Countdown to Killing Kurtis

by Lauren Rowe

  When I arrive at the director’s office, he’s not there.

  “I’ll wait,” I tell his assistant.

  “I don’t know if he’s coming in today.”

  “I’m the star of his movie,” I explain, jutting my chin with pride. “I’m his Dream Girl.”

  His assistant lets me stay—but it feels like she’s only doing it out of pity.

  After a couple hours, that director sure enough walks right through the door, and when he sees me, his face turns bright red. “Oh, Buttercup,” he says. “Hi.”

  “Hey-ah. I was wondering if I could have a word with you, please, sir?”

  “Sure.” He leads me into his dark and disheveled office, flips on the lights, and motions to a chair. “What can I do for you?”

  “Well, sir, I just wanted to tell you how excited I am about making our movie together. I’ve been going to acting classes for quite some time now, and I’m really looking forward to showing you—”

  “Your husband didn’t tell you?” He looks mighty uncomfortable. When my face makes it clear I don’t know what in tarnation he’s talking about, he continues, “I’m sorry, but the Dream Girl part’s been recast.”

  I don’t want them to, but tears spring into my eyes. “But I... I’ve been taking acting classes like crazy and I’ve been learning—”

  “We’re already in pre-production with another actress.”

  “But, please,” I beg, panic rising in my throat. “You said yourself I’m the perfect Dream Girl—you said I was born to play this part.”

  He shakes his head. “You are a dream girl—without a doubt—just not mine.”

  “But why? What happened?”

  He swallows hard. “The part just got recast, that’s all. It happens all the time in this town. I’m sorry.”

  I jump out of my seat and point my finger at him. “Now you listen here, Mister Big Stuff. You tell me right now why it got recast, or I’m gonna slap the shit outta you and then slap you for shittin’.”

  A genuine smile flashes across his face for just an instant but quickly turns to stone-face. “Why don’t you ask your husband?”

  I’m taken aback. I don’t understand what he means. “I... I already did,” I stutter. “He said he talked to you. And he didn’t say a word about the part being recast. He said he talked to you about directing a movie he’s making starring me, but he’s still lining up investors, so...” At the flat-out derisive expression on the director’s face, I hasten to add, “It’s not a porno, if that’s what you’re thinking—it’s a legitimate movie-homage to Marilyn Monroe, starring me.” I puff out my chest.

  He smirks. “I don’t recall the conversation going quite the way you’re describing it.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  He shrugs.

  “What are you saying to me?” I ask, my eyes bugging out.

  “You should talk to your husband if you want details.”

  I sit back down in my chair and begin to sob in earnest. “Please, just tell me what he said.”

  He sighs and hands me a box of tissues. “It’s just not going to work out, okay?” He pauses, considering what to say. “I’ll just say that your husband feels extremely protective of you. He made it abundantly clear he’s not in favor of you working on any film projects with any director—any other man—besides him. Period.”

  I stare at the director square in the face and clench my jaw. “My husband doesn’t own me. I was born to play the Dream Girl and you know it. You can still make me the Dream Girl, whether he likes it or not.”

  He chuckles, but there’s no joy in it. He sits next to me on the couch. “Actually, I didn’t get the impression I could make the movie with you in it, or do just about anything else, for that matter, if I crossed your husband. And, you know, I really enjoy doing things like breathing and eating solid foods, so...”

  I’m sure my face registers my complete and utter shock.

  “So, yeah, I’m sorry, Buttercup, but I chose breathing and being able to eat a cheeseburger over casting you in my movie.”

  My heart physically hurts. I clutch my chest, trying to alleviate the pain. “But,” I stammer. “Please.”

  “Look, I’m sorry to be so blunt with you, but as great as you are—and you are great, and I wish you the best—there’s a line a mile long of girls who can play the Dream Girl in my movie. So, yeah, I decided to recast the part to get your lunatic-husband out of my hair. It’s as simple as that.”

  My head is spinning. I put my hands over my face as tears squirt out of my eyes and cascade through my clamped fingers. “Please, please, please,” I beg, even though I know it’s no use.

  I already knew deep down inside Kurtis wasn’t going to lead me to my sacred destiny, after all. But now it turns out he’s been actively and purposefully keeping me away from it.

  That Dream Girl movie was the only thing I had left in this life.

  And now I’ve got nothing.

  No Marilyn movie.

  No Dream Girl movie.

  No husband who loves me.

  No Wesley.

  No platinum-lined happily ever after.

  All of a sudden, a tornado of rage swirls up inside me. I want to head straight home and hurl an axe into my husband’s back. But I won’t do it. Because I’m way too smart to veer off the plan I’ve made with my daddy. I am Charlie Wilber’s Daughter, after all, and that means I’m gonna let Daddy take care of things just like we’ve carefully arranged—no more waffling.

  And after Kurtis is six feet under, I’ll go right ahead and star in any movie I want. Hell, when Kurtis is wearing a pine overcoat, and I’ve inherited all of his filthy porno-money—and you can bet your sweet ass I’ll get every last dirty cent of it—I’ll be the producer of any movie I please. And I won’t need any fucking investors to do it, either. I’m done relying on anyone else to deliver me to my destiny or make me happy in this life. I’m gonna start taking care of myself.

  And that’s a fact, Jack.

  When I get home from my meeting with the director, Kurtis isn’t home yet, which is a lucky thing because not hacking my husband to death and burying his myriad parts throughout our backyard landscaping would have been a tall order.

  I sit at the kitchen table with my darling Wilber on my lap and pick up the phone.

  “Flowers by Judy.”

  “Hello there, Judy.” I’ve gotten much better at my California accent by now, thanks to my acting instructor. “It’s Charlene, calling to order flowers for my boss again?”

  “Oh, hello again. Will it be the usual two bouquets?”

  “Yes, invoiced as one giant bouquet delivered to the residence.”

  “Got it.”

  “But this time let’s make both bouquets twice as big as y’all have ever made them—no, three times as big—just make ’em jaw-droppers, inexcusably excessive, like it’s a damn shame to spend that much money on something as stupid as flowers instead of feeding a third-world country.”

  Judy the flower-lady laughs. “Okay.”

  “And for the note on the one to Bettie this time, my boss wants to say, ‘I love you forever, my angel. Love, Your Eternally Devoted Admirer.’”

  “Oh my. She’s gonna like that. The usual roses and peonies?”

  “Yes, but why don’t y’all add some forget-me-nots, too.”

  “Oh, that’d be nice.”

  “And how about some lavender?”

  “Hmm,” Judy-the-Flower-Lady says. “Not typical for a romantic bouquet. Lavender’s usually interpreted to mean ‘distrust.’”

  I can feel my eyes darkening. “Hmm,” I say. “Well, gosh. My boss doesn’t seem to put much stock in all that flower mumbo jumbo—he just likes what he likes. And he says lavender is this girl’s favorite color, so why don’t we just humor him?”

  “No problem.”

  “And for the other bouquet to the residence, how ’bout y’all send the biggest, most boastful, most obscenely beautiful bouquet you can imagine.
My boss doesn’t care what’s in that one, as long as you make it magnificent and unwisely expensive and bursting with joy.”

  Judy-the-Flower-Lady laughs again. “I’ll do that.”

  “Thank you so much.”

  “Anything on the card for the second bouquet? Sounds like a special occasion.”

  “Oh, it is,” I reply. “But we’ll just let the flowers do the talking. Talk is cheap.’”

  “Ain’t that the truth.”

  “Well, thank you. Bye-bye now.”

  I stroke Wilber’s soft fur for a moment, trying to calm myself. “Happy Killing Kurtis Day can’t come soon enough, can it, Wilber?” I whisper, and my darling kitty purrs loudly in agreement. I pick up Wilber and nuzzle my nose against his soft face.

  No it cannot, Wilber says to me. It most certainly cannot.

  Chapter 36

  19 Years 6 Months Old

  195 Days Before Killing Kurtis

  I’m startled awake. Kurtis looms over me next to the bed. He smells like he just got squeezed out of a bartender’s rag. His hair is falling into his eyes. I jerk to a sitting position, every hair on my body standing on edge. My breathing is instantly shallow.

  “Kurtis,” I squeak out. I squint to make out his hands in the dark. Does he have a weapon? No. His hands are balled into fists. Is he fixin’ to punch me in the face? Or to spread open his hands and wrap them around my neck? How bad is this gonna be?

  Kurtis breathes heavily through his mouth. He’s so drunk, he can’t tell if he’s coming or going. “I let my monster out, baby,” he grunts out. His voice doesn’t sound like his.

  I’m too scared to speak.

  “I let it out,” he shouts, slurring. “But not on you.” He lunges forward to kiss me, puckering at me like some sort of cartoon villain. When Kurtis’ lips land on mine, they feel like slimy rubber. “She’s been fucking someone else—and whoever he is, he keeps sending her flowers. Flowers and flowers and... ‘I love you forever.’ She wouldn’t tell me who she’s fucking, so I let my monster out, baby, just like you said I should.”

  I jerk sideways and Kurtis’ body falls and heaves onto the bed. Wilber jolts awake and skitters to the floor.

  Earlier tonight, right before Kurtis went out to the club, I told him “a woman” had called the house again. “It’s the same woman as the last few times,” I said. “She never leaves her name—she just keeps saying she needs to talk to you, needs to see you. This time she kept cackling when she said your name. Do you think it’s someone from the club, honey?”

  Of course, none of this was true, as usual. These days, when it comes to Kurtis, if my lips are moving, I’m lying. But I keep prodding Kurtis because I reckon the more times he thinks Bettie’s called over here, and the more times Johnny reports that Bettie’s secret admirer has sent her yet another extravagant bouquet, then the more likely Kurtis will be inspired to drink himself into a frenzy and barrel down to the club and chew Bettie out, and probably in front of countless witnesses. The fact that Kurtis just went the extra mile and let his monster cream Bettie’s corn, too? Well, that’s just an extra nice fact for when Bettie’s on trial for Kurtis’ murder.

  “She always swears she’s not the one calling. But who else could it be?”

  Lord, I’ve never seen Kurtis this drunk before. I take a deep breath to calm my nerves. I just have to remember, as scary as Kurtis is right now, it’s all part of the plan. “You’re right, baby,” I squeak. “It’s gotta be her.” I breathe deeply, steadying myself. “You’ve done a good thing,” I coo, trembling. I cautiously pick up one of his hands and study it. His knuckles are swollen. He must have whacked her good and hard. “You’d never let anyone play you for a fool, isn’t that right?”

  He jerks his hand away from mine, making me flinch. “She won’t tell me who it is,” he says. “I told her, ‘I don’t care who it is. Just tell me. I won’t do anything, I swear.’ But she won’t tell me. She said, ‘I don’t know who it is.’”

  “Of course she knows,” I scoff. “A man keeps sending her flowers and she doesn’t know who it is? That woman’s trying to tell you a lizard’s an alligator.”

  “She’s a fucking liar,” Kurtis growls.

  I suddenly notice an unmistakable splatter of blood on Kurtis’ blue shirt, right underneath his shoulder. It’s a small splatter, but there’s no question what it is. “It was good you let your monster out on her,” I whisper, eyeing the blood splatter. It looks almost purple against the blue of Kurtis’ shirt.

  “I let my monster out, just like you said I could,” Kurtis mumbles again, sounding like he’s falling asleep.

  “That’s just fine.”

  “I don’t deserve you,” he mumbles.

  Truer words were never spoken.

  “You love me even though I have a monster inside me.”

  “That’s right.”

  He scoots close to me on the bed, and snuggles up to me. He reeks.

  “Is she dead?” I whisper.

  “No! Of course not. I’m not a murderer, for Chrissakes.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “She threw her shoe at me when I was leaving.”

  “Well, that’d be pretty hard for a dead woman to do.”

  Kurtis chuckles. “You always make me laugh, baby. That’s why I love you.”

  “And that’s why you can never let your monster out on me—”

  “I know! You already said that. And it’s killing me, believe me, because some times I just wanna...”

  My hair stands on end.

  “But I’m doing what you want, okay? So stop fucking nagging me about it all the time.”

  His voice went from “I don’t deserve you” to “I want to bash your face in” in three seconds flat. Goosebumps have formed all over my body. I need a new tack. “It’s just that it makes me hot as a summer revival when you let your monster out on someone else. I like knowing you do bad things, Kurtis, just as long as it’s not to me. It makes me hotter than a burning stump to think about you being so brutal and forceful and manly... and making that woman pay for her lies.”

  Well, that does it. Without warning, he pulls down his pants and slams himself into me, a wild, ravenous beast—and, strangely, thinking about how he just walloped Bettie and made her pay for her lies, it’s the first time I’ve enjoyed sex with Kurtis in a very long time.

  Chapter 37

  19 Years 10 Months Old

  33 Days Before Killing Kurtis

  My acting instructor approaches me right before class. “Hey, some guy was asking about you yesterday.”

  I’m instantly filled with dread. Was it Kurtis? Or maybe Johnny? I try to remember what I was doing yesterday. Was I supposed to be in class? My mind is reeling.

  “He asked about you by a different name at first,” my instructor adds.

  Now my dread turns to panic. Did the police finally figure out it was me who baked Jeb’s cake? Or that it was me who swiped Mr. Clements’ cards?

  “But then the guy said, ‘Well, she might go by Buttercup’—so I figured he must have been looking for you.” My instructor grins broadly. “How many Buttercups can there possibly be in all of Los Angeles, right?” He laughs, and so do I, even though my heart is leaping out of my chest. “Anyway, the guy begged for your phone number and address, but of course, I wouldn’t give him anything. So, he asked me to give you this.” He places a folded piece of paper in my hand.

  “Thank you,” I manage, my voice quavering.

  “He talked funny just like you do, so I figured he was legit.” He winks.

  I’m breathless. Did Daddy get out of prison early for good behavior?

  The moment my instructor walks away, I hastily unfold the note with trembling hands—and in familiar, crooked handwriting, I see the digits of a local phone number followed by the sweetest little word I ever did see: Wesley.

  I bolt from my seat, intending to sprint to the phone booth in the parking lot, but then I see Johnny standing just inside the front doo
r of the theater, staring at me like a bald eagle watching a creek.

  Slowly, I sit back down. Goddamned Johnny. Goddamned Kurtis. I shoot Johnny a clipped wave that says, “It’s not nice to see you.”

  Johnny smirks and takes a seat in the back.

  All I want to do is run outside and call the number on that note, but I’m stuck here.

  I spend the next hour watching my classmates perform short monologues and debate “motivation” and “objective” and “subtext” with respect to each one. Normally, I’m a Chatty Cathy during class—that’s what happens when you find your higher calling in life, I reckon—but today, I’m distracted and mute. That note’s burning a hole in my hand and making me short of breath.

  When class is over, I amble up the aisle toward Johnny as if I’ve got nothing better to do than chitty-chat with him about the weather. “Hey there, Johnny,” I say, coming to a languid stop in front of him. “Well, aren’t you as welcome as an outhouse breeze. You enjoying yourself back here?”

  He grins.

  “You gonna tell Kurtis about all those monologues? I’m sure he’ll be thrilled to hear about every last one.”

  “Kurtis likes to make sure you get to your classes in one piece. He worries about you driving a sports car, you being a new driver and all.”

  It’s so like Kurtis to give me a hot rod as a present and then turn around and hawk over me because he thinks I’ll drive it too fast. “Yes, I’m well aware of Kurtis’ concern for my safety, bless his heart.” I decide to use this opportunity to stir up Kurtis’ monster a little bit, since Johnny will surely report back on everything I tell him. “I wonder if you can answer a question for me, Johnny?”

  “I can try.”

  “Who’s the woman from the club that keeps calling my house?”

  “How do you know she’s not calling to sell you a vacuum cleaner? Sales ladies can be awfully persistent.”

  Man, that Johnny’s slicker than a slop jar. “Gosh, I never thought of that. Thanks. That must be it.”