by Lauren Rowe
I’ve been bursting to see Kurtis all day, actually, because I’ve got some news that’s gonna knock his socks off and bring a happy tear to his eye. This morning, right after he left for work, a real-life Hollywood agent called me out of the blue and invited me to be his client. Just like that. No audition needed. I’ve been bursting all day to tell Kurtis all about how that agent drooled over me right through the telephone line. “I saw your photos in Casanova,” he gushed, “and wow, you’re incredible. I’m sure I’ll be able to get you as much work in this town as you could ever want.”
“You’re talking about me being in real movies, right? Not pornos?” I asked, practically hyperventilating.
“You bet,” he assured me. And then he rattled off some of the movies his other clients have been in, and I just about fainted with joy.
“Kurtis?” I sing out, climbing the grand staircase in the foyer. “Where are you, sweetness?” I slowly unbutton the front of my dress as I climb. I’m gonna give my husband an extra special treat today, on account of me being in the best mood of my entire life.
There’s no reply to my call, so I continue toward the master bedroom.
The minute I’m inside our room, I hear the shower running in the bathroom. I move toward the closed bathroom door, but before I get there, I notice the bed is undone. I’m certain I made the bed this morning after Kurtis left for the office, right before that agent-man called. Why is it undone now? The hairs on the back of my neck stand up and my stomach turns over. I lean down slowly over the bed and take a deep sniff. My stomach somersaults.
I smell sex.
My nostrils flaring, I peer at the bed closely.
There’s a long black hair on my pillow.
I scramble back downstairs as quickly as possible, burst into the downstairs bathroom, and wretch into the toilet. When I’m done, I rinse my mouth under the faucet and march right through the front door, tears streaming down my cheeks, acid burning in my throat.
I tumble into my car—a sporty little thing Kurtis bought me for my nineteenth birthday—and I race down the street, careening right, then left, and left again, worming my way deep into our hoity-toity neighborhood in the hills. As I drive, I can’t make out the road in front of me through the imaginary porno playing in front of my eyes—a porno starring Kurtis and Bettie, in which my husband is groping Bettie’s enormous, sudsy boobs in our shower while he plows her from behind.
When I’m on a quiet street with nobody around, I park my car, turn off the ignition, roll up the windows, and scream at the tippy-top of my lungs. After a moment, my screams become wailing, shuddering sobs. After fifteen minutes, my sobs become hiccups and sad-sack sniffles. After yet another fifteen minutes, I’m tuckered out and completely mute.
I recline my seat all the way back and gaze glassy-eyed through the windshield of my car, silently fingering the diamond cross with the big ol’ diamond star around my neck. Now the movie playing on repeat in my mind is Kurtis giving me my diamond-cross necklace in that cramped storage closet, promising to make me a star. For a moment, I imagine myself ripping my necklace off and throwing it in Kurtis’ face, but even the thought of doing that makes me cry even harder. I love my necklace—and I’d sure hate to break the clasp. If I’m gonna break a clasp on a dang necklace, it ought to be the one around Bettie’s gosh-dang neck, not mine.
I imagine myself bursting in on Kurtis and Bettie in the shower. I rip that damned heart-shaped necklace off Bettie’s neck, throw it at Kurtis’ horrified face, and stalk away. Kurtis scrambles to follow me out of the bathroom, drying himself off with a towel as he goes. “Baby, wait. I love you,” he yells after me, his naked man-parts flopping to and fro as he hobbles after me. But I don’t wait. I just keep marching.
Damn it all to hell. I don’t like this movie any more than the other ones playing in my head. I don’t want to leave Kurtis. I’ve loved having a happily ever after these past months with him. I’ve loved strutting around, wearing my necklace, feeling like somebody on this planet finally loves me bigger than a sky full of stars again, the way Daddy did all those years ago. Tears are streaming down my cheeks fast and furious. How could Kurtis do this to me? Haven’t I been the perfect wife? I clutch the necklace around my neck and hang my head, my whimpers and sniffles filling the lonely silence of my car.
But wait. I lift my head. Did we get a new housekeeper with long black hair? Or, maybe, our housekeeper—whatever her name is, I can’t remember—was sick today, and so her sister—a sister with long black hair—filled in for her? Well, Einstein, I immediately think, why did the long-haired-replacement-sister-housekeeper unmake the bed? Holy hell, is Kurtis screwing our maid’s sister?
I slap my hands over my face and fall back into my car seat. No, Kurtis is not screwing our maid’s long-haired sister—he’s screwing Bettie Big Boobs. Just like he was doing before we ever got married. Just like he’s been doing during our entire marriage—the whole time he’s been making sweet love to me and telling me I’m gorgeous even without lipstick on. I lean forward, unclasp my necklace, and stare at it in my hand for several minutes, tears streaming down my cheeks.
The happy pang I’ve lately been feeling in my heart has twisted and curled into a dagger-sharp pain like nothing I’ve felt before. But wait. Maybe I’m jumping to hysterical conclusions here. Kurtis loves me, I know he does. I saw the way he looked at me over his cream of wheat the other day. That man had genuine love in his eyes. And, anyway, with all the sex-miles Kurtis and I have been logging these past months of our happy matrimony, he couldn’t possibly have a single ejaculation left for Bettie Big Boobs or anyone else. Even if Kurtis used to screw Bettie before we got married, that doesn’t mean he’s still nailing her, considering the fact that he’s so in love with me. I clutch my necklace to my chest and breathe deeply.
It doesn’t make sense to go off half-cocked and leave Kurtis and our happy marriage and the promise of our movie until I know for sure what’s going on. Maybe I’m letting my imagination run off with me. Maybe I’m letting jealousy get the better of me. Maybe I didn’t make the bed this morning like I thought. Maybe Kurtis got one of Bettie’s hairs on his shirt today at the club, or at his office when they were having a simple business meeting about her next porno, and maybe my poor husband came home sick, and he crawled right into bed in dire need of a nap, just shaking and burning up with a fever, my poor, sweet baby, and that long black hair rubbed right off his shirt and landed smack onto my pillow.
It just doesn’t make a lick of sense that Kurtis would be cheating on me. Why on earth would Kurtis go to all the trouble of sending me to acting classes and getting investors lined up for our movie and going on and on about making me a star and telling me I’m fucking gorgeous all the time, even without lipstick on, if he was just gonna turn around and screw a tramp like Bettie Big Boobs in our marital bed?
A certain kind of calmness washes over me. I think I’ve jumped the gun here, as I’ve been known to do a time or two. I half-smile at myself. I just need to cool my jets for a minute, that’s all—stop overthinking things. I hate to say it about myself, but sometimes my big ol’ brain can be my own worst enemy. Until I know for sure what’s going on here, I shouldn’t do anything rash that might derail my happy marriage or movie-star destiny.
I look at my watch. I’ve been reclined here in my car seat for over an hour. Right about now is when I would have been coming home from my hair appointment if it hadn’t been cancelled. I raise my car seat to an upright position, put my necklace back on, turn the key in my ignition, and head home.
“Kurtis,” I shout, waltzing through our front door, my heart in my mouth. “Are you here?”
I’m relieved when Kurtis saunters into the room from the kitchen, looking relaxed and happy to see me. “Hey, baby,” he booms cheerfully. Yes, he most definitely looks bubbly-bright and bouncy-fresh as a lamb. This most certainly isn’t a man who came home sick and in need of a nap. “Oh, your hair looks fantastic, baby,” Kurtis says. He kis
ses me on the cheek, and I have to fight not to turn my cheek away from him.
“You like it?” I stutter, smoothing my hair with my hand. “I changed the color just slightly this time. Is it too light now, you think?”
“No, it’s perfect. I love the new color. Get it this way every time, honey. It suits you.”
“I will. Thank you.”
I stare at Kurtis for a moment, swallowing hard. My husband doesn’t particularly look like a sheep-killing dog right now. But I can’t be sure. “Well,” I sigh, “I’m fixin’ to change into something a little more comfortable upstairs. I’ll be right back.”
“Not so fast.” He grabs me by my waist and pulls me into him, just like he always does. But this time—for the first time, ever—I push away.
Kurtis’ face flashes confusion. “Everything okay, Buttercup?”
“Everything’s just fine,” I mumble. “I’m just tuckered out from acting class, is all.”
“Oh yeah? How’d it go today?”
I squint at him, trying to read his face. Is he a lying sack of dung, or isn’t he? “Today was a good class, actually,” I finally say, still staring him down. “We learned all about tapping into our deepest, most honest feelings, and channeling them into an ‘authentic’ performance.”
“Channeling your deepest, most honest feelings, huh? Like what?”
“Well, like deep-seated rage, for instance,” I say, glaring at him with steely eyes.
Kurtis bursts out laughing—but I don’t join him in laughing. What I’ve just said isn’t even remotely funny.
“You’re learning how to tap into your ‘deep-seated feelings of rage,’ are you?”
“Yes, I am,” I huff. “And it’s not a laughing matter, Kurtis Jackman. I’m learning my craft and that’s a serious business. I’m an instrument.” I shake my head to whip my hair out of my eyes. “I’m learning all about harnessing the entire spectrum of my emotional range—including, yes, deep-seated feelings of rage, which, believe me, I have in spades.”
“Oh, I’d love to see your deep-seated rage, baby, hell yeah. Maybe you can give me a sample of some of that rage later tonight.” He slaps my behind and I flinch in surprise. He laughs.
I smile thinly. “Well, I’m sure that can be arranged.”
He clutches at me, but I pull myself away again. I just can’t make heads or tails out of this situation right now. I need a little space to think. “I’ll be right back,” I say. “Just give me a second, would you?”
“Okay, okay,” he says, laughing. “But don’t take too long. Kurtis the Great’s in the mood to explore a whole new continent tonight.”
I try to smile at that, but my stomach’s too queasy for smiling.
I walk upstairs to the master bedroom.
The bed is neatly re-made. My stomach flips over and my chest tightens.
I pull down the bed covers and peer closely at my pillowcase. The long, black hair isn’t there.
“Buttercup!” Kurtis booms from downstairs. “Get your gorgeous ass down here, baby. I want to teach you something brand new.”
I stand frozen to my spot for a moment, tilting my head and blinking like a cockatiel. Have I gone bullbat crazy?
“Coming,” I yell down after a minute. I stand over the bed for a long piece more, trying to quiet the whirling thoughts in my head. I’m not sure what just happened. Is he a lying dog or isn’t he? Am I crazy or aren’t I?
“Buttercup!” Kurtis shouts again. “Come on, baby! I’ve been thinking about you all day long.”
I don’t know what to think, but I’m not gonna be able to figure it out right now. With a loud exhale, I turn on my heel and head downstairs.
Chapter 28
19 Years 6 Days Old
374 Days Before Killing Kurtis
“Hello, Mildred,” I sing out as I strut into Kurtis’ office at lunchtime. I know for a fact Kurtis plans to be on the set of his latest porno-masterpiece all day today, because that’s all he talked about at breakfast this morning. “So nice to see you again.”
“Mrs. Jackman,” Mildred says curtly.
I smirk. I keep forgetting about that “Mrs. Jackman” thing. “I’m here to surprise my husband with an extra special kind of howdy-do,” I say.
Mildred bristles. “I don’t expect Mr. Jackman in the office today. Would you like me to call him and tell him you’re here?”
“No, I know he’s busy as a stump-tailed cow at fly time today, but he said he might be able to swing by the office at lunchtime for a little quickie with his sweet wife.” I wink when I say the word “quickie” and Mildred recoils. “I’ll just wait a piece,” I continue, “and if he doesn’t show, then I’ll trot along.” I sigh dreamily. “I just can’t get enough of that handsome man of mine.”
Mildred looks utterly repelled. “Why don’t you make yourself comfortable?” She motions to a chair in the corner.
“Oh no, I’m fixin’ to wait in Kurtis’ office, naked as a boiled chicken.” I grin. “My husband loves getting buck-naked surprises from his sweet little wife.”
“How lovely,” Mildred croaks out.
Bless her heart. I imagine it can get downright off-putting working for a porno-king. I lean toward poor Mildred and whisper conspiratorially, “I reckon you’ll want to take an extra long lunch today, honey.”
Mildred stands, her lip curling. She sniffs once, picks up her pocketbook, and wordlessly walks out the front door.
Once I’m inside Kurtis’ office, I dash around the room opening drawers and file cabinets, making like I’m Mata Hari on a secret mission. I’m not sure what I’m looking for exactly, but that doesn’t stop me from investigating. I thumb through a stack of scripts on Kurtis’ desk. Eating Barbara. Boned with the Wind. Cathy Gets Creamed and Sugared. It’s all the usual Kurtis crap—nothing particularly interesting or concerning.
I lean back in Kurtis’ chair and sigh deeply. What did I expect to find here? A note from Kurtis to Bettie saying, “I sure had fun secretly screwing you in the shower before my wife got home yesterday”? I roll my eyes at my own silliness and stand up to leave.
Just as I’m turning away from Kurtis’ desk, though, I notice a notepad covered in scribbles. I tilt the pad toward me and squint at it, trying to make sense of Kurtis’ chicken scratches all over it. Kurtis’ handwriting is just like the man himself—big and all over the place—but, suddenly, one notation in the middle of the page grabs my attention like a ton of bricks: “Bettie Page True Story.”
Bettie Page True Story?
My heart’s thudding in my ears. What the heck does that mean? Does it have something to do with Bettie Big Boobs? I’ve always known Bettie Big Boobs’ stage name is a riff on some real-life nudie-cutie named Bettie Page, but I’ve never seen or read about her. When I caught Kurtis and Bettie in a clinch six months ago in this very office, Kurtis said he was planning a Bettie Big Boobs porno. Was he telling the truth? Does this little scrawl have something to do with that? Or, God forbid, is Kurtis planning something even more sinister—like a legitimate movie starring Bettie? Now my heart’s pounding in my throat. It sure would help me to know when Kurtis made this little notation and whether his idea, whatever it is, has developed into something more than chicken scratches on a notepad.
I look at my watch. Damn. I don’t have time to sit here and think about Bettie Page or whether Kurtis is making a Bettie Big Boobs porno or otherwise. Today might very well be the most important day of my life, because in exactly one hour, I’ve got my very first, genuine Hollywood-movie audition, thanks to that agent-man from yesterday who called again this morning and told me where to go.
“Do I need to learn any lines?” I squealed into the phone.
“No, honey, the less you talk the better,” the agent-man replied. “Just show up looking sexy as hell. Oh, and make sure you wear a push-up bra.”
I know Kurtis is gonna be tickled pink for me once I get the part—he’ll probably act like a damned country fool, hooting and cheering and tw
irling me around—even if a small part of him might feel the teensiest bit ashamed when it’s not him who winds up giving me my first starring role in Hollywood. I reckon Kurtis is gonna be so happy, he’ll tell me to put on my prettiest dress so we can paint the town and the porch red.
“Can I help you?” the man behind the counter at the adult bookstore asks. He’s standing in front of a large magazine rack, filled to bursting with every kind of flesh-porn-sex-industry “adult” rag there is. I’ve stopped in here on the way to my audition because I’ve just had the bright idea to give the director a signed copy of the special double issue Casanova with me on the cover and my centerfold on the inside. Dang it, I wish I’d thought to grab a couple copies when I was at Kurtis’ office an hour ago, acting like a spy, but oh well.
“Two copies of Casanova,” I say to the clerk.
The man smiles politely and grabs the magazines off the rack for me. The instant he holds them in his hand, he clearly makes the connection between the blonde bombshell on the cover and the blonde bombshell standing in front of him in the flesh. “Hey, that’s you,” he shouts.
“Yes, sir. The one and only—Buttercup Bouvier.” To this day, it gives me unparalleled pleasure to say my movie star name out loud.
“Wow. These pictures are hot, hot, sizzling hot. I’ve certainly enjoyed them in the privacy of my apartment, if you know what I mean.” He winks and my stomach cartwheels. “Hey, will you sign a copy for me?” He grabs a magazine off the rack and opens it to my centerfold in no time flat, like he already knows exactly what page it’s on. I glance down at my naked boobs busting off the page and look away.