Just One Night, Part 2: Exposed

by Davis, Kyra

  “You called them,” I say, making my words into a statement rather than a question. If I’m wrong, he’ll smirk, inadvertently giving me a clue as to what’s going on. If I’m right, he’ll think I know him better than I do.

  But of course I don’t know him at all. The man sitting by my side is little more than an ice sculpture of the warm human being who used to hold me through the nights.

  Dave doesn’t smirk. Instead he nods, almost reluctant to acknowledge the accuracy of my statement. Perhaps he wants to keep me guessing about everything.

  “Do you want to know what I told them?”

  It’s funny, but I don’t think I’ve ever heard menace and hope mingled together like that. He wants so badly for me to take the bait. He wants to win the game. For him this is a sporting event, one that he’s only beginning to master.

  For me it’s a war.

  “Only if you want to tell me,” I say, a false retreat as I work to lure out the truth.

  He gives me a sharp look. “I guess it doesn’t matter. Obviously I told them enough to keep them from calling you.”

  “Is that obvious?” I ask. One more bullet deflected.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, aren’t you trying to prove a negative? You’re assuming they didn’t call me after your conversation, but you haven’t actually asked me if that’s the case.” I reach over and take his hand, ignoring the frostbite sting of his touch. “If you truly want to help me, like you say, then you need to communicate with me honestly.”

  Again the silence comes as Dave keeps his eyes on all the brake lights ahead; they’re like the intent red eyes of demons watching a show.

  “Things are supposed to be a certain way,” he says after we’ve rolled through another quarter of a mile. The statement isn’t meant for me; it’s not exactly like he’s talking to himself, either. This has the sound of a prayer, like he’s gently correcting God, reminding the universe how to act.

  My hand is still on his, keeping the force field down. “What did you tell my parents, Dave?”

  “I am so incredibly angry with you.” Again I’m not sure if the words are meant for me or God, though undoubtedly they ring true for both of us. “I’m not going to let you go, but I can’t let it go, either. They say love and hate are the opposite sides of the same coin but I never understood that expression before. I never got it. Now I do.”

  I withdraw my hand. If this is what’s beneath the force field, it’s not worth my time. “This isn’t a coin toss,” I say. “If it was, I’d pick it up and flip it back to love.” I snap my fingers and then smile down at them wistfully. “It would be that easy.”

  He doesn’t say anything and keeps his eyes on the highway. “I told them you were acting like Melody. I didn’t need to say much more before they speculated on the details themselves.”

  I freeze. That bullet hit. My throat begins to constrict. But . . . “If you had told them that, they would have called me.”

  “I told them not to. I told them I’d set you straight . . . or not.”

  “I don’t understand.” And if it doesn’t make sense then it can’t be true, I want to add. It can’t be true. I won’t allow myself to even entertain it.

  “Your mother thinks she did this to you. Maybe she did. She’s hysterical. Your father probably agrees but he won’t say as much. Since they think they’re the cause of the problem, they’re letting me be in charge of the solution.”

  I feel myself color. “You think you’re in charge of me?”

  “Yes. They’re disgusted with you, Kasie. They think you’re nothing better than a common slut fucking her way to the top. After we spoke, your father actually speculated that you might have been granting favors to some of your professors.”

  “Shut up.”

  “Tell me, how did you get an A in physics when you don’t know the difference between fission and fusion? Did you stay after class? Crawl under his desk, rub yourself against his leg like a dog in heat?”

  “I earned every grade I got.”

  “But how did you earn them? In sweat? Was it the papers you put on the professors’ desks that pleased, or was it the view of you bent over their desks, arching your back, offering your body as a door prize?” He shakes his head. “I think the saddest thing I ever heard was your father saying that it might have been better if they hadn’t had children. I don’t know, Kasie—they could be done with you. Just like they were done with the disappointment they spawned before you, even before she died.”

  I can see my father sitting at the kitchen table with my mother. I hear him running through the filthiest of possibilities as my mother gets smaller and smaller in her chair. They don’t know I’m there, standing outside the room, peeking in. I only turned nine a few days earlier; my birthday party had ended badly right after my father had caught my sister and some man together in her bedroom.

  “She was high, Donna,” he says to my mother. “My guess is that he gave her the drugs. That’s what she was doing, she was paying him with the only currency she has. And she did it during Kasie’s birthday. She taints everything she touches. We have to kick her out. I won’t have that kind of depravity in my house.”

  “She’s our daughter.” It takes me a moment to realize it’s my mother speaking. She sounds so different. The polish has faded from her perfect diction and her words are laid bare, the desperation on display for all to see.

  “She stopped being our daughter when she became a whore.”

  Is there a tremor in his voice? Is he struggling with his proclamation? I don’t know. All I hear is the definitiveness of the sentence. I hear the condemnation. Only yesterday we were innocent, my sister and I. Her oddities were eccentricities; she was a handful. My father needed to take her in hand; that’s all.

  But now she’s a whore.

  Whores are nothing.

  Whores can be cast out, punished, hated. I’m watching my father learn to hate my sister.

  “Not under my roof,” he says, and I wonder if I’ll ever see her again.

  I reach for my handbag, but Dave stops me with a look before asking, “What are you doing?”

  “I’m calling my parents.”

  Dave opens his mouth to protest, then stops and shrugs. The traffic is lightening as I fish out my cell and dial the numbers of my father.

  It’s hard to hold the phone; my palms are slick with sweat and my eyes are already misting over.

  My father picks up. “Kasie?” he says, surprised. Perhaps he didn’t think I’d be brave enough to call.

  “Dad, I . . . we need to talk. I know . . . I know how angry you must be with me.”

  There’s a long pause on the other end of the line and I anxiously try to think of a way to proceed.

  “Kasie, is there something you’re trying to tell me?” he finally asks. His voice is cautious . . . and confused.

  “You . . . you don’t know why you might be angry at me?” I look over at Dave. He’s grinning.

  “Have you done something?”

  I pull the phone away from my ear. Part of me wants to laugh with relief and hysteria and pain. Dave’s playing a game. I’m fighting a war. He’s winning and I’m dying.

  With a shaky hand I bring the phone back up. “I just realized that I didn’t spend much time with you at the party and I didn’t even offer to drive you back to the airport the next day. I’ve been horribly neglectful.”

  “Which is why you had Dave call us,” my father says; his voice isn’t guarded anymore. It’s relaxed; he’s pleased with my apology for what he sees as a minor offense. “Dave explained how things are at your work right now. You do what you need to do, honey.”

  “OK,” I say, numbly.

  “Dave’s a good man,” my father says thoughtfully. “He’s . . . decent and he comes from a good family. I really like him.”

 
“I know,” I say.

  Dave pulls us into a new lane and we pass a stream of cars slowly making their way to an exit.

  “We’re proud of you, Kasie. We’re proud of the choices you’ve made in your life. And please don’t worry about being caught up at work. Your mother and I completely understand. And it’s not forever, right?”

  “Right.”

  “Good! So soon you’ll be the sweet, attentive daughter we all know and love. Just make sure you don’t neglect that man of yours. He’s a treasure, too.”

  Trust, sweet, love . . . these words seem loaded to me now that I’m living in a world of deception, bitterness, and hate. Dave’s clearly enjoying my unraveling. He’s savoring the sour taste of my betrayal, letting the vinegar slide around on his tongue before swallowing it, and now I can smell it on his breath and seeping out of his pores. It defines him.

  I say good-bye to my father, doling out enough pleasantries in the process to distract him from the sadness he might hear if he bothered to listen too closely.

  I look at Dave. He’s still smiling but his smile doesn’t seem to be attached to the rest of him. His shoulders are rigid, his eyes are hard, his hands grip the steering wheel like it’s a rifle someone might try to pull away from him.

  “I’m sorry,” I say. For the first time today I mean it. “I’m sorry I made you so very sad and so horribly angry.”

  The smile stays plastered in place but his shoulders rise even higher. “Just because I didn’t tell them this time doesn’t mean I won’t. Your father won’t forgive you.”

  “Dave, you don’t have to let this happen.”

  “What?” he says with a short laugh. “I don’t have to expose you?”

  “You don’t have to let my misjudgments change who you are.”

  He’s quiet for a moment; we switch from the 405 to the 101 and the traffic slows once more. “When you took off your clothes for him, when you let him touch you in all the places where only I was supposed to be allowed to touch you . . . was that a misjudgment?”

  “Perhaps I should have chosen a different word but—”

  “Like when a track and field athlete hits the bar during a vault . . . or a quarterback tries to throw the ball to a teammate only to miss his mark and have it intercepted . . . that kind of misjudgment?”

  “We’re not arguing semantics while we stomp on one another’s hearts.”

  “No, we’re not arguing; I’m asking you a question. I’m giving you an opportunity to explain yourself.”

  “I’ve already done that.”

  “Have you?” He turns to me. The traffic has stopped . . . an accident perhaps. Someone’s carelessness has destroyed property and lives.

  “I had wedding jitters . . . I got scared—”

  “So you slept with someone else. You fucked a security blanket? Rubbed it between your legs, that made you feel . . . safe?”

  “Dave—”

  “Because I can do that, if that’s what you need.” With a jerk of his hand he plunges it between my thighs, roughly rubs the fabric against my vagina. The man driving the SUV in the next lane, bored and weary, looks over at the wrong moment. He sees where Dave’s hand is, makes eye contact with me, lifts his eyebrows.

  I grab Dave’s hand and pull it away. “Knock it off.”

  “Ah, so whereas when he fingers your pussy, it makes you feel safe, but when I do it, you find it repulsive.”

  “When you do it in hate, yes, it’s repulsive.”

  “You want to be touched in love?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then make me feel love.”

  Perhaps it’s the accidental sincerity of his tone. I turn in my seat, try to study his expression, but his eyes stay stubbornly on the road. There’s something tragic in what he’s said.

  “I don’t know if I can make you feel that.”

  “Does he love you?”

  I hesitate before answering. “I don’t know. I don’t even know if it matters.”

  “And you?”

  “You’re asking if I love him?”

  “Yes . . . no . . . I . . .” His voice trails off and he blushes slightly, embarrassed by his own fumbling response.

  The traffic in our lane starts to move. The witness to Dave’s brief assault falls behind us, making the memory nothing but a shrinking image in my side mirror. “What do you want to know, Dave?”

  “I don’t think love can just disappear,” he says, as much to himself as to me. “And yet what you did . . . we had something . . . it was big. How can you be so cavalier with something that had so much substance?”

  I don’t have an answer.

  “You think I’m trying to torture you,” he says quietly. “Maybe I am. Maybe I want you to experience a tenth of the pain you’ve caused me. But I don’t believe the love we had just disappeared. I don’t believe that the woman I love has evaporated.”

  “I’m here, Dave. I didn’t evaporate.”

  “No, it’s not you. A whore in sheep’s clothing . . . in her clothing. It’s like a split personality or . . . or a mental breakdown.”

  “You think I’ve gone crazy?”

  “I think you need to be saved.” He takes a deep breath. “I’m going to do that. I’m going to be your hero whether you want one or not.”

  And like that, he’s going from tragic to insane. He’s still the captor asking his prisoner to sing his praises, but maybe all captors are a little insane. What does it matter if someone is fanatical about religion, politics, or love? Fanaticism is what it is: crazy, misguided, and, in a weird way, honest. Fanatics believe their own bullshit.

  “I understand now,” he continues. “You have . . . needs . . . things you have to get out of your system. I’m going to help you do that. We’re going to use the depravity that’s infecting you to our advantage. I’m going to bring you back to the woman you were, the one I want to marry. By the time I’m done, that’s who you’ll want to be. You’ll see how your current path only leads to degradation. You’ll crave purity.”

  I shake my head. I didn’t know an affair could push someone over the edge like this. It’s like he thinks he can turn our lives into a modern-day version of The Taming Of the Shrew.

  “Tonight,” he continues. “We’ll start tonight.”

  I don’t know exactly what that means but I know what it might mean. The idea of being with Dave now, having him touch me, having him push his dick inside of me, looking at me smugly as I squirm underneath him . . . I can’t do it.

  “You are so angry with me right now,” I say softly. “I don’t want to . . . to be with you until you feel some degree of kindness toward me.”

  “You don’t think I do?” he asks, but it’s a rhetorical question. We both know I’m right.

  “Then we’ll start slow,” he says. “A dinner at home. Cook me dinner the way you used to do. Dress up for me. Show me that you’re at least willing to make an effort.”

  I turn toward the window. I’m tired. I don’t have the energy for any of this. But Dave had been making a point when he lied to me about telling my parents. He was letting me know what he could do. If I don’t make an effort, why should he hold his tongue? Why should he do anything for me at all?

  “I’ll cook dinner,” I say quietly.

  “And you’ll let me select something pretty for you to wear while you serve me?”

  While I serve him. I have to tell myself that he’s only talking about dinner . . . but of course the wording was more carefully crafted than that. I’ve given my confession and this is the penance he has chosen for me. Instead of appealing to God, I’m meant to appeal to him.

  So I nod. It’s only dinner, only a dress. I’d rather recite the Rosary a few hundred times, but perhaps that wouldn’t be appropriate. It’s seems silly to try to bring something sacred into hell.

  CHAPTER 7


  WHEN WE ENTER his house I head straight for the kitchen. Dave probably thinks this is submission but really I just want to get away from him. I’m not a spectacular cook but I’m not horrible. I pull out the ingredients necessary to make a quick-and-easy stir-fry and try to forget the day. The counter is covered with fresh vegetables and two small frozen lamb loin chops when Dave walks in. He stares at the meat, seeing an insult there. He doesn’t much like red meat but had bought the lamb in an attempt to please me. Months ago, a lifetime ago, he had tried to surprise me with a meal . . . which he mangled terribly. We had laughed about it and I had ended up making us pasta.

  But he hadn’t thrown away the remaining uncooked loin chops and I do like red meat . . . and I’m the one cooking this time. I pull out a large chopping knife and lay it carefully on a cutting board.

  “The dress is on my bed. Go ahead and change.”

  “I’ll change after I make dinner,” I say as I reach for some extra-virgin olive oil and a microwave-safe plate for the defrosting.

  “No, change now. It will make me happy.”

  He’s a million miles from happy. If he was happy, I’d have the man I once cared for, even if I don’t love him.

  I suck in a sharp breath. And like that I finally admit the evil truth. I never loved the man I agreed to marry.

  I only wanted the life he provided, the orderliness, the structure, the predictability. That had all seemed so important. Funny how those “attributes” have lost so much of their appeal. Perhaps it wasn’t the betrayal that turned him inside out. Maybe it’s the lack of love that’s transformative. Maybe it’s the distance between what we want and what we have that sculpts our behavior.

  A dress won’t fix anything, it certainly won’t make either of us happy but since I don’t know what will, I do as asked and go up to his room to change.

  The dress makes me laugh. It’s ridiculously provocative and clearly something he picked up today. It’s black and off the shoulder. A strip of solid fabric covers my breasts but below is sheer black mesh, which will reveal my full midriff before meeting another band of solid fabric that forms the micro-mini skirt. I saw a photograph of a pop star wearing a similar dress to the VMAs or something like that, but I doubt Dave knows this is a knockoff of a piece just slightly less tacky. For Dave, this probably constitutes lingerie.