Epiphany Jones (6 page)

W
hen you think something isn’t real you just don’t pay too much attention to it. But you sober up quickly when your imaginary friend stabs you with a spork. The shock, well it’s like finding out angels are real. Or devils.

We’ve been walking in silence for a little over ten minutes, Epiphany and I. Epiphany, my not-so-figment. ‘That’s a weird name,’ I say. She doesn’t reply. ‘Were your parents hippies or something?’

Since we’ve left the diner, Epiphany seems to have taken on more depth, more detail. Her body is small. Her pants hang loose around her hips; barely held up by a thick belt that could wrap around her twice. There’s a small bulge of something in her left back pocket. She’s no taller than five foot six. Her fingers are thin and long. Longer than mine anyway.

All my fear and anxiety have been replaced with an odd euphoria. Maybe it’s from overdosing on the medicine; my body trying to get it to work its way out of my system. Or maybe it’s because this is great news.

I say, ‘You look more like an Amber, or a Lacy.’

I’m humouring her right now. I wouldn’t have left the diner with her, but the cops took off as I was busy using a napkin to dab my blood from the spork attack. That’s when it hit me: if she’s real, I’m innocent.

She said we had to run an errand. Don’t get me wrong, I had so many questions for her, but it wasn’t the time. When your exoneration tells you to go with her, you go and you don’t let her out of your sight.

At the Lincoln Park Post Office she removes the bulge from her back pocket. The package is small, no bigger than a pack of cigarettes.
The post office is closed but there’s a drop bin next to the automated stamp machine. The sign reads ‘Envelopes and small packages only. Last pickup, 8 p.m.’ I look at my dad’s gold watch.

‘We have to hurry,’ Epiphany says and taps the stamp machine’s keypad a few times. On screen, the price reads: $37.46.

And, trying to sound light-hearted, relaxed, I say, ‘Where are you sending that thing? China?’

She seems both annoyed and confused by my new attitude. ‘You have a credit card. Give it to me,’ she orders as if to reinforce who’s in charge. ‘I only have dollars.’

‘I don’t have one,’ I lie, thinking the longer I can stall the greater the chance a cop will drive by. But Epiphany gets that look on her face. ‘OK, OK,’ I say, trying to rub the memory of the spork attack from my hand, ‘Don’t have a lot left on the account, that’s all.’

‘It does not matter, this is the last time you will be able to use it.’

And who the hell knows what she means by that? She’s crazier than I am. As she takes my card, the package slips from her hand. I scoop it up and her body goes tense. I can’t read the address. It’s written in pencil on the brown shipping paper and the green glow of the stamp machine’s screen isn’t enough to illuminate it.

‘Give it to me,’ she says.

And I think:
Dr Phil
. I think:
Oprah
. I think of every bullshit daytime talk show that has ever interviewed the families of victims of a hostage situation. Because that’s what this basically is, a hostage situation. The advice was: humour them. It was: show them you’re their friend. It was: try to get them to see that you’re on their side. Try to get them to think you’re an equal partner, if possible.

So I say, ‘Look, you need my help for something, right? So you’re gonna need to trust me. I’ll hold this while you pay for the stamps – with my card.’ I tap my father’s watch. ‘You don’t have a lot of time.’

I can’t read the look on her face and a sudden fear grips me. I could never pull off confidence. What if I’m just pissing her off? What if she catches on to what I’m trying to do? And then I realise that the reason those shitty daytime talk shows are always interviewing the hostage’s
family and never the hostage are probably because the host’s advice is horrible. The hostage is probably dead because of it.

But as I’m about to hand the package back to her she says, ‘I need your PIN.’

Call it a trust-building exercise.

She enters my PIN and the mailing label rolls from the machine like it’s sticking its tongue out. I gesture to the label. Then for the second time tonight Epiphany brings her hand over her ear like she’s having a migraine or something, but it passes as quickly as it came. She looks at the package and considers me for a moment before handing me the label. And as I drop the package down the slot, in the green glow of the stamp machine, I think I catch a grin creep across her face.

Behind us on the street a car passes but it’s just a minivan.

‘I have a place to stay,’ Epiphany says. ‘South of downtown. We need to find a bus.’

‘No problem. The fifty-five goes south. There’s a bus stop just a few blocks this way,’ I lie. I need to get her three more blocks, to the Clark and Division intersection. There’s a 7-Eleven there and it always has police parked in the lot.

As we walk, the night is chill and damp and the streets are virtually empty. This neighbourhood is mainly residential and most people are already home from work, settling down to watch their prime-time imaginary friends. The only person I see besides us on the first block is a teenager jogging down the other side of the street.

Curiosity mixes with my attempt to keep Epiphany occupied so she doesn’t realise we’re headed in the wrong direction. ‘You said you need my help. Why?’

‘That’s not for now,’ she says, surveying the street.

We cross to the next block. Halfway down, on the opposite side a man walks with the help of a cane. Epiphany’s eyes sweep the neighbourhood. Briefly I imagine she’s a robot and her eyeballs are little cameras recording everything she looks at; like she’s someone’s creation just brought to life and doesn’t fully understand the world she’s been placed in.

Suddenly she seems distracted. Then I hear her whisper a name. I think she said ‘Michael’ but I can’t be sure.

‘You have a slight accent, you know?’ I say. ‘What is that? Polish? Russian?’

No reply. Her pace has slowed. On the other side of the street, the old man with the cane is walking faster than we are now.

Nervously I play with the little stab wounds on my hand. The lights of the 7-Eleven illuminate the night just a block and a half away.

‘You said you’ve been looking for me for a long time,’ I say, trying to sound cool and natural. ‘I mean, I’ve only lived at my apartment and my mom’s house. Haven’t moved around a lot. How hard could it have been to find me? How long have you been looking?’

‘Twelve years,’ she answers.

I stop in my tracks. ‘Twelve years ago I was still in LA.’

She holds my gaze.

‘But, how old are you? Twenty-five? Twenty-six? You’ve been looking for me since you were a teenager?’

Over her shoulder I see a police car pull into the 7-Eleven. She turns to see what I’ve looked at, but the police car has already parked out of view.

‘This is wrong,’ she says.

‘What? No,’ I panic. ‘The seventy-two bus stop is just up there.’

‘You’re lying,’ she says, taking a step back. ‘You said the
fifty-five
goes south.’

‘No, I didn’t,’ I say with a guilty-as-fuck smile on my face. ‘You misheard me. I said the
seventy-two
goes south. We want the
seventy-two
.’ Another step back. She’s not buying it. I say, ‘Epiphany, look, calm down, OK?’

Don’t panic, I think.

‘You’re lying,’ she says again.

Dr Phil
, I think. Show her we’re on the same level. I put a hand on her shoulder in an effort to keep her calm. My mistake.

She recoils at my touch, then backs away and looks like she’s about to bolt. So I lunge at her. But I forget how quick she can be and she
slips from my grip and stumbles over the curb. Her feet tangle with mine and we both fall next to a bush on a small patch of lawn. Before she can move I grab her shoulders and crawl on top of her, pinning her.

‘Don’t touch me!’ she screams.

And from across the street an old voice shouts, ‘Who’s there?’

On top of Epiphany, my hand slips from her waist to her thigh. I cover her mouth to stifle her screams as her fingers dig into the grass and her fists hit me with handfuls of soil.

But as she beats my face with dirt, I suddenly cry out. I roll off her as a white-hot pain spreads across the back of my skull. The old man from the other side of the street looms over me holding his cane like he’s Babe Ruth waiting to hit one over left field.

‘Get away from her,’ he crows.

‘Wait a second,’ I shout. This time there’s a crack as the old man connects his cane with my forehead. Blood trickles into my eyes.

‘You OK, ma’am?’ the old man says. Epiphany, she looks all red in my eyes; like a whipped animal, backed into a corner. I’m not sure she’s even heard him.

‘What’s going on out there?’ a gruff voice yells. I wipe the blood from my eyes. The voice comes from a kitchen window shining a patch of light onto the lawn.

‘Rapist!’ the old man shouts. ‘I caught a rapist out here! Call the police!’

Epiphany’s on her feet now. The old man is trying to reassure her everything will be okay. But she’s looking wild-eyed; scared of me – like she’s misjudged me. Then she hears the old man say ‘police’ again and looks even more scared. And despite the old man’s reassurances that she is OK, she backs away and backs away again until the night’s shadows envelop her pale skin.

‘Wait!’ I yell as I try to scramble after her. But the old man raises his cane and orders me to stay down. I kick him in the knee and he releases a sharp cry as his body crumples to the sidewalk.

‘I didn’t mean to – I’m sorry about that,’ I stammer.

My head throbs. The old man looks at the blood on his cane. ‘I got your DNA now, you pervert,’ he says. ‘Nowhere to run!’

Someone clearly watches too much
CSI
.

I look around in the darkness. She can’t have gone far. I squint as I see a hint of something move. Someone has gone down the alley between two houses. But then behind me there’s a click and something hard bumps my spine.

A gruff voice says, ‘Don’t move, you son of a bitch.’

So I don’t.

‘Now turn around,’ the voice says. And when I do I don’t see anything until I look down. A tiny, pudgy man holds some kind of pistol with a long barrel. His gruff voice doesn’t match his frame. He’s bald and so short he has to reach up just to put the barrel of the gun under my chin. He digs the pistol hard into the soft flesh under my jaw. I’m Bugs Bunny to his Elmer Fudd.

‘You OK, fella?’ Elmer asks the old man.

The old man props himself up on his elbow. ‘Think I broke my hip.’

‘Where’s the girl?’ Elmer asks.

‘She ran away,’ I say, calmly. ‘It’s not what you think.’

‘Course not,’ he says, pressing the gun under my jaw with renewed force. ‘Never is. My little girl was violated by one a you years ago. I’m guessing he woulda said the same thing. Who knows, maybe he
was
you?’ And he flips something on the side of the gun.

Safety is off.

All I can think is,
What Would Bugs Bunny Do
?

‘Uh,’ interrupts the old man, ‘shouldn’t we call the police?’

‘The police aren’t no good in situations like this. They couldn’t help Patty,’ Elmer says. ‘It’s best to handle this ourselves.’

‘But still,’ the old man protests from his supine position on the sidewalk and takes a cellphone from his jacket pocket. ‘Perhaps … let’s just give them a call.’

Elmer shakes his head in frustration. ‘What’s your name?’ he asks and his breath drifts into my nostrils. It smells like cigars.

‘Tom,’ I say.

When I get nervous, I lie. It’s always been a protective mechanism for me.

‘Tom what?’

‘Uh, Cruise.’

‘Tom Cruise?’ he says.

I never said I was a good liar.

‘Well, Mr Movie Star, I’m gonna make you a deal,’ Elmer says. ‘You’re going to give me your wallet, and if your ID says you are “Tom Cruise”, I’m gonna let that feller on the sidewalk call the cops. If, however, you’re lying to me, I’m gonna shoot you in the knees.’

‘Look–’ I say. ‘This isn’t what it looks like.’

But Elmer shakes his head, ‘Let’s have the wallet. Slowly.’

With the barrel of the gun still pressed tightly beneath my chin I remove my wallet from my back pocket and place it in Elmer’s pudgy little hand. He flips it open.

‘
Jerry
,’ he shakes his head. ‘You lied to me. Now I’m gonna have to shoot ya.’

‘Wait, wait!’ I plead. ‘Please. I must have grabbed my brother’s wallet by mistake. We’re twins.’

Elmer looks at the ID again. ‘Jerry
Dresden
,’ he reads. ‘Don’t brothers have the same last name?’

‘He got married and took his wife’s name.’

‘Sir,
please
,’ the old man interrupts again, ‘let me just phone the police.’

But Elmer, he turns to the old man and yells, ‘I say they never help!’ And that’s when I take my chance. I smack the gun away and lunge at his little body. Using all my strength, I lift him from the ground and toss him just like they do in all those midget videos you see on the internet.

‘My other hip!’ the old man shrieks as Elmer lands on him.

‘I’m
really
sorry,’ I wince.

But Elmer, he’s like a goddamned prairie weasel. He’s on his feet again and swinging the gun at me. His eyes are frenzied. The sound is so loud it sets my ears ringing and the blast is so hard it knocks Elmer back on his ass. I don’t chance another bad shot and burst into a sprint as Elmer springs up again. A chunk of greystone explodes as I turn the corner of a house, dipping down its side-alley.

And I run and run and run some more. I jump fences and sprint across traffic-filled streets and through darkened yards. I move harder and faster than I ever have. I run with no destination in mind. I run for what seems like hours. And then I drop. My lungs burn and my legs feel like spaghetti. My right shoe is wet. I’ve pissed myself. When I finally catch my breath, I notice I’m in my neighbourhood. I almost cry. My apartment is just around the corner. A securely locked door. A shower. A quick wank. Sleep. There’s nothing else I desire at this moment.