by Liz Durano
“I’ll be happier if people actually use them, mija. That’s what they’re for, to be functional, the same way your Papa preferred them to be,” she says, chuckling. “But you’re right. It’s only a few more weeks and hopefully you can find a job somewhere closer. Have you thought of applying for a job at the hospital here? I’m sure they have openings for you.”
“We’ll see.”
Mom pulls up a chair for me before walking to her glazing kiln and lifting the lid. “So tell me about Benny. How’d you guys end up together?”
“We’re not together-together,” I say, watching her reach into the kiln to pull out a mug, inspect it, and then set it down on the rack next to her. “He came into my clinic yesterday with an injury.”
“Not too bad, I hope?”
“Just a gash on his arm and bump on his head,” I reply, shrugging. “But he’ll live.”
Mom looks up at me expectantly. “And?”
“He mentioned he was heading to Taos today and so… after work I hitched a ride with him.” I almost forgot the part about having to fill in for a coworker.
“Oh, that’s right. You had to work last night,” Mom says. “He looks really good, mija. I remember him from your graduation. He was so proud of you he was practically grinning from ear to ear. Do you remember him yelling from the bleachers?”
I laugh. Of course, I remember. I also remember feeling embarrassed as I walked across the stage to get my diploma with him hooting and hollering. And whistling. “Yup. I don’t think anyone missed that.”
I also remember feeling so nervous that night. I’d made the decision to finally tell Benny my little secret and see if he’d be willing to do them all with me. Well, he didn’t. He drove me home instead.
“And then you had a falling out, didn’t you?” Mom says. “I remember you stopped talking about him. Like you had a misunderstanding or something.”
“Something like that, yeah. But I also got that job in New York, remember? And he got a job, too, so it wasn’t like we were going to keep in touch or anything.”
“But now you guys are friends again.” Mom says as she looks up from her glazing kiln, smiling. “I always wondered what happened to him. I think he’s cute. Rugged handsome, if I might say so.”
I shrug, doing my best to look like I don’t care. “Well, he’s alive and kicking.”
Mom pulls a mug in blue and gold, turning it in front of her to look for imperfections in the glaze. “You like him.”
“No, I don’t,” I mutter under my breath as Mom sets the mug she’s holding on the rack and smiles.
“Yes, you do, mija. You always did back when you were both at UNM.”
“Well, I don’t like him that way and that’s that,” I say a little too defensively. “Besides, the last time I liked a guy, it didn’t work out so well. In fact, make that two men.”
“Just because your last boyfriend did what he did doesn’t mean every man will do the same,” she says. “It says a lot about a man when they set out to hurt a woman like that.”
“Anyway, I figure since Dad’s here, I should talk to him,” I say, getting up. “He should be finished helping Nana, right?”
Mom nods. “Probably. He’s been wanting to spend time with you for awhile so I shouldn’t be hogging you all to myself.”
I leave Mom’s studio and make my way to the back yard where Dad has set up the casita in the back as his office. It’s a small one-story building that used to be my grandfather’s studio space before Dad converted it into a studio apartment complete with its own bathroom and kitchenette. It’s separated from the main house by a circular herb garden that Mom and Nana tend together. Rosemary, lavender, and thyme are planted and rotated every few years. When in season, they grow basil, too, and other herbs I’m not familiar with.
I knock on the door and push it open. He’s sitting at his desk, typing on his keyboard but he stops when he sees me and beckons for me to sit down.
“Hey, honey, I was just talking to Lionel Chambers. You remember him, right?” he asks as I take a seat across from him. While his office in Manhattan has a view of the Financial District beyond its floor to ceiling windows, the only view he’s got in his small converted studio is the garden, the view partially blocked by a tree trunk where as I used to watch squirrels chasing each other to protect their territory. His home office is also more homey than his Manhattan office could ever be, complete with a collection of Mom’s bowls on the coffee table by the sofa next to the sliding glass door that leads to another part of the garden.
“The lawyer?” I remember Lionel because he’s one of Dad’s closest friends. They play golf whenever they can and a few times a week, they meet for drinks at the Metropolitan Club where they talk more business.
“Yes, Lionel Chambers of Chambers, Maynard & Lipman. He has a department that specializes in cases like this, cyberstalking and harassment,” Dad says. “But it’s going to require your full cooperation. You’ll probably need to fly to New York to meet with the lawyers.”
“I can arrange that,” I say, glad that we’re keeping it almost business-like. If there are any questions about the pictures, it means Dad’s not the one who’ll do the asking. The lawyers will. “What else will he need?”
“Everything you have, records of any communication between you and Ryan. Screenshots of any pictures or new postings that you’ve seen,” he says. “The company security already has your phone and they’re recording every call or text message that comes in. All of it will become admissible at some point, but it might take time to fix.”
“It’s a start, though,” I say. “I just wish…”
“It’s done, Sarah. There’s nothing we can do to undo what happened,” Dad says. “Lionel says it will take some time but we have to start somewhere.”
He’s too calm and I’m not used to it, but at the same time, this is the first time we’ve talked without arguing in months which means Mom must have talked to him. Probably told him to cool his jets and tread carefully. But a feeling of shame fills me anyway, the realization that this would never have happened if I had the common sense not to pose for pictures in the first place.
“You’re not mad at me?”
He leans his forearms on the desk. “Why would I be mad at you, Sarah? Like I said, what’s done is done and now we have to work together to deal with this. No more arguing. No more walking away angry all the time, especially when you and I both know we can’t undo what happened.” He pauses to think for a few moments. “I might need you to stay in town when they finally file the charges against this man which means you’ll have to quit work. That way your mother won’t be so worried about you all the time. She can’t sleep whenever you leave her for Shiprock. Never could, not even when you worked in your last two jobs. She’s afraid someone might find out where you live… where you work.”
“Dad, I’ll be–”
Dad raises his hand to silence me, his eyes narrowing as we hear the slamming of the front door in the main house followed by angry voices. I recognize Dax’s voice immediately followed by Gabe Vasquez’s voice. He and Dax are best friends although right now, it doesn’t sound like it, not with the angry voices I can hear coming from the house.
Dad gets up from his chair but I beat him to the door and into the main house. I find my brother and his best friend in the living room shoving each other.
“What the hell is going on here?” Dad demands from behind me as Dax turns to face us, his expression quickly shifting from surprise to anger the moment he sees me.
“You! I can’t believe you have the nerve to show your face around this town after this… this–” He stops, pulling out a crumpled piece of paper from his jacket pocket and waves it in front of him. “Do you know what this is, Sarah? Do you have any idea?”
From the studio, Mom appears at the door and hurries toward me as Nana emerges from the hallway leading to the bedrooms.
“What the hell happened?” Dad strides across the room and grabs Dax by
the shoulders, inspecting his face. “You’ve got a black eye.”
“Him and Larry got into an argument, Uncle Dan,” Gabe says. “One minute they were talking and the next, they just started hitting each other.”
“You wanna know what he said, Dad?” Dax thrusts the paper into Dad’s hand. “Look at this and guess.”
“What did he say?” This time it’s Mom who asks the question and the men look at her as if just realizing she’s in the room. Gabe bites his lower lip and looks away as Dax’s expression changes from anger to embarrassment.
Dax hangs his head. “Mom…”
“Answer your mother, Dax,” Dad says through gritted teeth.
I watch as my brother’s gaze goes from Mom to me, embarrassment giving way to anger. “He said his brother saw pictures of Sarah online. He said it was on a public forum with her name and phone number. He even printed it out in case I didn’t believe it,” he says, cocking his head toward the paper in Dad’s hand. “It’s right there. He said you could still see it online. It even has her home address. This address.”
“Oh, for fucks’ sake,” mutters my dad as he glances at my mother who brings her hand to cover her mouth in horror. “Pearl, get her out of here please.”
“… and that’s when I punched him. No one talks about my sister that way,” Dax continues as my mother pulls me into the hallway with Nana.
“Let’s go, Sarah,” Mom says and I don’t object. I don’t even have the voice to say anything. Even when I open my mouth, nothing comes out. All I know is that my shame has become my brother’s to bear, too.
As Nana tells us she’s going to make some chamomile tea for everyone and a compress for Dax’s black eye, Mom pulls me in a hug. “Mija, it’s not your fault.”
As Mom’s arms tighten around me, I suddenly feel exhausted. I can’t get Dax’s expression out of my mind. I’d never seen him tremble with rage before, and then there was that look in his eyes, judging me… accusing me.
“It’s my fault the moment I agreed to pose for that first picture, Mom,” I whisper, fighting back the tears. “I brought this all to myself and now Dax has to deal with it.”
It was supposed to be just one picture, an innocent shot of me in his bed. Only there were more pictures that followed and I’d only learn about the video camera later, hidden behind his headboard.
How I thought I could take care of things all by myself is laughable now, especially when my shame followed me all the way home.
Chapter Eight
Two hours later, the meeting is over and I spend the rest of the afternoon catching up on paperwork. Unfortunately, all I do is stare at the monitor, not really seeing the words. All I can think about is Sarah and if there’s anything I can do to help her besides hunting this Ryan guy down and beating the shit out of him.
By four, I realize it’s pointless to keep working, not when I can barely concentrate, and so I gather my things and say goodbye to everyone at the office. I drive to the three-bedroom two-story condo on Kit Carson Road that I bought a year ago with Mariano Payne, an archaeologist who works for the Bureau of Land Management. Given my stints working in Shiprock or wherever else I get sent to by the main office, he pretty much gets full rein of the place but I have no complaints. Mariano’s a cool guy, spends most of his time outdoors when he’s not working, and is a neat freak like me.
We keep the furnishings minimal. It’s a guys’ townhouse through and through with a few of the comforts of a Southwestern inspired home. A fireplace, tinwork accents on the walls, and lots of plants that give the place an earthy feel. We could have turned the third bedroom into an entertainment room but we ended up converting it into a home gym instead, complete with a power cage for bench presses, barbell squats and deadlifts, a punching bag, and a treadmill.
When I get home, the first thing I do is place Nana’s breakfast burrito in the fridge where Mariano had taped a flyer announcing my favorite band playing at a local bar that night. I can’t help but grin. Hanging out with Mariano and the other guys would help distract me from thinking about Sarah. It would also mean a night of dancing two-step with whoever Mariano has invited along.
There’s only one problem. If I’m dancing two-step tonight, I want to do it with Sarah. After all, I’d taught her how back when we were students at UNM. She’d been clumsy at first, mostly self-conscious with her movements but she soon got the hang of it. I’m not the best dancer out there but I loved how she followed my lead from the beginning, not insisting to go one way while I went the other.
But I really can’t ask Sarah. That would be a date, and I need us to remain friends.
No, I need to do something else.
I need to hit something.
I change into my workout clothes, grab a roll of hand wraps from the shelf and begin wrapping my hand. It’s probably too soon to do a round with the bag but I need to do something. After a warm-up of shadow boxing, squats and crunches, I slip on a pair of gloves. The cut in my arm throbs but I ignore it.
Seeing Sarah again has thrown me off my routine. I could barely sleep last night thinking about the last guy she dated, the one who posted her pictures online. She didn’t mention it but I’m sure she’s aware he posted their videos, too, and while there were only three that I saw after two hours of searching online last night, they were three too many.
Can you keep a secret?
The memory of Sarah’s exact words had caught me by surprise. It was her graduation night and I was there, cheering for her. She’d graduated with honors and I was so proud of her, so happy. Probably happier than I should have been as “just” a friend.
When she left to celebrate with her parents, I didn’t mind not getting asked to join them. It was a family affair and I was sure I’d celebrate with Sarah another day. And so I hung out with buddies at a bar for a few hours and went home. That’s when I found Sarah waiting for me outside my door.
Hands wrapped, gloves on, I start with basic jab, cross, and hook punches. Three minutes. Shit, I should have warmed up first but too late for that now. I take a break, watching the clock on the wall. Thirty seconds.
Why didn’t I call her these last two years? Why did I give up so quickly?
Have you ever thought of tying up a woman?
I start again, mixing up my combinations, my breath coming out faster. Hook, cross, hook. Jab, cross, hook, cross. Three minutes. My left arm starts to sting and from the corner of my eye, I spot a small dot of red. Blood. But I don’t even care that I’ve reopened my injury, broken the stitches. I need to hurt. I need to feel pain.
Have you ever thought of dominating a woman? Tying her up? Spanking her?
Sweat drips down my face, stinging my eyes.
What are you trying to tell me, Sarah?
As beads of perspiration continue to roll down my face and neck, I’m glad I invested in foam tiles for my home gym. I’m glad I’ve got a housekeeper who can mop all that sweat off the floor, disinfect it with whatever she uses.
I don’t know who else to ask but I figured I’d ask someone I trusted…
I keep punching the bag, feeling my frustration give way to exhaustion, pain knifing through my arm. I remember Mariano had some type of wound glue in the bathroom. If I have to, I’ll have to use that and superglue the crap out of my incision.
Jab, jab, cross. Cross, hook, cross. Jab, cross, jab, hook, hook.
My muscles are screaming now but I don’t care. All I can hear is Sarah’s voice, see her face as she tells me… no, trusts me with her deepest, darkest secret.
Will you dominate me, Benny? Will you hurt me?
I punch the bag one more time, sweat now mixed with something else. Tears of frustration. Tears of regret.
My breath emerges from my mouth ragged and harsh as I grab the bag, clinging to it as I catch my breath. Sarah’s words keep coming, the memories of that night that I’ve kept locked up inside me finally unleashed and there’s no way to stop them.
I want to know how it feels, Benny
. I want to know why I can’t stop thinking about trying it out with… with you. I trust you.
I let go of the bag, sweat dripping down my lashes, the taste of salt against my lips.
One more hook. One more cross, and this time, I feel a sharp pain in my arm break, the sting that I’ve been waiting for finally hitting me, reminding me how I fucked up.
Sarah’s voice is gone and in its place is just the sound of my breathing, ragged, sharp. A groan escapes my lips as blood drips down my arm and onto the rubber mat, my arm throbbing.
But it’s not the cut that Sarah had meticulously stitched closed yesterday that’s now opened that hurts the most. No, it’s the silence that follows after she asked me those questions… the silence of my refusal just before I drove her home.
My phone rings while I’m applying wound glue to the ripped stitches in my arm. Muttering under my breath, I press a hand towel to my arm and hurry to the living room. One glance at the phone display and I grab the phone and press Answer.
“Hey, Sarah. What’s up?”
“I know it’s late but I was wondering if you’d like to do something tonight. Or we could just hang out.”
Cradling the phone on my shoulder, I return to the bathroom and grab a roll of gauze, breaking the seal with my teeth and wrapping it around my arm. “Sure. What did you have in mind?”
“I don’t know.”
“Hang on.” I head to my bedroom and pick out a pair of jeans and a light blue shirt from my closet. Grabbing a pair of boxer briefs, I slip them on. “Guess what. My favorite band’s in town. Stateline. Ever heard of them?”
“No, but the name sounds familiar.”
“You in the mood to dance two-step with me?”
Sarah doesn’t answer for a few moments. “I’m not sure. I don’t think it’s a good idea for me to be out right now, definitely not around Taos.”
I get the hint right away. Something happened. “Sarah, what’s going on?”
“One of Dax’s friends found my picture online and they got into a fight,” she says haltingly.