Lorraine Casazza

Terrence Underhill Before the Tsunami

“It’s there,” Jessica said, not quite looking at it. She rifled through my purse, pulled out a half-empty roll of breath mints, and toyed with the ragged edge of wax paper. The acid in my stomach churned. She dropped the mints back in the bag without taking one and stared out the passenger window. 

The Eureka Inn waited for us at the end of the street, hulking and squat, a beast with its scabrous back pressed up against the low, grey clouds. Beyond that was the sea, leaden as the sky. The tide was far out and the traffic-like drone of the surf was muffled by distance. I’d never seen it that low.

The Eureka Inn had 103 rooms, but every window was dark. All but one. 

Dan was standing outside the front doors, his fists pushed down hard in the front pocket of his hoodie. His feet were uneasy as he watched us come up the drive.

“You ready?” He asked when we were close enough. When Jessica laughed she sounded like she was choking.

“No,” I told him. He nodded once, like I’d said yes, and wiped his mouth with the back of hand, not quite looking at us. After a long minute, Jessica pushed past him.

“Fine, let’s go,” she said. She moved with purpose, head down, shoulders forward. Inside, the faded carpet smelled musty and the walls were nicotine stained. Ronald Reagan grinned down from above the grand fireplace, but there was no one else in the lobby to greet us. Jessica made it all the way to the lift doors before she stalled.

“Let’s have a drink first,” she said, spinning back around. 

“Okay,” I said before Dan could object.

Kate was behind the bar, her hair parted neatly down the middle and coiled up into two tiny buns like cat ears. She frowned.

“Double Clan McGregor,” Jessica said. Kate poured it with a look of disgust. 

“Can I just have a glass of water?” Dan asked, sounding sorry enough for all of us. Jessica swallowed noisily. 

“Vodka.” I told Kate. She poured a meager draught into a smudged glass, no ice, no lemon, no nothing. I drank it anyway, not quite looking at her.

Jessica called for another round. Kate poured her a single this time.

“That’s enough,” she said, putting the bottle away and glaring around at us.

“Let’s go,” Dan urged. Jessica ignored him and sipped her scotch. 

“We have to,” he whispered.

“We will,” I said, wanting him to shut up. 

“They’ll be pissed,” he said.

“You really know how to ruin a drink,” Jessica muttered, swallowing the last of her scotch. “All right, let’s go.”

I thought about letting them go on ahead. I’ll be right up, I could say. I could sip the last of my warm well vodka, then saunter out of the Palm Lounge like I couldn’t feel Kate’s disapproval burning through my back. I could slip right out the front door. I could run. I had an almost full tank of gas and a hundred bucks hidden under the front seat. I could get pretty far on that. Far enough anyway. 

Jessica was staring at me. I could tell from how she was looking she knew what I was thinking. “I’ll be right up,” I said.

“Finish your drink.” When her voice got low like that it meant she was getting ready to throw a punch. They had her kid in a room up at Joe’s place. There was no running for her.

Kate was staring at me. So was Dan. He got this coiled up look when he was getting ready for a fight, like a snake in a tight corner. 

“All right,” I said, the resistance draining out of me. It’s like when someone too big takes a swing at you, or when you crash a car. You can see the impact coming and you know it’s going to be bad, but there’s nothing you can do. You get really calm on the inside and you tell yourself this is going to hurt, but you’ll probably live. You try to get ready for it, even though you know when it hits, you won’t be ready at all. 

Jessica put her arm around my shoulders. It might have been to keep me from bolting, but I don’t think so. We’d fucked everything up together. Now we had to clean up the mess together. More than anything I wished I had a little crank. I could get through anything when I was geared up.

Our footsteps were muffled by the threadbare carpet, then the soft woosh of the lift doors. We all stared down at the floor. Dan was the first one out and set a quick pace down the hall. But once we were there, we huddled outside room 44, trying not to hear the sounds on the other side of the door. This isn’t real, I thought. 

Jake opened the door. It wasn’t just the smell; the air in the room was warm and moist. It had a terrible intimacy about it. Most of Terry was sprawled on a blue tarp between two twin beds. He was still wearing the Elvis costume he’d had on when we killed him, except the white jumpsuit was soiled with troubling stains. 

Jake went back to the frying pan he had over a camp stove set up on the bureau. He pointed to the awful red meat sizzling in the pan. 

“You’re welcome,” he said. Ginny held out three forks.

“You better get started,” she said. “It’s going to be a long night.” 

When I looked down at the fork in my hand it looked far away, as if my neck had grown taller. This isn’t real, I told myself. You’ll probably survive. 

Outside a siren began to sound, a loud, long wail that didn’t quit. 

“What the hell is that?” Jake said, looking out the window.