Drop Dead Gorgeous

by Jennifer Skully

“You offered to drive me along with Madison and Rhonda.”

  His jaw worked. “I didn’t tell anyone about what happened that night because it wasn’t any of their business.”

  That was as bad as his other reasons. “You were ashamed.”

  He stopped, cocked his head, then looked deep, deeper than she thought he ever could. “I’m tired of shouldering all the blame. It wasn’t my shame, Harriet, it was yours.”

  “Don’t be stupid.”

  “It was yours, Harriet. Remember what you called me? A gutless, pathetic wonder. You didn’t want them all to think you had to scrape the bottom of the barrel to get laid.”

  His words squeezed her chest. “That’s not true. I only called you that because I was mad.”

  “So you never said I was the runt of the litter in the office?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Then why did Rhonda tell me you said it to her?”

  That big mouth. “That was before I got to know you.”

  He didn’t seem to care. “I have no guts, no backbone, I’m a nothing who’ll always be a nothing, isn’t that what you said?”

  “I told her all that before I knew you better.”

  “But it’s still why you didn’t want anyone to know.”

  She put her hands to his chest and pushed. He didn’t budge. “If that were true, why would I use a lawsuit to tell them what we did?”

  “You tell me, Harriet. Maybe you’re getting lonely. Maybe you’re starting to think the bottom of the barrel isn’t so bad.”

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about. You don’t know what I’m feeling.” Confused and scared. “Get out of here before I call the cops.”

  “You want to get laid, Harriet, I’ll lay you. I’m a glutton for punishment. I thrive on it. Is that what you want, Harriet? I can come over here every night and fuck you senseless, and it can be our little secret. What do you say?”

  She slapped him full across the face, the imprint of her hand turning his skin crimson. She wanted to cry. She wanted to deny. She could do neither. He might be right in everything he’d said.

  He turned around and walked away from her.

  ZACH STOPPED DRIVING when he reached the beach. The sidewalks teemed with flocks of teenagers, skateboarders, guitar players, dope smokers and beggars.

  Threading through the crowd, he headed into the Boardwalk along the beach. The day had been hot with little humidity, a last lingering breath of still warm air forcing him to take his jacket off. He kept the sunglasses despite the fact that dark had fallen over an hour ago.

  Zach liked the flashing lights of the Boardwalk, the grind of the roller coaster, its timbers creaking, the screaming and laughter, the scents of mustard, popcorn, chicken poppers, commingled with the salty aroma of the ocean. A child pulled cotton candy from a stick. His mouth watered. A couple of teens shared an ice-cream cone, licking and kissing each other clean like animals.

  He hadn’t wanted Harriet that way tonight, not with innocence or gentleness. He’d wanted to throw her on the washing machine.

  It was the anger that made him feel this way. Just like his old man. His parents would have a whopper of a fight, then his mother would drag his father into the bedroom, slam the door, and…well, he’d always thought the screams were the sounds of her frustration and the banging was her throwing things at his father’s head.

  He was fifteen when he opened the door to see if she’d killed the old man. He didn’t need sex education after that.

  Christ. He didn’t know what he needed now. He’d always known there were two sides to every story. The number of sides Harriet displayed boggled him. His own behavior frightened him. Even odds that he’d screw her on the washer or he wouldn’t. For a moment there, fingers flexing, he almost had.

  He didn’t want nice, quiet and sweet like Madison. He didn’t want perpetual laughter, spontaneous gaiety or eternal optimism.

  He wanted war. A flashing firefight, an exhilarating, heart-pumping skirmish. He wanted it in Harriet’s bed. On her washing machine. In her car.

  But first he had to put a stop to the battle Harriet waged with Madison in any way he could.

  “MA, DO YOU THINK I’m going to die like Daddy did?”

  The question had always been an avoided topic. At least since Madison decided that she might suffer her father’s fate. She didn’t like to upset Ma with the death-and-dying conversation, and she wouldn’t if she hadn’t started having all these scary, crappy feelings. First, Harriet, then Richard. Not to mention what she’d done in T. Larry’s office. She suddenly felt so mixed up, even though what T. Larry had done was so very nice.

  She didn’t want him to be hurt. If something happened to her. If. When.

  Her mother put another butter tart on Madison’s plate, then poured two cups of tea. Finally, she said, “I pray every day that you won’t die until I’m long gone. That’s the way it should be.”

  “Is that why you go to church?”

  “I go to church because I believe in God.”

  Madison loved the warmth and scents of her mother’s kitchen at night, even on a warm June evening. The tart sweetened her mouth. The tea warmed her belly. There really was no place like home. Her mother had lived in the same house since the day she was married. The new couple had paid next to nothing for it in today’s terms; it was now worth a fortune. Her mother would never sell. Every five years her brothers painted inside and out. They’d refinished the cabinets and retiled the bathrooms. They’d added the sunporch at the back, planted perennials and annuals, trimmed the bushes and topped the trees. It was everyone’s home. None of them would ever truly leave.

  “Do you believe you’re going to die, Madison?”

  Madison savored another bite in the same way she did everything, as if it were the last time. She knew her mother hated this kind of talk, and she hated to bring it up. Yet she didn’t have anyone else she could turn to with this odd feeling bubbling up inside. “I don’t feel like I’m going to go today.”

  “Then I hope you feel that way every day.”

  “But if I do die, you still promise to cremate me?”

  “I rue the day your brothers started that worm thing.”

  She hated the thought of worms eating her. “Promise?”

  “I’ll do whatever you ask.”

  “Thanks, Ma.” Madison spooned a taste more sugar into her half-empty cup and stirred. “Do you think I’m selfish?”

  They sipped their tea, took bites of the luscious tart, then her mother answered. “You’re the most unselfish person I know.”

  Madison flexed her fingers, the bad hand tighter than normal as if all her tension and indecision resided in that side of her body. “I don’t like to hurt people. Especially you.”

  Her mother patted her hand flat. “I know you don’t. And I think you’ve done a super job so far.”

  Madison swallowed her last bite of tart, got to her feet and bent to her mother, cheek to cheek, hands on her shoulders. “Thanks, Ma. That’s why I like coming here. You always tell me exactly what I want to hear. You’d tell me I was the kindest person you ever met while I was ripping the head off the neighbor’s cat. I appreciate that kind of unconditional love.”

  Her mother held on to one of her hands when Madison would have straightened. “What’s really bothering you, sweetheart?”

  If she didn’t die right after her twenty-eighth birthday, she’d have to live with the consequences of what she’d done today, both with Richard and T. Larry. Whatever those consequences might be. She was terribly afraid the consequences wouldn’t be to her liking.

  “Nothing’s wrong, Ma. It’ll all work out. It always does.” She’d lived by that philosophy since the day she came out of the coma after her stroke. No reason to doubt it now. Even if she’d never felt quite this confused. “I gotta run or I’ll never be able to get up in the morning.” She kissed her mom’s cheek. “Thanks for the tea, tarts and talk.”

  “Say hello to that nic
e T. Larry for me,” Ma called as Madison headed out the door.

  Her mother always had to have the last word.

  When she reached her apartment, she saw that her porch light had burned out, leaving her stairs and stoop in the dark. Digging in the special purse pocket for her keys, she came up empty-handed. With no light on the scene, she’d never find them in the hodgepodge filling her bag. Bending, she pulled the mat back. The extra key was gone. Darn that Sean. He’d probably left it on her coffee table with an admonishing note. Very T. Larryish. Her brother, all her brothers, in fact, had been cut from the same mold. It took five minutes of finger-searching to locate her regular set of keys.

  Dumping her purse on the counter, she checked the garbage disposal first. On, off, water running. The device whirred with a beautiful high-pitched wail. She fed it a crusty old piece of bread she found hiding in the fridge. It took it like a dog devouring a bone. The bottle of champagne had miraculously disappeared, replaced by a smiley-face note. But no key.

  Nor was the key on the coffee table. The miserable cur threw out her rose. Darn. In all her gloom and life contemplation, she’d forgotten to thank her mother for yesterday’s cleanup and the beautiful rosebuds.

  Unfastening her sweater, she threw it across the sofa. Undoing the button and zip of her skirt along the way, she ambled down the short hall to her bedroom. The skirt caressed her legs as she slipped it off her hips, reminding her of T. Larry’s hands. She flipped on the light and stopped, arm in a midair toss.

  The closet door stood ajar, her clothes strewn across the floor and bed in a jumble of color. Rose petals had been crumbled and thrown atop the mess, their scent pungent and overpowering.

  Her skirt fell to the floor from her numb fingers. Needles shot through the flesh as if her hand had fallen asleep. She stared at her ruined clothing, the slashed material.

  The six-dollar fully lined, Evan Picone black dress with the princess neckline from the church thrift. The black-and-white silk Ann Taylor blouse her mother had uncovered for fifty cents. Two sizes too small, that had never mattered since Madison loved tight and the feel of silk against her. The fitted velvet jacket BeeBee had given her when she was cleaning out her closet last year. The blue leather skirt from the same clean out. They were priceless, irreplaceable. Money had nothing to do with it. Stories went along with each piece. Comforting scents of the previous wearer never really faded away.

  She bent for a favorite Liz Claiborne sweater, holding it to her nose. Years of collecting, hours spent with friends and family picking through thrift shop racks and garage sale tables. Each garment had a beautiful memory attached to it like a broach or a pin. Some people had photos. Madison kept clothes.

  Thank God she’d taken some pieces to the cleaners the other day. She couldn’t remember quite what, but some had been saved.

  She stood in the middle of her bedroom in her high heels, panties, garter and bra, the lights on, the shade not pulled. Kinda stupid. She shut off the overhead light, the shade rasped on its roller, then she fumbled for the switch on her bedside lamp. Rummaging through the carnage on the floor, she found the pink robe her friend Barbie Doll had brought back from the Royal Hawaiian last year.

  When she stuck her hand in the pocket, her fingers fell through a hole to her thigh.

  She sniffed but didn’t cry. Scooping an armload from the floor, she tossed them to join those on the bed. Turning to her violated closet, she swiped at her cheeks.

  Who would want to hurt her like this?

  The flowing black wrinkle skirt she’d worn on Monday hung from the rack. Survived. Unblemished. Still on its hanger. It was not short. It was not tight.

  The length of it brought to mind only one person.

  But Harriet couldn’t have done this. She didn’t even know where Madison lived. Or did she? The key was missing. Harriet had been so angry. She hated short skirts and tight sweaters. She’d specifically named Madison in her suit.

  This went beyond anger. It entered the realm of hate.

  Her shoes flashed from the floor of the cupboard. Neatly lined up, colors coordinated, she had two pairs of each of the basics. By no means Imelda Marcos, she still loved her shoes. She saw Richard watching women’s shoes clicking across the marble lobby. Her shoes hadn’t been touched.

  She’d just dumped him, ugly word but true. If angry, would he destroy shoes, leave them alone, or take a pair for a trophy?

  But he didn’t know where her apartment was. Harriet could have sneaked the address from personnel files, but Richard wouldn’t have a clue. Reverse directory from her phone number? She was sure you had to be listed for that, and her brothers had insisted she be unlisted almost as a condition of letting her move out of Ma’s house.

  Had she done something to piss off one of her friends?

  Oh my goodness God, none of her friends would do something like this. Neither would Richard or Harriet. Nobody could hate her like this. Nobody. She hadn’t hurt anyone enough to deserve something like this. Had she?

  She ran back down the hallway, made sure the front door was locked and propped a chair beneath the knob. Oh my God. What about the animals Ma knit? Miraculously, they were fine, nestled against the couch cushions. Oh, oh, if they’d been harmed…that would have been the worst. She checked the windows in the living room, then gathered the pink pig, the cowardly lion and the white rabbit in her arms and carried them all to her bedroom. She’d sleep with them. Finally she snapped the latch on her bedroom window, too. All locked up tight now. When it was too late.

  Robe cinched around her, she crawled into her bed, the pile of clothes heavy on top of her, the stuffed animals comforting on her pillow, and picked up the phone.

  She should have dialed 911. Instead her fingers picked out T. Larry’s number. She knew the office number, his cell phone, his home phone, even the number for his favorite restaurant three blocks from his house. She’d call them all if she had to, but he answered at home just before the message machine picked up.

  “T. Larry?”

  “It’s past my bedtime, Madison.” No inflection, no hint of the erotic, just T. Larry her boss.

  Her tummy tumbled over. To him, this afternoon had been nothing more than an irate mistake. Madison, however, didn’t ask for verification on that. “It’s only ten o’clock.”

  “I retire at nine-thirty.”

  “T. Larry—”

  “How was your date tonight?”

  “Short.”

  “How short?”

  “Less than ten minutes.”

  A lengthy pause, then, “Why?”

  “I’m not in the mood for twenty questions, T. Larry.”

  “Then tell me all at once instead of piecemeal. Did you tell him you’re not seeing him anymore?”

  “Of course that’s what I told him. What else would I have done after what happened this afternoon?” Even if the experience hadn’t changed things for T. Larry, it certainly had for her.

  T. Larry paused as if she’d taken his breath away with the list of things she’d now want from him. Then, “I don’t think we should talk about that.”

  She wondered if her words to Richard had hurt him as badly as T. Larry’s hurt her. “That’s not why I called.”

  “Then why’d you call?”

  She couldn’t lie, not in the security of her bed, with her ruined clothes like blankets on top of her. “To hear your voice.”

  “This is getting too serious.”

  She wouldn’t cry. She would not. “Just wanting to hear your voice is too serious?”

  “Yes. It’s a sign of attachment and the need for comfort.”

  She needed his comfort, and not for what happened today but for what she’d found in her apartment tonight. “Didn’t you say you wanted me to fall in love with you?”

  “I’ve changed my mind.”

  Her fears confirmed, she sighed and climbed from the bed, the portable phone still at her ear.

  “You’re breathing heavy. What are you doing?”


  She twisted her lips. “I’m going to the kitchen.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I’m upset.”

  “Because of what happened between us today.” Not a question, a statement.

  She couldn’t bear to hear another word on the subject. “I’m going to cook.”

  “Why?”

  “I always cook when I’m upset.” She reached into the cupboard for her selection of gourmet ice cube trays.

  “What are you making?”

  “Jell-O Jigglers.”

  “That’s not cooking. It’s heating up water.”

  “Yes, but it doesn’t need a recipe. That makes it inventive cooking. Do you want raspberry or blueberry?”

  “Raspberry.”

  She held up two ice trays to inspect. “Do you want creepy crawlers or body parts.”

  “Don’t you have anything ordinary, like balls or cubes?”

  “I’m not ordinary, T. Larry.”

  “I know.” She thought she heard him groan. “I’ll talk about what happened if you need me to, Madison.”

  She put a kettle on the stove to boil for the Jigglers, then pulled out a box of raspberry Jell-O. “I’ve changed my mind. I don’t need to talk anymore.” She’d die before her birthday if she had to listen to him call what they’d done a horrible mistake. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “Madison—”

  She pushed the off button in the middle of his voice. She wouldn’t tell him about the clothes. She wouldn’t tell him about the missing key, the lost hairbrush, the hang ups, the rose buds or her clean house. Her mother had nothing to do with that.

  T. Larry would say it was Richard. Madison feared it was Harriet. She simply could not call the police. In good conscience, she had to talk to Harriet first before she released the bloodhounds on her.

  For now, she called her brother and told him she needed new locks since he’d lost the key she’d left him. Sean had very big shoulders. He handled the guilt trip quite well.

  She gave in to her tears when she was again nestled in her bed, the Cowardly Lion pressed to her cheek and her closet full of ruined memories.

  LAURENCE SAT ON HIS COUCH, lights off, phone clutched to his chest, a glass of whiskey resting on the sofa arm.