Luna-Sea

by Jessica Sherry

  A smile drifted easily across my face. It felt like the first one in days. I leaned over, sniffing the roses – all of them, as if one might smell differently than the other. What can I say? I’m a sucker for romantic gestures, and I wanted to soak this one up, in spite of the fact that he’d left town without telling me, again, forging yet another gaping hole between us.

  But, he sent me roses.

  “Even black ones smell lovely,” Henry pointed out.

  I eyeballed Raina’s verse Rolodex, mid-whiff. For God has not given us a spirit of fear, but of power and of love and of a sound mind. And like a switch, I believed in it all again. God, love, Sam, myself, the store, the party, even my family. Perhaps things weren’t falling apart, but rather coming together. And maybe, just maybe, I was making too big a deal out of nothing. I could almost see Jason Kent nodding his head, all women overreact.

  I called Sam (forget phone tag). The phone rang six times before his recorded voice asked me to leave a message. My shoulders sagged, and I simply said, “Call me.”

  Hours went by without hearing from him, but sending me roses had lifted me up out of my doldrums and I was riding the wave of that small joy into nightfall.

  I took Willie on his final walk of the night just after midnight. I’d gotten caught up in work and let the time slip by me. As usual, the alley was no longer good enough for him. We spilled out onto Atlantic Avenue, business yet done. The sky was blanketed with black clouds, covering up the stars and the slither of moon that glowed behind it. Rain was coming. The air was thick with it.

  “Let’s make this a fast one, Willie,” I told him, tugging on his leash as I kicked into a run. We traced the boardwalk under the glow of the street lamps, and circled Jubilee Park, already put to sleep. We stopped twice for Willie, and raced the half-mile to the pier, now holding a poop bag that I had unbelievably grown accustomed to since moving to Tipee. My shadow grew and shrunk as I passed under the lights, and I got lost in the rhythmic pattern of it. I was a giant. I was normal. I was a child. My feet hurt in my new Nikes, but even that didn’t distract me from my shadow. I felt like Peter Pan.

  Giant, normal, child. Wednesdays weren’t busy on the boardwalk, and Jubilee Park closed at 10:00 on weekdays. The air was too heavy, rain too likely. Even the bars down the street seemed quiet. The ocean was a monster behind a black curtain, and hearing it made my heart flutter. But, I kept watching my shadow, big, medium, small, and ignored it.

  The shadow of a man formed behind me, springing out – it seemed – from the parking lot around the pier. Big. And it moved quickly in my direction. Medium. Before I could think or react, it pounced on me. Small. A heavy arm wrapped around my neck, halting my forward motion, bringing my feet out from under me and sending Willie’s leash to the cement. His thick form steadied me, kept me from falling, but I managed to writhe free of his grasp, and immediately slapped him with the object in my hand – Willie’s poop bag.

  The gross splat of the bag splitting open against his ski mask covered face was quickly drowned out by my scream. The man in black lunged for me, grabbing my hair as I tried to run away, and pulled me back into his heavy arms. He put a knife to my throat, it’s sharp blade pinching my skin and bringing me to a full, quieted stop.

  Willie barked and growled, but one swift kick into Willie’s side made him yelp and slink away. Poor Willie! He was a dog named after Shakespeare – hardly a knight in furry armor. He was just as unprepared for such an attack as I was.

  “Please, d-don’t hurt me,” I managed to whisper. But, he only pulled the knife in closer. A warm trickle of blood drizzled down my neck. All I could think was, not again, God. Please, don’t let this happen.

  The man pulled my left arm behind my back – the elbow I’d broken just weeks ago – and pain ripped through it like the tendons and ligaments were re-tearing. Tears slid down my cheeks. My masked attacker said nothing and with the pressure against my throat and the pain now shooting up my shoulder, I couldn’t move except where he directed me. Toward the beach, he pushed me, step by step, our shadows disappearing into blackness.

  Oh, please God. Please help me.

  He said nothing. He was rough, shoving me to the shore as carelessly as one would drag a cooler or lawn chair. Please, please, I kept uttering just above a breath. Me, and all my keen powers of observation, all my book knowledge, all my little gray cells, and there was nothing I could do but beg. Things fall apart echoed in my memory.

  The columns of the pier enclosed us. He tossed me to the ground. I rolled over and tried to scurry away, crablike, but he grabbed my feet, dragged me toward him, and punched me in the face. Pain rippled across my head. Blood filled my mouth. He pressed his arm against my throat, showing me the point of the knife, which he held a centimeter from my eye. I cried out and shut them tight, expecting the blade to cut through my eyelid.

  God, help me, not fear, but power.

  He shoved his knee into my stomach. I gasped. I smelled Willie’s poop embedded in the knit mask he wore, mixed with cigarette smoke. He sat up and stared down at me. Everything on him was covered, from head to toe, in black. I’m sure there were holes for his eyes, but it was too dark to see them. The shadow had come alive, like a demon escaping from hell. I couldn’t see his smile, but I felt it there, hanging in the air as he edged the knife down my lips, my chin, my neck. I cringed, and cried. My stomach turned and I gagged. The knife travelled down my chest.

  Oh, God! No!

  The knife moved across me like it was a pawn on a Candy Land board. One space to the next. Achingly slow, so that he could fully enjoy my fear. Bile rose up in my mouth and I choked. Don’t move. Behind the black form of his head, well above, were the slats of the pier. Movement. Someone was there, just over our heads. Help, I mouthed as the point of the knife reached my stomach.

  I shut my eyes when he grabbed onto the waistband of my shorts.

  No, please, no!

  I tried to breathe. I tried to think. But nothing cut through the fear, save the look I imagined on Sam’s face when he found out someone had…

  “You’ll die for this,” I told my attacker. He pushed the knife against my throat again. Angry and desperate, I tilted my head back, daring him to do it.

  A whistle. Not natural, but electronic. The man grunted, sat up, and pulled a phone out of his pocket. Pause. Huff.

  He padded down my pockets, found my phone, and after a quick glance, threw it to the sea. My shoes were pulled off next, followed by a quick check of my ears, wrists, and fingers. No jewelry.

  The man stood, seemed to contemplate me once more, like I was a buffet. He grabbed the shoes, and left me with a parting gift – a punting kick to my side.

  I curled into myself, crying. The pain was not as sharp as the relief.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Sandbars

  Henry found me. Not sure how much time passed under the pier, but I was still balled up, and crying, when Henry’s voice cut through the laughing waves. Moments later, I was airborne. Henry carried me back to Beach Read.

  Once laid out on the beanbags in the children’s section, Henry toweled the blood off my neck. Willie whined and licked my face. “Are you okay, Willie?”

  “He’s fine,” Henry told me, “and it was thanks to him that I came looking for you. He made a ruckus at the door.” Henry eyed my injuries. “I shall call for help,” he decided finally.

  “No,” I spat back. “Don’t call anyone.”

  The pain in my head, my arm, my side – it was all swallowed up by rage. The last thing I wanted was another entanglement with the police, another story in the paper, another phone call to my mother, Delilah’s been hurt, again. Even the idea of telling someone, anyone, what just happened made my stomach turn into knots.

  I wasn’t raped. I wasn’t hurt badly. I wasn’t even robbed badly – a pair of painful shoes I didn’t even pay for and a phone that wasn’t worth the cost of the minutes I added to it. This was a nothing crime – not worth the unwanted
attention – and I was going to make nothing of it. Plus, I was an idiot. Traipsing around Tipee late at night just a few days after tough-as-nails Valerie Kent was robbed. Not one of my better ideas. What was I thinking?

  Henry nodded, though I could see by his eyes that he wasn’t keen on my decision. Didn’t matter. Henry was my ally, willing to make my mistakes with me. Besides, his encounters with police hadn’t been positive over the years. There was no love lost between them, and (Sam aside) we shared that enmity.

  “Then, what can I do?” Henry asked, hands out like he was helpless.

  “Help me upstairs?” I extended my good arm to him, and he pulled me up. The store phone rang and we both stopped. I shook my head. “Don’t bother with it, Henry.” Leaning on Henry’s bulky frame, we left the store and rounded the corner of the alley.

  “Are you certain this is the wisest course of action, dear?” he questioned upon seeing that I couldn’t stand up straight for the pain in my side.

  I chuckled. “Wise? Me? Of course, not. But, it’s all I’m willing to do right now. I’ll-I’ll be fine in the morning.”

  “Would you like me to call Sam for you?” he offered.

  “No.” I closed my eyes and rubbed my temple. My face felt like it was twice as large as normal, and it throbbed under stretched skin. “I just want to sleep.”

  Henry managed to get me upstairs without falling down them (a trick since my head ached and I felt both dizzy and queasy), and once inside, he didn’t blink when I asked him to get me four Motrin from the medicine cabinet and the frozen peas from the freezer.

  “Maybe if you told me what happened,” Henry tried again, “then I could report it on your behalf.”

  “Henry, promise me,” I paused, shifting the frozen peas against my face. “You won’t make any phone calls. Please. I-I just want to be left alone, okay?”

  With prodding, Henry left. I took a quick shower-bath (sat in the tub with the shower on) so I could wash all remnants of cigarette smoke and sand and Willie’s poop (if there was any) off of me. The pain didn’t wash off so easily, but the medicine dulled it. I crawled into bed, tears springing back into my eyes like weeds. I couldn’t rid myself of them. Slowly, sleep came.

  In my nightmare, I was standing, naked on a sandbar in the middle of the ocean, watching the grains of sand crumble into the sea, feeling the structure shift beneath my feet. With only glints of moonlight reflecting on the water, I was enveloped by darkness about to be swallowed, knowing that whatever was out there would have me soon. Mavis’ voice screeched in my ears, I’m not done with you yet, you bitch! The ocean roared up against me.

  But, it wasn’t the ocean. It was the roar of an engine, which echoed through the alley, puttered, and then stopped. Footsteps followed, heavy and fast rushing the stairs by two’s. I sat up in bed. My head coursed with pain. My side and arm ached. I should have stayed still. The bag of frozen peas lie soupy beside me, and it didn’t feel as though it had done any good. And, I was about to have a visitor at 4:13 in the morning.

  Sam.

  The door unlocked, he came in, and said, “Delilah, it’s me. Are you okay?” He switched a light on in the kitchen and hurried across the room. He knelt down beside the bed. His hands went to my face.

  “What happened?” he insisted. His skin was cool from wind, and felt comforting. He wiped the sweat on my forehead and pushed my hair back from my face.

  “I’m fine,” I sputtered out as he ogled me.

  “Where else are you hurt?”

  “Elbow again,” I reported, “head, side. It’s not that bad.”

  Sam lifted my chin, and spied the slices on my neck. “What happened?” he repeated, slower. And when I didn’t answer, he prodded with, “Henry said you were under the pier. Delilah, please. I love you. I just want to-”

  “I’m going to be sick.” I covered my mouth and stumbled passed him, across the room, and to the bathroom, where I fell to the toilet. Dry heaving ensued. Sam wet a cloth and set it against the back of my neck. He sat next to me, rubbing my back and holding my hair away from my face. Funny, I’d gotten half my wish – Sam Teague in my apartment and vomiting. Where was the tequila and the sex? Life is so unfair.

  I sat back. The sensation passed with nothing to show for it.

  “Sorry,” I muttered. “Took too many Motrins.”

  “How many?”

  “Four.”

  Sam whipped out his phone, and said, “Let’s just go to the hospital-”

  “No!” I spat back. I stood up, and set my hands on his phone. “I’m a little banged up, but I’m fine. All they’ll say is that I had too many pain pills on an empty stomach and a couple of bruises. Please. If I thought for one second that I needed a doctor, I’d be the first to insist on going. It’s nothing that ice and Motrin can’t handle. Please, just trust me.”

  Sam was thoroughly frustrated. He ran a hand through his hair, and seemed to want to argue. But, he put the phone away, and instead of badgering me, he held out his arms and I toppled into them relieved.

  “You have to tell me what happened,” Sam begged.

  I didn’t answer, but sighed. Tears were already forming in my eyes again. The stupid robbery had left me with a permanent leak. I hated even thinking about it, as if each second it replayed in my mind was a gift to the perpetrator. Sam led me out of the bathroom to the couch, and I plopped down carefully and pulled one of the cushions up against my chest.

  My head felt like a drum being rapped on the left side, slowly growing stronger as my double dose of Motrin wore off. My side only hurt when I moved. I knew I’d have to start wearing my arm brace again, but somehow this moment was the hardest. Why, I didn’t get. For all our problems, I was confident that Sam loved me; the love may be trumped by the aggravation, but it was there. And that he loved me should make telling him what happened easy. I went to the bank, sold a few books, and oh, by the way, was mugged. How was your day? Shouldn’t it be that easy? Something inside me wanted to lie, to say that I fell down the stairs or got hit by a speeding bicyclist or was in a bar fight. You should see the other guy, I’d joke. But, Sam was smarter than that.

  “I, um, was just out walking Willie,” I said, “and um, it’s really no big deal. I didn’t see him and then he was there. He had a knife. He pulled me under the pier, punched me, threw my phone in the ocean, stole my shoes, kicked me, and took off. That’s all.” I could have broken a speed-talking record for how fast I spit that out, but Sam didn’t seem surprised.

  I waved my hand dismissively. “It’s okay. Wrong place, wrong time.”

  Sam pulled his phone out of his pocket, typed something, and then turned back to me. “You didn’t call the police?”

  “And I don’t want to,” I returned. “Please, don’t.”

  “We have to report it,” he replied, his expression pained.

  I got up in spite of my head, and paced over to the window. The blackness had turned gray. Birds were already chirping. Sam leaned against the wall near the window, staring at me, and I folded my arms across my chest.

  “Do you have any idea who it could have been?” he asked. Anger was brimming behind his eyes. I could see it, though his efforts to contain it were exemplary. I needed to be as disciplined in hiding my emotions, I decided. Maybe Sam could teach me.

  “Delilah, do you have any idea who did this?” he asked again.

  I rolled my eyes, drops falling out, and shook my head. “None.” Even as the word sputtered out of me, a list formed in my head. I’d confronted a man about an affair, gotten caught spying on a drug deal, interrogated Dave Love (or at least tried to), and snooped around the Peacock again. Add all that up with making the huge mistake of going out by myself at night when I knew there was a robber on the loose, well, again I was the town idiot. I was angry, hurt, sick to my stomach, and sick with myself.

  Sam pulled me over to him, and held me against his chest for the longest time, stroking my back and whispering into my ear. “I’m so sorry,” he said.
Over and over he said it, as if somehow, this was his fault. Tears streamed from my eyes, and in the comfort and security of his arms, I told him, “I felt so out of control, Sam. I couldn’t believe it was happening, just another nightmare, and I was powerless.”

  My head grew worse, so he helped me back into bed and promised me he’d be back soon. “And I’m taking your keys,” he told me. “I will lock the door. Don’t open it for anyone, and don’t leave.” I nodded shortly. I didn’t have much of a choice in the matter anyway. At some point, I slipped back into my dreams where my sandbar was giving way and I was sinking into darkness.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Mercy

  We all deal with things in our own ways. Me. I wanted to bury it, hide under my covers until the wounds vanished, and ignore the ones that wouldn’t. This was the Delilah Duffy way. But, I wasn’t just Delilah Duffy anymore. At least so I hoped. I wanted to be Delilah and Sam.

  Sam went to work. While I hid in sleep, Sam, Williams, and a few other officers sectioned off fifty square yards of boardwalk and beach starting from where Henry found me. Sam backtracked. Patchy partial shoe treads and drag marks allowed him to visualize our movements, though none were substantial enough for evidence. Sam discovered the point of attack, marked by the remnants of Willie’s poop bag. At the edge of the parking lot on the left side of a city trash shed, a pile of like-brand cigarette butts were found and collected for evidence. Someone had been lying in wait.

  But, I didn’t know about all this until later.

  When I woke up, early afternoon, I found the apartment empty. I heard muffled voices. I sat up, rubbed my eyes, careful of my swollen face, and glanced around the room. No one was there but still, I heard talking.

  I went to the kitchen where I’d left the window above the kitchen sink open six inches for fresh air. I rubbed my temples. The voices drifted in the window again. Outside, on the porch Sam stood with his Aunt Beverly.