Eidolon Avenue

by Winn, Jonathan

  He did.

  “What do you need with something like this?” the delivery man had asked as he’d plunked the jumbo-size, industrial strength deep freezer in the middle of his bedroom weeks ago.

  “I’m studying to be a chef,” he lied, Tits sitting seven steps away in the closet, tied tight and bundled in a laundry bag, three days after the click. “Have to buy meat in bulk. For class. Save more money that way. Ran out of room in the other fridge.”

  “Yeah, yeah.” The handsome man in the blue work shirt nodded, his eyes trying not to linger on the hunky frat boy in front of him. “Those freezers with the fridge, they ain’t big enough, are they?”

  “Not for what I’m doing.” A flirtatious grin as he’d shaken the man’s hand, the small smile soon a full-bore assault of white teeth as he gripped the man’s hand a moment longer than necessary.

  The delivery man ushered out the door, a business card with the besotted stranger’s cell scrawled on the back slipped in Colton’s pocket, and Tits shoved to the bottom of his new toy, he turned it on, listening for the familiar pings and knocks and whirs as it revved up, breathing clouds of frost. “This is fine. It’ll work.”

  “Always has,” Brody said with a shrug.

  And it did this time, too. Well enough for him to retrieve her at night and lie with her, his fingers caressing her thawing flesh as he kissed the white of her lips.

  Then, when her hips could bend and open, he’d take her. The silent body offering no complaint, no hesitation. A willing receptacle bearing the brunt of his rage while accepting the darkest of his desires.

  “Notch in the belt, son.” Brody said, stifling a yawn.

  A month later the frozen flesh had started to tighten, the nails were coming loose, the eyes had shriveled and sunk, and the barest hint of marbling appeared from her armpits and around her neck.

  “Fuck, I told you, man.” Another shrug from his bro.

  His plaything had become unpleasant.

  “Ditch her, dude.” Brody’s eyes met his.

  The next day, he’d met Teeth.

  “Sweet,” said his friend with a grin.

  ***

  Unnecessary lay sprawled on the kitchen floor.

  She must have fallen at some point, he thought, landing with her arms reaching, her feet under the chair, her dress shifting and now thankfully providing her more modest coverage than before.

  He paced the small kitchen, bottled water in hand, the bending and popping and snapping of Tits as he’d forced her into that damn laundry bag exhausting and tedious. But moving full bags of laundry to his SUV at the end of the day was a lot less noticeable than dragging three bodies along the sidewalk and tossing them into the back.

  “These bags are kinda genius, dude.” Brody said from the bedroom.

  He chuckled and looked at Unnecessary.

  Her face was tilted to the side. The broken bone in her neck pushed against the flesh, wounding it three shades of red in an island of dark blue. At a certain angle, it looked like she’d tried to crawl along the floor. Her fingers digging into the boards, her feet pushing against the wood. He considered kneeling next to her, perhaps feeling the soft skin on the back of her leg, but thought of the two bodies left to pack and the sweat already staining his brow and dripping down his neck.

  Maybe I should pick her up and put her in the chair, he thought as he walked to the bedroom.

  “Fuck her, man,” bro called out.

  Yeah, he needed to focus. Teeth and Freckles. Or Freckles and Teeth.

  Although he’d met Teeth first, Freckles had been the next click.

  And he needed to do this in order. Besides, he wasn’t ready to touch Teeth yet.

  She, like Unnecessary, had been different than the others.

  Two months ago, they’d met. The weather had turned, the summer sun replaced by the crisp bite of Fall. Clouds hanging low in what was once a blue sky. The park empty save for those few souls who preferred the cold sting of rain to the warm comfort of overpriced lattes in a cafe.

  Which, debit card in hand, is what he opted for.

  Small and meek, she’d stood at the counter, clutching a steaming mug, scanning the room for an empty seat. He’d caught her eye. Smiled. Indicated the free chair opposite him.

  A smile in return, her lips parting to reveal teeth that were too white, too flat and too big for her mouth.

  Yep, he thought. Already got a name for this one.

  She came over to sit.

  “Thank you.” She introduced herself, but to him, she was already Teeth.

  “No problem.” His smile in return not yet full-bore, but close.

  She looked away, the cup brought to her lips for a sip. “I’ve seen you around.” The cup back on the table.

  He leaned forward, struggling to remember if he saw her before. He didn’t think he had. “Why didn’t you say hi?”

  “Because you were untouchable. Part of the cool, better-than-everyone-else crowd. No one but your douche bag bros—you know, Clay Fitzsimmons, Trent Whitehall, Brody Howard-Meister the Third, thank-you-very-much—could get anywhere near you back at your old school. Them and all those other upper class crème de la crème tight ass high and mighty bourgeois arrogant insufferable bitches and pricks.”

  He laughed. “Ah, so you went to—”

  A nod from her. “Left right before you did.”

  He glanced around the crowded cafe, the doubts about his decision to consider targeting her growing as the conversations rose and fell, laughter here, silence there. Too many eyes, he decided. “Nevertheless, it was nice to meet you.” He belted back the next to last swallow. “I really should—”

  “I admire your courage,” she suddenly said.

  “My what?” The cup returned to the table.

  “To go through what you’ve gone through, the embarrassment, the shame, the utter hatred, and still come out in public, go to school, try and have a life, it’s impressive.” Her eyes watched him. “I don’t know if I could do it.”

  “I try not to pay attention.”

  “How could you not?” A small, quick laugh. “On every front page. On every blog and website. Trending on Facebook and Twitter. Seriously, you’d have to live in a cave or something to not know how much you guys are hated. Your dad landing that Presidential pardon, benefits restored, pension, restitution?”

  “My dad’s not who everyone thinks he is.” He paused. Gathered his thoughts. “He’s a nice guy. Too nice, I think. He just doesn’t think sometimes, you know? And he gets trapped and then tries to make things right.”

  “Right.” She took a sip of her coffee. “So he’s innocent? Especially after what he did? With all that evidence?”

  “There’s more to it than people know.”

  “Please.” She leaned back, her coffee in hand. “Anyway, all I’m saying is the fact that you’re still standing and working to have a life. Like I said, I’m impressed. Really.” She lifted her cup in a toast then took a sip.

  “You find all of that impressive?”

  She shook her head. “No, I find you carrying the burden of your father’s sins impressive. Making yourself an easy target simply by being alive and trying to accomplish something. That I find impressive. What he did?” Her arms crossed, her elbows on the table. “That’s disgusting and illegal and, because he’s a Senator—or at least was a Senator—completely predictable.”

  “Again, it’s more complicated than people think. And it wasn’t his fault. Truth be told . . . ” He took a deep breath. “It’s a parental thing, I guess. And that’s all I can say.” He shrugged and belted back his last swallow.

  She smiled. “I’m sorry. Give me a soapbox . . . ” A shrug.

  “You know, he might be innocent.”

  “And you could be a blushing Boy Scout who still hasn’t popped his cherry.” Her eyes caught his. She was teasing him, challenging him.

  “Have dinner with me.” He returned her stare. Teased her. Challenged her.

  �
�Why?” She held his gaze.

  “Because as strong as someone is, he still needs a friend now and then, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Yeah, that must’ve hurt. Your bros suddenly forgetting you were alive. Clay? Trent?” She glanced around the room and then looked back at him. “Must have been brutal how they dropped you like a bad habit. As if you’d never existed. That must’ve sucked. Seriously.” Her gaze held him. “I’m sorry. Really.”

  He broke the stare, his eyes returning to his fingers circling the empty cup.

  There was a long moment of silence. The memory of his friends’ betrayal hanging in the air. The wound of that still bleeding and raw, ripped open and weeping.

  “No. Not dinner.” She offered him an easy grin. “What I will do, though, if you want, is give you my cell and, I don’t know, maybe meet you here again. And we can talk some more. Or walk around the park or something when the weather clears. But dinner? Not yet.”

  “Not yet?” He tried a smile, but, damnit, this sudden pain was too real. It came off more like a grimace.

  “It’s too much like a date, Mr. Carryage.” Her hands gripped her cup. “And, let’s face it, I’m not anything like the supermodels, cheerleaders, beauty queen society bitches or whatever the hell you usually go out with.”

  “You’re saying it’s a no, but also a not yet.” Catching her eye, he moved closer to a full-bore smile, driven to change her No into a Yes. “So there’s hope.”

  She nodded. “But not right now. Not today.” Reaching low, she brought her oversize purse to her lap, her hand disappearing to rummage before emerging with her cell and a textbook. “I have studying to do.” A moment later, her eyes found his as she waited, ready to give him her number, her cell phone in hand. “Keep your eye out for me. We’ll run into each other. I’m sure of it.”

  For the next week, all he could think of was Teeth. Tits lay ignored in the deep freeze. The work of lifting her out, letting her thaw, wrapping her up, elbows snapping, knees popping, and driving her to the pit he’d dug deep in the woods an hour out of town seemed like too much to do. All he wanted was to meet for coffee with Teeth, talk with Teeth, listen to Teeth, discover who Teeth was.

  He kind of wanted to date Teeth.

  And then end it with a click, of course.

  “That’s what Teeth told me,” he said, pacing, his arms crossed, his hands gripping his elbows. “That’s what she said . . . fucking bitch.”

  “I hear ya, man.” Brody, back to the window, dragged deep on another joint.

  “But she was right, though. Clay, Trent, man, fucking punk-ass, piece of shit pussies. Put you to shame, my man.”

  “Bro—”

  “Seriously! It was brutal.” He could hear his voice rising. He stopped. Took a breath.

  Exhaling a cloud of blue smoke, his bro leaned his head back, the lit joint in his fingers ignored as he closed his eyes.

  “Whatever,” Colton said, looking away. “I’m over it.”

  So, he reached out to Teeth again and again. And nothing.

  For a week, his texts went ignored, his emails getting no response. For a week, she kept him waiting and hoping on the verge of frustrated anger. For a week, he’d swing by the cafe several times a day and glance in, hoping to catch sight of her.

  For a week, she was nowhere to be found.

  The rain continued, the clouds refusing to part.

  “Bitch’s dropped you like a Taco Bell baby, bro,” Brody said with a chuckle.

  He grew angrier, stalking his apartment like a caged animal.

  “I’m gonna fuck her up, man.”

  “Do it.”

  “She thinks she’s gonna fuck with Colton fuckin’ Carryage?”

  “Hell no.”

  “It’s gonna be rough and mean and cruel. She’s going to suffer.”

  “Fuck yeah.”

  “And you know what? She’s gonna know she’s gonna die.”

  “That’s dope.”

  “Serves her right for making me wait, making me . . . I don’t know, man.”

  Silent, Brody stood in front of him.

  “You hear me, Brody?” he said. “She’ll be alive and know what’s happening. She’ll feel every single fucking thing I do to her. And it’s gonna fuckin’ hurt, man. Like hell. And you know what, bro?”

  “Shoot.”

  “She won’t be able to do a damn thing to stop it.”

  “Sweet,” Brody said with a laugh.

  It’ll be perfect, he thought later as he cut through the park, the rain pelting his head and bouncing off his coat. He couldn’t wait.

  And turning the corner, he discovered Freckles.

  ***

  “I’m Mrs. Butterworth,” she’d said from beneath a green frog umbrella. Her speech was stilted, her words careful, her thoughts slow. The sound of thick congestion stuck in her throat and bubbled through her nose with each breath.

  He’d stopped. They were alone. She was young with brown hair that fell down her back, thick glasses, skin covered in dark freckles, and her chunky body and wide hips stuffed into a bright red raincoat. “What do you mean?” He took a step toward her.

  She stepped back. “I’m waiting. I’m not supposed to talk to strangers.” Another step back, her pink mittens clutching the green handle of her umbrella.

  “You’re not going to tell me why you’re called ‘Mrs. Butterworth?’” He took another small step her way.

  “I know who you are, Mister.” She sniffled. “I saw you on a magazine once.”

  “On a magazine?” Another step closer. “Or in?”

  “You look like a prince.” She brought the umbrella down over her face.

  “And you look like a frog.” He smiled and took another step toward her.

  From beneath the green plastic, she giggled. “In. It was in.”

  “In what?”

  “The magazine! In. On a page.” She lifted the umbrella, her eyes finding his. “There were words. I didn’t read them.” A loud sniffle, the snot bubbling in her nose as she breathed in. “I have a cold.”

  “I’m sorry.” A small pout, his brow furrowing for a brief second. “So you know my name?”

  A nod from her. She glanced up at her umbrella.

  His eyes followed hers. “I like it.” He gave her a small grin. “It’s cool.”

  “It’s because I’m slow. I talk slow. My head is slow. Like the syrup. That you put on pancakes. With butter. But not too much ‘cause you’ll get a tummy ache. And be sick.” She twirled, swinging her hips, and then took a step toward him. “Mrs. Butterworth. See?”

  “Very clever.”

  She grew silent for a moment. “I’m waiting. In the rain. My tutor, he’s late. He’s always late.” She took a big step back.

  “You go to school here?”

  She shook her head. “One class. A special class.” Looking to the side, she stopped. “I’m not supposed to talk to strangers.” The umbrella dropped low again.

  “But you know me.”

  She raised the umbrella a bit, peering out from beneath it.

  “You said yourself that you saw me in a magazine.” He smiled.

  “On a magazine. I said on. Not in.” She cleared her throat. “I shouldn’t say what the words said.”

  “In the magazine.” He shoved his hands in his pockets.

  “You’re bad. That’s what the words said. What he told me they said.”

  “Who?”

  “My tutor.” A step back. “He said you were cute.” She glanced to the street, the sidewalk. “He’s late.”

  “Do I look bad?” A step toward her.

  “You look like a prince. From a book.” A pause, the umbrella covering her face again. Through the green plastic and large googly frog eyes, he could see her chewing her lip.

  “What’d he say, your tutor?”

  “That you killed a girl. But your dad was the king with a ton of money he stole so you never got in trouble and that girl’s family still cries because they miss
their princess.”

  “Wow—”

  “And that’s why you had to leave the fancy school and that’s why you’re here and that’s why he went to jail because he forced people to give him money in secret and paid everybody to SHUT UP and let you go.”

  “That’s not entirely true.” The rain fell harder, pinging off the cheap plastic of the green frog and running down the back of his neck. “Can I see your umbrella?” He moved toward her.

  “It’s a frog.” She lifted it a little higher, her head turning up to see it.

  He moved quick, snatching it from her.

  “No!” She put her hands over her head. “It’s mine! I’m getting wet! Give it back! It’s not yours, it’s mine!” Her face turning red, she started to cry. “Give it back.”

  The umbrella over his head, he turned toward Eidolon. “Come and get it.”

  She stumbled after him, the sound of her red rain boots heavy on the concrete. “I. Said. Give. It. Back. NOW!” She lunged for him.

  “I will,” he said, dodging out of reach. “All you have to do is follow me and you get it, okay?”

  “No! It’s not okay!” She’d stopped. Her face was still red and running with rain, her arms at her sides, her hands balled into angry fists. “It’s mine. I’m getting WET!”

  The umbrella over his head, he skipped down Eidolon. She followed, her hands once again over her head, her steps lumbering and slow, her breathing heavy. Onto the curb, past the corner store and the snapping, flickering neon of the local dive, they approached his building.

  She stopped. He crossed the street and turned, waiting at the front door.

  “C’mon,” he shouted to her across the street. He opened the door and held the umbrella out to her. “You can have it back now.”

  Her eyes watched the building. “What is that?” She fought to catch her breath.

  He twirled the green frog. “He misses you.” He smiled. “Come in. You’re getting wet. I have cocoa. Hot cocoa. With marshmallows.”

  She ignored him. “That thing, there.” She pointed toward the top of the building. “It’s too dark. I’ve never seen that. I don’t like it. It’s . . . wrong.”

  “What?” He stepped onto the sidewalk and looked up. There was nothing but low clouds in the sky, wet brick, dirty windows, and rain hitting his face. “There’s nothing there, Freckles. C’mon.” He crossed the street. “You hear me? I have hot cocoa with marshmallows inside.” He grabbed her hand. “Let’s go.”