Dimensions

by Krystyne Price

  “God, I haven’t seen this stuff in years,” she remarked, emptying some of it under the stream of water. To the side on the small shelves she saw three different shampoos, one bottle of conditioner and two bars of soap. She stepped into the tub as steam rose into the air and sat down, breath leaving her in one long, low sigh as she let the heat seep through her skin, through her cells and muscles, into her very bones. “Definitely been too long.”

  Bubbles rose around her. She sank back into the rising water, wetting her hair. Reaching out, she chose a black bottle of shampoo and squeezed a bit into her hand. Slowly she massaged it through her hair, the water rising more and more. At last she sank back again, using her fingers to rinse the shampoo away. She reached out and grabbed a washcloth, first using it to wipe her eyes dry and then wetting it in the water. Jane grabbed the striated blue-and-white bar of soap and rubbed some on the washcloth, then squeezed her eyes closed and scrubbed her face, ears and neck. After rinsing those, she soaped up the washcloth again and started on her arms.

  It took only fifteen minutes to finish the cleaning part of things, during which time she’d also turned the water off. She laid back, neck resting on the lip of the tub, and sighed. It felt so good she didn’t want to get out, but the smell of coffee wafted to her nose and made her stomach rumble.

  Of all things, to find Trevor…to find out he was working on the Lightning movie…and discover he was drop-dead gorgeous…well, it was a lot. Jane felt much better after the good night’s sleep and warm, relaxing bath, and decided it was time to move. Perhaps she would spend the day not thinking about her past and instead just enjoying the company of an old, newfound friend. She wondered what Mrs. Billings was like. She didn’t remember her much, but then again she’d not known many of her schoolmates’ parents given that she was never allowed to go to their homes for a visit.

  Still, she was here now, and what had happened so many years ago didn’t really matter anymore. Not once did her strange encounters from the past few days come to mind. The sun was shining, the air was clean and she was home. Life was good.

  Jane pulled the plug out of the drain and rose to her feet, water sliding down her skin as she grabbed an oversized yellow towel. She rubbed her long hair dry, ran the towel over her face, rolled it up and moved it along her back. She flipped it out with a snap and moved to dry her arms as the water slowly rotated down the drain, forming a small whirlpool. She rubbed the towel over her breasts, down her stomach, moved around to her butt. And she happened to look down.

  Something didn’t look right. She watched the water keep going down the tub. Down, down, starting to make that sucking sound as the water level dropped more and more. That’s when she figured it out. “My God,” she said, stooping down to watch it more closely. “It’s…it’s going down the wrong way!” She quickly stepped out of the tub, hands on the side of it, leaning forward to continue watching. “That’s not possible.”

  And yet there it was, right in front of her. She heard a sound behind her and goose bumps formed as she whipped around. The force of the movement combined with her wet feet caused her to slip and her bare bottom thumped to the ceramic tile floor. “Ow!” she cried out as her head smacked back into the tub. “Damn!” When she looked up toward the door, no one was there. She groaned and rubbed the back of her head, then struggled to her feet and proceeded to get dressed. She wondered if it had been someone outside the door. Mrs. Billings, perhaps, needing to use the bathroom? Or Trevor…Trevor? No, couldn’t be. If he’d wanted a peek, he could’ve gotten it last night, but somehow she couldn’t believe it of him either way.

  She shrugged and shook it off. It had been nothing. Just her imagination. Water didn’t go counterclockwise north of the equator. It just didn’t. She looked in the medicine cabinet mirror over the sink and ran a comb through her hair. “Get a grip, Janie,” she whispered, squaring her shoulders. “Get a goddamn grip.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  Trevor smiled as Jane emerged down the back stairway into the kitchen. She smiled back, then looked toward the table, where an older woman sat nursing a cup of coffee. “Hiya, Janie,” Trevor said, setting the spatula on the stove. He turned and took her hands, placing a quick kiss on her cheek. “Mom,” he said, turning toward the table and keeping hold of one of Jane’s hands, “this is Jane Marsh. It’s her movie I’m working on now.”

  “Hello, Miss Marsh,” Mrs. Billings said, nodding. “You’ll forgive an old lady who doesn’t move around so well for not getting up.”

  “Oh, certainly, Mrs. Billings, I’m pleased to meet you,” Jane said, smiling and moving forward to take her hand. It felt cold. Wrinkled. Old. Snow white hair curled against her head. Her eyes were light brown, very much like Trevor’s only without the additional flecks of yellow. Her skin was so light it was nearly transparent. They shook hands gently as Trevor gestured for Jane to take a seat at the small three-chair kitchen table.

  “So you write books, eh?” Mrs. Billings asked.

  “Yes, I do.”

  “That’s good, giving my son work,” Mrs. Billings smiled generously.

  Trevor threw an apologetic smile her way. Jane just grinned. “I’m glad I could help. If those models in the china cabinet are any indication, I’d say he’s the best man for the job.”

  She grinned even more when Trevor had the good grace to blush.

  “You think those’re good, you should see his workshop.”

  “His workshop? Where is it?”

  “In the basement. We can take a look after…oh, shit, breakfast!” Trevor turned back to the stove and quickly pulled the bacon out of the pan.

  “Trevor Billings, your language!” his mother admonished. But Jane saw the amusement dancing in her eyes.

  “Sorry, Mom. Almost burned the most important meal of the day.”

  “And the best-smelling,” Jane said, rising to her feet. She headed for the coffee pot. One mug half-full of black coffee sat in front of it, a second clean mug to its right. “This one for me?”

  “Yes, I didn’t know how you took it,” he said, cracking an egg on the side of the frying pan. “Your eggs?”

  “Oh, over easy is fine. Should I make some toast?”

  “Yes, thanks, bread’s in the fridge. There’s half-and-half in there, too.”

  “Sugar?”

  “Bowl right here,” Trevor replied, handing a small sugar bowl back and to his right.

  “Spoons are in the drawer to the right of the sink,” Mrs. Billings said.

  “Thank you.”

  Martha Billings leaned back in the old kitchen chair as sunlight poured through the wall of windows next to the back door. She watched Trevor and Jane move easily around each other, the occasional poke of an elbow, the passing of quiet words between them. The elderly woman drained her mug of coffee and smiled.

  * * *

  “Wow,” Jane said, appreciatively running her hand along the hull of a model ship that took up a good-sized portion of the basement’s north wall. “What was this for?”

  “The Poseidon remake,” Trevor said. “Biggest model I’ve ever been asked to make. It comes apart in three sections. The director really wanted to be able to see where and how the action was going to take place. Top comes off, too.”

  “You got it back after they finished?”

  “Yes, it was only needed for the storyboard phase. They said they’d pay me to keep it, but I…well, it’s the most complicated and largest one I’ve built. I guess I wanted it for posterity.”

  “Nice bit of posterity,” she commented, following him across to an enclosed room without a door. “This your workshop?”

  “Yes,” he said, dropping his voice dramatically. “This is where it all happens. Magic. Mystery. Plastic and paint.”

  Jane laughed as she looked at the models hanging from the ceiling, the walls, scattered on the table. She moved to a high red stool and looked at a half-completed model. “This can’t…is this what I think it is?”

  “Sure is,”
he said, coming to stand next to her. “That’s the Boar, one of your machines.”

  “Sweet!” she cried, picking it up. A giant metallic drill bit had been screwed onto a cylindrical body. No paint had yet been applied, but the large wheels had been put onto tiny axles and Jane thumbed them into movement as she looked at it. Calling it ‘Boar’ had been a purposeful homonym on her part, given that it drilled underground like a bore, but also wordplay based on Vincent’s description of it being a pig to handle.

  “Glad you like it. I’m working on John Tanner’s second jet next.”

  “You know the characters?”

  “Well, to a point, yes. Like I said, never read the book or the script, just the pieces they’ve sent me telling me what these things are supposed to look like. I make two of each, keep one for myself…well, you saw up in the living room. The others get shipped to them as they’re completed. They make tweaks, send it back, I redesign. It’s never-ending, really.”

  “Sounds kind of painful.”

  “No more than writing…what, two books in ten months?”

  “Three.”

  “What? I thought there were only two.”

  “Just finished the third one yesterday, actually. Handed it over to my publisher.”

  “And left California for here.”

  “Yep,” she nodded, laying the model back down.

  “What say we head over to the parsonage?”

  “I’d love to, but can I get in? You said it was vacant.”

  “It is, and yes, we can.”

  “Oh, Trevor, you don’t have to come with me. My trip down memory lane will be boring as hell for you.”

  “Not necessarily,” he countered. “Besides, I could use a break from gluing tiny pieces of plastic together. Do you mind?”

  “No, sure, that’s fine.”

  The two moved across the basement and up the stairs. “How do we get in? They just leave the doors unlocked?”

  “The side one, yes. Some of the local kids use it to hang out in there, smoke pot, drink, the whole nine. The cops even discovered a D&D setup in there last month.”

  “In the parsonage, huh? I’ll bet it’s the first time that old place has seen a drop of alcohol.”

  “Probably!”

  Ten minutes later found the two walking around the left side of 200 North Cornflower Street. Trevor opened the screen door on the side and laughed as two birds chirped madly and swooped down at them.

  “Oh, don’t tell me those swallows are still here!” Jane laughed as they ducked into the house.

  “Probably their grandchildren. Had a delinquent try to get them with a BB gun. I thought old Brent was going to take his 30-.06 after him.”

  “Brent? He still lives next door?”

  “Yeah, though he’s gone a bit loopy. Keeps going on about seeing people who aren’t there. Crazy sonofagun, but still pretty neat to grab a beer with from time to time.”

  The two stood on the landing inside the side door and looked down the steps toward the basement. “Want to start down there?”

  “Not really,” Jane replied, scrunching up her face. “All I remember of the basement was that it smelled and was full of cobwebs. I was terrified of cobwebs.”

  “Really?”

  Jane nodded as they headed up the small flight of linoleum-covered stairs to the kitchen. As soon as she walked into the smallish room she was transported back in time. Images from the past appeared. She could see herself as an eight-year old girl standing on a stool at the double stainless steel sink, looking out the back window and wishing she could be outside in the grass and sun. Instead, she was stuck there doing the dinner dishes for five people while her half-brothers played, her stepmother watched television and her father did God-knew-what, usually nowhere near home.

  She saw herself carefully washing each dish, each glass, each utensil. Scrubbing at pots and pans with small hands and a steel wool pad until sometimes her fingers bled. Silently using kitchen towels to dry the dishes and put them away. And if she made too much noise doing it, Mavis always let her know. One time in particular, when she was thirteen, came back at her full force as though watching a movie play out before her.

  * * *

  She’d dropped a frying pan on the floor. It had slipped from her hand as she’d opened the drawer beneath the oven to put it away. It clattered and banged until it came to a rest. Jane listened, but heard no sounds coming her way. She lifted the frying pan, inspecting it in the light to see if its fall had dirtied it again. Before she even knew someone was there, Mavis had thundered into the kitchen, grabbed the pan out of her hand and swung it at her.

  Jane remembered the back of the frying pan connecting with the side of her head. It was the last thing she’d remembered. Sometime later she’d awakened on the kitchen floor. All the lights were off. When she rolled over, groaning in pain as her bruised face slid against the linoleum, something fell off her body and clattered to the floor. In the dim light from a half moon, she saw it was the frying pan. Jane continued moaning, holding the side of her head in agony as she used the oven door handle to drag herself to her feet. She knew damn well she still had to clean and dry that pan before she went to bed. She couldn’t see the clock on the wall; had no idea of the time.

  But it had to be clean. If Mavis came down in the morning and found a dirty pan sitting there, she’d probably take it to the other side of Jane’s head. And so she slowly washed the pan and rinsed it, picked up a towel and dried the pan, this time holding its handle so tightly it couldn’t possibly fall from her hand. She opened the drawer beneath the oven and put it away. Her right cheek itched and she absently used the towel to rub at it, then hissed in pain. Pulling the towel away, she was horrified to find pieces of dried blood on it.

  Jane ran up the stairs, hit the landing and flew up the second flight. She ran down the hall to the home’s only bathroom, clicking the door shut quietly behind her. She turned on the light and ran to the medicine cabinet mirror. Her jaw dropped. The entire side of her head from her palace down to her jaw was varying shades of green, yellow, blue and purple. On her cheekbone was a one-inch gash, blood having dried and coagulated it closed. Tears filled her eyes. That Mavis had punished her for dropping the pan was not unexpected. That she had done this kind of damage, was.

  Always before this it had been slaps to the face, butt, hands, various parts of her body. Or the belt to her butt or the backs of her thighs, which certainly did hurt like hell. But Mavis had never been this physically violent, and it had rocked Jane to the core. She couldn’t recall how she’d explained the bruising and wound away, and then remembered it had been only three weeks into summer at the time. She’d had the entire summer to be kept out of sight and surely must have healed completely by the time Fall came and school started again.

  * * *

  “Jane?”

  Jane shook her head and closed her eyes, once again thinking perhaps this trip back home wasn’t the best idea.

  “Jane?”

  Why had her father not done anything? Why had she been left on the kitchen floor like that? Why had Mavis reacted so viciously to something like dropping a frying pan on the floor? She’d been belt-whipped, spanked, slapped and verbally and emotionally abused from the time she was two, but this was something she hadn’t thought would happen. She realized at that moment as she stood staring at her face in the bathroom mirror that she didn’t feel safe. The only place she did feel safe was at school. And thus began her hatred of summer. It meant long hours at the mercy of those she just couldn’t fit in with no matter how she tried.

  “Janie!” She jumped, only just remembering she wasn’t there alone. Trevor laid a hand on her arm. “Hey, are you okay? You look like you’re about to pass out.”

  “Uh…” Jane faltered, her hand reaching over to grab the top of his. She squeezed it hard, grateful for his presence. Grateful that she wasn’t alone. “Yeah, I’m…I’m all right. Let’s keep going.”

  But suddenly Jane wasn’t
really sure she wanted to.

  CHAPTER TEN

  The dining room was next. Dark mustard-colored carpeting, now worn and dirty, was the only thing left. But she could picture the dining room table, china cabinet and low serving table that had once been there. The family’s table had been white framed by brown, though she couldn’t recall the material. Couldn’t remember the exact make of chairs, either, only that they were uncomfortable after you’d been forced to sit in them for hours.

  This room had always been hell. Not only had it required her sitting invisibly at the table while her stepmother, father and half-brothers chattered endlessly about one thing or another, it also meant she had to overeat. For Mavis never failed to fill Jane’s dinner-sized plate to all edges with whatever was on the menu. She’d been full to the gills, begging not to be forced to eat it all, begging them to let her save it for another day. Yet Mavis had always insisted she had to eat every bite, or sit there until she did. The first time, Jane had managed to sneak away and throw it out, only to have Mavis find it later that night and come after her with a belt.

  The next time she’d held out for four hours, it being ten o’clock at night before she’d finally shoved the food down her throat, only to throw it all back up ten minutes later in the bathroom. She recalled being locked in her room for the next two days for that mess. Each mealtime was a horror as she force fed herself in order to be allowed to leave the table. She didn’t know why it was so. Why it was Mavis made her eat so much. Didn’t know, that was, until she figured it out during her college years. Mavis wanted her to be fat.

  * * *

  As Jane grew, she began looking more and more like her dead mother, or so she’d been told later by her grandmother. Always threatened by such a tangible link to the fact that she had not been Tom’s first choice, Mavis had wanted Jane to be as unattractive as possible. Especially since Mavis herself had ballooned over the years until she weighed nearly three hundred pounds, standing only five-foot-four. If she could make Jane ugly, her twisted mind told her, she’d keep Tom’s favor on her rather than the daughter of his first wife.