He crosses the threshold.
“You’re not a vampire or something, right?” I say.
“Huh?”
“Because you asked for an invitation into my house,” I say.
He’s looking around, as if he hasn’t seen the inside of the house, and I realize I’ve done some decorating since he was in here last. It is new to him. He shoves his hands in his pockets. “I like what you’ve done with the place.”
“Listen, Deke,” I say. “You’re really nice coming over and giving me the housewarming present, and you know that I appreciate everything that you’ve done for me thus far, but—”
“Dinner,” he says.
“What?” I say.
He smiles at me.
My chest feels tight.
“My place. Tomorrow night. You come. I’ll feed you.”
My lips part. That’s a terrible idea. It’s practically a date. Every time I’m around him, I feel all warm and aroused, so I clearly can’t trust myself around him. Also, he’s kind of a dick. I happen to be hot for him, but that doesn’t excuse his manners or his rude, sexist assumptions. I need this guy in my life like I need a hole in my head. “Sounds great.”
He looks me over, and I get the strange sensation that he can see through my clothes. He’s got this possessive look on his face, like I somehow belong to him, and I don’t. I don’t.
And yet, I have to admit, it makes me crazy hot.
After he leaves, I go digging around for my vibrator.
Deke Rochester is bad, bad news.
* * *
-deke-
I’m waiting at Henry’s house when he comes back from wherever the hell it was that he went. I don’t know. Maybe the guy’s got kids somewhere or some shit. Maybe he got kicked to the curb by his wife and decided to come live out here in the middle of nowhere.
Sometimes, I think that everyone who’s out here is like me, running from something. But I don’t know what’s up with Henry. I don’t care to ask either.
His house is a trailer that’s been added onto. A porch hangs off the back of it, weathered lattice work with peeling paint, and there’s a whole addition on the front, but only half of it has siding. The rest is just plywood. Maybe it’s a project that Henry is still working on. Maybe he’s simply lazy.
I couldn’t give a flying fuck.
I’m sitting on his front steps when his truck pulls up, and he sees me right away.
He’s confused that I’m there, and he gives me a look of distrust and concern. But then that all melts away into his characteristic big grin. “Deke!” he says with his booming voice. “How you doing?”
“Fantastic,” I say, getting up and crossing his yard to meet him.
He’s getting out of his truck, coming to me with his hand out to shake. “So nice to be greeted by a neighbor after a journey.”
I shake hands with him. “Hope you had a nice time.”
“Sure did,” he says. But he doesn’t volunteer where the hell he was, and I don’t ask. “So, what do I owe the pleasure?”
We aren’t shaking hands anymore. He’s got his hands in his pockets, and he’s still grinning. He reminds me of a character from a 1950s sitcom, as if he’s too cartoonish to be real.
I fold my arms over my chest. “Well, I’m just here to tell you that Felix Cooper’s probably going to come out tomorrow to come and see you.”
“Oh?” He raises his eyebrows at me. “You know I haven’t seen you since that time you were towing that little silver car out of here. How’s that possible? That was months ago. We live so close, but we never see each other.”
So, he brought it up, did he? I shake my head. “You still remember that car, do you?”
Henry laughs a great big belly laugh, like he’s someone’s grandfather. “Oh-ho, I understand. You don’t want me to talk about that silver car, do you, Deke?”
I sigh. What do I say to this guy? I don’t want to admit guilt, but I also don’t want him blabbing to anyone either. I’m not sure what to do about Henry, really not sure.
“I bet you don’t want me to say a thing about it to Felix, do you?” He reaches out and pats me on the shoulder.
I recoil. I’d rather he not touch me for some reason.
“Well, maybe we can work something out.”
“Work something out?” I’m confused.
“As you know, I’ve got a generator to fill for the winter,” he says. “It gets mighty expensive. I hear you’ve got some money from building that house for that girl who moved in. You know, I don’t know if I’ve ever caught her name. What is it?”
“You want me to bribe you not to talk to the cops?”
“Bribe is kind of an ugly word, isn’t it? I think we’d simply be helping each other out. It’d be the neighborly thing to do, wouldn’t it?”
“Listen, I didn’t do anything wrong,” I say. “The car looks bad, but it’s not… I’d just rather no one look into it.”
“Oh, I understand,” he says. “Believe me, I know how things can look worse than they actually are.”
He does, huh? Well, maybe he is running from something too.
“Do we have a deal?” He’s so cheery, I want to punch him.
“Yeah, yeah,” I say. “I’m buying your fuel for the winter. Sure.” As I drive away, I think about killing Henry Watson. That would solve all my problems, and it would be cheaper too. I’m guessing no one would miss him.
But I can’t do it. I’ve got no reason to. He doesn’t pose a threat to me, at least not one that I can’t get out of without violence. Killing Darius was bad. The nightmares still haven’t completely gone away. Killing Henry would be even worse, because he’s my neighbor. I hate the guy, and he’s kind of a dick since he’s willing to blackmail me for his silence, but he’s not a bad person. He doesn’t deserve to die.
I don’t know how I would rationalize it to myself.
Besides, it’s too dangerous. They’d go searching for him, and they might find his body out there before he was picked clean. I’d have to try to hide the body, or destroy it, or…
No.
I’m not killing Henry.
I’m going to fork over the cash.
* * *
-juniper-
“You cooked all of this?” I survey Deke’s table, which is laid out with some kind of feast. He’s got fried fish and boiled potatoes and a salad and a loaf of lumpy brown bread that smells divine. I like his house, too, which is even smaller than mine. It’s clearly been built onto. He’s added things as he’s gotten the time. I like how it feels homespun and cozy and real. It’s exactly the kind of place that I wanted for myself. My own house seems too designed and modern now. His seems perfectly rustic.
“Not the bread,” he says, handing me a glass of wine. “I bought that at the bakery in town. But this is homemade blackberry wine.”
I raise my eyebrows. “You make your own wine?”
He nods.
“Whoa, I would love to learn how to do that.” I’m flabbergasted. This is all too much. “I can’t believe this. You, uh, you don’t seem like the kind of guy who cooks.”
He grins. “Why’s that?”
“I don’t know.” I sip at the wine. It’s sweet. Good. Strong. “You’re, you know, all brawny and tough and whatever.”
“And that precludes cooking?”
“Precludes?” I say. “That’s a word you don’t hear out of a person’s mouth that often.”
He laughs. “Yeah, sorry. I guess I get used to reading and hearing my voice in my head. I forget that I sound like a pretentious ass sometimes.”
“You are the opposite of pretentious.”
“Thank you, I think,” he says. He gestures. “Should we eat?”
“Yes,” I say. I’m screwing this up, saying the wrong things to him, and I feel embarrassed until I remind myself that I don’t want to make things work with this guy. I want to chase him off. I resolve to be rude and brash and make him hate me. “I guess,” I say as I sit dow
n and pick up a fork, “you don’t seem like the kind of guy who’s much interested in doing girly things like cooking.”
He sits down. “I don’t think cooking is girly. Everyone’s got to eat. It’s just a thing people do. I mean, I guess you could say that there’s some precedent for a gender divide in ancient culture. Men hunted the food and women prepared it, or something.”
“How do you know women didn’t hunt?”
“They probably had to stay with the kids and keep them safe,” he says.
“You know female lions are the hunters,” I say, not that this has to do with anything.
“I have heard that,” he says.
“Anyway, you don’t strike me as the kind of guy who would do anything even remotely girly.”
He arches an eyebrow at me and gives me a knowing smile. “Well, you’re right about that.”
I get shivers. God, he seems so incredibly masculine right now that I want to get up and go to the other side of the table and climb him—straddle him—dig my nails into—
Stop it, Juniper.
This isn’t going the way I want it to go. I should probably leave. That would be easier. I don’t even need to make up an excuse. The more rude I am, the more likely he’ll be to steer clear of me. And I do want to chase him off. Maybe if I keep telling myself that, it’ll sink the hell in.
I toss my head. “I bet you’re one of those guys who thinks that women should know their place.” There. That’s an appropriate sort of dig. That’s not quite rude enough, but I’m getting there.
“Why do you say that?” he says. “Just because I offered to change your tires for you?” He hands me a platter of fish.
I dip food on my plate. “It wasn’t really an offer. It was, like, a command.” I’m getting warm all over thinking about it.
“Sorry,” he says. “I tend to be… assertive. I don’t mean to be a jerk about it.” He hands me more food.
I’m dipping potatoes onto my plate. “And all that stuff about the house, when we first met, you talked down to me—”
“Not because you were a girl,” he says. He clears his throat. “Sorry. A woman? A lady? What’s the preferred nomenclature there?”
“Nomenclature?” I’m laughing again. “You have a Ph.D. or something?”
“Nah, I never finished my undergrad,” he says.
“But you went to college?” I’m surprised. I look him over. “I didn’t go to college.”
“No?”
“What’s the point? I knew that I wanted to live like this. You don’t need a degree for this. I needed money, though. So, I started working and saving up all my cash. Everything I’ve done has been to get me to this point, to live off the land. I’ve been saving up for a long, long time.”
He nods at me. “You’re pretty determined, then.”
I shrug. “I know what I want and I go after it, that’s all.”
He cuts a potato with his fork. Pops it in his mouth. Chews.
The potatoes have been seasoned with rosemary and seared so that the skins are crispy and so is the rosemary, and they’re soft and fluffy on the inside. They’re amazing.
“I don’t know if men and women have places, exactly,” he says, after he swallows. “But maybe the division of labor came about because it made sense for various reasons. I guess in a modern context, it doesn’t always make sense, so there’s no reason not to change it up.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, take the idea that men should hunt the food,” he says. “If you’re talking spears and primitive weapons, it probably makes sense for those to be thrown by younger men with more upper body strength.”
I scoff. “Women have muscles, same as men.”
“Yeah,” he says, giving me an appraising look. “I installed that pull-up chin bar over your steps.”
The way he’s looking at me is making me feel warm all over again. I eat more potatoes.
“Anyway, it’s more than that,” he says. “Hunting is dangerous—”
“Oh, right, men have to protect the little women,” I mutter.
“No, think about it,” he says. “Who’s more expendable in a primitive society? Men are, obviously. Not only do women carry the children, but the young are dependent on the mothers for milk, so who are you going to send out to risk his life against the predators? The valuable women? I don’t think so. You don’t protect women because they’re weaker, but because they’re vital to the survival of the species. It’s instinct, right?”
I swallow. Why did his saying that make me feel even hotter? Seriously, why are my thighs tingling? Why do my breasts feel heavy? I hate this guy. I really hate him.
“None of that matters in a modern society, though,” he says. “The jobs we have to do, they’re interchangeable. It doesn’t matter. No one’s connected to the earth or to their instincts anymore, and that’s why everything is empty.”
My lips part. “That’s why I wanted to come out here, live like this. I wanted to reconnect with the earth, with…”
He nods.
I sit back, trying to remind myself that I want to get away from him, not fuck him. “It’s not all like that, though.”
“Huh?” he says.
“The division of labor stuff? I mean, men didn’t suddenly start depriving women of the ability to own property and refusing to let them sit astride on horseback because they were trying to promote the survival of the species.”
“Well, you’re talking about civilization,” he says. “That’s totally different.”
“Men started treating women like livestock,” I say and with more fire than I mean to. Maybe it’s because he’s gotten me worked up, maybe it’s because I’m desperate to do something to stop this train I seem to be on, which seems to be on a runaway track right to his bed. Which, incidentally, is right over there on the other side of the room. It’s folded up like a couch now, but I can see that it can fold down, and we could be there in two seconds if we wanted.
“Well, livestock is hardly natural,” says Deke. “That’s civilization. Keeping animals instead of hunting them.’
“You keep animals,” I say.
“Yeah, so?’
“So, aren’t you criticizing against civilization?”
He shrugs, looking a little embarrassed. “I don’t know. I can’t decide, I guess.” He spreads his hands. “Look, people do what they’re told. They learn from their parents and the authority figures and it’s not everyone who breaks out of that mold. Men were taught that women weren’t capable of taking care of themselves, and they believed it.”
“That’s not an excuse. I mean, people were capable of re-evaluating. Women didn’t have to burn their bras and march in the street—”
“Well, now, you’re mixing up your eras,” he says. “It’s one thing to talk about what it was like before women were able to own property or vote, that’s the 1800s. It’s another thing entirely to talk about the feminism of the twentieth century. Because that was less about legal redress and more about reshaping the roles of men and women.”
“Which is what we were talking about, right? About the division of labor and all of that? I mean, men gave women the shitty jobs and told them it was their place to stay at home and be financially dependent on the men while the women popped out babies and then when women said they weren’t cool with that, men were all butt hurt about it.”
He’s quiet.
“Nothing to say to that?”
“I’m not…” He sits back in his chair. “I don’t think it’s as simple as you think it is.”
“No? It’s like any upset in the balance of power. The people with the power don’t want to give it up.”
“Yeah, but this is in romantic relationships,” he says. “That’s not the same.”
“If men really thought women were valuable, like you said, if they had that instinct, then why did they treat women like crap for hundreds of years, and why were they such assholes about letting women be equal to them?”
“I think… you’re looking at it the wrong way,” he says. “Like, first of all, it’s never been equal. Like I said, women are more valuable than men. I think some men resent that.”
I lift my chin. “Okay.”
“Maybe it’s the resentment that’s the problem.”
“So, men want to be able to have babies?”
“No.” He sets down his fork in disgust. Then he picks it back up again, thinking about it. “Maybe?” He puts the fork back down. “No, definitely not. But that instinct, that knowledge of your expendability, it’s got to weigh on a person, right? So, if men put pressure on women to try to make them less, maybe it’s just because they, you know, don’t know how to accept that.”
“Men aren’t expendable,” I say, setting down my own fork. “If we’re just talking about… about reproduction—” and my voice has suddenly lost its bottom. “Then we’re equally important. So, whatever is making men think that they’re not important, that’s just bullshit.”
“Maybe,” he says. “Maybe the truth of it all is that none of us are important. The world is all going on around us and everything is locked in its own private struggle. The bunnies are running from the wolves and the trees are trying to get their roots down deep enough to suck up the water and the lions have to take down that antelope or their cubs don’t eat. Every moment, the entire universe is pressing down on the little spark that is you or me or any individual, and if you don’t rage, rage against the dying of the light, it eats you.”
I gape at him. He’s gotten so intense suddenly, and there’s a darkness in his expression, something savage and strange, and I feel a tendril of fear climbing up my spine, because of the way he’s looking at me.
He ducks his head down. “Sorry,” he mutters. “Shit. My, uh, my social skills are a little rusty. I don’t talk to people too often. Sometimes I don’t know when to shut up.”
“It’s okay,” I murmur. “I baited you.” Is he right? Do people do shitty things because we’re all in danger all the time? Because we’re all a big bundle of fear and struggle? Because deep down we know we are nothing?
No. I won’t believe it.
It isn’t true. It could be true, if you looked at it one way. Sure, there’s all that pain and struggle in the world, but there’s also senseless beauty. If it were only about survival, there wouldn’t be so much color in the world.
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