“Whoa. That was pretty incredible.” Phil’s eyes were wide, and June knew that he would be willing to do most anything to have another round.
“Get me to Dallas, and there’ll be more where that came from.” She licked her lips and placed her hand down the front of her pants. “What do you say?”
“I say, look out JR, here we come.” Phil let out a howl and headed for the highway. A broad smile spread across June’s face, and she leaned back into her seat, ignoring the life the she left behind the old truck.
June never made it to Dallas. Phil owned some land in Mexia, a small town between Dallas and Houston, and they headed there that night. The next day, Phil went to work and June spent the day cleaning the trailer and cooking a meal for the man that took her away from hell. She appreciated what he had done for her, though she only planned on thanking him a couple of times before getting on her way again.
The appreciative passion of that night repeated itself a few more times, and the days turned into weeks and months. Soon, June felt at home in the small town and the ladies she met while Phil was away became the only friends she ever had that did not ask her to remove her clothing. Soon, Phil asker her to marry him, and she had lived in the small town for the past four years. Now, with the officers in her home, aching from a recent beating, she wondered again what Dallas was like.
“Mrs. Donaldson, we have some bad news for you.” The taller officer motioned his hand for her to take a seat.
She started to comply, but remembered the pain of rising and stopped. June was also used to bad news and felt she would be better off standing.
“We found Phil’s truck in Plummer’s creek near highway eight-four. We went down to check it out and found him behind the wheel.” The officer paused but continued, as June offered no reaction. “He was dead, his chest crushed during the impact. His tires apparently had blown out, and we’re also pretty sure he had been drinking. It seems he lost control and ended up in the creek.”
Dozens of emotions swirled through June’s mind, but she settled on relief. There had been a time when she loved Phil, but those days were long in the past. They were married as soon as the paperwork and waiting were complete. After a brief honeymoon spent at the trailer, Phil’s mood changed.
The night after his first day back on the job, June had decided to cook him a special meal. When Phil walked through the door, she presented him with her best attempt at prime rib. Phil took a bite of the cold meat, and spit it out. “How do you expect me eat this shit!”
June stood like a statue as Phil dumped the contents of his plate to the floor and threw the plate against the wall. “I go to work and I come home to this? What the hell were you thinking, bitch?” Phil stomped out of the kitchen, shaking the thin walls and floor with each step. “Jesus! When did you plan on cleaning this place?”
June stood in the living room, which she had not cleaned while she labored over the unappreciated dinner. “Phil, I’m sorry, I was trying to make a special dinner for you.”
“Well, you failed didn’t you? Now I’m hungry. I’m going out to get something decent to eat.” He pushed passed her toward the door.
“Stop, Phil.” She reached out and grabbed his arm. She needed to know what had happened to put him in such a mood. Her curiosity did not last long.
Phil turned and swung his arm. His knuckles contacted her cheek and she fell to the floor, holding her face and crying.
“Don’t ever tell me what to do.” He loomed over her, breathing hard and clinching his fists. “Great, now you’re gonna cry. That’ll make everything better.”
June sat up, but the tears would not stop. She scanned the room, hoping for some clue as to what happened. She replayed the events of the evening and the week before, but could find no clue. Before she could look up again and ask what was wrong, Phil left.
She only remained immobilized for a few minutes. Her mother had taught her that moping around after a fight accomplished nothing, and she needed to get the house cleaned up and in order. She rushed through the house, picking up laundry and cleaning up after dinner. Once she had cleaned up all the shards of plaster from the fated plate, she returned to the living room to wait for Phil.
Two o’clock in the morning passed just before Phil walked through the door. June said nothing to him, but took his jacket and helped her drunken husband to the bedroom. That night, through the heavy slurs, she listened to him apologize for what he had done and promise that it would never happen again. June grinned as she heard what she needed, and they made love before falling asleep.
Phil was kind and loving for a few days, but the anger and the abuse returned. Over the next few years, Phil’s anger came more often, and the results grew more intense in fits and starts. More than once an unplanned and unreported pregnancy ended with a beating and a fall down the steps that led to the porch. She was relieved that the beatings were finally over.
“Are you okay, Mrs. Donaldson?”
June looked down to see the shorter officer taking some notes on his pad. “Oh, yes.” She held her jaw and winced in pain. When she recovered she looked for something to write with and took the note pad from the taller officer so she could tell them what had happened the night before.
She had been out late with Gladys Evans. She liked to spend Thursday nights with Gladys and some of the other ladies to talk about hair, makeup, and more serious topics from time to time. The ladies had often told her to leave Phil, and that night they almost succeeded in keeping her from going home.
When she returned, Phil was on the couch with a bottle of gin. Clearly drunk, he mumbled something about her being out late and a slew of other words and phrases she could not understand. Before she could ask him to repeat himself, he had stood up from the couch and hit her across the jaw with the bottle. The glass and her jaw fractured, and she fell to the ground like the yarn doll she still kept and slept with.
Phil kicked her several times before falling himself under the influence of the gin and a kick from June. She took the opportunity to scramble out of the trailer. Once she was outside, she searched for a place to hide. Each step shot pain through her bruised back and jarred her broken jaw. Hoping he would be too drunk to chase her, she hid behind the truck.
When Phil stumbled out of the trailer, he yelled for her, but she did not respond. “Fine,” he followed, “stay out here all night, I don’t care.” He turned and locked the door behind him.
June spent the night outside, cold and in pain, unsure of what to do. She could run, but she had no idea where she would go. The trailer was thirty miles outside of town, and the keys to both of the broken down vehicles were inside the trailer with Phil. June huddled against the wheel of the truck, and spent the night trying to think of someway she could get out of her situation. Her only company was a stick that she swept through the night sky, listening to its song as it raced through the air.
“What happened the next morning?” The look on the tall officers face let June know that they understood what she had been through, and wanted only to make sure she was well.
As the sun came up, June moved away from the car and slid under the trailer until Phil left. He yelled for her when he emerged, and she could tell he was still drunk. Nothing could have made her happier at that moment. Alone in the night, her salvation was made apparent. She had watched a great deal of news while cooped up in the trailer and the local station aired many reports about unsafe tires in light of the Firestone news.
During these she heard of the danger of under inflation and how it made handling the car difficult and could lead to blowout. That night, she took the stick and pressed it against the valve stem. The tires hissed their displeasure, but it was like a symphony to June. She was not sure if it would work, but she knew that she had to get rid of Phil. Seeing him drunk, her spirit soared as she had more hope that her plan would succeed.
The look in the eyes of the officers confirmed that she had nothing to fear from them, and that foul play would not be
suspected.
“Well, I still think that you need some medical attention. Won’t you please come with us, so we can get you to the hospital?”
June nodded, and picked up her purse on her way out. As the patrol car pulled away, June thought of her dead husband, the insurance, and Dallas. The car sped down the road, and a short, bruised smile spread across June’s face, as she leaned back into her seat, ignoring the life the she left behind.
The Craving
Pearl moaned as she hovered between asleep and awake. She could feel the subtle suck and nibble on her earlobe from Gary. She eased back toward him, removing the sheet that served as a border. His skin was cold, but she ignored it and focused on the feel of his teeth on her neck and ear. She perked up when he stopped for a moment.
"Shit!" She leapt from the bed and stared back at her boyfriend and the trail of blood stretching from his lips to the bed. She held he hand up to her ear and could feel nothing but dripping blood where her lobe used to be. Fighting nausea, she ran from the bedroom to the kitchen and grabbed a handful of paper towels and pressed them against the wound.
She could hear him coming from the bedroom, and she shuffled through the contents of a drawer until she found the largest knife available. With her back to the corner she waited for Gary to come for her. "What kind of sick freak are you," she yelled into the dark house.
Only the sound of running water answered her. She could hear the sound of a stream broken by washing hands. Her fright broken by the sound, she noticed that she should be able to get to one of the doors once Gary made a mover for her. She tensed her legs and prepared to run.
The sound of the water stopped and was followed by a slow creaking that increased her pulse with each burst of sound. Pearl squinted and peered through the darkness as a large figure moved into the foyer.
He stood still, facing her but showing no aggression.
"What's wrong, Pearl?"
"You're a cannibal, that's what's wrong you psycho!"
"What are you talking about?"
She started to answer him when he stepped forward and the moonlight streaming through the windows revealed his approach and highlighted the vacant stare in his eyes. Pearl screamed and raced to the back door. She could hear his heavy steps behind her as she threw the door open and then slammed it behind her.
Once outside she felt safe, until a strong tug threatened to pull her arm from its socket. The door lurched behind her and her tentative grip threatened to surrender.
As the next tug began, she let go of the door and ran for the gate. Sounds of falling and scrambling were drowned by her feet pounding the ground beneath her. Vocal pleading to stop chased her to the gate and out into the street. When she reached the middle of the road, it stopped.
Still running, she looked back to gauge her lead on Gary. She saw nothing. Her legs slowed and stopped in response to the discovery. He heart was not yet ready to give up the alert response and her chest pounded as she scanned the streetlamp illuminated night for signs of attack.
Nothing.
No movement.
No faces.
Nothing.
Though she stood in the street, naked and bleeding, relief washed over her. Her heart slowed and her legs faltered. She fell to the road and sat there, breathing deep, trying to make sense of what had happened. When that proved useless, she struggled to her feet and searched the area around her.
A house under construction stood half-way down the block, and she could see material flapping in the night breeze. She jogged down the slight decline, scanning from side to side, looking for people who might be watching the streaking entertainment.
When she arrived at the skeleton of what would be a home, she grabbed onto scraps of opaque plastic and wrapped them around her chest and waist. Scurrying and creaking sounds sent her heart racing and she jumped often as rabbits jumped by and the wind blew through the open structure.
Covered, she stepped back out into the open and could still see only bare roads, sparse lighting and shadows. Motionless shadows. She examined her covering and decided that she looked good enough to ask for help. The house across the street had lights on in the front room, so she went up to the door and knocked.
A voice came from within. "Hello?"
"Hi, I need help." She imagined how she must look through the spyglass. "My boyfriend beat me." She turned to show her bleeding ear to the hole.
The door opened revealing a large man that was a foot taller and twice as wide as Pearl. "He did what? What house is he in?"
She had no expected an avenger, but she was not about to turn down the offer. "2617."
"Let's see how tough this son of a bitch is." The large man reached behind the door and grabbed his shotgun. He stepped past Pearl and headed down the street.
Pearl struggled to keep up but the large man's stride consistently increases the space between them. He reached Gary's door while she was still a full house away. She stopped to watch the events.
When Gary came to the door, he looked confused. He looked confused when he was grabbed. He still looked confused when he was lying in his front yard bleeding from a blow to the head. Confused when he saw the cat slip by, licking blood from its paw. Always confused, even when Pearl walked past him and retrieved her keys and clothes from the house.
"Thank you." Pearl said the large man breathing heavy and looming over her.
"No problem, miss. Just keep away from creep like this guy alright."
"Sure." She looked at Gary. "What in the hell is wrong with you?"
He started to talk but stopped, his confusion melting into pain.
"He won't have much to say until his jaw heals." The large man put his hand on Pearl's shoulder. "You take care now, okay?"
"Thanks."
"Don't mention it."
Pearl watched him leave, but noticed that he kept an eye on Gary until she was in her car. She turned the key, applied some gas, and headed away.
Deadbeat
Frank Linder held the phone between his ear and neck, waiting for his call to reach a living person. As the hold music wrote its tune in his brain, Frank continued to rip a stack of photos one by one, tossing the remains into a trashcan. His eyes remained focused on dingy wall and assorted posters of cars and athletes.
"Can I help you?"
Frank tossed the remains of the last photo into the can. "Hi Officer Gregg, this is Frank Linder, manager of Pine Cove." Everyone in University Park knew about Pine Cove, several streets of rental houses populated by college students, and source of at least half of the petty crime calls in a given night. There were rumors that the development was to get its own section of the Police Blotter in the paper.
"Hey, Frank." Gregg was new to the small police force, and was therefore always on call for late night calls from the Cove. "What is it tonight?"
Frank tossed a videocassette and some negatives into the trashcan and took a bottle of whiskey from his desk. "Well, I heard some strange noises from one of the properties." He opened the bottle and poured the aromatic liquid into the can.
"Frank, when don't you hear noises from those houses?"
Frank dropped the bottle into the can and opened the drawer of his desk. "Well, I didn't hear the normal manic laughing and subsequent puking noises." Frank took a matchbook from the drawer and pushed it shut.
"Did you check and see what was going on?"
Frank struck a match. "Ever since that coked up kid shot at me, I call you guys instead of going in anywhere." He pushed the trash away from his desk and tossed the match. A small grin appeared on his face as the flames shot up from the cylinder.
"Okay, I'll go check it out."
"Thanks, officer. It's unit thirty-six." Frank watched the photos and film burn. He fought back the churning in the pit of his stomach and assured himself everything had to happen. Even so, he was happy the police would find everything soon and it would all be over.
After the fire died, Frank drove the trash to a dumpster behin
d a QuickMart across town and then deposited some rent checks in the twenty-four hour drop box at the bank. He collected his receipt from the disinterested night teller and drove to unit thirty-six.
Flashing lights and police tape told him which street to turn on, before he even glanced at street signs. He pulled up behind one of the cruisers and stepped out of his late seventies Mercury Cougar. Officer Gregg met him in front of the house.
"Frank."
"Hello officer. Looks like you didn't find the typical party." Frank followed Gregg's direction and headed toward the front door. He choked back the bile in his throat as he crossed the threshold.
"No, we didn't." Office Gregg pointed past several officers who were jotting down notes and taking pictures. "Just head over there, in the kitchen and we can talk."
Frank navigated the maze of pizza boxes, dirty clothes, strewn books and beer stained furniture on his way to the kitchen. He dreaded the cleaning bill. In the small galley, Frank absorbed the images of the unwashed dishes, door less refrigerator, soggy carpet and stained counters. Even with all the commotion and mood, Frank still wished the tenant, Thom, had called in the problems.
"So, how long had this tenant, a Mr. Thom Stevens, lived here?" Officer Gregg took out a notepad.
"Thom had lived here about eight months. Hadn't paid rent for the past six of those." Frank stared at the soiled floor as he spoke.
"Six months? Why wasn't he evicted?"
Frank searched for a place to sit, but settled for leaning on the wall. "If I evicted every dumb kid that misses rent, I'd do nothing but tack notices to doors all day." Frank cleared his throat. "So, I just let it go until the office tells me I have to do something. Most of the time some parent comes to bail them out before too long."
Mayhem: A Collection of Stories Page 2