Countdown to Killing Kurtis

by Lauren Rowe

  I don’t return Daddy’s smile. That little kitty was soft and cute as a button, with a teeny-tiny pink nose. His whiskers tickled my nose. His itty-bitty tongue felt like sandpaper on my skin. His little “meow” was the sweetest sound you ever did hear. I didn’t tell Daddy about Jessica so he’d do this—I was just trying to explain why I was crying. How could he think this is what I wanted him to do?

  “Buttercup, I sure do love you,” Daddy says, pushing my hair away from my wet face.

  I don’t respond.

  “I love you bigger than the sky full of stars, you know that, right? I sure do hate to see you cry. I’ll do just about anything to keep you from crying, honey.”

  I bite my lip. I can’t speak. It ripped my heart out to say goodbye to that fuzzy little kitten today, to see his tiny body, mangled in the dirt. Dang, that kitty was as big as the little end of nothing—he wouldn’t have hurt a fly on top of a cornbread muffin.

  “Okay, then,” Daddy says. He stares at me with hard eyes, waiting on me to say something, but I can’t think of a single thing to say. “Buttercup? You hear me?”

  Daddy looks different to me all of a sudden. I’m having a hard time looking at him.

  “Come on, now, Buttercup. Say it.”

  Gosh dang it. For the first time ever, I don’t want to say it.

  “Say it,” Daddy repeats, his eyes twinkling.

  I exhale. “Nobody tells Charlie Wilber’s Daughter what she can and can’t do,” I mumble.

  Daddy smiles. “Good girl.” He pats me on the head. “Now, no more crying, you hear? It’s time to get your butt off your shoulders.” Daddy pulls my blanket up to my neck and kisses me on the forehead. “‘Nighty-night, Buttercup. Don’t let the bedbugs bite.”

  I try to smile at him, but I can’t. Trying to smile just makes me feel like crying. I close my eyes, forcing my mind to imagine something besides that poor, bloody kitty in the dirt. My daddy loves me, I tell myself. My daddy loves me and that’s all that matters.

  Daddy begins shuffling toward the back room.

  My daddy loves me and that’s the most important thing.

  “I love you, honey,” he says, turning out the lamp near the little table. “Sleep tight.”

  “Daddy?” I say softly.

  He turns around, his face illuminated by the moonlight.

  I reckon getting a black-and-white-and-red valentine from my daddy is more important than nuzzling a cute little kitty’s soft pink nose. “I love you.”

  Daddy winks and flashes me his biggest movie-star smile. “I love you, too, sugar—bigger than the sky full of stars.”

  Chapter 6

  18 Years 1 Week Old

  734 Days Before Killing Kurtis

  The nurse nods at me and says, “Dr. Ishikawa will see you now.”

  I’m sitting in a cramped waiting room, if you want to call it that—it’s more like a broom closet with two chairs—and, at the nurse’s instruction, I get up and follow her through a small door into another tiny room, a room crowded to bursting with a small desk, a scale, and an examination table.

  “Sit down there.” She motions to the table. “Take off your shirt. The doctor will be with you in just a minute.” The nurse leaves the room.

  Well, I’m sure “take off your shirt” is a real “ho-hum” phrase to her, maybe like “pass the Tabasco” is to anyone else, but those words are jarring to me. I’ve never taken off my shirt in front of a man before, and though I’ve been to the doctor once or twice in my life, the last time was long before I’d grown actual boobs. Even if my boobs are on the small side, even if they’re flat as a fritter, they’re still mine, after all, and I’m not in the habit of showing them off to every Tom, Dick and Harry, whether a doctor or not. And, anyway, every doctor I’ve seen in the past has always given me a little paper gown to wear. Why the heck didn’t Dr. Ishikawa’s nurse give me a little paper gown to wear?

  I wish I didn’t need to be here at all, to tell you the truth, but I could wear my bra backwards and it’d still fit. Bigger boobs aren’t gonna just shoot out of my chest like bottle rockets out of nowhere, no matter how hard I hope and wish and pray they would. Wishing for things to happen, instead of going out there and making them happen, is as useful as wishing a bullfrog had wings so he wouldn’t bump his ass when he jumped.

  Slowly, I unbutton my shirt and remove it. But then, once it’s off, I hold my shirt up against my chest. Damn, this room is chilly. The door opens suddenly, without warning, and a short man with tiny hands and jet-black hair enters.

  “I’m Dr. Ishikawa,” he says. He extends his tiny hand and I shake it.

  “Hi, Doctor,” I manage, pressing my shirt tightly against my chest.

  “How can I help you today?”

  “Bettie sent me. She said you do all the girls?”

  Bettie’s name doesn’t seem to ring a bell with Dr. Ishikawa.

  “Bettie from the Casanova Club? With the long black hair and bangs?”

  “Ah, yes. Of course. Bettie Paigette.” He chuckles to himself, probably picturing Bettie Big Boobs with her shirt off. “Yes, her breasts certainly turned out well.”

  Breasts? Is that what he calls those things? I would have used a thousand other words before I got to “breasts,” if ever. Hooters. Balloons. Melons. Maybe even knockers. But definitely not breasts.

  “So, I assume you dance at the Casanova Club with Bettie?” the doctor says.

  I blanche. “You assume wrong.” I flip my newly blonde hair back and the wax paper on the examination table crinkles beneath me. “I’m an actress. I’m going to be a legendary actress seen by audiences in cineplexes all over the world.”

  He grins at me. “Very nice. I’m sure you will.” His smile turns into a bit of a leer, and then into another chuckle, though I’m not quite sure what’s prompting his laughter. “Well, then, let’s take a look, shall we?” He motions to my chest, obviously wanting me to pull down my shirt.

  I know in my head this moment is a necessary part of achieving my destiny, that I’ve got to be brave like the first man who ate an oyster, but I reckon I just didn’t think how uncomfortable it would feel to show a strange man my boobs, destiny or not. Shoot. I take a deep breath, ignore my racing heart, and slowly drop my shirt into my lap.

  “Sit up straight,” the doctor instructs, staring at my chest.

  I sit up straight, looking away.

  The doctor bends down a bit, I reckon to bring his sightline even with my chest. “Good shape. Good symmetry,” he says. “Ah, but size. Yes, I see why you came to me.” He chuckles again.

  Oh, for cryin’ out loud. This is the first man who’s ever been graced with the sight of my naked boobs and that’s all he’s got to say to me? I grit my teeth. I might have come to this doctor asking for new boobs, it’s true, but the least he can do in this first-of-its-kind moment is tell me how pretty I am, just the way I am, and try to turn me away. “You’re perfection,” is what he should be saying to me right now, giving me the opportunity to say, “Well, now, hang on a minute there, Doc. Yes, I’m perfection, it’s true—if I just want to be a normal girl—but I’m an actress, you see, and I’ve got a destiny to fulfill—a destiny to pick up the torch lit first by Lana and handed off to Marilyn and to carry it ever-farther into the catacombs of history—and, unfortunately, the boobs the Lord gave me are just too dainty for a job that big and mighty.” Man, oh man, this here doctor’s got a lot of nerve telling me I need new boobs, even if I’m here asking him for them in the first place. I glare at him, friendly as a fire ant.

  Dr. Ishikawa continues staring at my boobs like he’s choosing a pork chop from the butcher. “Hmm, we just have to decide what size. Let’s see how much you weigh.” He points to the scale in the corner of the room. And even though I’m this close to punching this dumbass doctor right in the teeth, I do as I’m told and slide off the examination table. While the good doctor peers down at the number, I cross my arms over my chest. Sweet Jesus, it’s freezing in here.<
br />
  Dr. Ishikawa motions for me to return to the examination table. “With your frame, which is on the petite side, the question is whether to give you Mansfields or Monroes.”

  My heart leaps out of my flat-as-a-pancake chest. Does everyone in Hollywood classify boobs as Mansfields or Monroes, or is this a sign from above that I’m barreling in the right direction towards my sacred destiny? Before I can reply to the doctor’s comment, though, he adds, “Are you familiar with Jayne Mansfield and Marilyn Monroe?”

  Does this man think I just fell off the turnip truck?

  “Actually, with your platinum hair and the structure of your face, you quite resemble Jayne Mansfield.” He smiles like he’s just given me an enormous compliment.

  “Gosh, thank you, Dr. Ishikawa,” I say sweetly, even though I’m imagining myself whacking his head clean off with a baseball bat, “but I have blue eyes, like Marilyn. Jayne had brown eyes.” Fool. All this dumbass doctor has to do is look at me to see I’m the spitting image of Marilyn Monroe. In fact, we could be twins.

  “Well, given your profession,” Dr. Ishikawa prompts, “I think you’ll go a lot further with Mansfields...”

  “Give me Marilyns, please,” I say stiffly. “Big enough for a legendary Hollywood actress, but not so big that no one ever listens to a word I’m saying.”

  Dr. Ishikawa snorts, plainly thinking, No one’s ever going to listen to a word you’re saying, either way. When I squint at him with hard eyes, he purses his lips. “Okay, I’ll make them closer to Marilyns. But standards have changed since the days of Marilyn Monroe. We’ll need to go a bit bigger than hers, relative to your frame, just to comport with present-day industry standards.”

  I pause, trying to decide what to do. I don’t know anything about “present-day industry standards”—it’s the truth—but whatever they are, I sure as hell plan to “comport” with them. “Okay,” I agree. “So long as you’re not thinking anything along the lines of Bettie’s boobs. I don’t want anything even spitting-distance from Bettie’s boobs, you understand? I’m an actress, not a stripper.”

  “I understand.” Doctor Ishikawa sniffs. “Now, let’s talk about my fee.”

  He tells me how much these two fancy boobs of mine are going to cost me, and I about fall off the examination table. I had no idea two Marilyns would be so expensive. You’d think a girl could get ten Marilyns plus a nose for that price. I’ve never bought anything—or even imagined buying anything—so damned expensive. But, of course, I have to do it, no matter what the price. My destiny awaits me, and I can’t get to it without fancy new boobs, even if those damned boobs are gonna cost me an arm and a leg. The good news is that I’ve got enough cash in my pocketbook to cover the good doctor’s fee and then some, thanks to my dear friends, The Yankee Clipper and Mr. Clements. “That’s not a problem,” I say. “I can pay you in cash. All of it.” I pat my pocketbook.

  Dr. Ishikawa’s face lights up. “Wonderful. Well, then, in that case, why don’t we do the procedure tomorrow morning? Eight o’clock?”

  “Wonderful.”

  “Be prepared to be off your feet for a full week.”

  Back at the motel where I’m renting a room—thanks to the generosity, yet again, of my buddies Joe DiMaggio and Mr. Clements—the desk clerk in the lobby flags me down.

  “Buttercup, right? You got three phone calls while you were out,” he says. “All from the same guy.” He looks down at the message slips in his hand. “Kurtis Jackman?”

  Yesterday, during my three-hour-lunch-turned-early-supper with Mr. Kurtis Jackman, I quickly surmised Kurtis likes The Chase more than whatever he happens to be chasing. When we said our goodbyes in front of the restaurant, I pointedly turned my cheek when he moved to kiss me, figuring it’d be best to leave the man wanting more—and, much to my surprise, when I turned my cheek, Kurtis complied without a peep, gracing me with a soft and gentlemanly peck, even though his eyes were burning like hot coals.

  And an even bigger surprise than that was this: When I felt Kurtis’ lips pressing against my skin, and I smelled the scent of his cologne floating up into my nostrils, and when I felt his big hand slide down my back and rest just above my bottom, lord have mercy if that heartbeat didn’t start throbbing inside my panties again, but this time raging like a galloping stallion.

  I find a payphone out on Sunset Boulevard and dial the number scrawled on the messages.

  The line picks up after one ring. “This is Kurtis.”

  I’m startled. I expected Kurtis’ secretary to pick up the phone. “Oh,” I stutter, “well, hello there, Kurtis. It’s me, Butter—”

  “Hello-hello. I’d know that sexy little drawl anywhere. How’re you doing, honey?”

  “I couldn’t be better. How’re you doing, sugar?”

  “I’m losing my mind, thank you very much. I haven’t stopped thinking about you since you left me yesterday, standing all alone in front of the restaurant, needing a cold shower.”

  “Oh my,” I breathe. No one’s ever said anything quite like that to me before.

  “I need to see you,” Kurtis says, his voice low and intense.

  I purposefully keep my voice light and bright, in direct contrast to the husky urgency of his. “Oh, Kurtis, you’re as sweet as lemonade on a sunny day, aren’t you? I’ve never met anybody quite like you.”

  I’m telling Kurtis the truth about that, actually. I was genuinely surprised at how quickly and pleasantly time passed with Kurtis in that hoity-toity restaurant with the red leather booths. True, he laughed so loud he nearly made my ears bleed once or twice, and, true, his arm nearly broke from patting himself on the back. And, yes, I was slightly disappointed when he only briefly mentioned his movie production company (which was the one thing I was dying to hear about), and instead blabbed on and on about his stupid girly magazine.

  But none of that mattered the minute Kurtis leaned forward, his eyes wild, and glared at me like he was an axe murderer I’d picked up hitchhiking. For a split second there, I wasn’t sure if the man was fixin’ to kiss me or kill me—but, in that moment, either one would have done me just fine. Right then, Kurtis raised his martini glass in salute to me and said, “To the most fucking gorgeous creature I’ve ever laid eyes on.” And, as if that wasn’t enough to make a girl ooze like a banana pudding parfait left out on a hot sidewalk, Kurtis didn’t stop there. “You’re so gorgeous,” he said, “you make a man wanna sit and stare at you all day, every day—for the rest of his fucking life.” Holy hell. If I’d stood up just then, I reckon there’d have been a snail track on the leather booth.

  Kurtis exhales loudly over the phone line and I’m jolted back to the here and now.

  “Why didn’t you return my calls sooner, Buttercup?” Kurtis asks. “Are you trying to torture me?”

  The tone of his voice makes my cheeks flush and my chest tighten, just like they did when he called me gorgeous during last night’s lunch-turned-dinner.

  “Torture you?” I say, smiling into the phone. “Well, gosh, honey, you know I’d never do that. I wouldn’t hurt a fly taking a nap on top of a black bottom pie.”

  Kurtis hoots with laughter.

  “I just had a few things to take care of, seeing as how I’m new in town, that’s all. But I’m calling you now, aren’t I, so you can’t be too upset with me, can you?”

  Kurtis makes a sound that reminds me of a bear waking up from a winter’s hibernation. “You just keep talking with that sexy drawl of yours,” he groans out, “and I’ll never be upset with you as long as I live.”

  I feel heat rising in my cheeks.

  “You could do nothing but read the phone book to me in bed,” Kurtis continues, “and I’d die a happy boy.”

  I giggle. I don’t mean to do it, but I do. I can’t stop myself.

  “Come to my house tomorrow,” Kurtis says. “I want to show you something.”

  His house? The very idea makes me nervous and excited all at once. “Oh, honey, that sounds like a little slice of he
aven,” I manage to say, “but I’ve got something I’ve got to do tomorrow. And, actually, it’s gonna keep me tied up for a full week.”

  “A week? What the hell are you doing for a whole week? I want to see you tomorrow.”

  I laugh, but this time, it’s a full-throated laugh, not a giggle. “Patience, Kurtis,” I coo. “The best things in life are always worth waiting for.”

  Kurtis laughs a naughty laugh. “I wouldn’t know. When I want something, I never wait for it. Ever.”

  There’s no mistaking his meaning. “Well,” I say, swallowing hard, “then, I reckon there’s a first time for everything, isn’t there?”

  I can hear Kurtis smiling devilishly across the phone line. “You know what? I do believe there is.”

  Chapter 7

  12 Years Old

  2,926 Days Before Killing Kurtis

  Momma and Daddy are fighting. This is nothing unusual. I just keep reading my book. Fatal Vision. It’s a good one. I’m not quite done with the book yet, but I know the guy killed his family. I’m sure of it. He fooled everyone at first, because he’s a smart one, that one, and the world is full of dumbasses. But I’m even smarter than he is. If it were me in the book killing my family, then I wouldn’t have gotten caught. I feel like telling the guy in the book, “Listen here, sir, if you wanna kill your family that’s all well and good—it might even be perfectly understandable, depending on your situation—but just don’t be a dumbass about it and get caught.” I tell you one thing, if it were me who killed my family, no one would be able to write a damned book about it, you can bet on that.

  Daddy’s screaming in the back bedroom, “You sleep all day. You’re worthless as a screen door on a submarine.”

  “I work all night,” Momma yells back.

  I roll my eyes. I work all night. That’s Momma’s go-to excuse for everything. But working the night shift at a diner certainly doesn’t explain the fact that she does absolutely nothing around here, or the fact that she’s drunker than a pissed mattress all the time.