Free The Other Joseph by Skip Horack

in it for the permanent visa, but everybody wants something out of a marriage.
    Terry was aware of my past, of course. He knew the reason I lived half of each month offshore, the other half holed up on Pearl Lane. The reason I had few friends and kept so much to myself. The reason why on occasion I’d receive anonymous letters warning me to leave Grand Isle. But Viktor will work with you, Terry assured. Just be up front, because the feds will be checking on that if y’all make it to the marriage-visa stage. Full disclosure for foreign brides. That’s the law these days, Roy.
    Indeed, Terry knew so much about the law it made me wonder about his past. At the time I’d told him I wasn’t interested—but now I was bound for San Francisco, and I was feeding most of a twenty-five-dollar steak to Sam inside that Vicksburg hotel room, lonely and depressed, when one Terry story rose up in bits from the dark depths of my memory. Something about a homeless guy who challenged him to a footrace through Golden Gate Park. Town’s like a cereal bowl, Terry had said to me. Fruits and nuts and flakes.
    Except for the Russian who’d introduced him to Larissa, that is. Terry could have been president of his fan club. And though in Grand Isle we made our share of cracks about Terry and the Coke Bottle, I’d seen something once that came bubbling to the surface next. They were parked in Terry’s truck at the Sureway. I couldn’t hear what they were saying, but Larissa was laughing, flashing the new braces on her tangled teeth, and there was nothing fake about it. They were happy. And alone in my hotel room, I wanted that too. Suddenly the coincidence of Terry’s marriage broker and Joni both being in San Francisco felt almost like a sign.
    So I called Terry and woke him, asking for his man’s number, and that same night, before I could change my mind, I introduced myself to Viktor Fedorov. He was an Ivan, all right. Spoke with the same gruff accent and short, to-the-point sentences as a helicopter pilot Russian I knew from the oil patch. I told Viktor I was coming out to San Francisco for a week of vacation and would like to have a sit-down, and things took on their own momentumafter that. I e-mailed him a webcam photo from a computer in the hotel lobby—one of a roughneck sitting at a computer in a hotel lobby—then wrote a humiliating little essay explaining both my circumstances and my plans for the future. Viktor said to check back in a couple of days, before I even reached the city, and he would rustle up a few women who were willing to consider me. I’d pay him $250 for each one I met. An actual marriage would cost five grand.

O N FRIDAY MORNING I HOPPED THE MISSISSIPPI River into Louisiana, then pulled into the welcome center to slap myself in the face. Well rested and lucid, I could see the foolishness of the night before. Had I really thought I’d meet some Russian woman and, in a week, fall in love? Marry her? Have her shipped to Grand Isle? Move her into the Airstream? Look, wife. Right across the highway is the beach. You can sunbathe on our dirty sand. You can sit yourself down among the debris that has drifted ashore from the Gulf. You can even fish and crab, if you want. Did you ever notice I only have nine fingers? I’m not rich yet, but I will be come January. You’ll just have to trust me on that.
    So from the welcome center I sent Viktor a text asking him to call off his search, and since this blunder seemed easy enough to put the brakes on compared to some of my former sins of impulse, I was able to shake my head and advance. I got back on I-20, and as north Louisiana miles rushed by I was almost feeling eager. A stubborn and excited curiosity to see the old home and let the hurt come.
    DRY SPRINGS. POPULATION 582. A hundred miles west of Mississippi, a hundred miles east of Texas. Sam was standing on thebench seat. Usually he was happy to just stretch