Monstrosity

by Edward Lee

  Clare felt confused. “So I take it I won’t be meeting the clinic director today?”

  Dellin closed his eyes in the memory lapse. “Harry! That’s right. I’m sorry, I should’ve beeped you when he called. His conference in Sarasota ran late so he’s not going to bother coming back to the clinic when it’s over. You’ll meet him sometime tomorrow.”

  “Okay.”

  “Have you gotten your shifts all worked out?”

  “I’ll be relieving Rick at midnight, then working till noon.”

  “Sounds good.” Then Dellin got caught in another memory lapse. “Damn, how thoughtless of me! You haven’t even seen your cottage yet, have you?”

  “No, not yet.”

  “I’d take you down myself, but I’m meeting some friends in the city for dinner. Joyce, would you mind taking Clare to the cottages and introducing her to Mrs. Grable?”

  “I’d be happy too,” Joyce said. “I’m on my way home now anyway.”

  Dellin started for his Mercedes. “Great. See you two tomorrow. And, Clare, it’s great to have you aboard.”

  “Thanks.”

  Dellin drove off in the sun.

  “Dellin’s cool but he’s definitely a mystery around here,” Joyce remarked after he’d gone.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Oh, you know. Good-looking but shy, intense yet remote. One minute he’ll be joking around with you, the next minute he doesn’t know you exist ’cos he’s so wrapped up in his work.”

  “Well, it is important work, right?”

  “Sure it is, but sometimes it seems like he’s got other things on his mind at the same time. Nobody really knows anything about him. No ring, so I guess he’s not married, but who knows if he’s got a girlfriend, an ex-wife, kids? He has a beach cottage too but he’s also got a condo in town.”

  “You mean Tampa, or St. Pete?”

  “No one knows. He’s never even mentioned if he’s dating anyone, involved with anyone.”

  “That’s his business,” Clare stated outright. “And since he’s our boss, it’s probably a good idea not to worry about his private life.”

  “Oh, I know that, but come on.” Joyce’s subdued smile seemed sly. “How is any natural woman not going to wonder a little? Christ, he’s so damn handsome!”

  Clare felt tempted to make this her first exercise of supervisor-to-employee discipline and remind Joyce that remarks like that were wholly inappropriate. She didn’t bother, though; it would make her feel like a hypocrite. After her own wandering eye today?

  “He’s probably gay anyway,” Joyce said, laughing. “The really good-looking ones around here usually are.”

  Clare decided to toy with her a little. “Hmm, well. Rick’s a pretty attractive man. You think he’s gay?” Do you, Joyce? she continued in thought. Probably not, huh, ’cos that sure didn’t look like a GAY man you were practically wrapping your legs around earlier.

  The comment put Joyce instantly on guard—and she did a poor job hiding it. “Don’t get me wrong. Rick’s a nice guy but I’d never date him, of course. We work together! It’s against company policy to date someone you work with.”

  “Um-hmm.”

  Joyce was clearly not comfortable with the subject now. “Before we go to the cottages, can we go back inside for a minute?”

  “Uh, sure.”

  “I’m roasting. These day shifts in the summer are killers.”

  Joyce unlocked the front doors with the key around her neck, and Clare followed her back in. The sudden gush of air-conditioning gave Clare a pleasing chill. But she felt a pang when they passed the cafeteria; about a dozen of the technical staff were sitting down to large meals. The aromas were delectable. “I’m skipping dinner tonight, trying to watch my weight,” Joyce offered. “But I don’t mind waiting if you’d like to go in and get something. The cooks are fantastic, and the discount we get is unbelievable.”

  Clare almost cringed against the knot of hunger twisting in her stomach. But she didn’t want to look gluttonous, stuffing her previously homeless face in front of one of her employees. I’ll just have to get something later, she willed herself. Be strong. Stuff your pie-hole later. “No, I’m fine.”

  “Okay.” Joyce trod on, as if in a hurry, until she got to the staff coffee room.

  “Oh, so this is where you’re rushing too,” Clare remarked.

  “Have you had the iced-coffee? It’s just so good.”

  “Yeah, I had one earlier.”

  “I’ll bet I drink a gallon of it per shift.” Joyce pulled out her master key but before she could unlock the door—

  click

  —the door opened.

  “What are—” Joyce frowned. “You’re not supposed to be in here!”

  A lean, thirtyish man with longish blond hair was stepping out of the room, a cold bottle of soda in his hand. Tall, tanned, an outdoorsy presence. The guy from the U.S. Park Service, Clare realized, noticing the obvious boots, slate-blue shorts, and white short-sleeve shirt. Federal patches and a badge adorned the shirt, and a pair of binoculars hung around his neck.

  “Woe, hold your horses there, hon,” he said. “I’m just grabbing a coke, not knocking the place over. I stopped by to talk to Dellin, see if you had any trespasser or dumping incidents to report. I am allowed in the building, you know.”

  Joyce seemed peeved by the man. “Not when it’s closed, and not in the guards’ break room!”

  “Dellin unclocked the room for me before he left, told me to help myself.” The man shook his head, gave a shucksy grin to Clare. “I’m sorry, since Ms. Friendly over here isn’t going to introduce us—” He extended his hand. “I’m Adam Corey, the park ranger. And you must be the new security chief.”

  Clare shook his hand. It felt strong, firm. “Yes, Clare Prentiss. Dellin briefed me that any reports of vandalism or habitat destruction should be made to you. Is that correct?”

  “It sure is,” Adam replied, brushing some blond curls back off his forehead. “I usually drop by once or twice a week to check in. But if you need me, any time—” He gave her a card. “Give a holler on my cell. I’m on call round the clock.”

  “Thanks—”

  Joyce had already brushed past him; she crankily called back: “Clare, don’t you want an iced-coffee or soda or something?”

  Adam rolled his eyes at her tone. Clare didn’t get it. “Yeah, I’ll be right there,” she said, then to the ranger. “Nice meeting you, Adam.”

  “A pleasure. I been working out here for years, know the site better than most. Anytime you have a question or concern, feel free to—”

  “I already showed her the site, Adam!” Joyce continued her mysterious bitching. “Now why don’t you go count palm trees or something. Clare and I are busy!”

  Another roll of the eyes from Adam. “Have a good day.” Then he left.

  Joyce was clattering things in the break room, filling a large insulated cup with iced-coffee. When she was done, she snapped the lid on with a vengeance. She spun around and faced Clare, gritting her teeth.

  “You’ve practically got steam coming out of your ears, Joyce.”

  “He just pisses me off so much!”

  Clare filled a large cup of her own with iced-coffee, then loaded it up with sugar. “What’s your beef with him? Dellin’s already told me that he’s allowed here.”

  “Well, let’s just say that one night I made a big error in judgment, and now I’ll never hear the end of it. I went out with him once and he wound up pawing all over me like some animal. Told him I never wanted to see him again, but he just kept hounding me—for weeks.”

  “Really?”

  “And I think he’s peeping on me.”

  The whole thing was so trite but Clare couldn’t rein her curiosity. “That’s serious. If you’re sure, you should report him to the police.”

  Joyce sputtered. “Well, I’m not sure. Not one hundred percent. But there have been a lot of times—you know. I’ll be taking a shower or g
etting dressed, and I just know that someone’s looking in the window. I’m also pretty sure he peeps on me when I’m sunbathing on the beach. Why else would he have those binoculars?”

  “He’s a park ranger, Joyce. They routinely carry binoculars. There’s a pair of binoculars in each of the security trucks but that doesn’t mean we’re peeping toms. Adam seems like a perfectly normal guy to me.”

  Joyce was still talking but not to Clare. “Yeah, well, that’s just his way, a real smoothie at first. Take my advice—keep an eye on him.”

  Clare smiled to herself, thinking it best to drop the issue. She knew there were two sides to every story, and given the sudden burst of hostility on Joyce’s part, why bother pursuing it?

  “Calm down and forget about him,” Clare said. “And let’s get out of here. I’m dying to see my cottage.”

  Moments later, Clare was behind the wheel of her Blazer, Joyce directing her to the easternmost spur of the island. The younger woman did simmer down in time, sipping her giant iced-coffee. Soon she was back to harmless chatter. “Thanks for driving me. I usually walk back home—I’m trying to keep my weight down. It’s only a mile when you cut through, but today it’s just too damn hot.”

  “Yeah, it would be a pretty grueling hike.” Clare was beginning to see some insecurities leak through Joyce’s veneer. She goes ballistic over the ranger, and that’s the second time she’s complained about her weight. Clare wished she had a figure like Joyce—robust, hardy, but not a trace of excess fat. The sudden faltering self-esteem didn’t match with the rest of her vigorous personality. It didn’t look to me like Rick had any complaints with your weight, part of her wanted to say. But now she had to question herself for even thinking that. It was almost a snipe. I guess I’ve got some self-esteem problems of my own, she admitted to herself as she steered the Blazer down the narrow gravel road. She couldn’t forget the look in Rick’s eyes when she saw the two together on the video screen, the sheer ardent blaze. When was the last time a man had desired Clare with the same passion? Admit it, Clare. You’re jealous of Joyce.

  She willed herself to change subjects. “Tell me about this Mrs. Grable. She’s a handywoman or something?”

  “Think of her as the resident manager,” Joyce said. She’d unbuttoned her tunic a few notches and was billowing it up and down to cool herself off. “She maintains the cottages, the grounds, fixes things that break. It’s too bad—she’s such a nice woman.”

  Clare blinked in a sudden confoundment. “What’s too bad?”

  “Her husband smacks her around. Every now and then you’ll see her with a fat lip or a black eye.”

  Clare instantly fumed. “Is that so? The first time I see anything like that, I’ll report him to the police.”

  “Won’t do any good. She never presses charges, says she fell down the stairs or slipped in the shower.”

  “That’s outrageous. Wife-beaters are like rapists—scum of the earth. What’s the husband like?”

  “Don’t know, never met him, never even seen him outside of the house. She said he works midnight shifts at the desalination plant. For a while I was beginning to think she didn’t even have a husband, like she was some delusional widow living in denial, but then one time I saw him standing in front of the kitchen window, looking around outside. Normal-looking guy from what I could see.”

  “Yeah, Joyce, but the freaks—the real criminals and sociopaths in our society—are always the normal-looking ones.”

  “Weird, though. The window was opened and he was just kind of leaning out, looking around. So I called up to him and said hi, but he completely ignored me. Ducked back in and walked away like he didn’t even hear me.”

  “Yeah, that is weird.”

  “And there was one time…I’m pretty sure I saw choke marks on her throat. It really bothers me. She’s so nice but she feels she has to put up with stuff like that.”

  “Well, if I ever see him beating her? I’ll swear out a felony warrant myself,” Clare vowed. Suddenly, she felt depressed, irritated. It really wasn’t that long ago when she’d been the victim of a man’s violence herself. She was relieved, then, when Joyce brought the topic to a close:

  “Here we are. Aren’t they great?”

  Gravel popped under the Blazer’s big tires when Clare pulled around within a neat, well-shrubbed cul-de-sac. Short, stout palm trees seemed to bloom overhead, and through them, the cottages stood. They were actually pile houses of dark, treated planking, built on a structure of four-foot-high stilts for occasions of high water. At least ten units ran along in a curving row with liberal stands of palm trees and brush between each. Less than a hundred yards distant, gentle waves broke on a spotless white-sand beach.

  “Oh my God!” Clare exclaimed. “This is too good to be true. I don’t really live here, do I?”

  “You sure do. In the biggest one, right there.”

  In her excitement, Clare didn’t even feel the stifling heat when she got out of the air-conditioned Blazer.

  Joyce smiled after her. “I live two down. Come by any time if you need anything. You’re gonna love it.”

  “Thanks, Joyce.”

  “Just go on in. Mrs. Grable’s already there.”

  Clare nearly skipped up the short wooden steps. This’d be a thousand-dollar-per-week rental property from a vacation realtor, she guessed. It looked like a bungalow on a tropical resort. A long wood balcony stretched from end to end on the beach side, with ceiling-high plate glass facing out. One of the sliding doors stood open, light drapes billowing.

  Inside she met Mrs. Grable, who was folding fresh bed linens. “Oh, it’s so nice to meet you, Clare,” she greeted more like a long lost aunt. She wore a simple sleeveless pullover jumper, its floral pattern gently faded, had dark hair, only traceably graying, pulled back in a bun. She had to be in her fifties but remained amazingly shapely and fit. “Dellin told me you’d be moving in at once, so I’ve been getting everything ready.”

  “It’s just beautiful, Mrs. Grable.”

  A vast selection of potted and hanging plants gave the appearance that the tropical forest outside was subtly insinuating itself into the interior. A quick tour showed her a spacious bedroom with wide skylights, a small but efficient kitchen, and the living room looking out to the beach. The central air-conditioning hummed quietly, filling the bright sunlit rooms with shivery air. Blond hardwood floors shined under coats of shimmering sealant, with an occasional light throw-rug here and there. TV, stereo, and VCR in the corner. This is too much! she thought. Jesus! About the only thing missing is a jaccuzi, but then, to her near-shock, Mrs. Grable pulled open a sliding door along the next wall.

  No! NO! Clare thought in disbelief.

  A cool blue jaccuzi bubbled before her, built into a stained-wood sundeck that ran the entire lateral length of the cottage. A six-foot redwood fence surrounded the entire deck—total luxury in total privacy.

  “Mrs. Grable, I’m at a loss for words.”

  “In Florida we don’t have hot tubs. The water’s cooled. Yours is the only cottage that has this—it’s a perk, for being security chief.”

  Clare was practically reeling. “Unbelievable.”

  Mrs. Grable took her back inside. “Oh, and I guess you already know how to use all of this,” she was saying next. A small cove off the living room contained what was essentially a duplication of the security equipment back at her office in the clinic: a radio set and a row of video screens that were no doubt connected to the array of security cameras spread over the site.

  “Yes, it’s identical to the radio and display screens at the clinic. This stuff will really come in handy on weekends when I’m on call.”

  “I think you’ll really like it here.”

  “I’m sure I will.”

  “And if there are any problems, I’m right next door.”

  “Thanks.”

  Only now did Clare realize an oddity; she hadn’t noticed it at first because she was too overwhelmed by the gorgeous apar
tment, but now it occurred to her that Mrs. Grable seemed to be going out of her way to stand with the right side of her face away from Clare. In a wide wall mirror, though, Clare caught a glimpse of what the woman was trying to hide.

  The side of her lip was swollen, like—

  Like someone hit her in the mouth, Clare realized, instantly recalling Joyce’s suspicions. Damn it. That’s horrible.

  She wanted to say something but knew it wasn’t really her place. It would put the woman on the spot, embarrass her. But in the next instant—

  Oh, no—oh Jesus no…

  “And here’s your key,” Mrs Grable said. It was when she bent over to pick the house key off the glass-topped coffee table: the top rim of her jumper drooped open, almost fully revealing the tops of her breasts. In the briefest glimpse, Clare noticed the ugly oval welt that completely surrounded the nipple.

  It was a bite mark.

  The glimpse of it only lasted a moment, and then Mrs. Grable had risen and was happily handing Clare the house key. But the glimpse of it—the mark—hurt just to see. That was no love bite, either, Clare knew. Mrs. Grable had been bitten so hard that the action had left a raised weal, damage well-past the bruising stage. The bastard almost bit her nipple off. Clare’s rapist had treated her similarly, biting down so hard that at several points his upper incisors made contact with the lower—through her flesh. The pain had been horrendous, and the mark had remained there for a week.

  She felt awful at once. The sight of the perverted injury polluted the excitement of seeing her wonderful new home. The poor woman… Now wasn’t the time, Clare knew, but she promised herself that, after she got to know Mrs. Grable better, she would talk to her about this problem, maybe get her and her husband into counseling or something.

  “The sunsets are like nothing you’ve ever seen,” Mrs. Grable went on as though nothing were amiss. “And, look. You’ve got two levels of curtains.”

  More and more the cottage was seeming like the weekend getaway of a rich Hollywood producer. Mrs. Grable pushed a switch on the wall: first set of long tulle-like curtains were pulled across the walls of beachside plate-glass windows. She could see through them to a soft, unfocused clarity.