by K J Steele
And she was true to her word, catching Victoria up short as they were approached on the streets by various of the town’s inhabitants, sniffing the air like a dog searching for scent. Being by no means a respecter of persons, Auntie May had declared her findings unilaterally and loudly, proclaiming to both the pastor and his wife and the entire bingo hall that they stunk to high heaven. It was shortly after this that she’d been removed to a place with a pleasant name, and a reputation that fell far short of it.
Victoria smiled sadly into the dark room. If only the real world could fall so easily into the parameters Auntie May had defined for her own, but it didn’t. So far she’d found no one who was exclusively good or exclusively bad: even John Jr. and Petey, whom she found so easy to vilify, went home to wives and children who loved them. And even Bobby had his reservoirs of decency that spilled over from time to time. A yawn pulled itself from her, and she glanced at the clock, its rigid black fingers pointing with disapproval at the hour. The party was playing out in the next room, the boys having drunk their flimsy backbones out of their bottles, had now almost finished solving the woes of the world with their collective wisdom. Finally, as she waited half asleep in her chair, the booze ran dry and the talk ran out. John Jr., left with nothing to conquer, rummaged for his keys and started for the door, sweeping Peter along behind him.
“See ya Monday, Bobby,” he slurred as he and his tail tottered through the porch and out the door.
Silence answered him as Victoria cut the music, an empty quiet soaking its way through the trailer. Bobby had disintegrated into an inebriated lump across the kitchen table, a half-empty whiskey still in his hand. The old argument started up outside.
“Get outta here, ya stupid bugger. Ya ain’t driving my friggin’ truck.”
“Just let me drive, JJ,” Sam said evenly. “You can hardly even walk.”
“I can bloody walk. Where the hell’s my keys? Give me back my keys or I’ll kick your ass.”
“I don’t have your keys. You put them in your pocket.”
“I know where I put the frickin’ things.”
“Let me drive, JJ. Come on, don’t be—”
“Petey, where the hell are you?”
“I’m taking a piss, whadda ya want?”
“This stupid Injun thinks he can drive better’n me. What the hell you think ‘bout that?”
“Well hell. . . you ain’t got us killed yet, JJ, that’s gotta say something.”
“I’ll tell you what it says. It says I can drive drunk ten times better than he can drive sober. That’s what it says.”
“All right, JJ. You drive then, but go slow. And give me a minute, will you? I want to help Vic get Bobby into bed.”
“Ya, sure, more like ya want to help put ‘toria to bed, ain’t it, huh? Huh, Sam, ain’t it?” Peter’s nasally taunt jabbed into the air but was ignored as Sam slipped off his boots and returned back inside the trailer.
In a ritual that had been performed many times before, Victoria pulled back the sheets as Sam helped Bobby, with a shepherd’s tenderness, onto the bed. Together they silently worked off his jeans and shirt, then Sam turned off the light. Through the semi-darkness he looked down at her.
“Hey. Thanks for the sandwich, Vic.”
He dug deep into his pocket, pulled out a tiny, carved figurine and handed it to her. She felt its smooth patina. It was a wolf, head raised, howling to the moon.
“Thank you, Sam, it’s beautiful,” she whispered. “Thanks for helping me with Bobby again, too.”
Sam looked at her, shrugged, then quietly added, “I . . . uh, I think your hair looks real nice like that.”
Victoria’s smile was sliced short by the angry blast of a horn followed by John Jr.’s loud threats about things she no longer heard. Sam’s mismatched eyes flicked to the door then back to hers, his face struggling to release the words that grasped around his heart. John Jr. and Peter were both bellowing now, joined by the resident coyotes who’d joined in the diatribe. Twice his soft lips parted, but no words would venture forth and he finally just committed to a whispered good-night and left.
Hovering beside the bed she listened as the roar of the truck melted into silence. Placing the wolf figurine on her bedside table, nestled among the other carvings Sam had given her over the years, she wrapped her arms around herself as if to hold the embrace of his kind words. Eventually, the cold laid claim to her, and she shed the skin of her clothing onto the floor and carefully slid into bed. She drew shallow breaths, laid stone still, not wishing to arouse the behemoth snoring beside her.
Luck was not to be hers tonight, however, and a rough sweaty paw groped blindly over her. Her face contorted with disgust as his hand found its way to her breasts. With a heavy grunt, he mustered the energy to hoist his hot, flaccid body on top of her ice-cold one, pressing the breath from her. She was thankful for the warmth, nothing else. His face within inches of hers, stole her breath as it rushed from her lungs, but still he did not look at her. His eyes were drawn into narrow black slits that blocked out his reality while traitorous twitches revealed the fantasy playing in his mind. His thick flesh spread out over her, his labored huffing fouling her air, so she twisted her head aside as far as she could with her body trapped beneath him. She couldn’t breathe, but it didn’t matter. She held her breath. Counting. Counting silently to herself, coaching herself, 36 . . . 37 . . . 38. Hang on, hang on. Count, count. It’ll be over soon.
When they had first married, before she’d understood how things were going to be, she had moved and wriggled to let him know that there was still life left in the corpse beneath him, but she’d soon understood that it was an unnecessary, unwelcome intrusion. Slowly the pulsing faded to a rhythmic snoring, his body draping hers like death. Revolted, she realized he’d not been able to relieve himself but had succumbed to the alcohol poisoning his brain and paralyzing his body. Anger dove out of her as she struggled to roll him off. A rancid rush of putrid air erupted from his gaping mouth as he rolled over, belched, and again began to snore. Sightless hands led her through the black hallway into the bathroom. Flipping on the light, she leaned against the door as the tiny cubicle tilted and spun beneath her. The acrid stench of urine crawled into her nostrils, her knees buckling her onto the floor as a wrenching eruption exhumed the contents of her stomach into the waiting bowl.
~ Chapter 8 ~
Rose arrived early the next afternoon, bearing a plate full of peanut butter cookies and flanked on all sides by her three children freshly starched and pressed from their morning at church. Rose had no religious inclinations, scoffed at half of what was taught there, but still felt it was her moral duty to instill in her children a healthy fear of God. That, and the fact that she found a good two-thirds of her customers there, attributed to her continued attendance even now that Steve, who’d always been a faithful churchgoer, had vaporized, and the children complained as vehemently as they dared each and every Sunday morning.
The girls, born in a rapid-fire succession that didn’t quite span three years, were absolutely dutiful toward their mother but seemed a constant source of complaints for their teachers at school. Bullying and stealing lunches were occasional misdemeanors leveled against them. The biggest concern brought continually to Rose’s attention, however, was their propensity for lying. Yet at home they were very good children, obeying their mother with a swiftness and respect that Rose’s very presence seemed to demand, and receive, from almost everyone.
Victoria was unsure about her relationship with Rose at first, crushed under her biting criticism one time only to be restored gently on the wing of a compliment the next. But as time wore on, she began to appreciate Rose’s fussing concern for her, accepting her bossiness much like one would with an older sister. Eventually, she found herself seeking Rose’s company more and more; her words of reprimand offset so remarkably by her moments of kindness that Victoria would end up feeling somehow indebted to her. And, however distressing the relationship proved to be a
t times, Victoria knew by bare instinct that Rose was one person who’d make a far better friend than an enemy, someone you felt privileged to have on your side.
Rose handed the plate to Jennifer-Ann, her eldest, and surveyed from above as the three children presented the cookies to Victoria with clear, distinct, hand-lettered sentences that ran automatic from their mouths as if well rehearsed. She accepted the gift, fluttered gracious nonsense over the girls and wished they’d scatter off to the television. But they stood, vacant eyes placed mistakenly in cherub faces, boring into her as if they could see straight through, waiting for their mother’s note of dismissal. They’d have been cute children if one discounted the condescension in their eyes. She tried to like them but found she could only accomplish this from a distance. Up close they made her feel wary.
Presently Rose clicked her tongue, flicked her head and the children turned as one and walked into the living room, where cartoon voices sprung to life and restored a sense of normality. The visits had become a regular event ever since Rose’s television had quit working, and she’d promised the girls she’d drive out to the trailer for a quick visit while they watched their Sunday afternoon cartoons. Victoria settled into making tea, placing two steaming mugfuls on the table as Rose began the process of disrobing. Her penchant for display fascinated Victoria; she stood and observed as Rose unraveled from a brilliant cocoon of colors: turquoise cloak, two layers of boldly striped sweaters and a magenta scarf, all of which she piled onto an empty chair, creating the illusion of a third person at the table. Finally stripped down to her classic black turtleneck and jeans, she joined Victoria at the table and picked up a cookie to go with her tea.
“Poker night, huh?” She flashed her eyes at the pile of empties still sitting on the counter beside a stack of clean dishes.
“Oh, ya. I’d asked Bobby to take them out to the shed. Guess he forgot.”
“Bobby would forget his head if it wasn’t screwed on. He get your car fixed yet?”
“Not yet. This week though, I hope.”
“That’s what you said last week.”
“I know, but he’s been busy. And it took longer to get the part he needed, too,” Victoria defended, even though her own mind had cursed him many times for what she knew was nothing more than his procrastination. His procrastination plus his inability to say no to the various calls he’d received requesting his help. The weeks since he’d dragged the car home passed on the back of his excuses— each one lamer than the one before—until what he’d initially said would be a one-hour job had expanded into a full day. Her requests that he fix it now seemed to him like a huge infraction of his time.
“So what’s he expect you to do, stay stuck out here all winter?”
“No, he’ll get it fixed. Probably this week.” She sipped her tea. “How’s work going? Keeping busy?”
“Work? Oh, well it’s going, but barely. I don’t think I’m going to keep doing it for much longer. I’ve just about had it with mending seams for all those old cows. You’d think they’d take a hint and quit filling their fat faces all the time.” She took a bite from her cookie. “You got it easy that way, Vic. I guess if you’re willing to put up with him, anyhow. Be a hell of a lot simpler. No way I could do it though. Pride’s worth more to me, I guess.” She sipped her tea, breathing the steam away with her nostrils, slashing the rim of the mug a rich burgundy.
Victoria felt the impact of the words, stiffened and resolved to ignore them and drink her tea. But irritation pushed itself free from her before she could raise the mug to her mouth.
“What do you mean by that?”
“By what?”
“That you have more pride than me.” She’d committed herself now, suffocated anger arriving hand in hand with indignation.
“I didn’t say that.”
“What, then?”
“I said my pride is worth more to me. Obviously it is. Look at what you’ve sacrificed.”
“What do you mean, Rose? I haven’t sacrificed that much. Bobby’s had a hard time keeping the farm going, but he feels it will do better now. It’s been a—”
“Oh, come on, Vic. Get real! He’s been rattling that same old chain ever since I’ve known him and nothing has changed yet.”
The opposite of most people, who raise their voices when vexed, Rose lowered hers into a husky growl that forced her listener to pay close attention to catch each word rather than half listening while they arranged their next objection. Because of this attribute, she invariably led the conversation while the other party stumbled along to keep up.
“You must get tired of it, hey? I mean, it must be embarrassing sometimes.” She looked Victoria in the eye, prepared to debate anything that she would deem a less than honest answer. Victoria tried for diversion.
“I’m not sure what you mean, Rose. Sure, I’d like a nicer place—”
“That’s not what I mean.”
“What do you mean, then?” she blurted, even though she desperately did not want to know. But Rose, having forced the question, now felt the only decent thing to do as a friend would be to answer it honestly.
“Well, just with the whole town knowing, it’s got to be pretty humiliating for you. I don’t know how you put up with it.”
“Put up with what?”
Rose paused her second cookie mid-bite. She assessed Victoria’s face curiously, then laughed. “Come on, Vic. Other people might fall for that, but don’t expect me to believe you’re that stupid. Jenny! Turn it down!” she hollered into the living room, where Woody Woodpecker had careened upward several decibels, his ricocheting laughter driving Rose’s words into Victoria’s head. As sure as Rose was, this time she was wrong. She was that stupid, had no idea what Rose was alluding to. Her body felt as if it had abandoned her and her mind floated randomly, aware she was talking and breathing but without understanding how. Taking in her friend’s waxen image, the drifting nonsense of her reply, Rose’s features grew softer.
“You did know, Vic, didn’t you? I mean everyone seems to, I thought for sure—”
“I knew, Rose. Of course I know. Only an idiot wouldn’t know,” she bluffed, fastened shaky hands around her cup but didn’t dare lift it. “Doesn’t matter to me, I couldn’t care less what the jerk does. I’ve got plans. I won’t be hanging around here forever.”
“Yeah, I was sure you knew. Pretty common knowledge around town. You going to want some more tea? Hmm. See you finally got yourself a new kettle. About time. Your old one looked like someone kicked the crap out of it.” Rose attempted unsuccessfully to read Victoria’s averted face as she checked the water in the kettle and turned the burner on high.
“So. You’ve got plans. Good for you, Vic. I knew you would.”
“Yeah, I’ve got plans,” she agreed, almost believing herself.
“So, what are they?” Rose sat down enthusiastically, as if ready to partake in a verbal feast.
Victoria’s mind scrambled.
“Come on, Vic, you can trust me to keep my mouth shut. You know that. Do they happen to include that artist guy?”
Victoria nodded. She didn’t know why, but in having to hatch this impromptu plan Elliot seemed an ideal component. Just including his name felt like a small vengeance against whatever it was Bobby had done. “He thinks I should open a dance studio. He even offered to help me.”
“I knew it! I knew there was something you weren’t telling me,” Rose said emphatically, jumping up to silence the kettle.
“Tell me more. Are you sleeping with him? You are, aren’t you! Why didn’t you tell me?”
Panicked, Victoria attempted to return the conversation back to reality. “No Rose, I’m not sleeping with him. We’re just friends,” she said sharply, but a self-conscious smile sabotaged the words and whet Rose’s appetite for more.
“Yeah, right. Come on, tell me more.” She settled back into her chair with her mug of tea and waited expectantly.
But there was no more to tell: Victoria was painfu
lly aware that the part already told was more fabrication than fact. Fearful it would find its way from Rose’s lips to Elliot’s ears, she tried to think of some way she could reverse the order of what she’d done. A giggle, partly suppressed, reached them from the living room, which, she now noticed, had grown unnaturally quiet, Sunday afternoon cartoons having been shifted to a low, low volume.
“Rose! Do you think the kids—?”
“No.” Rose waved burgundy-dipped fingers. “Don’t worry about them, they don’t pay any attention to us.” And then to prove it she yelled into the living room. “Hey! What are you doing in there?”
“Nothing.”
“Don’t lie to me.”
“I’m not lying.”
“Then what are you doing?”
“Just watching TV.”
“What’re you laughing at then, Woody?”
“No.”
“What, then?”
Smothered giggles rolled across the floor.
“Jenny! I asked you a question. What’s so funny?”
“Lindsey farted!”
“Did not!” They collapsed under a fit of laughter that should have calmed Victoria’s suspicions but had much the opposite effect.
“So. You going to let me in on it?” Rose pressed, her curiosity unsatiated.
“Not much to say, Rose. We’re not even friends, really. God, I’m still married, Rose, can’t forget that.”
“Haw! Yes, I can. And you sure as hell should.”
“Not just something I can forget, Rose. I’m sort of committed.”
“Yeah, well, that’s nice in theory, Cinderella, but what are you really committed to? Bobby? The marriage? Sounds like a good way to end up being committed to the loony bin! What the hell’s a marriage, anyhow? A word? A truce? Half the time it’s nothing more than a bloody lie. Just like your ring. Wasn’t that a lovely way to start your life together?”
Her wedding ring had been a contentious issue from the start. Rumors had sprung up immediately after their engagement that the ring Bobby had flourished on her was the same one he’d bought for Diana. Bobby denied it vehemently, saying it was similar but not the same one. Three days before the wedding, however, Pearl Bentley had announced to Victoria and the rest of the café that she knew full well it was the same ring. She’d been in the pawn shop when he’d come in to sell it; upon hearing he’d only recover less than half of its value, he had abruptly changed his mind and stormed out, calling the shop owner a friggin’ crooked kraut. Victoria moved her hands from the table as the sway of the conversation directed Rose’s eyes toward them, but it was too late.