Chapter Eleven
     Earl had trouble opening his door. His key wouldn't fit, didn't fit right, and it didn't feel right for him to be going home. It was silly, he knew, but the gravity of the Single Spire Motel and its whole aspect felt foreign, strange, and unfamiliar. He'd lived here for years and now he was frightened, as if he were breaking into someone else's home instead of returning to his own.
     Before entering his room he glanced around furtively, and the other rooms appeared to Earl to be holding more secrets than tenants, more questions than people. Vicky's room was as dark as the tower had been, and it solitary black window and fastened green door looked more like a movie prop than anyone's home. It didn't look real to Earl, none of it did, and it bothered him that his most familiar place should be so distant.
     They'd sprayed off the lot and, as usual, the water congregated in the corner in front of Vicky's room over the useless drain. In his three years at the motel, Earl had never known the drain to be free of rocks and clutter dropped in by the kids or wedged between the iron of the grate by bored or thoughtless people. There was now a slender and shallow pool, vile and filthy, over the drain and some discarded hamburger wrappers and cigarette butts lazed about on the surface tracing slim ripples. The sight disgusted Earl even though it was no worse than it ever was and he hurried into his room nauseated.
     He snapped on the light as soon as he could. The dark, which he usually enjoyed, felt to Earl as yet another thing that was separating him from the world, from all things that had been familiar just a day earlier.
     His room was the same, but Earl felt like an interloper in it. His things were, mostly, where he'd left them and the housecleaner had straightened his bed as she normally did, but Earl looked at his things, at his home, and saw it as if it were a display behind glass in some museum.
     He set his bag with his beer down on the end table and noticed that the housecleaner had tidied up the tiny pile of sanitary pads. There were two left, now neatly stacked one on top of the other, and Earl remembered his stomach and the dressing that he hadn't looked at all day. He considered going back to his car and driving to a drug store where he could get some antibiotic ointment or something, but quickly discarded the idea as being impractical. He did pick up one of the pads, though, and took it with him to the bathroom.
     He looked around at the naked towel racks and remembered that he needed to do laundry, too. That would mean hauling his clothes out to the car and driving to the laundromat, two more things that Earl didn't feel like doing. He stripped off his shirt and pulled off the pad, wincing slightly as it pulled on his stomach hair. The wound still looked angry, was red and purple with frayed edges, but a scab was forming along its length and there was no obvious sign of infection.
     Earl washed the cut and applied a fresh pad and then examined his face closely in the mirror. He didn't, as a rule, look much in mirrors and he found it easier not knowing exactly what he looked like. It always surprised him, just a little, to see his face, which never quite looked the way he felt he did.
     Now, with the addition of the bruises that Scott had rained down on him, he looked quite a bit different than he pictured. His right eye was still swollen, but now a dark color and no longer red and puffy. His nose was a disaster, simply put. It lay skewed to the right, the bridge swollen nearly to the size of his wrist. It surprised Earl that he could still breath through it, and he tested it a couple times watching in the mirror. It was plugged, but no longer bleeding, and Earl felt that a hot shower would help him clear it out.
     His lip was also scabbed and was in about the same state as the wound on his stomach. His jaw was swollen where his teeth had been knocked out, but there was no discoloration that he could see. He reached a finger into his mouth and pulled back the lip, looking at the holes where his teeth had been.
     They were still there, were still holes.
     Earl rinsed out his mouth with a handful of water and spat it into the sink. There were no longer trails of blood, dried or fresh, in his spit, and Earl took that as a good sign. He was healing and tomorrow he would be better still.
     He washed his face carefully, rinsing out his beard and moustache, and felt better with the cool water running over it. He patted it, wishing he had a towel instead of his hands, and walked back to his bedroom with water still dripping from his face and beard. Earl pulled off his boots and dug his cigar box out from the hiding place before swinging his stockinged feet onto the bed and grabbing the remote. He switched on the TV, found some game show on one of the channels that came in okay, opened his beer and took a long drink.
     He filled his pipe with some pot and lay there, wiggling his toes, smoking and drinking and watching TV and tried to regain some sense of normalcy. He was close to feeling human, had either grown used to the pain or it had now subsided, and without his physical discomforts to distract him, Earl began to think about Vicky, Perris, and Scott.
     He hoped that Vicky wasn't mad, and even allowed himself to hope that she might drop by when she came home from work. She got home late, close to midnight Earl figured, and he'd never spoken to her at that late hour. He'd sometimes heard her crunching across the gravel to her place, but had never before had any reason to open his door or talk to her.
     Now he did, and he hoped that he would be able to catch her and that they could pick up where they'd left off the night before. He had over four hours to wait, and decided that when he did his laundry he'd also go to the drug store and get her some more pads or something. He wanted to have something for her, and he felt that he owed her that little thing, anyway.
     He laid down his pipe and lit a cigarette and closed his eyes and listened to the TV. He couldn't concentrate on it and for a moment Earl was worried that he'd suffered some brain damage. His brain felt okay, and Earl thought he could think all right, and decided that it was just the stress of injury and the fact that this was the first time that he'd been alone with his thoughts since the fight that was the problem. He had a lot to think about, he figured, and that was why he couldn't follow the program. His own life, for once, was more interesting and had more going on then the TV.
     He was trying to untangle the mysteries of Scott's hospital stay when there was a rapid, but quiet, knock on his door. Earl swung out of bed and looked around for a shirt that he could throw on. The one he'd worn yesterday during the fight was the closest, and he slipped it on over his stomach and flabby breasts before opening the door an inch and looking out.
     "Hey," he said when he saw that it was Perris. "C'mon in."
     Perris walked in and Earl saw him look the room over. It may have been that Perris was looking for somewhere to sit, or he may have been looking for something else.
     "Thanks," Perris said. He closed the door behind him.
     "Want a beer?" Earl offered. He bent over to grab the sack, which still had one of the cold malt liquors inside.
     "No, that's cool." Perris fiddled with his hands for a moment, interlacing his fingers before freeing them and lightly wiping them on his thighs. He hitched up his pants and licked his lips before speaking. "We've got a big problem," he said at last.
     Earl sat down and took another swig of beer. He could tell that Perris was nervous and Earl began feeling even more detached from his environment. "What's that?"
     "It's like this. Scott's in the hospital." He paused for a moment and pulled a scrap of paper from his shirt pocket. "It's the University hospital, and here's his room number and stuff."
     Earl took the paper, glanced at the neat block writing, and laid it on the nightstand. "Huh."
     Perris swallowed and licked his lips again. "It looks as if his back's broken and he's in serious shape. He may not walk again, and I'm in a lot of trouble."
     Earl's eyes widened at the news, but Perris wasn't looking at him. "Holy shit," Earl said softly.
     "I'm in trouble with with my fraternity."
     Earl finished his beer without saying anything and Perris continued talking. "After you left, the paramedics got there and got Scott loaded on a stretcher. They asked a lot of questions, but Dubbin did most of the talking."
     "Dubbin? Who's that?"
     "He's our president. I think you met him. Curly hair, dark guy."
     Earl nodded. He remembered the guy who'd appeared after the fight, the one who'd told Earl to take off and who acted as if he were in charge. Evidently, Earl thought, he was.
     "The thing is, we can't let anyone know what happened, that there was a fight or anything. Nobody knows about you and Dubbin just told the cops and everyone who asked that Scott had been wrestling around and that he got dropped on his back."
     "What about me?"
     "Nobody knows about you, or that you were there, and it has to stay that way."
     "Why not?" Earl asked. "I mean, I'm glad not to be involved, but isn't Scott gonna say something?"
     "We talked to Scott and explained things to him before the paramedics got there. He was just wrestling around with one of the brothers and this happened. It was an accident, and that's that."
     Earl thought about that a moment, wondering if Scott would stick to the story. Maybe, he thought, he would because he didn't want to admit that Earl had beaten the shit out of him. "And Scott's cool with that?"
     "He was last I knew," Perris said. "But even if the story sticks, I'm in a shitload of trouble."
     "Why's that?"
     "It's like this." Perris took a deep breath and looked straight at Earl. "It's bad enough that Scott was there, but we can't do anything about that because they found him there. The University will yank our charter, and the national may do so in any case, if they find out about you and the fight."
     "What do you mean?"
     "We can't be having a couple guys like you and Scott fighting at the frat house," Perris explained.
     "Why not?"
     Perris wiped his face with his hands and reached out for the beer that Earl was drinking. Earl handed it to him and, since it was nearly empty, Perris finished it off.
     "Have you heard anything about bum fights?" Perris asked, and Earl shook his head. Perris took a deep breath, "Well, some kids and stuff have been taking homeless people off the street and giving them some money and booze to fight. They sometimes film it, sometimes not, and when they get caught it's big trouble. It happened to one of the fraternities back east, in Pennsylvania or something, and they got their charter yanked. A few guys went to prison, I think."
     "Bum fights?"
     "Yeah. It's kind of a fad to either get these bums to fight or to do some crazy stuff for fun."
     "Are you calling me a bum?" Earl asked. He was getting mad, now, and turned to face Perris.
     "No, no, nothing like that," Perris said, easing back. "You got me all wrong. What I mean is this." He looked around, then looked Earl in the eye. "If word gets out that we had two people who aren't in the fraternity fighting, it will look like one of those bum things. I know you're cool, and Scott, too, but not everyone else will think that."
     "What are you saying?" Earl asked.
     "It's like this. We all know that this was just a fight between you guys, that it wasn't set up by the me or the fraternity or anything. But if they find out that you and Scott were fighting, well, the fraternity will be all over my ass."
     "So this is about you, then," Earl said. He looked hard at Perris.
     "Well, yeah, but it's about you, too," he offered. "If they find out that you were the one who fucked Scott up, maybe you'll get arrested for assault or something."
     Earl thought about that, but not for the first time. Ever since Perris's phone call when he told Earl that Scott was in the hospital it had bothered Earl that he may be responsible. Now, it seemed, everyone was keeping Earl's name out of it. The good thing, Earl thought, is that only Perris knew anything about him, or about Scott for that matter.
     "So what do we do?" Earl asked.
     "We try to keep the lid on it. The fraternity has insurance, so we should be able to cover Scott's hospital bills, but we can't do it for you."
     "Because then they'd know that I was there," Earl said.
     "Well, yeah. They know about Scott, so we'll see what happens."
     The two men looked at each other, and Earl shifted his weight from one leg to the other. Standing, as he was, in his stocking feet, he was an inch or so shorter than Perris.
     "Who did you say was wrestling him?" Earl asked. He was trying to get all the details.
     "Um, we said it was Piker."
     "Why him?"
     "Well, he was the one with the most blood and stuff on him, so he looked the part."
     "What about you?"
     "What about me?"
     "How do you fit into all this?"
     Perris glanced at his watch. "I've gotta get back to the store, but Dubbin and everyone are all over my ass for getting you two guys over and causing all this shit. If anything more happens, like we lose our charter or something, they're all gonna blame me."
     Earl considered that. It made sense. After all, it had been Perris who'd arranged the fight.
     "Anyway, I gotta run. I'll call you tomorrow, or if anything happens, as soon as I know something."
     "What about Scott?" Earl asked while Perris was opening the door and leaving.
     "I don't know," Perris answered. "Maybe you can find out."
     Earl closed the door and sank back on his bed. He rooted around for the sack with the beer in it and took out the other can. This was all pretty fucked, Earl thought. He was in the middle of it, but on the sidelines. He may have fucked Scott up seriously, but by accident. Scott had wailed all over Earl, but that was on purpose and here Earl was, the one who was doing okay, who was still working, and who was beginning to have his regular life. He was missing a few teeth, but he'd been missing some for years, so he didn't think all that much of that.
     It concerned Earl that Perris was trying to keep all this a secret. There'd been about twenty or thirty people watching the fight, and Earl didn't think that that many people could all be kept from talking. He didn't know how many of them were in Perris's fraternity, but it only took one to blow the whole thing sky high.
     Earl was glad that he was unknown to them all. If someone did talk, and Earl felt that was likely and that it had probably happened already, they could only describe him, not tell anyone who he was. The only person who could find Earl was Perris, and Earl knew that Perris had his own reasons for keeping quiet.
     Earl didn't really care about any charters, he didn't even really know what that was, but he got the impression that Perris's house could be evicted or something like that if the charter was cancelled. If that happened, and if Perris got blamed for it, Earl could see where there would be a lot of people after Perris's hide. The fraternity brothers, from the little Earl knew of them, could be expected to close ranks and keep a secret, but Earl had no fantasies about them not turning on Perris if they felt he did something to endanger the fraternity or their house.
     That, Earl realized, a small smile creeping up his face, wasn't his problem. He also realized that if this thing blew, that Perris would be trusting Earl not to go to anyone about it.
     Earl set the beer down, looking at the scrap of paper that Perris had given him, the one with Scott's room number on it. Before he could do anything about that, Earl had to figure out what he was going to do this night. He dug the small glass vial out of his pocket and looked at it and then at the clock.
     He'd been up for the last two and a half days, but had crashed for a few hours last night. He figured he had enough speed left for a few hits, enough to get him through this night and tomorrow if he kept his run going. If he did that, he would crash hard tomorrow when he ran out, but that didn't bother him. He was used to sleeping for a long time when he came down. Since he had so much to do, what with the laundry and the shopping, Earl gave himself a shot and sat nursing his beer, planning and brooding.
     He stopped thinking about Perris and began wondering about Vicky. There didn't seem to be anything in what Perris had told him that would have much affect on her, but it gave Earl something to talk with her about. He knew that she was curious about Scott, and he had something to tell her about that, but he wondered if he should mention it. Earl didn't think that Perris was lying to him about Scott's condition, but it may have changed or maybe Perris got it wrong.
     Earl wasn't sure. He didn't want to alarm Vicky, or to spread any gossip, but something like having your back broken was surely something he should tell her. Earl made a face when he remembered her touching him, thinking that that would help, and he found that her naivete struck him as cute. He didn't doubt her sincerity, only her results.
     Earl set down his beer and began thinking about the other things he had to do. He looked over at his clock radio and saw that it was getting close to eight. He sighed, got up, and began shovelling his clothes into a large bag that he kept just for laundry. He also had all those towels and washcloths to clean. He should was the sheets, too, since they had traces and smears of blood, but Earl couldn't afford to do everything. The bed could wait, but he needed his clothes.
     Earl trucked his bag out to his car and drove to the drug store. He bought two boxes of pads, one for him since they worked well at keeping his cut covered, and one for Vicky. He only looked quickly at the boxes, and guessed on the brand and style he hoped she would like. He also picked up some ointment that claimed to be the best for cuts and scrapes and a small jug of detergent. He also picked up a few cans of beer, but now only had a few dollars left for the laundromat. As he was leaving the store, he saw a place where he could get keys made and impulsively handed the girl Scott's keys, which he still had in his pocket. Five minutes and a dollar later, Earl had a key to the tower room.
     He drove a short distance over to the laundromat and hauled his clothes inside. There were a few people, none of whom paid Earl any attention, and a couple machines that he could use. He loaded in his laundry and sat back to wait until his wash was done.
     As soon as he sat, he got back up and began pacing. He was far too wired now to sit still and he walked out to his car to get a cigarette and a beer. He smoked a cigarette in the parking lot, drinking his beer out of a bag, and when the cigarette was done he pulled out his phone and the scrap of paper.
     Earl wasn't sure what to do. He wanted to find out how Scott was doing, but he wasn't sure about calling him. He didn't know what Scott's reaction would be, but Earl did feel sorry about what had happened to him. He regretted it, if Scott was seriously injured, because all he'd tried to do was win the goddamn fight.
     Last Earl knew, Scott was pissed at him and was still convinced that Earl had stolen his tools. If that had been his attitude before, Earl could only imagine what Scott would think now. Still, Earl had to know.
     He dug out the slip of paper and called the hospital. A moment later he could hear the phone in Scott's room ringing.
     "Hello." The voice was Scott's, but a heavily drugged Scott.
     "Hey," Earl said. "Is that you, Scott?"
     "Yeah. Who's this?"
     "It's me, Earl."
     There was a pause, a long one.
     "Earl? The sonofabitch who busted my back, Earl?"
     "Yeah. How are ya doin'?"
     "Fuck you."
     "Hey, man, I didn't mean to fuck you up," Earl said. He took another swig of beer from the bag. "I'm sorry about it if your back's broken or anything."
     "Fuck you." And Scott hung up.
     Earl lowered the phone and put it back on his belt. He thought about having another cigarette, but decided against it since he didn't have many left and he wouldn't be able to buy any until tomorrow. He finished off his beer and went back into the laundromat, pissed and hurt.
     He shoveled his clothes into a dryer and put the last of his change in that machine. He looked around, and the few people who caught his eye looked quickly away. Earl knew that there wasn't much talking when people did their clothes, but he also felt that his face would make most people decide to mind their own business.
     While that normally would have suited Earl just fine, tonight was different. For one thing, he was pretty amped and wanted to talk; for another, he needed something to do to kill the time while his clothes dried. He looked around the laundromat, noticed the hard plastic chairs and the dirty and curled linoleum floor. It was hot in here, noisy with the sounds of a dozen machines and filled with the mingling scents of a dozen laundry products.
     There was a ragged pile of magazines on one of the chairs, and Earl sat down next to it and tried to find something to read. He was hoping to take his mind off of Scott and all the other things going on, but none of the magazines interested him. There was a reason, he decided, why no one was looking at these.
     When his clothes were dry, Earl stuffed them back in his sack without bothering to fold them. He wanted to get out of the laundromat, out of public, as soon as he could and he hurried home and threw the bag on his bed. He put his clothes away and stripped off the dirty shirt that he'd been wearing and sat on the bed and smoked a pipeful of pot.
     He was still pissed at Scott for being mad at him and wished that he'd said something to change Scott's mind. It made sense to Earl that Scott would be a little mad at him, but Earl needed to let Scott know how he felt. Earl thought that tomorrow, after work, maybe he'd go down to the hospital and visit Scott, maybe take him something, but mostly talk to him and let Scott know that there were no hard feelings.
     In Earl's mind, he could make up with Scott pretty easily, or at least he hoped he could. Earl felt that he could be a pretty good guy if he chose to, and since he had no bad feelings about Scott, it shouldn't be too hard for him to convince Scott that it was all just a shitty thing to happen.
     Earl pulled the bath stuff, the towels and washcloths, out of his laundry bag and took them into the bathroom. He peeled off his stomach pad along with his pants and eased into the shower. He took a long shower, gently washing the areas near his wounds or where he still hurt, and did a more vigorous scrubbing on the rest of his body. He luxuriated in the warm spray, letting it caress and soothe his muscles and hoped to ease some of his overall achiness. He washed his hair twice, an unusual thing for Earl, and his beard twice, too. When he shut off the water, instead of fleeing the small enclosure of the shower he languished, letting the water drip from his body and took deep breaths through his nose, which was now running.
     When he began to chill, and he distinguished that from the shivers that the speed gave him, he decided to towel off and get dressed. He examined his stomach wound and felt that it would be better if it was exposed to the air for awhile. When he was in a clean pair of pants and shirt, he left the bathroom and returned to his bed.
     He settled heavily on its surface and picked up his beer and filled his pipe and spent the rest of the evening watching television. He was in no danger of nodding off, and his feet kept wiggling throughout the quiet evening at home.
     It was a bit past midnight, when Earl was watching Letterman's show, when he heard the soft and muffled steps outside. He knew at once that it must be Vicky, and Earl fancied that he'd heard her hesitate slightly as she crossed in front of his room. He took her arrival as a signal, and methodically prepared another hit of speed. He shot that, and finished off the beer he was drinking, took a hit of the pipe, and stood up. He swept his hair back, went to the bathroom and spritzed himself with his after-shave, and patted down his shirt and pants.
     Earl left his room and was encouraged to see that Vicky's light was on. He quickly walked the fifteen feet or so to her room, and knocked timidly on the door.