by Jason Parent
His frustration hit its boiling point after she had already exited the diner. “Fine!” he shouted, jumping to his feet. “But don’t you ever say I didn’t try to warn you.”
She apparently didn’t hear him through the glass door because she continued out into the parking lot. He watched through the window as she got into her car and drove off, then he noticed several customers staring at him.
He plopped back into his seat. “If you won’t help me, I’ll stop him myself.”
Chapter 5
The white button-down blouse fit tightly across her budding breasts. A khaki sash, filled with pins that didn’t belong to her, twisted over her shoulder and across her body. Flashes of metal had been placed strategically to draw the eye. Pulled back into a ponytail, her strawberry-blond hair was neat and flat against her head. Two bobby pins, each set just beyond the corners of her forehead, wove her long bangs into the rest of her hair. Every inch of Tessa, from her subtle makeup to her pressed knee-length skirt and recently polished flats, was perfect, arranged with more care than a floral masterpiece. Such delicate care for indelicate business.
All dolled up, Tessa felt as though she were made of glass, her inside empty and exposed, her outside fragile and revealing. She wondered if her shirt was made from that see-through white material or the solid kind. Maybe it would blend with her milky skin. She hoped so; she didn’t want anyone to see her scars.
Dressed like that, she was out of her element, an actress on a stage when she only wanted to be locked inside her room writing poems to the loves she would never have—those lean, dreamy boys, far too cool for the likes of her. Boys like Jacob Dorsey didn’t notice Plain Janes like her, especially when she scurried through school like a mouse, trying not to be seen. Maybe he would notice me if I dressed like this.
Tessa bit into her lower lip. She almost smiled, considering the possibility that she might be pretty. She knew she was supposed to look it. She wished, just for a moment, she could feel it.
No guy wants a girl with small boobs, buckteeth, blah-blond hair, and not one but two pimples! She was far too old to believe in Prince Charming coming to save her from her wicked stepfather. Fairy tales were for idiots who thought life could be like their dreams. Her life was a nightmare. Never kissing a boy is the least of my problems.
With what Father would often make her go through, Tessa wondered if she had ever truly been in her element, whatever that was. Her world had always belonged to him. She couldn’t even imagine what “normal” might feel like. She had no friends, no family, no one… except him. On the rare occasions she’d tried to talk to a classmate, she always said the wrong things and came across as creepy. She was the “weird girl.” She heard it in their whispers, felt it in their stares. After a while, she just gave up, figuring it hurt less to be lonely than it did to be ridiculed.
She felt ridiculous as she stood on that doorstep. Her push-up bra pinched her skin. Her nylons bunched in all the wrong places. She just wanted to be home wearing a T-shirt and jeans, writing notes to Jacob she would never share, while staying clear out of Father’s way.
But there she was, helping him instead. But helping him do what? Sell some cookies? Father had never asked her to help before. He was taking things to the next level. Whether she wanted to help never seemed to matter.
One thing was certain: Tessa did not want to ring the doorbell. No good would come from it. The engine of Father’s Chrysler Crossfire purred quietly on the street, set back a bit from the front walkway in the late-afternoon shade of a great oak. As she glanced back at the windshield, she couldn’t see Father through the tinted glass, but she knew he was watching her. He was always watching her. And every second she delayed, she risked provoking his wrath.
The Crossfire’s headlights flashed, a sure sign that his patience was already waning. She exhaled for what seemed an eternity and turned to face the door. The house was like any other, a raised ranch on the suburban street, which resembled hundreds of other streets. Nothing special. Nothing to be afraid of. Yet Tessa was terrified all the same.
She stared at the doorbell, her finger hovering. She traced the gold-colored metal around the white button and dared to wonder what would happen if she refused to push it. Her imagination played out gruesome consequences she was not prepared to face. But to ring the doorbell meant to shift those consequences to another.
If it works. Why would this guy want me? Why would anyone?
Before she could decide, the inner door swung open. Startled, Tessa clutched her shirt just below her neck. Her eyes opened wide, taking in the sight of the guy who stood there. Only the thin pane of glass constituting the storm door separated her from an enormous, hairy beast of a man clothed in a stained wife-beater and ragged sweatpants that disappeared under a bulbous belly. Crumbs of unidentifiable food on his triple chin and shirt told Tessa he was exactly the type of guy who would appreciate the goods she was selling. Father had planned wisely.
The man opened the storm door about seven inches, which allowed only his massive head to peek through the crack. The glass fogged up, preventing any view in or out of the house.
“Yes?” the man asked through the opening.
“Hi,” Tessa began, just as she rehearsed. “My name is April, and I’m selling Girl Scout cookies for my local troop. May I come in and show you the delicious cookies I have for sale?”
“Do you have any of those caramel ones?”
“I certainly do,” Tessa said, flashing a flirtatious smile. She pushed her shoulders back to accentuate her breasts just as Father had told her to do. She twisted side to side, which had not been planned, her nervousness getting the better of her.
The man’s eyes followed the sway of her cleavage, his tongue apparently incapable of staying inside his mouth. “Aren’t you a little old to be a Girl Scout?”
Tessa knew she had him. Father had told her what to look for, taught her how to reel him in. She wanted to shy away. The thought of that man ogling her, putting his meaty hands on her, made her tremble. Then she thought about Father touching her.
“I’m mature for my age,” she said, giggling as if she hadn’t a care in the world. But she did. The gross pig in front of her disgusted her, but he didn’t deserve what was coming.
“Come on in,” he said, his own smile perverted, devious.
His eyes wandered down her body as he opened the storm door slowly, allowing Tessa to pick up her tote bag full of cookies and step out of the way of its swing. He filled the doorway as he gestured her in with a nod. Tessa had barely enough room to squeeze by him, not enough to make it through without rubbing against his belly. A stale odor, like old sweat mixed with mold, filled her nostrils, and she turned away from it. She wanted to push him back, sure he stood in her way on purpose. His leering almost made her forget to feel sorry for him. Almost.
The strap of her tote bag snagged on the doorknob, and Tessa waited to see if the man would unhook it for her. He seemed content to hold the door open so she could get it herself. Her face heated from a mix of anger and humiliation, but she was fortunate enough to gather her bag without further contact.
The door opened into a living room. A brown recliner sat in its center, sprinkled with broken potato chips and looking worn and tired. The wall it faced was home to a massive flat-screen TV. An unmatched sofa with plastic covering its hideous floral pattern hugged the near wall. A paw swiped out from beneath it, crinkling the potato chip bag its owner had stolen. Tessa smiled at the cat, but she struggled to keep her cheeks from falling, thinking about her kitten, Smokey, that she had loved so much, back when Mom…
Back when “pets” wasn’t just a four-letter word. She sniffled, but only once, then straightened. “Where to?”
Beyond the living room, a large dining room was partly filled by a massive oak table and matching chairs. The man pointed toward it. With her bag tucked under her arm, Tessa moved toward t
he dining room table. He followed her like a puppy. The storm door swung nearly shut, not quite latching. She glanced over her shoulder to make sure the house door remained open.
It had. Her shoulder drooped. She plodded forward to finish the act.
Tessa poured the cookies onto the table. She rummaged through several boxes of mint and peanut butter cookies, looking for the caramel variety the man had requested. “Looks like I only have two left,” she said, holding up two boxes. When she put them back on the table, she slid them toward the man, leaning forward to give him a better view of her cleavage while squeezing her arms against her breasts.
“I’ll take them both,” the man replied, and at that moment, Tessa despised herself. Worse still, she couldn’t tell if he meant he wanted both boxes or both breasts. She watched his hand fumble in his right pocket, his breathing heavy.
“How much are they per box?”
“Five dollars each.”
“Damn, they keep getting more and more expensive, don’t they?” Suddenly energized, he yanked his wallet from his pocket as if the cookies wouldn’t wait for him.
He pulled out a stack of ones and counted ten of them, no doubt ensuring some unfortunate stripper would be getting fewer tips later. He clutched the bills between two sausage fingers and returned the wallet to his pocket.
The door creaked behind them. The act was over. Tessa could no longer pretend to be the pretty schoolgirl when everything about her felt ugly.
The man must have heard the door open, too. He turned and faced Father, who at five-eight stood nearly a foot shorter than the pervert, not to mention the two-hundred-pound difference in weight.
Father was small but solid, like an Olympic gymnast. His hair was squarely combed, each brown hair cut short and placed along a part, as meticulously cared for as the greens at Augusta. Black horn-rimmed glasses with a horizontal line splitting the lenses made him look a little like a character from Mad Men. With handsome features made awkward by his long-outdated style, he might as well have been a puritan in his white shirt and black slacks. He and the fat man stared at each other for a moment, sizing each other up like two boxers just before the bell.
Tessa retreated around the table and cowered in a corner. She slid down against the wall until her knees touched her chest. She wanted to bury her head between them, but she couldn’t look away. Father wouldn’t like that.
“Who are you? Her father?” the man asked, obviously oblivious to the meat mallet protruding from Father’s grip. “We’re almost done here.”
The sound the mallet made as it ricocheted off the man’s skull, bone cracking like tires over glass, echoed into Tessa’s ears. The sight of that first hit replayed over and over again in her mind. She knew more hits would come. Her stomach turned, but she swallowed against her gag reflex. Father wouldn’t like her vomiting, either.
The man fell to his knees. His eyelids fluttered as if they were trying to rip themselves free of his face. The stunning blow caused his body to reel like a Weeble toy—he rocked back and forth, but he wouldn’t go down.
With another swing of the mallet landing against a blubbery cheek, the man’s lower jaw twisted. Dislocated, it hung open at a grisly angle. The man reached below his chin and tried to hold his jaw in place, losing his shaky balance in the process. He fell onto his side, blood gushing from his mouth.
Through slurred, gurgling speech that must have required considerable effort, he managed to ask, “Why?”
“You are undisciplined.”
Father’s response was simple, and he didn’t seem to feel the need to elaborate. The three words came out cold, deliberate, and absent of any indication that he recognized the heinousness of his conduct. Emotionless, Father’s expression complemented his words, as icy and indifferent as his face had been every moment since her mother’s death. Not even sleep seemed to bring him peace. Tessa would stare at him for hours as he slept, waiting for that moment when Father’s strain would break. But even then, he wore that chiseled, somber face. She wondered if it was the only face he had left.
“Rules were made to be enforced,” Father said, directing his voice toward Tessa.
It was her lesson to learn. She gasped, wanted to cry, but held it back. He does this for me, so that I learn to follow the rules. This man… Oh God, for me. Because of me. She had learned all his lessons a long time ago, but every so often, Father seemed to feel they needed reinforcing. As if to drive his point home, Father swung the mallet repeatedly into the man’s head. Once, twice, three times. Fresh blood, thick and dark, poured from new wounds. The man’s eyes rolled back into his head.
“Rule breakers were meant to be broken.” With a final bludgeon to the man’s forehead dead center, Father recoiled. Blood had spurted in an arc that stained his face and the front of his shirt. He scrubbed his glasses with a clean spot.
Between some chair legs, Tessa had seen every vicious stroke. The whites of the dying man’s eyes were aimed her way, but she doubted he could see anything through them. She watched as the blood flow diminished from waterfall to trickle. The cyclic rise and fall of the man’s chest became slower. Eventually, he stopped breathing.
Why? Father had always tried to make her understand, often forcefully, but his idea of justice always seemed unjust. What was this man’s crime? What could he have done to deserve such harsh punishment? Parked in a handicap spot? Farted in an elevator? Tessa didn’t know what the man had done to offend Father, but she could be certain that whatever it was, he did not deserve to die for it. If he had broken the law, then the law should punish him. What made Father’s justice better? She wouldn’t dare ask. Was it enough that people like this poor fat bastard who lay dying on his rug would never commit their crimes again?
Father glared at her, his features a tad more icy. Blood dripped off his mallet like raindrops from a gutter. Had he sensed her doubt? Could he feel her disapproval?
“We must teach them proper etiquette, darling,” he said, his tone only slightly warmer. “We must teach them discipline.”
How can he learn discipline if he’s dead? Tessa couldn’t stop the thought from forming, but once it had, she quickly tried to expel it. Do as he says. Do as he says, and don’t say a word. She’d been taught enough discipline of her own.
She stood and used her hands to flatten the wrinkles in her blouse and skirt. Her terror stayed beneath the surface. She couldn’t let Father know how horrified she was by his actions or how guilty she already felt for her part in them. Her insides were in turmoil, but her exterior was all Father could see.
Before moving, Tessa inhaled deeply, then she parted her lips only enough to release the air and, with it, a fraction of her anxiety. Collected and faking confidence, she stepped toward Father. Opening the tote bag on the table, she began to gather the boxes of cookies into it.
“No,” Father said, gripping her arm with a bloodied hand. His fingers dug into her, imprinting her blouse with their red-stained grooves and fissures. “Leave two boxes. He paid for them. Pick up the money, and let’s go.”
Tessa didn’t immediately understand what he wanted her to do. When it registered, she placed the two boxes of caramel cookies on the table. They were her favorite, though Father would never let her have them.
Father headed for the door, taking his improperly used tool with him. Tessa knew he wouldn’t tolerate waiting long for her.
Ten one-dollar bills jutted from the dead man’s left hand. Even in his eternal slumber, he clenched those bills tightly, perhaps thinking he could carry them with him into the afterlife. He had suffered whack after whack from Father’s mallet, yet somehow, he never released those greenbacks. Maybe he could have protected himself better if he’d just tossed aside the cash and made use of his free hand. Amazed, Tessa wondered if money really was the root of all evil.
Her amazement quickly turned to fear when she realized she would have to pull the
money from the hand of a corpse. Since she had discovered her mother’s body lying limp and naked in their bathtub, blood from her carved wrists turning the water into cherry Kool-Aid, Tessa panicked at the thought of being near a dead body. The nightmares she’d had after her mother’s death were dark and sinister. She would dream of her mother’s corpse trying to drag her into the earth, down to hell. In her dreams, her mother blamed Tessa for her death.
Ever since then, Tessa crossed to the opposite side of the road every time she walked past a cemetery or funeral parlor. Standing beside a body, being forced to look at it, nearly made her skin crawl off her bones.
Maybe I could use my own money and tell Father I got it from him. No. Father would know. He always knows when I disobey, and the punishment would be far worse than this. She shuddered.
Tessa tiptoed over to the hand, which was curled into a fist around the cash. She avoided the spattered blood wherever possible, the bigger pools clustering near the man’s head. Closing her eyes and bending over, she dug her fingers between the man’s and wrenched his sausage-like appendages back one by one. She snagged the bills. That wasn’t so bad. At least he doesn’t need change. Hysterical laughter burbled in her throat.
She let out a shrill scream as a hand wrapped around her ankle and squeezed. She looked down to see the man’s eyes wide open, outlined in blood and staring up at her. Her knees went weak, and she nearly collapsed. She leaned against the back of a chair and tried to step away. When he wouldn’t let go, she let out another yell.
She kicked at the man’s wrist with her free heel until he released her. A saliva bubble formed around his mouth then was popped by a wheeze and a gurgle. His eyes closed, and his body went limp. She couldn’t help but hope he stayed dead this time.