The Kissing Game

by Marie Turner

  Of course, I know there is no way to respond to him truthfully without revealing that I do know he’s up to no good. I know he’s a pedophile. I know what he deserves, and I did want to find out his business so I could get Robert’s job back and then report the Chairman to the authorities. It all seems so asinine now. I should’ve just called the police at my first suspicion. The back of my neck begins to steam with perspiration.

  “You’ve really put me in a bind, Caroline. A measly little assistant has put me in a bind. I’ve got to know. Does Henry know about this?”

  I shake my head.

  “How about anyone else?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about, but I stole the key and code from Henry’s drawer to get inside your house. I got the tape from your mailbox and then the security people showed up, so I jumped off your balcony. I left the tape on the grass because it dropped when I jumped and the security guard got to it before I did...”

  “Yes, but that still doesn’t explain why you’re researching on your computer and why my files are missing. Let’s start with my files. Where are they?”

  “I told you. I don’t have them. I think the file clerks must’ve gotten them mixed up with Robert’s files. Look in the file room. I’m sure you’ll find them somewhere. Misfiled, misplaced.” Of course, I know exactly where his files are. Cory has them.

  The Chairman chuckles like a triumphant general after he’s seized the enemy. “You think that our little problem is as tiny as that? As tiny as finding files? No. It can’t be fixed, and I’ve considered what to do with you. For one, I thought of buying you off and sending you away, but frankly I don’t like the thought of you out there in the world with damning information about me. And there’s just too much at stake here. It’s not just my life you’d ruin. There’re so many others.”

  The atmosphere of hostility prevails like hot coals and I wonder why he hasn’t shot me yet, and then he answers my question.

  “I’ve already erased your hard drive at the office. All I need is any other damning information you have about me. I need to know who knows about this. You have to give me all the names Caroline, because if you don’t, there’s always your brother in college. And don’t forget there’s your mother to contend with. Once you’re gone, you’ll want to make sure they’re well taken care of, won’t you? I’ll even throw in a little bonus to your brother, to help him finish college, since you’re the caring older sister and all.”

  What’s he asking of me? That I implicate my friends? Cory? Henry? I won’t. I refuse. And what will he do to them? It’s not like we have damning proof anyway, not yet. Just an inclination, an idea of what the Chairman’s sexual predilections might be.

  “See, it’s easy,” he continues “I just have to make you disappear. That way the law will think you decided to run after you knew I had the tape of you breaking into my house. Your family would think so, too, or at least I could convince them. The bigger problem is that I need to do this quickly. I had to call the police, you see, to make sure that you’d have a reason to run, and although policemen have left, they could be back.” He pulls a round cylinder out from his pocket and begins to screw it onto the end of his gun. Several seconds pass while I watch before I realize he’s attaching a silencer to his gun. “Who else knows, Caroline?” he asks again.

  And then I hear the very loud thumping of footsteps on the staircase outside my front door, heavy and determined. But they sound singular, like one person, not two. I wonder if Ted has come looking for me. The Chairman’s lips tighten into a mean pucker, and my feet congeal to the floor. He slips the gun inside his jacket.

  “Don’t you dare open that door,” he whispers to me. “Don’t say a word.”

  Three loud thumps. “Caroline?” I hear Robert’s voice—Robert, of all people. What would he be doing here? The rain pounds the roof as Robert pounds again. “Caroline, I know you’re home. I need to talk to you. Open the door.” His voice suggests that he’s driven a long way, and during that ride, he has contemplated all the ways he wants to yell at me. I predict a speech of some sort. Pound-pound-pound, Robert continues to give the door a small beating. I stand there unmoving, as if unable to walk, but my nervousness makes the floor beneath my foot creak, and the cool night air in my apartment is instantly a sauna.

  “I hear you in there. Jesus Christ, why are you so stubborn? Just open the goddamned door or I swear to you, I’ll wait out here until you do.” Typical Robert. Wants his way. Demands his way. Worst possible time to be demanding.

  I look at the Chairman with innocent wide eyes. He whispers, “Tell him to go away.”

  My heart wrenches a little at the thought of sending Robert away, but I shout nonetheless. “Go away. I don’t want to talk to you.”

  I know that if Robert steps inside my apartment door, he will become entangled in this web of tumult, and Collin will likely kill him too. No need for other innocent people to suffer. I’ve made Robert suffer enough. With dread becoming a lead weight in my gut, I wait for Robert to leave. Meanwhile I watch a bead of sweat form on the Chairman’s forehead, roll down over his nose, and drop onto his shirt. It reminds me of a bomb ticking, a volcano about to erupt, a terrible earthquake that threatens to shake the earth apart.

  No noise from outside indicates that Robert still stands there, unmoving. I hear no sound of footsteps descending the stairs. Just the rain pattering. The guy can be unbearably controlling, even at his own peril.

  “Do you hear me? Go away. I don’t want to hear anything you have to say,” I state loudly, my hands in tightening into nervous fists.

  And then I hear Robert lean against the door, mumble some cusswords breathily. I can picture him outside, the rain pelting his face, his clothes. He must be soaking wet by now. The man is too prideful, so he rarely bothers with necessities like umbrellas or raincoats. I hear him exhale loudly, exactly the way he does when junior lawyers don’t do their jobs correctly or when they try to befriend him.

  “Goddamn it, Caroline. I’m sorry,” he says as if the words are unnatural, painful even, to utter. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I can be such an asshole.” He pounds on the door again. “I drove all the way over here to talk to you, not to stand outside your door and yell.”

  “I get it. You’re sorry. Now go,” I say sternly, praying the Chairman won’t decide to rise from his spot on my purple-flowered couch.

  “That’s not all I came to say,” Robert adds. I can tell his face must be close to the door because I can hear him clearly only he isn’t yelling. He’s quiet now. “I came to say something I should’ve said a long time ago…”

  For several steely seconds, I almost forget that the Chairman has a gun in his hand, that he wants to kill me. I just listen with strained ears to hear what Robert has to say. Resisting the urge to know is like resisting the magnetic powers of planets over their heavenly bodies. If I had any, I would give up all claims to all the gold and silver in the world to hear what he has to say right now. So I stand there, tottering, waiting, wanting more than anything to lunge toward the door and open it and see his face and hear him speak.

  And Robert’s voice passes through the door like a gift, “I love you,” he says. “Now will you just open the fucking door and let me talk to you?” And the second he says the words, I feel the icy fire of them zinging in my spine, rushing up to tingle in my ears. To Robert, saying words like those is like offering up his soul for inspection, not something he does without painful, gut-wrenching contemplation. Hearing the phrase from him now is the baptism to the naked sobbing fool inside me.

  But I can’t encourage him. I can’t say it back.

  “I don’t love you,” I holler back, my voice sounding choked. The Chairman looks at me as though he approves, although his face suggests perplexity. “I hate you,” I add weakly for effect. I hope Robert doesn’t hear me.

  “I know you don’t hate me,” Robert corrects quietly. He sounds as if the rain drips off his lips when he speaks, and all
I can think about suddenly is how beautiful his lips are. The thought seizes me, a vision of rapture. He’s right, I don’t hate him. I love everything about him. His lips, his eyes, his stupid stubbornness, his weird, weird ways—

  “I’m coming in,” Robert states, determined as a fool. And before I can speak, I see he knob on the door begin to turn, the faded brass twisting in the dark. Without pause, I lunge toward the door handle, my arm outstretched, intending to lock it before Robert can open it. But the door swings open before I can get to it, and I see Robert’s beautiful wet face, his tall statuesque form standing in the doorway, looking tragically angelic, the ghetto neighborhood of lights twinkling behind him like stars.

  This is perfect vision of Robert I see just before I hear the piercing sound of the projectile passing through the silencer, a sound much like that of a sneeze, or of someone spitting, so tame and meek sounding. I’m just glad I stand like a barrier between Robert and the Chairman, I think, just before I feel the projectile enter my back, just before the hot stabbing sensation slices through me. Falling is as unexpected as that time I slipped in the rain at the train station and slid down the escalator on my back. Only this time I feel myself hit the floor facedown. I hear the Chairman rise off the couch behind me at the same time the slamming of footsteps of rises up the stairs to my apartment.

  At first, I use my hands to push myself up, my arms are rubbery, so I roll onto my back on the carpet, where I see Robert hurtling toward the Chairman, as if instinct has impelled him to attack. Then I see Ted, who looks as shocked and wholly unprepared for what he sees. He stands in my doorway wide-eyed, not leaning on anything, as if assessing the situation. Robert and the Chairman wrestle, and I try to move, to help, but my body feels hot and sticky and uncooperative. When I attempt to sit up, the fiery, wet agony forces me back down. I put my hand over my stomach and feel the warmth of blood on my shirt. I hold up my hand and see the red trickle down my fingertips and into my palm.

  Then the room twists like the night sky moving in fast forward, and I see Robert, Ted, and the Chairman rolling on the floor nearby. A ball of moving men. I hear the piercing sound of the gun going off again, and then like a party of people arriving, I see two weathered policemen at my door. They’re yelling, and all the commotion is like a dream, all watery and disjointed and fishcolored. The policeman draws his weapon. For some reason, I can only see flecked moon of my ceiling. I stare at it for what seems like a millennium. It reminds me of dehydrated cheese and desiccated corpses. A policeman leans over me, talking into his radio. He seems quite calm under the circumstances. He looks like a nice man.

  And then I see Robert’s face over me. God, it’s wrong how beautiful he is. He glances down at my stomach. “Oh god,” he says. Then there’s more yelling, more movement on the stairs. The policemen half-drag, half-wrestle the Chairman out the front door. Robert is back over me, now holding one of my favorite button-up sweaters over my stomach. It’s going to be ruined—is all I can think. His eyes appear wet from the rain. He yells, “Get the fucking paramedics in here, now!” Ah typical Robert. Both his hands hold the sweater over my stomach pressing down uncomfortably. I grab his hand because it hurts. “I’m sorry,” he says.

  I try to speak but I don’t think he hears me.

  “In here!” he yells toward my open door. The rain still pummels outside. I can feel the flecks of water occasionally making their way through the open door and hitting my face. It feels nice.

  My lips move again.

  “What?” Robert’s paying attention now. “What did you say?”

  Just then, two young men shove Robert away. They’re dressed like security guards but the stretcher they carry suggests they’re not.

  “What’s your name?” the one with the glasses asks.

  “Caroline.”

  “How old are you?” the bald one wants to know.

  “Twenty-three. Ouch, that hurts.”

  “Caroline, can you keep your eyes open for me?”

  Keeping my eyes open feels like holding back the water of Hoover Dam. I feel my mouth opening and something being placed inside. I feel air being forced into my lungs and myself moving off the ground, lifting up and sideways. Then there’s a whooshing feeling in my insides as if great volumes of liquid leak out of me. Someone speaks. Like an animal shedding its skin, I feel my body evacuating itself.

  “Is this your life?” I hear someone ask. “Is this your life?” The voice sounds unfamiliar. And I’m labored lightly into motion and wonder if I’m dreaming or if the voice real. An engine revs, doors slam, and the world moves.

  Chapter 14

  “De valientes y glotones están llenos los panteones.”

  Cementeries are full of the courageous and of gluttons.

  Like in one of those old Clint Eastwood movies, I find myself pushed out into the middle of the dusty street by strangers. I stand alone. On either side of me, onlookers congregate outside bars and shops, the turtle-like clanking of hooves and boots indicating restlessness. Forty paces away, I see my opponent also standing in the middle of the dusty road. He’s wearing boots, underwear, and a holster. Aside from that, he’s naked. Without warning, there’s a flurry of gunfire and smoke. People cheer. I barely have time to register the movement before it’s over. Unarmed, I look down at my stomach and see the massive gunshot hole in my t-shirt, the blood oozing out. “This is a terrible duel,” I yell at the crowd. “No one gave me a gun!”

  Of course, that’s when my mind that tells me I’m dreaming. Cowboys don’t duel in their underwear. And I must be about to wake up and realize I’m fine. No bullet holes. What a relief.

  But then, as the world sinks back into me like stones, I realize that my torso feels as though a spear-shaped meteorite has just impaled me.

  “That’s terrible,” I hear Robert say disinterestedly. Although my eyes remain closed, I decipher the tone in his voice—the one that pretends to be interested in what other people say but really holds back insult by the clench of his teeth. “I’m sure you’ll heal. Broken bones do generally heal, so I’ve heard,” Robert adds. The sound gives me flashbacks to interns shuffling out of Robert’s office door, their heads bent, their eyes all gloom, their limbs woven around themselves protectively.

  “Yeah, but my insurance is cheap,” the stranger’s nasally voice complains. “It won’t pay for physical therapy, and I can’t afford physical therapy on my own. I’ll have to watch Youtube videos.” The man snorts.

  “Uh-huh,” Robert replies blandly.

  I attempt to open my eyes to determine who Robert is talking to, but angry celebrants have gathered in my torso, armed with their own pistols, grenades, and rocket launchers. Only this assault urges me to open my eyes.

  “Is that your girlfriend?” the strange voice asks.

  “Shouldn’t you be resting?” Robert replies abruptly.

  “What happened to her?”

  “She was shot.”

  “Jesus, for real?”

  “For real,” Robert answers.

  By the time I open my eyes, the sensation has multiplied. Beside me, I see the blue hospital curtain, the black silhouette of a man lying in bed on the other side, and the square light of the window beyond him. A light sheet and loose-fitting hospital gown lay over me. The room smells antiseptic, and I feel naked. Next I see Robert. His face looks unusually narrow and his hair is in a primeval state. He’s wearing the same clothes he wore the last time I saw him: a light-blue t-shirt and jeans. Only before, he was soaking wet, and the t-shirt was free of circular brown spots.

  “Who shot her?” the stranger wants to know.

  Robert looks angrily at the curtain. I watch him and contemplate whether I want to interrupt this discussion. Perhaps I should feign sleep so I can hear him lecture the man on the decency of keeping one’s distance in public spaces, but my pain rejects this idea.

  “Can you get me the nurse?” I interrupt.

  Robert’s head jerks toward me, and he leans forward, as if che
cking to see if I’m really talking.

  “Sure,” he replies. His chair skids as he rises and bounds out of the room.

  I’ve never seen him walk so fast, not to depositions, not to important meetings, not to his favorite lunch spot. Seconds later, he has commandeered a nurse into my room. Her hands hold tubes and gear. She’s dark-haired, in her fifties, heavyset, but clearly not immune to Robert’s bossiness. Is anyone immune to Robert’s bossiness? I could write a dissertation on the subject.

  “It hurts,” I confess to the discombobulated woman, who instantly understands my woes. She strides over to the counter, where she puts things down. For a second, Robert locks his pitiful, lashed eyes with mine. The nurse walks around the medical equipment. Instantly I realized I’m attached to tubes and wires. She approaches my bedside with a tilted head.

  “On a scale of one to ten, ten being the worst pain you’ve ever felt, what are you?” she asks.

  “Maybe a twelve or thirteen,” I complain. “It’s all fire and brimstone, radiating to my spine and down my legs.” I have the urge to cup my stomach and lean forward, but I know this is a terrible idea.

  “Okay,” she hesitates, glancing out the open door toward the hub of nurses clacking away on computer keyboards and speaking with doctors. “The doctor must give me the dosage on your morphine. I can’t give you any yet. You’re not scheduled for another dose till noon.”

  “How long will I have to wait for the doctor?” I ask, feeling as though the pain blooms volcanically. Meanwhile, concern grows on Robert’s face.