A Diamond in the Rough

by Elisa Marie Hopkins

  In the studio, the woman says, “I don’t know if I can trust him again. He says he feels sorry and guilty. He says he loves me. He says he’ll divorce his wife. What should I do?”

  My blood boils. I want to hurl my empty glass at the TV and yell, “Are you serious, woman? He’ll never leave his wife!”

  Dr. Phil replies, “For every rat you see, Carmen, there’s fifty you don’t, and I don’t believe you are as foolish to think a man who lied to you, abused your trust, and played you like a fool, won’t do it again. For all you know, he has other women lurking underground. For all you know, you’re woman number five. You have to cut him out of your life. You are done with him.”

  I think of Oliver, compare my feelings to the way the woman reacted to her lying ex-fiancé. What happens next? Do we break up? Am I done with him? Do I move out? It’s crazy—our whole lives are about moving. People are always moving in, moving out, moving on...just moving.

  I think of Sarah and imagine what it would’ve been like to have her in my life growing up. I can only think of the word “together.” I think of John Bridges, I think of Aunt Peg, I think of me, and the more I get to thinking, the more my brain wears out.

  The door groans open. Jess treads inside carrying a paper bag from the Thai place down the street. This gets my attention. I give her a smile, but then I note her ivory dress, her lifeless arms, and her skeletal legs. I lower the volume on the TV.

  “I come bearing food gifts,” she says with her usual sparkle and puts the bag down on the coffee table. “I got you some fried catfish, pad Thai noodles, and an iced tea. Oh, and I wasn’t sure if you wanted dessert, but I also got you a rice pudding.”

  I crack a comment saying I always want dessert. My stomach growls. “Thanks. Man, I’m starving.”

  “I figured that much. You’ve been under house arrest mode all day.”

  I reach for the bag and pluck out a foam takeout container and a large drink that has SOPPHI written with a sharpie across it. I’m slightly distracted.

  “In my defense,” I point a finger in the air, “I did bring in some Cheez-Its from the vending machine in the lobby.”

  “You know, it never ceases to amaze me how you can eat horribly and you still don’t get fat. You’re constantly stressing, you don’t sleep, you eat too much sugar for breakfast, you smoke, drink, barely work out. How do you do it? Are you doing something I don’t know about?”

  I stop my fork as it’s about to meet the deep fried catfish’s end. I look up at her with a smile. “Are you keeping tabs on me?”

  “No, it’s just something I noticed.”

  “There’s only one takeout container. Aren’t you going to eat?”

  “You go ahead. I ate already.” She waves a hand and sits on the armchair to my side. “Jason fixed me up with a shrimp roll while I was waiting for your food.”

  She’s lying. I don’t have it in me to believe Jess would sit down at some filthy table, at some filthy restaurant.

  I pop a catfish into my mouth. “Who’s Jason?”

  “The Thai guy, over at the restaurant. Jason is his American name. I think his real name is Chai-son or something. I don’t know.”

  I point to my iced tea. “Maybe Sopphi is my Thai name.”

  “Maybe.” She smiles, shuts the TV off, and hugs a cushion against her body. She asks what’s going on with me, why I’ve been cooped up in here all day, why I’m even here. I crack a fortune cookie in half and tell her apparently nothing is going on with me. The cookie is empty. I have no fortune. Big surprise. She tells me the Thai guys were probably having a lazy day. “Oh, that’s funny,” I say catatonically. Then, she asks me if Oliver and I broke up.

  I look away for a second, wrapping my head around her words. I take a long gulp of my iced tea, trying to stifle the angry talk threatening to come out of my mouth.

  “I’m not sure.”

  “What happened?”

  “He...,” I carefully think about what I’m going to say, “did something, and I didn’t like it.”

  After a short pause, filled with me chewing my food and the nonexistent sound of Jess’s mind at work, she says, “Me and Eric argue and bicker all the time, too. I’m sure you and Oliver will work it out just fine.”

  “It’s not that simple.”

  “Did he hurt you?”

  “Yes, he did. He underestimated me. He felt like he had to keep me from the wolves because I wasn’t strong enough for them. How insulting is that?”

  “People don’t always know better. Can’t you forgive him?”

  “Good question.”

  “We’re all human, Soph. No one is perfect. Jesus himself said it best: ‘No one is perfect except God.’ We all make mistakes.”

  “What did Jesus say about dishonesty?”

  “Simple. Do not lie. Do not steal. Do not cheat. As a Catholic, we shouldn’t fill our lives with lies and deceit, but as human beings, sometimes it’s hard not to.”

  I nod and, surprisingly, listen to her all the way as she talks. “You really believe that?”

  “Of course. Don’t you?”

  “Believing ain’t that easy.”

  “Oh, I know. Not when you’re hurt and confused and things aren’t going your way,” she says. “But He believes in you, He loves you, and He has your best interest in mind.”

  I’m quiet for a moment as I ponder this. The phrase “do not lie” begins to bounce around my brain like a ball. I, too, have lied to Jess, and in a sense, have cheated on our friendship. I get up from the sofa and walk around. Something about me today makes me want to dabble in the truth. I don’t want to sit in the dark anymore. “And what about you?”

  “What about me?”

  There’s a little fear in my daring. Eric has already made it a point to tell me he’s sorry. Maybe I don’t want to ruin their relationship and our friendship with something that really didn’t mean anything.

  “Can you forgive someone who has hurt you?”

  Her answer is quick, raw. It aches. “Not on my own. But with God’s help I can.”

  One side of my brain taunts the other. I go back and forth on what to do. My cellphone suddenly buzzes. I take a few steps to glance at it on the coffee table.

  “Is it him? Is it Oliver?”

  “No.” I reply. “It’s just Stacey.”

  I sit back down on the sofa, take the call, but pull the phone away from my ear, realizing I shouldn’t have answered it. I can hear Stacey say, “You there?”

  “Hey,” I say with a throaty voice. “I’m here.”

  I notice Jess sits up and quickly marches into the kitchen to answer the telephone.

  “What up? What’d you end up doing last night? Oh my God, I feel like some fucking train just ran over me. I swear I’m too old for this shit.”

  “Right.” She doesn’t even care that I don’t answer her question. She instantly goes straight to the point. “Luke asked me to stay at his house yesterday. I just woke up. I was completely trashed and I only had two drinks. It doesn’t make any sense.”

  “I told you not to go to his house. You never listen.”

  “You didn’t tell my why.”

  “I just don’t like Luke.”

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t know. There’s something about him. I’ll figure it out.”

  “Look, he’s been nothing short of a gentlemen. I haven’t opened a door for myself since the day I met him.”

  “You met him yesterday,” I say flatly.

  “Hey, don’t fucking judge him, all right? You don’t know him. You don’t know what he’s been through.”

  My head reels. I slurp my soda. “Whatever you think you know about him, you don’t know enough, Stacey.”

  She goes on gabbing like that for a couple of minutes and I act like I listen, just casually throwing out words like, “yeah,” “you’re right,” and “okay.”

  Jess suddenly springs across the living room saying she needs to head out. I tell Stacey to hold o
n a second and sit the phone on my shoulder.

  “Hey, hey, hey, where are you running off to so fast?”

  She hangs her bag over her shoulder and hunts for something inside. “Eric,” she says. “He got run over by some maniac teenager. He says he’s okay. I’m going to go pick him up...if I can find my stupid keys—”

  She’s concerned. Jess never says stupid. She doesn’t even say dumb. I look at the plant pot with spider-like vines sitting on the coffee table and find her keys somewhat hidden under one of the long stems.

  “Can’t he call someone else to help him out?” I ask in an uptight tone. It’s my way of saying that I don’t want to be alone.

  “What? No. He needs me...I’m his girlfriend. I’m going to help him.”

  “Of course. What am I saying? I’m sorry.” I grab the keys and toss them to her. “Here you go.”

  I go back to my conversation with Stacey. I ask her if she remembers throwing up all over Madison’s feet. All she can say is, “Fuck me. Are you serious?” I concentrate on laughing away my fears and finish eating my food. Halfway through a bite, as Stacey goes berserk over her inebriated misfortunes—the doorbell rings. Someone holds the doorbell button for too long. There’s a ding, then about three seconds later, a dong.

  “Okay, so,” says Stacey, “You’ll be happy to know I’m already leaving Luke’s house.”

  I can hear the wind, traffic, and crickets over the sound of my rapid breathing and the galloping of my heart.

  “Shut up,” I whisper. “Someone’s at the door.”

  “There is just never any pleasing you. You give me shit about him, then you—”

  I hang up just as I hear a loud, almost frantic tap on the door. I nearly jump. In my panic at knowing someone is here and not knowing who it is—I put the phone in my back pocket, carefully tiptoe around the living room, shut the TV and the lights off. I need a plan. I grab the decorative pot from the coffee table. It’ll have to pass as a makeshift weapon. I stealthily move about the foyer. It’s completely black for an instant until I see a crack of light beneath the door. I stand there very quietly, not daring to move or breathe.

  Someone rattles the door handle back and forth. It chokes the breath from my lungs. There’s further ringing of the doorbell, panicky ringing, making me think there’s an over-caffeinated salesman at the door. It suddenly becomes quiet. I slowly inch closer and closer toward the door. I look into the peephole, only to find Sarah’s head in view. I flinch back in surprise, putting my hand over my mouth.

  “I know you’re in there!” she yells, sounding awfully dramatic. “Open the door!”

  “What do you want?” I call out with a stammering voice.

  “We need to talk! Quick, Sophie, please open the door!”

  I shake my head, like she can see my answer. I look through the peephole and again see her head only. Something isn’t right. I think about my options. Open the door, or not.

  “How did you know where to find me?”

  “Oliver told me! Please Sophie, open up!”

  I put Oliver’s number on my phone and type as quickly as I can think. Sarah is here. Why did you tell her where I was? Send.

  I scroll through my messages to see if I received a new text while Sarah keeps on begging me to let her in. I decide against opening the door, but finally I do, silently and gently just as my phone dings with a text from Oliver that reads: I haven’t told her anything. I don’t know where she is. What is it? Is everything okay?

  I look up. What I see on the other side sends me into a fit of rage and regret. She’s wearing an all-black jumpsuit, a cap, and a nametag that says “Annie.” She wheels a large trash can caddy in front of me, pops the lid off, and tells me I need to climb inside. My eyebrows almost shoot into my hairline.

  “I’m sorry, Sophie,” she says. She looks ashamed and she should be. “We have a couple of minutes before Oliver’s goon realizes I set him up. He’s going to be here soon. Get in. We gotta go.”

  My phone rings with Oliver’s number.

  “Are you mad? I’m not going in there.”

  “You have to. Please. He’ll kill me. And he’ll get by with it. He always does.”

  ***

  THERE IS NO alarm clock. There is no coffee to lift my weary lids. There is no flaming, red-hot sphere in the sky to scorch my skin and get in my eyes. There is only water splashing on my face. I don’t remember going to sleep. The first thing that pops into my head is the last thing I remember hearing, “He’ll kill me.”

  How dramatic, I thought and I scoffed at the silliness of it, but there was pure fear in Sarah’s trembling voice. She really believed it even if I didn’t, so I did what she said.

  I blink, close my eyes, and blink again. Slowly, as my vision comes into focus, I catch sight of two men. One is a very skinny bloke in a gray hoodie not too far from me and the other is older, in a suit and tie, sitting on the table in front of me, and looking straight my way.

  I try to move, but I’m strapped to a chair and my ankles are taped to the legs. My hands are taped behind my back. Opposite the table sits Sarah, equally tied up. I try to scream, but my mouth is silenced with a cloth. I don’t remember coming here. And I know I’m not getting out of here if I don’t do something about it. Here, as in this room that looks like a one-car garage with no windows, a roll-up door, and corrugated metal walls.

  “You’ll have to excuse Billy,” the elegantly dressed man says in a low voice, tenderly patting my face dry with a soft handkerchief. “Not a very friendly wakeup call, is it?” He sighs, puts the handkerchief back in his pocket, and pulls down the scarf in my mouth.

  I know with a sickening certainty that this man is John Henry Bridges. It takes a second for me to recognize him from his picture on TV. I look over at Sarah. She shuts her eyes, her face a mask of her own tortured thoughts and feelings. I remember Jess telling me that God has my best interest in mind, and so I say to him, God, if you can hear me, get us out of here.

  John smoothes his hair and suit. “Found this poor kid trying to rob a liquor store with an airsoft gun,” he gives a laugh, a real laugh. “Billy said he was starved like a dog, and I happen to like dogs. You know my parents never let me have a dog. Never let me do a lot of things, really. Said I was a shy kid, afraid of the world. I wasn’t. They weren’t very bright.” He looks back at his henchman. “So I took sweet Billy in. He needed me. But like all dogs, he needs some domesticating. See, I don’t discriminate against anyone,” he adds with a chuckle. “That’s not me. Big, short, rich, poor, brunette,” he pauses and licks his lips, “blonde. It doesn’t matter. I give anything a go. Redheads are okay, although they do have a habit of boring me. They’re such sluts; they eventually enjoy it. Personally...,” he grabs a lock of my hair and inspects it. “Hair color really doesn’t do it for me.”

  He likes to talk, is my reasoning all the while he keeps speaking in his creepily calm voice. I study him. He’s young, in his mid thirties to take a guess. He’s nothing like I would’ve expected him to be, and for the most part, he seems pleasant. What am I saying? He’s a raging monster under that unruffled exterior. His light-brown hair is shiny with gel, combed back neatly, his face is clean-shaven, and his nails are perfectly trimmed. My nose tingles with the woodsy scent of his cologne diffusing through the air. All of him is wrapped in black: black suit, black tie, black shoes, and black half-rim eyeglasses that make his brown stare all the more piercing.

  “I apologize for the conditions of the room,” he says. “This is not the way I befriend women, that’s for sure.”

  Billy trudges forward, sets down a bottle of red wine, two glasses, and a small box that seems like a music player. Elton John begins to sing a ballad. Bridges joins him in a duet. “I love this song,” he says in a pensive daze. It occurs to me that this sociopathic man is playing a game—one that he’s been playing for far too long—and I don’t just want to sit here like all his other victims and watch it play out.

  I observe him clos
ely as he pours a glass of wine. He puts the glass to my lips and I take a swig of it, showing my willingness to make it out of here alive. “Wine doesn’t do it for me either,” he says after taking a sip. “It gives me headaches. Makes me thirsty. The taste is too bitter. It’s not my thing.”

  Out of all the questions I could’ve asked first, I start with one that hopefully will help me get out of here. “What is your thing?”

  His stare is grave, grim. He pushes back his glasses. “Straight to business. I admire that in a woman. I don’t suppose you’re familiar with the work of Romanian writer, Emil Cioran?”

  “No.”

  “Exquisite prose. Not for the faint-hearted. What’s endearing about Cioran is the fact that you have to read him, reread him, and then again, many times until it starts to sink in. Mankind is a disease. There is no evolving, only perishing. And what’s more redeeming than mastering life and ending it on the moment we choose, independent of some higher power?”

  I attempt to dispense this armchair psychiatry as I take in a breath. “Your priorities are in the wrong place.”

  Sarah shakes her head and fights to say something with her mouth tied. He pulls out a gun from his waist and points it to my stomach.

  I don’t move. My heartbeat is surprisingly slow.

  He tilts his head to the side. “Are you afraid of me, Sophie?”

  Cowering by the minute, I mean to say, but what comes out of my mouth is a plucky “No.”

  “You oughta be.” He puts the gun down on the table and crosses his arms over his chest. “I’m a sick man, you know; if I can call myself a man. I’ve hurt many women...therapists all said I was a misogynist when I was a kid. And you know what?” He pauses as if allowing me time to answer. “I believed them. I hated women. See, growing up with five sisters, all older, something struck my mind. Men are simple creatures. We are. All we really need is food, drink, and the regular fuck. But all women want different things. My theory was also simple: If I know what they are, they’ll all be mine and I never have to be rejected again.”