Jack and Djinn

by Amber Sweetapple

  Carson decided to change tracks a bit. “Do you know anything about any of his girlfriends?”

  “Well, Ben was…a player, I guess you could say. Always had a couple girls he talked to. Lately he’d been seeing a girl named…god what was it?…Mary? Miriam? That’s it, Miriam. Beautiful girl, a little odd though. Not real easy to get to know, from the few times I met her. Like I said, Ben and I didn’t hang out all that much.”

  “What can you tell us about Miriam?”

  “Not a whole lot. I think he knew her from the bar he worked at, The Taproom. She seemed like a really quiet, self-contained person. Closed off, maybe? I only met her a couple of times, and I couldn’t get a good sense of her.”

  “What’s that mean?” Two people who had met Miriam more than once, but neither of them could say much about her. Carson found that interesting.

  “I’m a pretty good judge of people,” John said, “I can usually get a feeling for what a person is like the first time I meet them. You know, whether I’d like them, whether I instinctively trust them, that kind of thing. Miriam I just couldn’t figure out. Like she didn’t want to be known, almost. If that makes any sense.”

  Carson nodded, closed the notebook, stood up. “No, I get what you mean.”

  “Well I think we’ve got what we need from you. If you think of anything else, give us a call.” Carson handed John a card and the detectives left. Carson’s instincts were telling him that Miriam would be the best place to look for clues. Something about her raised his suspicions. He couldn’t have explained why, but he knew he had to talk to her.

  Chapter 4: Then

  It was Ben and Miriam’s three-year anniversary. Ben had reservations at Ruth’s Chris Steakhouse in Troy, which was where he always took her for special occasions. She hated it. She hated steak, she hated expensive wine and the stuffy, buttoned-down servers and the fancy atmosphere. She liked things simple, for the most part. She didn’t mind expensive dinners every once in awhile, but something about that place just set her on edge. She’d told Ben this of course, but he’d brushed it off. Special occasions equaled Ruth’s Chris, always and no matter what. So she sat in the passenger seat of his rattling truck, wearing a dress and wishing she was at home in yoga pants.

  She knew how it would go: he’d order the most expensive wine on the menu and drink at least one bottle, if not two. He’d splurge like crazy on himself, but he never asked her what she liked. Didn’t consult her on the wine, didn’t ask her where she wanted to go. She was supposed to just go along and keep her mouth shut. And sleep with him when they got home, of course.

  Usually she kept herself in her shell, sipped one glass of wine and nodded in all the right places.

  Tonight, for reasons she couldn’t have explained, Miriam decided to go a different route. When Ben poured the wine–$120 per bottle–she drank it as fast as he did. He didn’t seem to notice, right away. She’d finished her third glass before the entrees had come, and she was feeling loose and unafraid, for once.

  “Good to see you finally relaxing a little,” Ben remarked, refilling her glass.

  “Hey, three years is a long time. Something to celebrate.” The words were falling from her without thought, and she was grateful for it. Maybe if she got drunk enough, she wouldn’t remember anything the next day. Ben would want to have sex, and she just couldn’t make herself do it anymore. It was okay, when they first started dating. Better than Nick, at least; that, more than anything, had made Ben seem like a decent guy, at first: he was better than Nick. She could pretend that he loved her, that he cared about her, sometimes. But the longer she dated him, the more she came to realize that his drunken rages were going from an occasional explosion to a regular part of their relationship, becoming ever more frequent and ever more violent. He used to just slap her every now and then, yell at her, curse her out. Eventually he’d pass out and that would be it. Then one night he got really drunk with his buddies from the Corps and showed up at her door with anger in his eyes. She’d tried her best to keep him calm, but he had memories of the war in his thoughts and when that happened there was no avoiding the hurt. He’d cracked her with a fist that night and nearly broken her jaw. The next time he wasn’t as drunk but he still slugged her in the stomach for no good reason. It was always the little things that would set him off. A misunderstood question, a reply too long in coming. Eventually he didn’t need a reason. Of course, he’d feel bad the next day, take her out for dinner, buy her flowers or jewelry, charm her into bed. Sober, he was the man she’d known when they first started dating.

  He wasn’t sober much anymore.

  She chewed her steak slowly, hating every bite. If she refused to eat it, or complained about it, or ordered something different, he’d fly into a rage and blame her for making him mad and making a scene, so she ate the steak. She washed it down with more pungent red wine, getting dizzier by the moment.

  There was another reason she was getting drunk, though.

  Jack.

  She kept seeing his face every time she closed her eyes. She felt his hands on the skin of her back, his lips on hers. Ben was across the table from her, chattering about some basketball game, but she heard nothing. She was hearing Jack tell her she deserved better, and she was wondering if Jack was all he seemed to be. She found herself hoping he was, and trying to think of innocent reasons to see him. So, more wine to try and drown out the images of Jack.

  “Miriam!” Ben’s voice cut through her reverie.

  “What, Ben?” She tried to focus on him, but found his face wavering and splitting into two.

  “I said I’m sorry about the other night.”

  “You did?”

  “I said it like three times. You were staring off into la-la land or something.”

  “Oh, sorry.” She didn’t want to talk about that night. “It’s…just…don’t let it happen again, okay?”

  “I won’t, I promise,” Ben said. “So. How do you like your steak?” He always asked that, and she always told him she didn’t like it. Tonight, she was more interested in just getting home.

  She forced another bite down, wishing Ben’s face would resolve into one. Or, barring that, stay Ben’s face. She was looking at him, but somehow kept seeing Jack’s face, his wide, kind blue eyes. “He’s great–I mean, it’s great.” Oh shit, she thought. He’d catch that slip. Too much shiraz, apparently.

  “He?” Ben asked, the ire apparent in his voice.

  “I meant it. The steak. The cow. He, the cow, is what I meant.” Words were getting slippery

  Ben burst into laughter. “You’re drunk!” He seemed to think this was funny. “Oh god, you’re wasted. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you this drunk.”

  “Yeah, I may have had a bit too much wine.” Miriam set down her fork and wobbled to her feet. “Ladies room. Then we can go?”

  Ben chuckled again. “Yeah, sure. You gonna make it to the bathroom on your own?”

  “Yeah, I’ll be fine.”

  “You sure? I can help you, if you need.” He waggled his eyebrows and winked.

  She just shook her head and focused on one step at a time, wishing she’d worn flats instead of heels.

  Ben’s apartment was always too hot, and it smelled like cologne and old coffee. They’d gone back to his place, of course. He hated her apartment. It was too small, he said, and he didn’t like being right above where he worked. It was three miles from his place to the bar, and Miriam had walked those three miles more times than she could count. Ben always drove, so she ended up stranded at his place without a ride home.

  Now, they were back at his place and both of them were tipsy; Ben was fumbling to untie his shoes, tossing his keys on the microwave, peeling his shirt off. He swayed across the room to where she sat on the couch, swallowing her saliva in an attempt to fight back the sudden rush of nausea in her throat. Miriam felt his hand on her knee, his lips on her neck.

  “I’m not feeling good right now, Ben,” she said. He didn’t hear her, o
r didn’t care. His hand slid farther up her thigh, under the hem of her dress, and his lips found hers. She couldn’t kiss him back. All she could do was keep her eyes closed and push the urge to vomit down.

  Too late.

  She lurched to her feet, kicking her heels off as she ran to the bathroom, heaved into the toilet. She felt Ben’s hands holding her hair back, heard his voice murmuring something meant to be comforting. Finally the nausea passed and she felt better. Strange how that worked, she thought. She hated throwing up, but she always felt better afterward. She rinsed her mouth and brushed her teeth with the extra toothbrush Ben kept for her.

  Maybe he’d take her home now.

  Nope. He was waiting for her in his bedroom, stripped down to his boxers, sending a text.

  “Come on baby, come lay down with me,” he said, setting the phone down.

  “God, Ben, give it a rest. I just threw up.” Maybe it would have been better to stay sick. Maybe she could vomit again.

  “Don’t you feel better though? Anyway, it’s our anniversary. Three years.” He stood up and took her by the hand, pulling her to the bed. He kissed her chest between her breasts, unzipping her dress with one hand, the other exploring upwards from her knees, his fingers clumsy and rough. She was still drunk, and she couldn’t summon the energy to resist him, stood unmoving, eyes closed. His fingers looped through the hem of her panties, pulled them down, and his fingers continued their upwards exploration. Her dress was on the floor now and he was unhooking her bra and kissing her throat; her body was responding, not quite against her will. She wanted to love him, and she let that stand in for actual love. He hadn’t hit her tonight, had he? He must love her. She didn’t believe it, but she tried to convince herself of it anyway. She had to get through this somehow, after all. She was laying down on her back, and he was kissing her breasts, playing with her nipples, moving downward, kissing her thighs and between them, and all she wanted was to push his head away, but she didn’t dare.

  She closed her eyes and let go, let herself pretend she was enjoying it. It wasn’t long before Jack’s face erupted in her thoughts, and that was a complication she didn’t need. He was gazing at her, in her thoughts, and she couldn’t help but dream, but wonder how he would feel pressed up against her, warm skin to warm skin, his hands tender and gentle on her body, his eyes watching her with real love. She lost herself in the dream, muzzy thoughts mixing reality with imagination. She felt someone push inside her and move above her. She knew it was Ben but she just couldn’t help wishing wishing wishing it was Jack and she had to keep herself from crying out for fear she’d say Jack’s name by mistake. Her body was with Ben, but her heart was with Jack.

  She felt her blood begin to boil, and this time it didn’t build up slowly, this time it was abrupt and full-force. She was alight all at once, feeling a pool of power grow within her, burgeoning into a well of magma that had to be released but she didn’t know how, didn’t know what this was that she was feeling. It wasn’t sex, it was something else, something new. It was a fire in her blood, painful in its intensity and it was growing hotter by the moment. She had to release it. She imagined an explosion in her mind, visualized a bomb going off, put all of the heat in her blood into the detonation. Time stopped for a fraction of a second, and then she felt a rush of unsustainable nova-hot flame run through her, and she was no longer Miriam, she was fire, she was heat.

  Ben rolled off of her, cursing in three languages. “Shit, Miriam!” he said in English. “What the fuck is wrong with you?!”

  She felt drained, now. “What’s wrong, Ben? What did I do?”

  “You burned me!”

  “What? What do you mean, I burned you?” She peered blearily at him and noticed his skin was reddened, as if he’d been sunburned, or scalded by boiling water.

  “I don’t know! Your skin, it was…hot, like burning hot. I don’t know what the hell is wrong with you, but it hurts like a bitch. You sick or something?”

  “I don’t know, Ben. Maybe I am. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

  “Sorry isn’t gonna make it hurt less, you crazy bitch.” He was angry, now. He hated showing pain.

  “Well I said I’m sorry. I don’t know what else you want from me. I don’t know what happened.”

  “You’re goddamn freak, is what happened.” He lashed out and slapped her, open-palm across her face. Something inside her snapped, and she hit him back with a closed fist, as hard as she could. Ben stumbled backward clutching his jaw in surprise. Rage filled his face, flushing his tan skin darker, his fists clenching at his sides. Miriam wanted to run, but refused. She wanted to scramble away from him, jump through the window stark naked and flee, anything but get hit by him anymore. She refused to show him fear, though. She sat up straighter on the bed, pulled the sheet up to her chest and glared back at him. He took a half-step toward her and she tensed, waiting for the blow. It never came. He turned away with a growled string of curses, put on a pair of gym shorts and a tank top, grabbed his keys and left. That was unusual. She felt relief, but she also knew that he would keep this pent up, and it would come out later, twice as bad.

  Miriam turned to the window above his bed, watched him leave. He was looking down at his phone, texting as he walked. Nearly to his parking space, he looked up and stopped, almost dropping his phone. An expensive red sports car sat in his designated parking spot, and his truck was nowhere to be seen. He sorted through his keys and seemed stunned to find not the Chevy key but a different one.

  Ben turned to look at Miriam through the window, and back at the car, a calculating expression on his face. He pressed the button on the key, and the headlights flashed, accompanied by a brief horn blast. Ben trailed his fingers across the hood, stroking the lines of the car, a loving gesture. He rested his hand on the door handle, hesitated, then with one more glance at Miriam, he slid down into the driver’s seat and turned the ignition, rubbing his hands together with glee as the engine rumbled to life. The door closed, the engine roared, tires shrieked, and Ben was gone.

  Miriam scanned the parking lot, but all was still and silent. Ben’s beat-up S-10 was truly gone, without explanation. Without logical explanation at least. Ben had looked at her as if thinking she had something to do with it, and Miriam found herself wondering the same thing. Twice now something odd had happened, either during or after sex; both times it had been something she knew Ben wanted, and both times she felt as if she were going to catch on fire, literally and physically combust, as if something inside her needed release.

  Was it her making those things happen?

  Miriam shook her head, refusing to entertain the idea. Freak coincidences. Hot flashes, maybe. A prank by one of Ben’s Corps buddies? None of his friends could afford a car like the one Ben had driven off in. She didn’t know how it had gotten there. She didn’t. Magic wasn’t real. There was no such thing as magic. And certainly not in any way connected to her. She didn’t even know why she had thought the word ‘magic.’ It was all nonsense. Coincidences.

  Again Miriam found herself trying to convince her own mind of something she didn’t believe. This was starting to get problematic.

  * * *

  Miriam tried not to think about the strange business with the car or the cell phone as she walked home. She also tried not to think about Ben. Or Jack. Which didn’t leave much to think about besides herself. Her memory wandered back in time to before her dad had died. That was the last time she’d felt truly loved. Her dad had been her hero, her rock. Her mother was a difficult person, betrothed to Miriam’s father when barely more than a girl herself; Miriam suspected that her mother had never accepted the match or even tried to like her husband, much less love him. Khadeeja al-Mansur was a cold and distant woman who hadn’t wanted children. She had treated Miriam like a nuisance her entire life, and then when Miriam’s father died, things only got worse. Miriam had been relegated to little more than a servant, forced to clean and stay silent, lest her mother’s short temper explo
de. Miriam tried to remember her father’s face, but found it difficult. She had only been eleven when he had died of a heart attack. Miriam tried to push that memory away as well, but it was stubborn. Miriam had been in the bathroom, curling her hair before school. She heard her father grunt, and then the thud of a body hitting the floor. Khadeeja hadn’t screamed or cried, only watched with a detached dispassion as her husband had clutched his chest, gasping for breath, eyes wide and frightened. Miriam had been the one to dial 911, to hold her father’s hand as he leaked tears from fearful, wrinkled eyes. By the time the ambulance came, Aziz had gone still, and Miriam was alone. Her mother had sat on the front step of their Dearborn home, smoking a Virginia Ultra Slim, conversing desultorily on the phone in Arabic to her sister. Miriam had wept alone in her room; her mother never cried, even at the funeral. She never talked to her daughter about death, or tried to console Miriam.

  Six years had passed, uncomfortably and slowly. Miriam stayed at school longer and longer, joined clubs and teams simply for an excuse not to go home. Then, a week before her seventeenth birthday, Miriam had come home to a silent house. This was not unusual: her mother spent much of her time at her sister’s house across town, or with neighbors; something had felt…off, wrong. Miriam hadn’t been able to put her finger on what it was, but a tension in her belly told her something had changed. She searched the house carefully, half-expecting to find her mother’s body in the bathroom. Instead she had found a stack of money on the kitchen table, two thousand dollars in twenties and fifties, along with a curled yellow Post-it note in her mother’s crabbed scrawl: you’re on your own. No signature, no I love you. Just two thousand bucks and four words. The house had foreclosed and been repossessed after six months, leaving Miriam with no home, no family, and no income. Her father’s family was still in Iraq, and her mother’s sister claimed that she couldn’t take in another mouth, not with her own four children to feed. Miriam’s aunt had let her stay for one night, given her a couple hundred dollars, and then refused to answer the door when Miriam knocked after that. Miriam’s only real friend from school, Yanira, had begged her father to let Miriam stay with them for a few weeks. Yanira’s father had agreed, and found Miriam a job waiting tables at a Coney Island. That had been the start of Miriam’s independence. She saved enough money while living in Yanira’s basement to buy a car, and that beat up old Volvo had been her home until she could afford the down payment on an apartment.