at the corner; cars along the curb were damaged. I sidled up behind my brother. “Can I do anything?”
“She’s just high.”
I didn’t know if that meant weed or something harder. She was glassy and loose, her skin splotched, her skirt hiked up on the left side. Noticing the bystanders, she said, “The hell are you looking at?”
Jason tried again. “Tyra?”
“Do you know what this man is? What he does?” She stumbled closer, waving a finger. “He kills dreams! He fucks women and he kills dreams!”
“All right, Tyra. That’s enough.”
“What do you think about that?”
She waved the same finger, and someone behind me said, “This is messed up, man.”
Tyra half-turned but, in the end, cared only for Jason. “Why did you do it? I mean…” She cupped his shoulder, all the animosity gone. “I mean you and me. Come on.” She trailed her fingers down his chest. Jason backed away, but she followed, staring at his mouth, his chin. “You didn’t mean it, did you? Not really. Just tell me that. Just say you’ll screw me like you used to.” She kissed him, but he didn’t kiss her back. She pressed her hips on his, and her hands danced. “What’s the matter, baby? Nobody works like we do.” Her fingers twined in his hair, but he caught her wrists, looking away from the confusion and hurt in her eyes. “Don’t say it again, baby. Please don’t…”
“We’re finished. I told you.”
“We can’t be.”
“I’ll say it for the last time.” He released her wrists, and kept his hands up. “It’s over. We’re done.”
“Why? Because you say so?”
“Yes.”
“You?” Fury in her voice. “You—you fucking asshole?” She moved forward, all eyes and angry edges. Even the bystanders stepped back. “So give me what I came for.”
“I don’t know what that is.”
“An apology, you arrogant prick.”
“Fine, I’m sorry.”
“Oh no, more than that. Spell it out so everyone here knows. Tell them what happened! Tell them what you really are!”
For an instant, I thought Jason would do the gentle thing, and elaborate in whatever manner it took to calm her down. He’d say something, I thought, anything; but Jason was not that kind of man. I saw the coldness glint in his eyes, as sudden and sure as sun on glass; and Tyra must have seen it, too. She made a wordless sound of pure rage, then lunged for him, fingers clawed. He danced away again, but she followed at a stumble, swung for his face. But Jason was no kind of runner. He caught the wrist, twisted her where she stood, and pushed her away. Her foot caught a root; she sprawled in the dirt.
“You bastard.” She said it softly, tears on her face. “You fucker.”
Jason turned to the men at the house. “Somebody call her a cab, all right?”
“Don’t do me any favors.” Tyra found her feet, and scrubbed at her eyes, smearing the mascara. “You don’t do favors, do you?”
“I want you to wait for the cab,” Jason said.
“Screw you.”
She weaved across the yard, and fell into the ruined Mercedes. I said, “Tyra, don’t be stupid.” But she’d already turned the key. “Jason, do something.” She got the car started, but he showed the same pitiless stare. Tyra gave him the finger, as wheels spit out grass and dirt, and she slammed into another car. “Jason, come on…”
“Fine. All right.”
He crossed the yard as she struggled with the gearshift, metal grinding. “Gibby’s right, Tyra. Let me have the keys.”
He was ten feet away when she bent for something on the floor, and reappeared with a gun in her hand. “You stay away from me.” The gun was small and silver. Jason acted as if it wasn’t there. “I’ll pull the trigger. I’ll do it.”
She pointed the gun at his chest, but was spilling tears that cut tracks in the mascara, and turned back at the corners of her mouth. People were moving, ducking for cover. Only Jason was calm. “You shouldn’t have the keys or that gun.”
“You don’t love me. You don’t get a say.”
“I’m trying to help you, Tyra.”
“Stay back.” She worked the clutch, the stick. The car lurched, and metal scraped. She forced a different gear; rolled forward and stopped. For an instant more, Jason was pinned on the barrel of that small, slick gun. “It would have been easy,” she said. “You could have said yes.”
“Maybe.”
“Don’t follow me.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it.”
It was the wrong answer, I thought, fuel on a burning fire. The look on her face was terrible as she struggled to contain whatever emotion burned hottest. Fury. Want. Need. The tension stretched until she tossed the pistol on the seat beside her, and rocked the little car off the curb. She looked back only once—another tortured gaze—then she gave my brother the finger, and gunned it.
7
I didn’t tell anyone what happened between Jason and Tyra, but thought about it all night and even when I woke. I’d never seen such raw emotion in a woman or a man so cool in the face of it. Tyra’s volatility was beyond question, yet in two short encounters, she’d bared everything a woman could bare—body and soul—and I was frustrated at how small I felt afterward, how my own life felt made of expectation, stillness, and pent-up frustration.
I wondered what Robert would say about that.
And what Jason was doing.
After school, I drove by the house on Water and Tenth, but no one there had seen Jason since the dustup with Tyra. They didn’t know where he’d gone or when he was coming back. “What about Tyra?” I asked.
“That crazy bitch?”
No one had seen her, either, so I left them on the sofa, and felt my way to the condo Sara and Tyra shared across town. I didn’t know if I wanted to see Sara or not, but hoped for some kind of epiphany. Parked on the street, though, nothing came. Her door was closed, the windows blank. I tried to imagine arousing the kind of passion I’d seen in Tyra, the qualities it would take in a man to generate so much desire and rage. I couldn’t get there, couldn’t even imagine it. I chewed on that, disheartened, then remembered Becky Collins and how she’d pressed that slip of paper into my hand.