The Earth Died Screaming

by Chuck Rogers

  "No, I mean do you believe me?"

  "No, but you look ravishing in that tin foil hat."

  She giggled again. "Oh, well, thanks."

  "But whatever baby wants, baby gets."

  She looked down. Her hazel eyes were a glistening inch from crying. You could see the emotions whirling behind her eyes like a fortune wheel. I wondered what the wheel would land on. She shook as she said it very quietly.

  "I want a man."

  "I want to dance," I shot her the full smile and waggled my eyebrows. "If we have time."

  She flushed with pure happiness. She glowed with it. Her smile lit up the room. "I would love to dance."

  "What kind of music do you like?"

  "Well," She hesitated. "I like listening to classical."

  I gave her a look but nodded. "I know how to waltz."

  "But I like dancing to country."

  Country it was.

  You wouldn't think it by looking at me but I can dance. It was one of the few things my mother taught me, and one of the few happy memories I have of home and family. I felt clever putting 'It's All About Tonight' on the jukebox. She got the joke, it's a great song for two-stepping, and she clearly loved being twirled around the floor.

  There is a song with the line 'And when I see you, happy as a girl.'

  She was happy as a girl. Drinking and dancing in a bar. Glowing.

  In my arms.

  That was when I started falling for her.

  We danced and danced.

  There was nearly a riot in the bar when I put on Shostakovich's Second Waltz to prove I really could.

  When I dipped her at the end we got a standing ovation.

  I kissed her then.

  There is a line in a movie about the one kiss that left all other kisses behind.

  This was mine.

  It was hers.

  We both knew it. The whole room knew it. There were a few oohs and ahs and people kept clapping.

  A j-hole at the end of the bar shouted out.

  "Get a room!"

  We both laughed. I perked an eyebrow. "On that note?"

  She breathed in my ear. "Let's get out of here."

  I got the lady's coat. Connie grinned and shot me the double thumbs-up.

  She didn't always approve of the girls I left the bar with.

  Connie leaned in as I paid. "Frame?"

  "Connie?"

  "Don't fuck this up."

  "No, ma'am." I felt stupidly happy. The lady smiled as I came back and slipped her coat on her. "Where are you parked?"

  "Around back. You?"

  "I Ubered. You want to bring your car around? I'll be right out."

  "Yes, ma'am." I walked out of that bar walking on air. No, screw that.

  I was strutting.

  Like Travolta in Saturday Night Fever.

  I brought the car around, got out and waited contentedly. All was well with the world. All the stars were alignment.

  Including, according to rumor, one dark, evil star, but that was the furthest thing from my mind.

  The lady came out of the bar and her face was unreadable. Then she saw me and her smile lit up the street. Her eyes widened at the sight of my ride. "I like your car."

  "Thanks."

  "It looks like . . ." she searched for words. "The kind of car a man like you would drive."

  I grew an inch taller.

  The 2019 Cadillac CT6-V gleamed at us in approval.

  About half the time my job is magically appearing in your office, or where you are having lunch, or if you really fucked up? You wake up with me standing over you. Then I make you see reason.

  The other half of the time?

  I want you to see me roll up. I want you to shit yourself. A black Cadillac with tinted windows is kind of expected. The window rolls down, you see me and you know fucked up and it might be your ass. Plus I need elbow room and it had plenty. The car had a backseat large enough to comfortably conceive a child in and then deliver it out of, and it also had a trunk big enough to hold several bodies. Mine had held three, and no, they were alive when they went in and stayed alive after they got out. With 650 horsepower and all wheel drive?

  The girl could go.

  I bought a new Caddy every year.

  I opened the door for the lady.

  And I took her to my place.

  Long story short?

  We did everything that a man and woman can do to one another. Easily. Spontaneously. One act seamlessly blending into the next. Almost no need for words. It was chemistry. A woman in my life I respect said when the chemistry is right nothing is wrong . The chemistry was right. It was the best sex I'd ever had in my life. It was the best sex she'd ever had in her life.

  We both knew it.

  If it had been filmed and shown at Connie's everyone in the bar would have known it.

  That moment came when all we could do was lay there and gasp. I reached over for the bottle of water I kept by the bed. "Water?"

  "Ooh, please!"

  She guzzled water and the sound pleased me.

  "Well, Pop-Tart?"

  She managed to gasp and purr at the same time.

  "You called me Pop-Tart."

  "That was . . ." I was at a loss for words.

  "It was, and thank you. I was willing to settle for a lot less, tonight. But my fantasy was to find a real man." She poked me in the ribs to emphasize each word. "And-you-are-that."

  I grinned and rolled over to fish my lighter and smokes from my jacket. "Do you mind?"

  "Ooh! Yes! I mean no! I mean I quit years ago." She giggled half-embarrassed and half-giddy about doing something bad. "Now I want one! Can we share it?"

  "Sure." I'd quit in prison. Not for health reasons but because they were more valuable to me as currency. Don't smoke money. "Yeah, I quit too. But then I came to Hollywood and got soft."

  She made a noise. "You're soft?"

  "This is nothing, you should have seen me in my prime. There's an ashtray in the drawer on your side."

  She fumbled in the nightstand and set it on my chest. I fished a cig out of the red, white and blue pack. The DuPont lighter pinged and she squinted at the pack without her glasses in the butane light.

  I found it utterly charming.

  "What are those?"

  "Parisiennes. I know a guy in Argentina who gets them for me."

  "You are positively cinematic."

  I allowed myself a warm surge of pride as I sparked up. I took a long one and passed it over.

  She took a deep drag and coughed. "God! These are strong!"

  "Sister, you ain't kidding."

  She put the cigarette between my lips and nestled in. I lay back and smoked with a redheaded MILF scientist who smelled nice after the best sex I'd ever had. I felt better about the status of the apparatus then I had in a long time. She took a long, savoring drag and let it out slowly.

  "You're beautiful."

  That hit me. Not like a surprise left to the jaw but a god damn genuine the Grinch's heart grew three sizes that day event and the world became a better place.

  "Can I be your girlfriend?"

  And that was it.

  Hook line and sinker.

  The thunderbolt.

  I was in love.

  "Absolutely." I swear to god right there I started making plans. Now, telling her about who I really was, what I did, and her still wanting to be with me? That might take a miracle.

  Then again?

  Sometimes?

  Nice girls like bad boys.

  But I really didn't give a shit about any of that.

  What I did was just lay there all love hang-overed and glowed.

  I lit another cigarette, and in the flame she was smiling at me.

  Firelight makes every woman pretty. She was beautiful, and I had never seen a smile like that. It was the happiest about to start crying smile in the world.

  I thought it was the smile of a woman whose dreams had come true.

  I was half
right.

  She took the cigarette and took a drag. "I don't even know your name."

  "Everyone pretty much calls me Frame."

  "Frame? What kind of name is Frame?"

  "Old English. It means of vigorous quality."

  She laughed out loud again and the sound of it made me feel like I had won the lottery. "Frame. Well, you have a big one."

  "Thanks."

  "And you have a big frame, too."

  It was my turn to laugh.

  "So what's your given name?"

  As per usual I got a little irked at that question.

  "You don't like your first name?"

  "Not much."

  "Now you have to tell me." She poked me in the ribs. "I'm your girlfriend."

  "Yes you are." I sighed and ran my fingers through her hair. It wasn't the worst secret I had. "Benjamin."

  "Benjamin."

  "Yes, ma'am."

  She lifted her head to peer at me in the dark. "That's not that bad."

  "Yeah, well, there were these movies. When I was a kid. About this little dog--"

  "Benji!"

  "Yeah," I sagged in defeat beneath her. "I was hoping you wouldn't get the reference."

  "Awww, did you get teased?"

  "It took a few bloody noses to settle it."

  "Bloody noses? How old were you?"

  I thought back. "I dunno, five?"

  She was appalled. "You were handing out bloody noses when you were five?"

  I stretched and sighed. "Pecking order starts early on the rez."

  There was a pause. "You grew up on the reservation?"

  "I spent time there."

  "You're tribal?"

  "I haven't been back in a long time, but yeah. I'm a citizen of the nation. Mom was half. I'm a quarter. I have the papers to prove it."

  "So when they call you tall dark and gruesome that's where the dark comes from?"

  "That's a fact. The tall and gruesome is five hundred years of Anglo-Saxon inbreeding."

  She made an amused noise and settled back onto my chest. "I will never call you Benji."

  "That's the thing."

  "What?"

  "If I really like a girl?"

  "Oh?"

  "I let her."

  "I can call you Benji?"

  "Baby, you can call me anything you like."

  She ground her face against my chest. "Benji."

  I didn't mind so much.

  "I wish I had met you twenty years ago."

  I laughed aloud and spoke the truth. "No you don't."

  "I don't?"

  "No." I took her little face in my paw and spoke the truth again. "But I'm glad I met you tonight."

  I could hear her eyes getting shiny. "Me too."

  "So you, spill."

  "What?"

  "I thought you were supposed to be smarter than the rest of us knuckle-draggers."

  "Oh! My name."

  "Yes, please."

  "Line."

  It was my turn to stare in the dark.

  "You're name is Line?"

  "Yes."

  "Professor Line?"

  "My name is Laurentine Amelie Deschanel."

  She said the names with the French accent and it was the most beautiful name I had ever heard in my life. Her name was caramel candy melting in her mouth, and mine.

  I got another poke. "That's Professor Deschanel to you, buddy."

  "Professor Line Deschanel. Yes, ma'am."

  "My father was French and my mother French-Canadian. Line's a nickname for girls whose names end in i-n-e. But no one in California could get the accent right so it just became Line. My parents were appalled but it stuck."

  I laughed out loud.

  She poked me in the ribs again and not gently. "You laughing at my name, Benji?"

  "No, I love your name."

  "Then what?"

  "Line and Frame. We should have our own show on HGTV."

  "I love HGTV."

  "I know, and I will forgive you for that and watch it with you."

  "The gentleman is too kind." She snuggled in and threw a leg over me. Her little package glowed against my hipbone.

  I would not have thought it possible but the next round was immanent. She felt it, reached down and grabbed it, and made a pleased noise.

  I sighed happily in her grip. "There's one other thing I let girls I really like do."

  She made a wary noise. But her grip tightened. "Should I ask?"

  "Go in the drawer. My side."

  She did an admirable job of dragging her glowing boobs across my shoulders and face without tipping the ashtray. She made a happy noise as she got licked for her trouble and groped around in the drawer.

  "Is that a bible?"

  "Not that."

  She paused in her rummaging. "This is a gun."

  I'd forgotten about that. "Try the back."

  I heard the rattle. She had them.

  "A necklace?"

  "That's it."

  She managed to limbo back without falling off the bed and straddled me. Her wet heat pressed against my hardness. "These are dog-tags."

  "Yes ma'am."

  "You were a soldier?"

  "No, I was not a soldier," I scoffed openly. "I'm a Marine."

  Once. Always.

  Semper fi.

  They clicked as she ran her fingers over them.

  She spoke quietly. "A United States Marine."

  "I'm not one of those vets who goes around wearing them everywhere and bragging in bars," I took them from her hands. She shook as I put the chain over her head. The tags clicked happily to rest against her cleavage. "But if I really like a girl? I let her wear them."

  She started crying then.

  I thought it was because she was happy.

  I was half right.

  The crying led to sudden desperate kissing and biting. That led to the kind of high-gear fucking that ended in my roaring, her screaming and all parties concerned going temporarily blind.

  I made a sincere attempt to kill her with my dick.

  It was one of those orgasms where you might really have died during it.

  We lay together gasping.

  I caught my breath and found myself laughing. "Now that felt like the end of the world."

  Her voice had gone hoarse and sexy as hell. "I want another cigarette."

  "Whatever baby wants? Baby gets."

  I couldn't find the ashtray and didn't care. We smoked contentedly.

  "You've never contemplated suicide, have you?"

  Strange question, and I had completely forgotten about the part where she might be nuts, but we were in the opening up phase now and I was game. "No, not even during the darkest parts, and I've had a few."

  "The mighty Frame will go down swinging."

  "I hope so."

  She sat up. "Can I use your bathroom?"

  "Of course."

  I ran my hand across her behind as she grabbed her glasses and fumbled about for her purse. She turned on the bathroom light and stood there naked except for her glasses and my dog tags and it was something. I propped myself up on my elbows. She looked at me for a long time. Then she smiled and shook her head. "Hey."

  "Hey."

  "Thank you."

  "You're very welcome."

  "I'm sorry."

  I didn't quite like the sound of that but I shot her the grin. "Did you give me herpes?"

  She giggled. "No."

  "Have you lied to me?"

  "Not about anything."

  "Have you ever killed anyone who didn't deserve it?"

  "Ummm . . . no?"

  "Then don't ever apologize to me for anything, ever."

  "Thank you."

  "You're welcome."

  She took a long breath and nodded to herself. "Benji?"

  "Baby?"

  "I love you."

  It popped right out of my mouth. No hesitation. "I love you, too."

  "You have two hours."

  She clo
sed the bathroom door.

  I frowned and examined one eyebrow and then the other in the dark. Right, two hours until—

  Even small guns are loud when they go off in your bathroom.

  I leaped out of my skin at the sound.

  "No!" I vaulted off the bed. "No, no, no, no, no!"

  She hadn't locked the door.

  Line lay there on my bathroom tile with a pool of blood growing around her head. Her glasses had gone flying. I don't know how many dead bodies you've seen, but a woman with a headshot wound that you just said I love you to wearing nothing but your dog tags is bad.

  I started shaking.

  I've seen all kinds of bad shit. I've seen dead men, dead women and dead children. I've seen suicides. I looked down at Line in horror. Alarm bells began ringing in my skull.

  Men and women are different. Men blow their brains out. Women cut their wrists. Men step in front of trains. Women drive their cars into lakes. Men hang themselves. Women OD on pills. Men jump off buildings and go splat. Women jump off bridges and give themselves to the waters.

  Line had blown her brains out in my bathroom.

  This wasn't a gesture, a cry for help or the final terminal phase of clinical depression

  Line had gone to a bar, picked up a man and then punched out because she wanted no part of what was going to happen next. I went from rocked back on my heels to cold, terrible, creeping dread.

  Oh, there was every chance she was nuts.

  But she had just done what she did.

  And I was going to remember the look in her eyes before she pulled the trigger to my dying day.

  I'm a bad person. I do bad things. Bad people who do bad things who live long enough develop instincts. I looked down at the body of the woman I loved and those instincts spoke to me.

  I had two really bad choices.

  One was to call 911. But I was an ex-con, and given my current occupation I had no desire to have contact with any cop unless they or their superiors were owned by or had an understanding with me or a current employer. I had a record. I was in the database. My fingerprints weren't on the gun and the gun wasn't mine, but like I said, women very rarely shoot themselves. This would send alarm bells up any cop's spine. Just like it had done mine. I would have a lot of explaining to do. I could probably beat the murder rap, but my current circumstances would not survive renewed scrutiny.

  They would go into my current finances, my current employment and I would go back in.

  I'm not going to whimper and say, "I can't do another dime, man!"

  I could.

  I could sit another five or ten standing on my head.

  But doing another stretch at my age and coming out with nothing was a dubious proposition at best.