Viator

The older woman gave a sardonic laugh and the younger, angry, pried the sack from her grasp. Well, he does! she said. Look at the guy. He’s fucked up! She drank and wiped her mouth on the shoulder of her sweatshirt.

—I’m fine, Wilander said.

—It ain’t love trouble, what do you figure it is? The older woman reached for the paper sack, asking this in a murmurous voice, not making it clear whom she was addressing, but leaving Wilander with the impression that the subject of discussion was of little consequence to her, and she felt compelled to placate the younger woman with a response, otherwise she might hog the liquor.

Wilander’s instinct was to reiterate that he was not fucked up, not sad, but then he remembered the women—mother and daughter, Roogie and Cat by name, they ran the coin laundry on the edge of town, and were genial, hardworking types except on the weekends, which they habitually spent drinking. He suddenly perceived them to be wise fools, like drunks in a play, existential savants capable of delivering a profound commentary.

—The thing that’s bothering me, I get these mood swings, he said. One second I’m okay, I’m happy, I’m going about my business, and the next I’m paranoid. I think it might be something chemical.

The women stared at him, perhaps surprised that he had confided in them, perhaps too drunk to understand what he had said, and then Roogie, the mother, gave her daughter a nudge and said, Sounds like your cousin Alvin. What the judge told him before he went to rehab. Judging by her baffled expression, Cat did not recall the event, and Roogie went on, About how he had a syndrome from his drinking?

—Oh, yeah. Cat squinted up at Wilander once again. Maybe you oughta cut back on the booze.

—I’ve been clean and sober for over a year.

—But you was a drinking man, right? Maybe you caught the syndrome, too, and it stuck with you.

From somewhere in the town came the flatulent noise of an unmufflered engine starting up.

—Sounds like Bert got his truck going, Roogie said.

Cat grunted. Big fucking deal! That worthless son-of-a-bitch never’s gonna give us a ride.

—Well, he might if you was nicer, if you didn’t call him names everytime you see him.

—You want me to sleep with him? That’s what it’ll take. I’m not gonna sleep with him just so he’ll carry you around to wherever you want.

—Only thing I’m asking is you treat him like a human being!

—He ain’t no human being! He’s a filthy old dog who owns a truck! Why you want to ride with him in the first place, I’ll never know. Damn thing smells like he sleeps in it.

Someone—the malodorous Bert, if Cat and Roogie were to be believed—began gunning the engine, racing it. The women glared at each other, and Wilander, hoping to steer the conversation back on track, said, I’ve been thinking my problem, the mood swings, they might have to do with me living on Viator.

—Bitch! Cat said to Roogie. What do you care what he does to me? He could knock my eye out and leave me crawling in the mud, that’d be all right ’long as he drives you over to Anchorage once a month.

—I should smack you for saying that! Hands on hips, Roogie faced down her daughter.

—Go ahead! Wouldn’t be the first time!

—All I done for you, how can you accuse me of not caring?

—It seems I’ve always had them, Wilander said. But since I came here, it’s like moods that used to last for months come and go in a matter of hours.

Scowling, Roogie swiveled her head toward him. What the hell are you talking about?

Cat said, You done so much for me, how come I’m still living in this shithole?

Wilander decided to try another tack. Either of you ever hear any rumors floating around about Viator. Anything strange.

—I hear there’s a buncha queers living out there now, said Cat.

—I don’t know where you get your mouth, Roogie said to her. You didn’t get that mouth from me.

—Naw, I musta got it from my real mother!

The engine shut down and, as though its operation had been tied in with the functioning of the weather, the wind died. In the quiet, Wilander heard waves slapping against the dock. There aren’t any scary stories about the ship? he asked. Ghost stories…anything like that.

Cat scoffed at this. You seen a ghost, didja?

Wilander said that he had not.

—Then why you going on about ’em for?

Roogie put a hand on Wilander’s shoulder, her expression a parody of sympathetic concern. Whatever your problem is, Tom, there’s an easy solution. All you gotta do is do right by Arlene, and everything’ll fall into place.

—How am I not doing right by her?

—Arlene’s a good woman. You need to get off the fence and commit to her. You take care of her, she’ll take care of you.

—A good woman don’t charge six dollars for a pack of smokes, said Cat.

—That’s the tax! She can’t help that!

—Did Arlene tell you that? asked Wilander. She’s looking for me to commit?

—She don’t know her ass! Cat said. She makes up shit all the time!

Roogie folded her arms, affecting injured dignity. Matter of fact, I did talk to her. Even if I didn’t, it’s plain how she feels.