by A B Whelan
She asks me if I have a car because she wants to show me the major tourist attraction in town, Morro Rock. On our way to the parking lot, I listen to her tourist-guide-like description of the nearly six-hundred-foot volcanic rock that stands jutting out of the ocean, off the shore like a giant ant mound.
I had expected her to take me on a stroll up and down the main street and introduce me to local cafes and music stores or to show me popular hangout places, hidden gems of places only an insider would know. A secluded shoreline wrapped in dense fog isn’t the tourist attraction I had in mind, but I go along to see it to the end. There is no way this girl doesn’t want to be courted. She has the vibe of a gentle soul who likes to be showered with flowers and chocolate. I can picture her curled up by a window on a rainy afternoon reading classic romance novels.
The drive is short, yet I learn more about Millie than I wanted to know on our first date. It’s impressive how open people become in the company of a man of privilege, and I only need to be slightly better looking than the devil himself.
I was wrong. She doesn’t dream about being an actress or singer. She wants to go to South America or Africa and teach English.
I don’t talk about myself. Not just because she doesn’t ask me any questions but because I know that men need to be good listeners. We need to make girls feel special, and that’s what I’m doing. I’m lucky to have a mother with so much knowledge and class, willing to pass her wisdom onto me. I feel like I’m more prepared to start my independent life than those who are left to experience everything on their own.
Millie seamlessly navigates me along the road to the beach where we pull into the sand and park. The alleged rock is right next to us, I’m told, but I don’t see a damned thing in the wet, misty darkness.
I leave the car running. We sit in the steamy warmth in awkward silence. I don’t know what she expects me to do.
She turns the volume up on the radio to a deafening level. Nerve-testing punk music fills the car.
I squint at her, trying to decipher what is she up to.
She pulls out her hairband and lets her soft, wavy hair fall onto her shoulders then gathers the entire bunch at once side of her swan neck.
This is not the sweet Millie who caught my eyes in the gift shop.
She puts on some lipstick using the rearview mirror, a bright, aggressive red color. She puckers her lips at me and winks.
I don’t smile back because I don’t want her to think that I find her behavior appealing. I want the girl who patted the stuffed baby seal and smiled at me softly.
She fixes a set of wicked eyes on mine. As if a demon has possessed her, she crawls over to my side of the car and mounts me like a horse. She forces her tongue into my mouth and puts her hand on my belt buckle.
I taste her lipstick. The small interior space of the car wasn’t designed for these kinds of acrobatics, and I feel uncomfortable.
While I was waiting for her on the dock, I had planned the future out in my head, how I’d visit her every week after lunch with Mother. I was going to bring her presents from San Francisco, rent a sailboat, and take her out to sea. I was going to go slow with her, take time to get to know her. Her aggressive approach is too fast for me. She’s trying to give me everything all at once. It’s like an overdose. I feel sick.
The sound of my belt buckle hitting the dashboard makes me cringe. This refurbished 1965 Shelby Cobra used to be my grandfather’s. A pair of tits pressed in my face prevents me from checking out the damage the buckle made. Can’t she see it’s an antique that needs to be treated gently?
She grabs my hand and slips it inside her blouse. I don’t resist because when I was fourteen, I went to a school dance where a senior girl took me to the bathroom. I was drunk after having my first mixed drink, a heavy dose of cheap vodka with Kool-Aid. The older and bigger girl pushed me against the wall and started harassing me. I didn’t know what I was doing. Besides, my mother told me how special making love to someone was. How I should only do it if the circumstances were perfect. When I loved the girl and she loved me back. I thought everyone was taught the same thing, but I was wrong.
I had pushed the senior’s octopus-hands away from me and told her that I didn’t want to do this. She grabbed my ears and smashed the back of my head against the wall. Then, when I was on the ground, she stomped on my stomach and chest with her high-heeled boots.
At one point I might have fainted, because my next memory is of lying on the reeking bathroom floor, shivering with cold. Next to me, a small group of girls were applying makeup, leaning against the sinks to get closer to the mirror. They laughed as I got back to my feet. I staggered out of the girls’ room and went home. I had headaches for weeks.
As that painful, old memory burst into my mind, I decide to go along with Millie’s plan. If I turn her down, she might turn aggressive too. I’m much stronger now. I can hit back, but I don’t want to.
Though I have very little desire to do so, I kiss this candy-shop-girl-turned-weirdo back as she unzips my pants.
I don’t keep condoms in my car, so I ask her if she has one. At my question, her face twists into an expression that gives me the chills.
“Are you scared I got something?” she snarls and drives her fist into my shoulder.
“No, it’s just…you don’t want protection?” I babble, clenching my teeth.
“Fuck, man! Most guys would be happy that I’m cool. What the hell is wrong with you?”
I push her off me and back into her seat. “You shouldn’t get angry about me wanting to be safe.”
“Safe? Fuck you, man! What do you think I am? A disease-carrying whore?”
I fix my zipper and tuck my shirt back into my pants. “It’s better if I take you home now.”
My peripheral vision offers me a hazy image of her cornering between the seat and the door, head hanging, hands on her lap. I turn off the radio, and the silence enhances her bull-like panting.
My Motorola’s loud ringtone startles me. I’m not quite used to this modern technology. Mother expects me to carry it everywhere so that she can get ahold of me or, in case of an emergency, I can use it to call for help. I know it’s Mother calling because nobody else has this number. She probably wants to know if I got home okay. I won’t answer, not with this crazy person in the car with me.
I pop the glove compartment open and shove the brick-sized device inside of it.
“You got a…” she starts to say and snaps her fingers, “what are they called…oh, yeah, mobile phone. How fancy!” she snarls. “You’re a spoiled rich boy, aren’t you?”
I ignore her mocking as I try to close the cover on the crammed glove compartment. A few pictures slip out and scatter onto Millie’s lap. She picks one up and examines it. “Is this your…mother?” She gathers the rest of the escaped photos. “Why are you carrying pictures of your mother in your glove compartment, psycho?”
I rip them out of her hand. “Get out of my car,” I say calmly.
“Are you out of your mind? We’re in the middle of nowhere.” She’s trying to fix her shirt, but with the missing buttons, it’s a failed attempt. She ties the front together and slips her arms into her coat.
“I said get out!”
“Who the fuck do you think you are, talking to me like that? I thought you knew why we came here. I don’t get you, man.” She kicks at my dashboard.
“This was my grandfather’s car. If you kick it again, I’ll throw you out myself.” This is it. No one disrespects my car. Mother would never forgive me if I had a scratch on it. Grandfather drove this car for decades without as much as a scratch on it.
“Why? Your mommy will spank you if something happens to it?” she says, laughing.
I hate her face, and I hate the way she sounds even more.
“Stop it!” I yell and cover my ears. “Just get out!”
She starts screaming, kicking my car, punching my shoulder. “Nobody disrespects me like this! Do you understand?”
&nbs
p; I compose myself and turn to her with a sigh. “All right. I’ll take you back to town, but stop damaging my car.”
She looks at me for a long moment with beady eyes. Then she takes a photo of Mother and me from my lap and rips it in half. “Fuck you, you pretentious prick! And fuck your mother.” She puts her hand on the door handle, but I pull her back by her hair and smash her face into the dashboard. She shrieks and reaches back, trying to rip my hand loose. I feel her nails digging into the flesh on my arm. I push her back onto the seat. She has no room to wiggle. She is pinned under my weight. I don’t see the sweet ponytailed girl behind the counter anymore; I see an annoying, squeaking toy that needs to be turned off before I lose my mind.
When she stops moving and her eyes look like polished marbles, I drag her out of my car and to the Morro Rock she was so eager to show me. Her coat picks up a ton of sand and debris from the beach, making her limp body as heavy as a sack of bricks that’s nearly impossible to move.
With all my might, I drag her to the north side of the rock and roll her into the water. I don’t stay to watch her body sink into the surf because it’s freezing cold out here.
I take my hoodie off and, on my way back to the car, use it to brush the sand to cover the drag marks. The morning tide will wash the turf smooth, but it wouldn’t be the first time I overlooked some implicating details.
When Caroline disappeared, I was convinced that the police would never get to me because we had kept our relationship a secret. But that dumb bitch had written about me in her diary, and I was taken to the police station and questioned by a bulldog detective. I stuck to my story throughout the interview, denying our relationship and only admitting to a shallow acquaintance. Since there were many names in her diary—some of her stories true, others a figment of her imagination—I was released from custody.
But this situation is different. There is nothing to tie me to this dumb bimbo. I had told her my name was Danny. She had seen my Stanford sweatshirt, but even if she had told someone, that insignificant amount of information couldn’t lead back to me.
I do a few donuts on the beach to mess with my tire marks in the sand and then find my way back onto the US 101, feeling angry about the picture that rude bitch ripped apart. I have clear tape in my apartment to fix it. It’s all good. It will be all good. Like this stupid evening never happened.
Halfway home, I feel tightness in my chest and shoulders. It could be from straining myself when I dragged the girl’s dead body to the water, or it could be stress. Great! The last thing I need before getting back to the pool is some severe muscle pain. I hate that stupid girl for messing me up. Then I remember the white-water rafting trip with my buddies. Now I must cancel it. If I don’t show up in Morro Bay next Saturday, it may be suspicious to the restaurant workers. I’m going to come back and eat my clam chowder like I do every week, and that girl can go to hell where she belongs. At least Mother will be pleased.
I drive above the speed limit, pressing down the gas pedal, my knees buckled, wishing I could know why unhinged, crazy chicks are attracted to me.
Olivia
MONDAY
I never thought I’d say this, but my husband frightens me. He is not the man I thought him to be. Since I sneaked into his private den, his man cave, his sanctuary, I’m not the woman I used to be either. I spend countless hours sitting by the tall window, staring at the deer munching on the fresh green shoots and leaves of Richard’s prized bushes. He expects me to call for Pablo when I see the deer and have him chase them away from our property, but I couldn’t move even if I wanted to. I no longer seek enjoyment in my husband’s annoyance; my mind is occupied with more important matters, whether I want that distraction or not. The drawings of naked, tortured women in his journal keep flashing in my mind. If I close my eyes, the images are more vivid, like a movie playing behind my eyelids. I can’t escape it.
I keep telling myself that Richard didn’t draw those pictures. I try to convince myself that he didn’t even know the journal was tucked in his recliner. One of his weird business partners had left it there, or worse, someone had hidden it in his room to frame my husband for something he’d never do. God knows he has a load of those weird men hanging around him—men who take annual trips to Thailand, men who have girls called Mindy, Cindy, or Honey on speed dial, men who are sugar daddies to college students. It had to be one of them who owned that sick booklet. Richard is a decent man. He has a short temper, and something people nowadays may call “anger issues,” but he is a decent man. He dedicates his life to saving abused women and children. He could never bring himself to look at pornographic pictures like those in the journal.
After our passionate encounter in the hallway, I go to bed believing that the series of today’s events must be an unfortunate coincidence. I base my reasoning on funny posts I watch sometimes online where a photo is taken at just the right moment to insinuate something entirely different—like when a dog looks back and there is a goat in the background, so in the picture, it looks like there is a dog with a goat head. Coincidences happen all the time. It doesn’t mean anything. I have nothing to be worried about. But the more I try to calm my nerves, the more it feels as though I’m cheating myself out of the truth.
I spend the first few hours of the night staring at my husband immersed in a deep sleep. He is not someone you’d call a pretty boy, but he has a jagged, manly charm to him. He carries himself with a straight spine—a dominant, demanding posture. When he enters a room, he draws people’s eyes to him. His entire persona is charismatic and captivating without him trying to be the center of attention with loud, gesticulated talking and flamboyant behavior like that of so many other men I know. He is simply a natural leader and an intelligent man who helps his community. “Sexual deviant” are not the words I would use to describe him. Besides, I had the misfortune to encounter my share of sick, twisted men, and if my husband were one of them I’d surely have noticed the signs.
By two in the morning, when Richard is snoozing softly but deeply, I work up enough courage to slip out of the bed and, with my body hugging the walls and my feet barely touching the floor, make my way downstairs. I don’t snoop around my husband’s stuff, especially not in the middle of the night like a thief, but the not knowing is killing me. I must calm the devil inside me. I need to know more about what Richard is doing in his “private” room.
I try the handle. The door is locked. I hiss, wanting to kick at the door and bang my fist on it. I should have taken the journal when I had the chance. I’m his wife. I have every right to confront him about things he keeps in the house we share.
I lean my back against the wall. I need a moment to think. For every simple explanation my mind offers, it also comes up with a nasty one too. That’s what I get for watching that episode of Law & Order: Special Victims Unit, where one of the head detectives at the unit is busted for watching kiddie porn on his computer while his wife and children were sleeping in the next room. My stomach rattles like a raging monster in a cage. I put my hand against my mouth to choke the gagging sounds rising from my throat. The girls on those pages in the journal were young, but not childlike. Richard is not interested in little girls and boys. He likes curves, boobs, and women.
I feel sick.
What if Richard is a member of some perverted sex club where men pay big bucks to tie up women, beat them, and have rough sex with them? I push the thought from my mind. Richard is and has always been gentle with me in bed—maybe even too gentle—seeking only ways to please me.
My mind swims again. I picture my husband in a latex outfit, down on his hands and knees with a gag ball in his mouth, and a young woman in thigh-hugging leather boots and a spiked miniskirt is whipping him from behind. The entire notion is ridiculous. I should be ashamed of myself.
Richard does have an unusually close relationship with his mother. At the dawn of our relationship, their bizarre bond annoyed me because we couldn’t make the simplest decisions without his mother’s inp
ut. But over the years I’ve come to accept the way things are. After all, Mrs. Campbell has exquisite taste and a good head for financial matters. But mama’s boys are always socially awkward, especially when they hit forty and have never taken on the responsibility of bringing up children and have never learned to be unselfish—or of the value of sacrifice.
I remember well how creepy a childless forty-year-old man can be. My uncle was like that. When I was a little girl, he’d kick my butt hard and chuckle when I told him how much it hurt. He was extremely self-absorbed, always late when there was some work to be done at my grandparents’ house but always first to arrive for free food and goodies. He never contributed to any holiday feasts my mother managed to conjure up by herself for the whole family from the little money we had. Yet he never missed an opportunity to get in a fist fight with my father over the trivial things.
He was almost fifty when he first got married, to an Asian woman who was working in Sweden illegally. There were rumors that he was abusing her physically and mentally. I once saw him pulling her onto his knees and spanking her because she didn’t agree with some political opinion he had. Weird stuff. I was only a kid, but I still remember the high-pitched wail that came out of her mouth. I knew that pain well.
My uncle was much like my father; their worst moments happened when they had one drink too many. My uncle would cuss uncontrollably in front of us kids, pinching and slapping the women in the house and beating his chest like a gorilla at the male family members. Once, my father casually stood up in front of him, as if to warn him to back off, but then he knocked my uncle’s lights out with one punch. I stayed away from my father after that incident, more so than before.