Marrow

by Tarryn Fisher

  When they have passed me by, I set my book down, forgotten, and follow them. “I told you I’d find you,” I say under my breath, as I duck around a corner. I am their shadow as they move down 2nd and onto Madison. And they don’t look my way, even though I am wearing a bright orange shirt and leather pants. They are headed for the building. I wonder if Doyle is taking him to the same unit he showed me. I wonder what he used my money for. Drugs? Rent? A car? Who cares? A thief is a thief no matter what he does with the money.

  Doyle uses his card to open the main door to the building. The man looks once over his shoulder before he follows him in. I dart from my hiding spot, and grab the door before it can close. Doyle won’t recognize me; I look different now. But I lurk in the shadows, listening for their voices in the hollowness of the building. They take the elevator. I take the stairs. I think about what I’m going to say to Doyle ol’ Boyle as I trot upward, climbing the stairs two at a time, remembering when I couldn’t walk up the stairs of the eating house without getting winded. Doyle takes the young man to a different unit on the same floor as the one he took me to. I linger outside the door, listening to their exchange. He wants first month, last month, and a two thousand dollar deposit. He’s cutting this guy a break. A scam at a fifty percent discount. The man, who Doyle calls George, sounds unsure. He wants to speak to his girlfriend. He needs to ask his parents for help with the deposit. Doyle says he needs to hurry. There are other people interested. I push open the door.

  “Like me,” I say.

  They both turn to look at me at the same time.

  “Hey,” I say to George. “This guy is actually a scam artist. You probably don’t want to give him your money.”

  George laughs at first, like I’ve told a really good joke. But, when I don’t laugh with him, his too-thin eyebrows make sharp triangles over his glasses.

  “Go, go,” I say. “Unless you want to be out twelve thousand dollars like me.”

  He gives red-faced Doyle one last look before scurrying for the door.

  “Hey George,” I call. “The best place to buy bread is on Union and Fourth. Don’t listen to this joker.”

  As soon as I hear the ting of the elevator, I close the door and smile expectantly at Doyle.

  “Oh hey! Remember me?”

  His eyes are darty, like a cornered rat. He looks dumb. I can’t believe I ever bought into this guy’s sales pitch. Doyle the Dope. He looks at the door while I look around the apartment. It’s nice. Really nice. Better than the one I was scammed out of. The kitchen is small, but there are granite countertops, and the cabinetry looks new. I breathe in the scent of fresh paint and newly laid carpets.

  “Who owns this place, Doyle?”

  He walks for the door, a shit don’t care look on his face. But, I pull out my part-time gun. I don’t like to use it; it’s such an ungraceful weapon: loud noise, silver bullets, pretentious. I carry it with me on the nights I work late, stick it in my purse, which I keep in the manager’s office, then transfer it to the back of my jeans in the bathroom for the walk home … just in case. You can never be too careful with all these psychos walking around.

  Doyle sees the piece of black metal in my hand and stops short. Amazing what a little gun can do to people. I’ve burned a woman alive, but no one gets all watery-eyed over a pink Zippo.

  “Doyle,” I say. “Is something wrong? You look a little green.”

  He shakes his head. I can see a thin line of sweat brewing on his forehead. I hate forehead sweaters. So gross.

  “I definitely asked you a question, Doyle. I am the girl holding the gun, so you might want to answer me.”

  Doyle’s Adam’s apple bobs in his throat before he says, “Yeah, it’s mine.”

  I nod, pleased. This will make things easier.

  “How many do you own in this building?”

  “Three.”

  “And in between tenants—your real tenants, that is—you scam people into believing you’ll rent to them?”

  “Well, my dad owns them,” he says. “Look lady, I’m just trying to make an extra buck. My old man rents them out, and I don’t get shit. But he has me do all the work for him.”

  “Oh boo! Doyle. Did you really just tell me that story and hope I’d feel sorry for you?”

  Stupid fuck.

  I walk around the living room, peer out the window. There’s a nice view of the city. “How much does your old man rent this out for?”

  “Three thousand a month.”

  “Oh boy. But I heard you tell George you’d give it to him for a thousand.”

  Doyle blinks at me. He’s obviously not following my game.

  “I’ll take it for a thousand,” I say. “And give me George’s number; I’ll need him to sublet my current place. I obviously won’t need a deposit because you took twelve thousand dollars from me.”

  I start mentally arranging my furniture around the room: the castoff sofa from my neighbor, the kitchen table I bought from Target and hauled up the street in its box, by myself. That’s when Doyle decides to decline my offer with a shaky, indignant, helium-soaked voice.

  “You’re fucking crazy.”

  I giggle.

  “Oh man, Doyle. Yeah. I am. But you stole twelve thousand dollars from a crazy person. What does that make you? You’re the real crazy motherfucker. You know what I’m saying? I’d hate to be you right now, Doyle. Because I have the gun, but even more importantly, I have this really vindictive personality. God, you should see how vindictive I am.”

  Doyle doesn’t seem to be absorbing what I’m saying. He’s looking for a way out, his pint-sized brain churning up ideas to manipulate me. I can see it in his watery eyes. I walk a few steps toward him.

  Whack.

  I hit him in the face with the butt of my gun.

  Doyle’s cry is muffled as he grabs his nose, which is spraying healthy amounts of blood through his fingers, and bends over at the waist.

  “What. The. Duck.”

  “What the duck, indeed. You didn’t even see it coming! You need to pay attention.”

  I let him calm down a bit while I wait by the window. I like the view here. It’s very Seattle: water, fog, ferry boats, bobbing umbrellas. Peaceful. I’ll enjoy living here. It’s so different than the eating house. I find a deep contentment knowing it will be mine.

  “So, Doyle,” I say. “Tell Daddy Doyle that the place has been rented for whatever he rents it for. Then figure it out. Give me your license,” I say, waving the gun at him. I get tired of holding the gun. I’m not cut out for the gangster lifestyle. Doyle digs in his pocket and pulls out a Batman wallet, still trying to plug the flow of blood with the sleeve of his fleece. I roll my eyes. He tosses it to me, and I catch it, flipping it open. Indeed! His true name is Brian. Brian Marcus Ritter. He lives on 22 Sycamore Lane. I read all of this out loud for him. What a stupid, stupid fuck.

  “Now I know where you live, Doyle,” I say. I pull out a business card from his wallet. Ritter Enterprises. His daddy is a contractor. I stick the card in my back pocket without taking my eyes from him.

  “I’ll have to go to the police, and of course Daddy Ritter, if you can’t comply with my request,” I say cheerfully. “I’m sure I can find some other scammed humans to solidify my story. Fraud will get you at least seven years!”

  Doyle—or Brian—looks … cornered. He also looks like he’s about to cry, the forehead sweat thickening like a flour mixture. But he’s stuck. Stuck like Chuck. And I’m the one who stuck him.

  A FEW WEEKS LATER, Judah sends me an e-mail. He wants me to visit him in California. Screw the evergreens, he says. Come see the palm trees! But I’m not interested in the palm trees; I just need to get out of Seattle for a few days. Sometimes I feel like the ghost of Peter Fennet is following me around town.

  I spend a lot of time wondering why this time is different—why, after I killed Lyndee and Vola, I never had nightmares. I wonder if it’s because I killed Peter Fennet before he had the chance to commit t
he crime.

  I tell Judah I’ll come, and he buys me a ticket. On the third weekend of June, I board a plane to Los Angeles with my newly purchased duffel bag. I have never flown before and have to ask strangers what to do.

  “Where is the B gate?”

  “Do I wait in line now? Or will they call me by name when it’s time to board?”

  “Can I put my bag anywhere, or is there a space assigned to me?”

  The flight attendants are frustrated with me, and passengers look on with sympathy when I ask if there is a separate bathroom for women. It’s all a nightmare until I disembark and walk down to baggage claim where Judah is waiting for me. I run to hug him, dropping to my knees and throwing my arms around his neck.

  “Hey Margo,” he whispers into my hair. “I missed you.”

  “Take me to your home,” I say, standing up. And then, “How are we getting there?”

  “Cab it,” he says. “My place isn’t far from here.”

  He says, my place, but there is something in the tone of his voice that says it is not just his place.

  Judah has a girlfriend. Her name is Erin, a horribly androgynous name with too many hippie dippie spellings: Aaron, Eryn, Errin, Erinn, Aryn. I hate her on sight—all slender, feminine five feet six inches of her. Though, as it turns out, she spells her name the regular old way: E-r-i-n. She is lithe and thin, the bones in her wrists so frail and dainty I could break them with one meaty squeeze of my hand. I envision myself doing it every time she touches Judah. She has tattoos and an eyebrow and tongue piercing, and wears clothes whose only purpose is to say: I am a free spirit. I eye her pitch-black hair, which she keeps in a charming messy knot on top of her head, and hate the white blondness of my own hair. Erin is a nurse, so she has that naturally caring thing going on. Very annoying. Her brother is blind, so I suppose she has a soft spot for handicapped men.

  She pretends not to see his wheelchair. That’s what really bothers me; she acts like he’s just this regular guy, with regular guy legs. “Let’s take Margo to the farmer’s market today. Let’s go for a walk on the beach. Let’s ride the Ferris wheel.” To which Judah has to remind her that he doesn’t have the right wheels on his chair to ride the sand, and that the boardwalk near the Ferris wheel doesn’t have good wheelchair access, and that the farmer’s market is so crowded on Saturdays, that the last time they went they had to leave for lack of sidewalk space. She whispers to me that Judah can do anything we can do, but he just needs encouragement, and then winks conspiratorially. No, he can’t, I want to say. That’s why it sucks. I’m not saying treat the guy differently; just treat the situations differently. He has a goddamn handicap.

  But Judah seems to like her new world optimism, brushing off her attempts to make him feel normal with a pat on her butt and a smile. They banter back and forth, and, if I weren’t so jealous, it would be one of those cute things you dream of having one day.

  “I don’t need to do anything, guys, serious. I’m just here to see—to visit with you. You don’t have to entertain me.”

  On my third day here, Erin decides to take us to dinner at the pier in her little Toyota that farts more than it drives and smells weirdly of crayons. Halfway to the restaurant, her brother calls.

  “Yes, Joey,” she says. “Of course I can … Right now. Okay.”

  She hangs up and tells us that his ride bailed, and she needs to take him to his therapy session. “If he doesn’t go to therapy, he gets super depressed,” she tells us.

  “You should take him,” Judah offers. I suddenly brighten up in the back seat at the idea of getting rid of Erin for the night.

  “I’ll drop you at the restaurant and pick you up after,” she says.

  “No need,” Judah tells her. “Go be with Joey. We will take a cab home.” Erin kisses Judah on the lips, and drives away, leaving us outside The Organic Vixen.

  “Wanna go somewhere else?” Judah asks.

  “What? You don’t like hippies and organics and shit?”

  “And shit,” says Judah. “Let’s get some pizza.”

  I push his chair along the pier until we find one of those by-the-slice places. I carry our slices to the table on soft paper plates and slide into the bench opposite him.

  “Sometimes,” he says, “I miss the Bone.”

  “You do not,” I tell him, biting into my slice. The cheese burns the roof of my mouth, and I reach for my Coke.

  “Come on, Margo. You don’t even miss it sometimes?”

  I shake my head. “What is there to miss, Judah? The poverty? The litter? The dead eyes everyone walks around wearing?”

  “It’s our home. There is something to that.”

  “Bad things happened there. Things that changed me. I don’t see it that way.”

  “Your mother?” he asks. “Nevaeh? What else?”

  He’s pushing me. Is that why he brought me here?

  I set down my pizza, wipe my fingertips on a napkin, trying to avoid his eyes.

  “What are you asking me?”

  He looks around to make sure no one is listening, then leans in.

  “Lyndee,” he says. “Do you know what happened to her?”

  “Someone killed her,” I say flatly. “It’s what she deserved.”

  Judah draws back as if I’ve slapped him.

  “What she deserved?”

  “She killed Nevaeh,” I say matter-of-factly.

  “How do you know that?”

  I hesitate. I don’t know how much Judah can handle … how much he’s figured out already. “Because she told me,” I say.

  He licks his lips. “Margo, did you do something to Lyndee?”

  I stand up, mostly because he can’t follow me, and back up a few steps. Things flash through my mind: looks, frowns, narrowing eyes. All the times Judah was mentally compiling a case against me. All the times he was right.

  “Stop it,” I warn him. “This isn’t something you want to talk about. Trust me.”

  “I do want to talk about it,” he says. “You’ve done something…”

  This is what it feels like to be found out. I can’t decide if I like it or not. There is also the matter of defending myself … or not. Not, I decide. I start to walk away.

  “Margo, wait!”

  But I don’t. He knows too much. He won’t go to the police … at least I don’t think so. I need to keep my distance. Make him think he’s crazy. My heart knocks fearfully inside of my chest. My stomach is sour. My brain is working slowly—shock, I think. You didn’t think he’d actually find you out. And if it had been anyone else, I wouldn’t have cared: my mother, or Delaney, or Sandy. But it’s Judah, the only person in the whole world I admire, and he’s looking at me like I’m a carnie freak.

  I turn and run. I have my wallet; that’s all I need. I leave my bag at the apartment he shares with androgynous-named Erin, and catch a cab to the airport. Gone, gone, gone. It’s the end of an era, the finishing of a relationship. That will be the last time I make contact with Judah, or allow him to make contact with me.

  I MOVE INTO MY NEW APARTMENT TWO WEEKS LATER. I don’t know what Doyle/Brian told his father, and I don’t care. I saw the fear in his eyes when I smashed the gun into his nose and heard the crack, and that was good enough for me. He’d do what I said … for a little while at least. And then he’ll start thinking about how he can fuck me over. But that won’t be for a while. It will take months for his little pinprick brain to work out a plan.

  In the meantime, I’ll enjoy my new apartment. Take life one day at a time. Take the stairs instead of the elevator. I take long walks. Always in a new place. Sometimes I drive thirty minutes … forty … just to go to a new park, a new pathway. A new walk. I don’t know what I’m scared of. People recognizing me? There was an old lady at the park near my apartment. I walked there every day until she started saying hello. So I chose a different park, a new park, until someone there started waving at me. When people look at me, I’m convinced they can see the blood. The blood of all
the humans whose lives I’ve taken. Dripping down my face and running off the tips of my fingers like Carrie when Chris and Billy dump the pig’s blood over her head. I am so afraid that someone will see me for who I am.

  I think of Judah. Always. Of his hands, and eyes, and voice. If I keep him with me, I don’t feel so afraid. I think I’ve convinced myself that Judah can save me, but wasn’t Judah the one who sent me running in the first place? Do we create our own heroes and then kill them with the truth? Judah is just a man, not the god I made him. If I can tell him this, then maybe…

  A strange thing happens. There is a man—a not-so-small man, in fact, he’s rather large in the shoulders. I see him in the most recent park I’m frequenting. The park with a playground: a giant pirate ship rising from the dirt, a colorful shipwreck where children can flip alphabet blocks and gaze through a looking glass toward Rainier. Their colorfully clad legs scamper over and under, screaming and laughing and darting around each other.

  He’s standing against a tree, smoking. There is something about his body language that tells me he doesn’t belong. He’s merely observing. I follow the train of his eyes. He’s not watching the children, thank God. I feel the tension leave my shoulders when I realize this. He’s watching the group of mothers. Intently. This, too, could be harmless—a husband trying to get his wife’s attention, a man who thinks he recognizes someone from his past. I go through each possible scenario in my mind, but nothing I tell myself can save him. He’s prickling the hairs on the back of my neck, making my stomach ache. I begin to hear that silent alarm, the same one I heard when I watched Lyndee for all those months. You’re crazy, I tell myself. You’re looking for things.

  I turn away, start to leave, but I am half way to my car when I stop. The men who bought nights with my mother … they looked at her that way. The way he was looking at one of those women, with unguarded lust. Like she was an object he got to use. Use. I feel my skin crawl. My heart slows. Ohgodohgodohgod. What am I thinking? I can’t walk away. I take the long way around—through the trees—and the whole time I tell myself how crazy I am. I try to make myself want to stop, go back to the Jeep, hole up in my apartment with movies. I have so many movies I still need to see, I’m working my way through the eighties: Molly Ringwald, Emilio Estevez, Julia Roberts…