by Judith Tewes
Owen held onto his dented locker door for life support. His knees buckled, sending his foot sliding into his fallen glasses. Drawing Ty’s attention to a missed opportunity.
The three of us stared at them. Time slowed. I met Ty’s glinting eyes and deliberately shook my head.
He wouldn’t.
Yeah, sure he would.
A sharp pop sounded as Ty crushed Owen’s glasses under his foot, shattering one lens and warping the hell out of the wire frame. He wore a feral, triumphant grin as he performed the desecration. Satisfied with the damage, he jerked his head and his goons fell in line behind him. They stalked down the hall.
It could have been much worse. Whatever Ty had wanted, he’d accomplished his goal of scaring Owen shitless way before I stepped in. I gave Owen a chance to pull himself together. His Star Wars t-shirt had ridden high on his chest, revealing an abnormal amount of underwear around his waist. Clearly, the kid had endured one hell of a wedgie.
I grimaced. “You okay?”
Owen nodded and tugged his shirt down over the waist of his brown chords. He kept his gaze on the floor, fixed on the remains of his glasses.
“Sorry about these.” I bent down and saved what I could. One lens had popped free of the mangled frame and the other had cracked into five jagged pieces.
“It’s okay,” Owen said. “I have other pairs strategically placed around my house, just in case. Sometimes I forget I’m wearing them.”
Of course he did. I handed him the bits of frame and glass I’d recovered. “Whatever Ty has on you, we can do something about it.” The irony that Adams had said almost the same thing, moments before, didn’t escape me. Still, I had to try.
My cell phone rang. I dug into my pocket, but Owen clutched my arm. It definitely wasn’t a strong grip, but I could see he was working a muscle. Like, one. “Charlie, I did something, something really bad, and I need to do penance.”
I answered the call.
“Whatever it is, Owen. We can fix it,” I said, distracted as I brought the phone to my ear, but admitting I’d grown fond of Roach’s little redemption philosophy.
Speak of the devil. “Where are you? I thought we were meeting in the cafeteria.” Her voice blasted through the phone. “Did you forget it’s perogie day?
“No, I didn’t. But Owen…”
“Owen hates perogies,” she said. “Let’s move beyond food. You’ve got to come with me. Divine Wrath has a huge show tomorrow night and Preston’s invited us backstage. Not only that, there’s going to be this massive after party at the band house.”
“I dunno...” I studied Owen’s face. Teary eyes. Deep frown. He continued to talk, while I wasn’t listening, looking like someone just shot his puppy, point blank, with a cannon.
Damn, Ty, for so many things.
“Don’t dither. I need you. The band needs you,” Roach was saying in my ear. “They need us to work the merchandise table.”
Oh, now that sounded like fun – Roach’s kind of fun, which, if you remember, includes alphabetizing her DVD collection.
And then I heard what Owen was going on about, “I gave him the list, Charlie,” Owen repeated. “He told me if I gave him some intel on you, just one thing, he’d leave me alone. And I did it, I gave it to him, and now you’re going to hate me forever.”
The list.
Owen, the little rotter, had given Ty the list. A red haze settled over my vision. Suddenly I wanted to direct a slasher film, with Owen as the one and only victim. Getting repeatedly sliced and diced, time and again, blood spatters on the camera lens, spurting from arteries like one of those jet propeller lawn sprinklers…
“Charlie, did you hear me?” Roach and Owen asked, almost in the same breath.
I ended the call, turned from Owen and walked away while I could.
But the hits kept coming.
Chapter Twenty-seven
The rest of the day I waited for the axe to fall. I kept checking online, waiting for an appearance of the list and the beginnings of a lynch mob. For the stares to start, cell phones to be passed around, or for lockers to suddenly sprout more secrets from the intensely private personal files of Charlotte Webb.
But, nothing.
Ty the Executioner waited for the right moment to strike.
And it was killing me.
Snow dusted my boots as I tromped on the sidewalk that framed the school field. The familiar rumble of Bernie’s engine had me straightening my back with resolve. Roach could always pull me back from the brink but not this time. My hurt was too great. Even Superman needed the Fortress of Solitude. If I didn’t get some time to think…I’d embrace the crazy.
And once I did that, there’d be no turning back.
I snuck a glance at Bernie. Owen mashed his face against the window in the back seat. Too bad it didn’t snap under the pressure and decapitate him. That would have been nice.
“Charlie, get in.” Roach poked her head out the driver’s window.
I kept walking.
“Owen told me what happened.” I stopped and looked at her then, saw how she glared at Owen in the rear view mirror. “And the boy will be duly punished. Possibly skinned alive. Twice. Nay, thrice over. But please, can we talk about it?”
Yeah, Roach did want to commiserate with me, of that I was certain. She was my best friend, but I also knew she worried I’d take any bitterness I had toward Owen out on her as well. Guilt by sharing the same gene pool.
“I’ll still help with the show, Roach,” I assured her. “And I don’t really blame Owen. Who is a fucking. Little. Idiot.” Roach idled in the street. “But I need some time, okay?”
“What about your date tonight? Still on?”
“As far as I know.” I shrugged. “I’ll fill you in later.” As Roach gave Bernie some gas, my gaze skirted over Owen who mouthed, Sorry.
“You look a little, well, I guess desperate is the word, Charlie, you okay?” Tony met me in the alley behind Up-A-Chuck. He’d answered my knock on the bay door.
Behind Tony - a smash of pots. Swears. The bludgeoning of something dense and likely bloody.
“Do you have to go and help with that?” I asked out of politeness, a trait that reared its ugly head occasionally. I think the last time was in the seventh grade.
“Naw, they have it under control.”
Perfect. I cut to the chase. “Is Eric working today?”
“Rumor has it he took the day off to get ready for some hot date.” Tony eyed me with concern. “You’re not here to break my boy’s heart are you? To take the moon out of his sky, the stars from his heavens…”
Melodramatic, shirt unbuttoned to reveal a matt of dark chest hair. I had to ask, “Are you sure you’re not Italian?”
Tony shrugged. “What can I say? I’m a romantic.”
I did some digging. “Did anyone, say, about this tall,” I held up my hand to Ty’s height, “big, beefy,” I rounded my shoulders and tried for a stunned expression, “and lacking brain cells drop by to see Eric? Maybe about an hour ago?”
“Are you jealous? Because I know for a fact, Eric would never ditch you for a girl who fit that description.”
I straightened with a snap. “Not a girl, a guy. A big dumb jock who’s after my blood. Never mind. I guess I’ll find out tonight.” I shuffled away from the restaurant.
“Wait, if Eric calls, do I say you were looking for him?”
“No. Yes. It doesn’t matter.”
“Want his phone number?”
“He’s not answering.”
“He’s a bit of a luddite. Grace still married?”
I slipped out of the alley and into the street.
Chapter Twenty-eight
The lights from the marquee bathed the night in a warm, vintage glow, which was a bit of Hollywood smoke and mirrors - the temperature had plummeted at sunset, leaving all warmth an illusion. Anticipation revved the winterized moviegoers and the line outside of the Empress buzzed. Of course, that could be the chatter of all
those false teeth in the cold. To say I was the youngest in that bunch of brave souls was accurate, but I bet I was the only one out of diapers.
Still, it was heartening to see so many older couples out on a brisk Valentine’s night. Kind of made me think this love thing could last. Why, these people had to be together for more than thirty years, right?
“This is a wonderful idea, Fred. I adore going to the pictures,” the elderly woman in front of me said to the man at her side. “That online matchmaking service works just peachy.”
Make that thirty minutes.
I hung back, letting everyone else slip past me as I waited for Eric to show, but all too soon the line whittled down to just me. The once chipper looking old-fashioned ticket booth took on a sinister disposition. I scanned the empty street and the sidewalk, hoping for Eric’s form to appear in the distance, backlit with a bit of fog around him for dramatic effect.
No fog. No drama. No Eric.
The college-aged girl inside glanced up from her cell phone. “You want a ticket, or what?”
I stalled, glancing at the Hitchcock promo poster taped on the theatre door – the director’s famous silhouette filled in with a bunch of his movie titles. “Which one is playing tonight? Psycho? Dial M for Murder?”
“Easy Virtue.”
I choked on my saliva. “Excuse me?”
“That’s the film.”
Talk about signs from above.
“One of Hitchcock’s initial efforts.” The girl began a bland recitation - a government service phone menu had more personality. “Easy Virtue is a silent film that speaks loudly about the judgment and self-righteous attitudes of its time.”
Another frantic scan of the streets. Maybe Eric was just running late. If I got the tickets now, we could go right in when he did arrive. I’d already sent four texts and left three messages on his voicemail, my pride wouldn’t let me call again.
“I’ll take two tickets, please and thanks.” I dug in my coat pocket for some money and slid a bill along the counter, under the beveled glass. The funds were accepted, tossed in the till and two tickets were slid back to me all while the girl texted with her other hand. Impressive.
“Enjoy your show.” The insincerity was palatable. Or that might have been the taste of popcorn drifting on the air.
“I will, I mean, I hope I will.” I tapped the tickets on the counter. “I’m waiting for a guy. It’s our first date. On Valentine’s. I’d say that’s pretty special, wouldn’t you?”
The girl looked at me then. Glanced out at the vast, cold, empty night. “You’re screwed, kid.” She pointedly flipped a “BACK IN FIVE MINUTES” sign in the window and went back to texting.
Swallowing hard, I began to pace in front of the glorious Empress while the marquis lights flickered and snapped over my head threateningly.
I knew. Of course, I knew.
But I still waited a full hour and forty-seven minutes.
Chapter Twenty-nine
The text from Ty came through minutes later as I sat next to a drunken businessman in a crumpled suit who mumbled stuff about insider trading and the deal of the century. Somehow I didn’t think he’d made that good of a deal if he was still on the crowded and foul smelling 5 bus.
I read the message again.
How does he hate you? Let me LIST the ways… J
While it confirmed everything I’d suspected, it gave me no sense of closure, and left a gaping hole in my gut.
Plus, there’d been no need for the smiley face. That was just cold.
Sucking up my pride, I called Eric one last time. Straight to voicemail.
“This isn’t fucking fair, Eric,” I said, right after the beep. “So, please call me, okay?” I hung up.
I dialed Roach. Voicemail there too. Beep. “Valentine’s Day is the work of the devil,” I yelled. A smattering of applause broke out on the bus. I stood and gave a clumsy bow. The drunk slumped over, his forehead smushed into my seat.
By the time I connected with the 17 and bussed it back to Monty’s, I’d been through all the stages. Anger. More anger. Followed by some serious self-reproach that I’d quickly twisted back to anger, and I’d come out the other side. Really fucking mad.
I’d made mistakes and maybe Ty had cashed in on that fact, but Eric shouldn’t have stood me up. He’d had multiple options. Telling me off on the street, telling me off in the middle of a crowded theatre, or here’s a thought…how about just showing up and asking me what the hell was going on?
I stormed into the house. Kicked my boots off. Fired my hat across the hall. And waited for Monty to react. All I heard was an absurd laugh track from the TV in the living room.
I trudged inside.
Monty sawed logs on the couch with Mona curled around his feet. What was it with old people and the magic sleepy-time hour of nine o’clock?
Deflated, I grabbed the knitted afghan resting along the back of the couch and draped it over my grandfather’s suddenly smallish looking form. Mona growled and pulled a section of blanket over herself with her teeth.
Smart little bitch.
Just as I was about to leave, Monty shifted and a piece of paper slipped from his hand to drop onto the carpet. I picked it up. It was an old black and white photograph, you know the kind, with the white border that made every picture look important.
But this one really was. The most important. I turned to catch the glow from the TV. In the photo, a young beauty sat perched on the hood of a classic old Buick with Niagara Falls in the background. Pencil skirt, sailor blouse and man’s tie draped loosely around her neck. My grandmother, no question, Mom looked so much like her.
I’d only seen a few pictures of her and each one was imprinted on my mind. This I hadn’t seen before. None of the others were when she was so young.
So alive.
Monty must have taken the pic during their honeymoon. I remember Mom wanted Dad to take her to the falls for their twentieth anniversary, kind of as a tribute to Grandma. Course Dad died way before that milestone. And even if he’d lived, their marriage never would have lasted.
But my grandparents? They’d have made it if cancer hadn’t stolen Grandma away. They’d really had it, that something special that welded two people together better than sex, better than a head-on collision. They’d been in love.
Flipping the photo over, I noticed words scrawled on the back. A message Monty must have written to himself when he realized he was starting to slip. I wasn’t even sure he could read the wobbly handwriting anymore.
This is Vera. She was your wife. Don’t forget.
I gently placed the photo on the coffee table and stumbled downstairs, bashing my elbow on the hand railing thanks to tears that wouldn’t stop. I stripped off all my clothes, letting them drop to the floor where I stood and fell stomach-first into bed.
The bar in the middle of my pull-out couch stabbed me in the ribs. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. I thrashed on my comforter, but found no comfort. The sharp pain in my ribs was nothing compared to the ache in my heart.
Chapter Thirty
The night of the concert, I worried about leaving Monty and Mona home alone, but I’d promised Roach I’d go and I needed something to shake the funk that had settled over me since The Date That Never Was. But I was hopeful I had everything under control. I hadn’t left the house without taking a few extra safety precautions. Creamer was stocked - therefore no late-night trips to the corner store were required. In theory. I’d also locked up Mona’s food to eliminate Monty feeding her a thousand times.
They’d be fine.
Maybe I should call to be sure. A scattered phone conversation with Monty had to be better than this.
I plastered on a smile, the same one I’d been wearing for the last two days. No one seemed to notice it stopped short of Jack Nicholson in the Shining, you know, the scene where he pokes his face through a hole he just chopped in a door.
But freaky, surface normalcy was better than letting the world see how I really f
elt. Letting those feelings shine through on my face would make the possessed Nicholson look like he’d been reciting nursery rhymes. And then…the band stuff. Ugh.
We had an hour to go before show time, but it had only taken about three minutes for me to realize the retail industry would not be appearing on my list of potential careers. Roach, however, seemed to soak it up. She even developed a special way to give people back their change with a regal flourish.
I picked listlessly at my wool sweater.
Roach shot me a concerned glance. “Are you still stewing? I know my brother is the spawn of the devil and we should probably have skinned him alive, but at least he confessed. And, on the bright side, Ty didn’t go ahead and repeat himself and blitz the school with the list.”
“He didn’t have to, his mission to make me miserable was accomplished with one direct hit.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Eric still avoiding you?”
“Nothing to avoid. I stopped calling. It’s obvious we both have trust issues. I’ve already made a fool of myself once for him, if he can’t return the favor – he’s not worth pining over.”
“Then you admit you’re pining?”
I shot her a glare, grabbed my phone and decided there was no time like the present to check up on Monty.
“A photo shoot is the perfect distraction, great idea!” Roach snatched the phone from my hands and dragged me out from behind the merch table. “Stand right there…” She had us pose beside one of the band’s life-sized cut outs and held the phone at arms length.
“I can’t believe how many people showed up for this,” I said as we returned to the table. “And they’re rowdy. It’s bible thumpers gone wild.”
“What’s the matter?” Roach shot me a sideways glance. “Scared some of it might rub off?”
“As if.”