The Move to Darna
Steven Gillis
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Sam has on his head the iPod Cleo gave him. Zombie tunes, old shit. ("Tell Her No." "Time Of The Season." "She's Not There.") He surveys the scene, makes sure everything's in order. His suit is used, bought on the cheap though it looks good, charcoal grey, not too shiny. His shirt is white and tie soft blue. His hair cut, his collar rubs at the back of his neck; he pulls the edge away when he thinks no one is watching.

Sunday. The signs are posted on the corners and the front lawn; people from the east side come -- the newlyweds and local school teachers, shift supervisors at Builder's Circle and assistant managers at Burger Supreme. Sam gets third-rate houses to show from the Shakumot listings, the ones on Pizerfeld or Litchmount with ceilings blistered by water damage, without garages, the toilets sending up a sour back draft of sulphur and bile from the pipes below. At twenty-four, there are few things he knows less about than houses; he is working today only because Cleo insists, is trying as always to be compliant.

Darna arrives in the middle of the day. Sam is in the kitchen, handing out information sheets near the stove as she glances in from the doorway and heads upstairs. Although it's summer, she wears a long dark overcoat, unbuttoned and hanging well below her knees. Her legs are thin, her calves flat and bare. She has on a pair of once-white sandals, the bottoms leather rather than rubber, not made for walking any real distance. She carries a grey backpack over her right shoulder, enters the rear bedroom, removes the pack and holds it against her chest.

By four o'clock, nineteen people have come and gone. The house is without furniture. Sam tells those who ask to imagine the couch, the coffee table, bookshelf and color tv. He collapses the sign out front, loosens his tie, pulls at his collar, returns and checks the kitchen, chains the back door, flicks off the lights. Upstairs he makes sure nothing is out of place, no water running in the bathroom, the shades drawn and windows locked. He leaves shortly after that, fishing car keys from his pocket and without finding Darna hidden in the closet.

Knees up, she sits scrunched, her back braced, comfortable in the stillness. The front door closes, the sound of a car starting and driving off, the smell of cedar and something else surrounding her -- a lemony astringent she doesn't mind and makes her feel clean. A minute later she unzips her pack, roots about for what cans of food she has left, some corn and a box of spaghetti. She takes the food downstairs to the kitchen, along with the one metal pan she owns, and lights the stove, eating at the sink. Afterward, she washes the clothes she's wearing and those carried in her pack - two pairs of jeans, one wrap skirt, three t-shirts, some underwear and socks - then sets them to dry on low in the oven.

Upstairs again, she showers, rinses her hair, rubs down her arms and legs and stands in the tub until almost dry. The window in the bedroom is shaded. She looks out, cautious, searching for Berit, half expecting to find him there. Through a different window, six years ago, she watched her mother sitting inside a red pickup truck with Jack Barell. On the second floor of the Mozzy Inn, Darna was told to sleep with her back to them in the opposite bed while they made muted monkey love. She woke, fourteen, watching the pickup slip from the parking lot and turn toward the highway, her mother's hand visible against the outer door, yellow-white and tapping the panel to Willie Nelson singing, 'Always On My Mind.'

Her clothes are almost dry when she returns to the kitchen. She removes them from the oven, spreads them on the counter. The house is warm, and naked, she feels the air around her, beneath her arms and between her legs, the beads of water on her skin like fingers tracing down along the surface of some smooth abandon.

Sam in shorts, in a blue long-sleeved t-shirt with the words 'Ski the Ute' across his chest. He pushes the cuffs up to his elbows, stands outside the door, his old Cutlass left at the curb. After midnight, he unlocks the Shakumot latch box and flips the bolt in the door. "Shit man," he imagines what Donnie and Gill will say, can hear them cracking wise, having warned him before, laughing when he confessed to studying for his real estate license, asking "Who's idea was that man? What's wrong with Buy The Book? What about painting this summer?" They'd grab at their crotches and crow, "Whipped, whipped, whipped!"

Cleo has thick blond hair worn short, cut in a pageboy which accents the roundness of her cheeks and would have done the same for her eyes were they not a bit too blue, already wild and bright, like an aqua jewel rubbed and polished by sands a million years old. Last summer, Sam went to The Handle Bar after work, where Cleo spotted him sketching on the white pad he brought with him. An hour later they were driving downtown in Cleo's new red convertible. "My mom has money," she said this while shifting Sam's hand from first to second to third. "My dad used to," she pinched at his wrist and laughed.

On Fillmore, they stopped at an ATM where Cleo drew out two hundred dollars, handed it to Sam and told him where to go. She used her cell phone to make a call, had Sam circle the block twice until she pointed, "There." A kid in a blue hooded sweatshirt came over and Sam handed him the money, receiving in exchange a grey plastic vile filled with sweet black hash. Cleo's apartment was in Cloverton Gates, but she wanted to go to Sam's instead, nearer the University, two rooms rented on the third floor of an old Victorian. "I hate it that I could never live in a place like this," she hung on his arm, did a sort of pirouette with her right leg out. She had a flat marble pipe, fitted with a small gold screen. The hash was soft, and when smoked, the ashes kept their form. Cleo sat cross-legged, folded, asking Sam about Art School and what he planned to do after, wondering if he'd ever shown or sold his work, was he looking to teach or travel, and "What next? What next? What next?"

Of her own ambitions, she told him, "Not to worry," and kissed him deep and long, her tongue dancing atop his teeth. Two weeks later he was living at her place. "Here's how I see things going," Cleo said. She bought him a sweater, a pair of Ferragamos and grey Domani slacks. So charmed, Sam appreciated the attention, tried to please her, reveled in her intensity, how she beat and howled, "Oh daddy! Daddy!" when they fucked. He met her friends who treated him well enough, some more than others, and all with a wink toward Cleo as Sam in his new outfit stood dutifully nearby.