Heather, the Totality

by Matthew Weiner

  Bobby now knew everything he needed to know and that his plans were too modest and should go far beyond just locking her in a room and having her in every way from top to bottom in various poses and positions. He was going to have to kill Heather no matter what to not get caught but he kept thinking about the time he had gone to Catholic church at 13 with a social worker. He remembered that when he took the wafer and the wine he felt them really turn into something in his mouth, like a whiff of smoke from burning cocaine, and after, he ran home on a rampage of bare-handed destruction and knocked over mailboxes and garbage cans and even splintered a car windshield with only his fist. He was sure then that this strength and power were from that tiny part of God he had eaten and he tried for months to take Communion again but the social worker was transferred and Bobby was too shy to enter a church on his own.

  That night in his motel room, Bobby lay rigid on the bed staring at her face on his phone, knowing that now that their eyes had met and because she was so precious to all, she would be his wafer and wine. He wondered what kind of white light he might become if he took her in even more ways after he had slowly strangled her. Bobby would have every part of Heather and they would be one inside him and he could be the beginning and ending of everything.

  Four

  SOMETIME BETWEEN HEATHER’S FOURTEENTH birthday and Halloween, Mark got more dire news about his bonus and started looking for another job. He had made the mistake of telling Karen and she was predictably worried but in his corner against the undeserving frat boys who kept surpassing him by playing basketball with the boss and his son. Mark was not a bad prospect; his resumé took credit for the firm’s ten-year climb and his years of running had kept him lean and even caused his ample face to finally sit down on his skull, giving him a sober, seasoned look.

  The interviews started quickly and had to be managed like an affair, with after-hours phone calls and out of the way restaurants so as not to alert the office. Mark would often jog even earlier so that he could meet for breakfast, sometimes in the dark. The emptiness of the city before dawn gave him a chance to rehearse out loud, recalling his victories and experience in broken breaths.

  On the day of a particularly promising lead Mark went for an extra-long run and returned to find the water and power had been shut off. As he considered the horror of drying himself with a towel and putting on a suit, he realized the alarm clocks were dead as well and he woke Heather, then Karen, swearing as he slapped on cologne. Karen told him they’d been notified and Mark had little to complain about legitimately and so he silently continued in angry despair on his walk to get two lattes, for Heather and himself. Why were they still in the building, he thought, his neck sweaty against his starched collar, and why did it have to be today and had he put on so much cologne that the woman behind him at the coffee place was sneezing?

  He walked back to the apartment with the two coffees sloshing in a tray, recounting his stupidities, including the fact that he would have to drink even more coffee at his interview, and as he was about to cross the street to his apartment, his apartment where Heather was waiting, he froze. Heather was staring at her phone and one of the workers was staring at her. The stare was coming from a short guy in a work apron and was so carnal and intense that Mark charged across the street and pushed Heather away as if he were stepping between her and an oncoming car. Heather was irritated and confused and took her coffee as they started to walk and Mark looked back at the Worker, who had a nearly shaved head of hair, too silver for how young he was, and pale blue eyes, now averted as he went back to shoveling debris.

  Mark was so distracted in his interview that he forgot to try and got an actual job offer, but it was no solace as he returned to work, unwrapped his lunch and left for home, anxiety replacing whatever hunger he had. His head swam as he took a post across the street, unsure if he was acting on his desire to spy or for the true security of his daughter who was certainly now just leaving school. He pretended to talk on his phone as the Worker came down to the dumpster with a wheelbarrow and stood casually until, with perfect timing, Heather rounded the corner and he suddenly began to work.

  Mark watched as his daughter approached their home, unaware of the long sickening glance she was receiving, and when the creep wiped his mouth, his eyes searching up Heather’s skirt as she entered the building, Mark debated yelling across the street or confronting him but instead took a zoomed picture on his phone and somehow found himself in Central Park where he had started his day, his thoughts now unutterable.

  He wondered if this short, dirty skinhead was waiting for his daughter not just twice today but on a regular basis and if that shark-eyed look was more than overwhelming lust. It could be the look of a man who had anticipated rejection and hated this willowy young brat who taunted him as she paraded by, possessing everything he could not have. Mark wished it were just desire he had seen directed at his daughter and then he nearly collapsed against a bench to catch his breath, his body having deduced immediately what it took his mind an hour to figure out: the Worker’s gaze was so violent and hungry that Mark had actually run away.

  When Mark came home, Karen was appreciating the hot water and electricity as one does when necessities are restored by fixing dinner, a family meal of tricolored pasta, Heather’s favorite. He marched in with his tie down and shirt soaked through and insisted they needed to talk as he went to the bedroom. It wasn’t until much later, when Mark sat down to eat, irritated and freshly showered, that Karen realized he had been waiting for her in the bedroom to talk privately. She felt his impatience grow throughout dinner even though it had been pleasant lately since she had learned to make conversation with Heather by casually bringing up debate topics like Radical Islam or Gun Control.

  By the time Heather’s light went out, Mark was halfway through a bottle of whiskey and Karen closed their bedroom door with dread. She remembered the sweat and the shameful look on his face when he had come home and assumed he was about to confess some infidelity or, more likely, that he’d lost his job. She made room for him on the bed but he chose to stand and was emotional as he whispered about the events of his day.

  Mark hesitated now, not because he was drunk and not because he had drawn a lot of conclusions in such a short time but because he didn’t know which details he could share without sounding irrational. He knew better than to show Karen the photo on his phone, so all he could do was explain the danger he’d witnessed and that he had seen that look before in the eyes of one of his Father’s star football players and that there were famously two raped dead girls at some southern college to prove it and when he saw Karen actually smile while he was recounting this, he lost his temper. Karen swore that she was relieved not amused that this was the news but she was infuriatingly more concerned about the outcome of his interview than their daughter’s peril.

  It wasn’t up for discussion; either he or Karen, if she thought it more persuasive, would talk to the Foreman in the barest detail and insist that the Worker be let go or at least relocated. This firm statement finally got Karen’s attention and she considered but then rejected this option, reminding him that this Worker literally knew where they lived. Mark agreed with her and suggested they go to the police. And say what, exactly? Karen countered, since there was no cause, really, no evidence, no complaint at all other than Mark’s feelings, which sounded extreme even to his wife. Mark agreed again and demanded that they move to a hotel tomorrow while they looked for a place to wait out the construction.

  Karen calmly reasoned that the exterior work was to be finished by Thanksgiving and it was already Halloween and the idea of relocating this late in the game seemed silly since all the same inconveniences awaited them as two months before. She took his worries seriously but knew that the stress of the apartment and his job search and their personal distance had made him unreasonably fearful. She admitted that she was troubled by those problems as well, not to mention being ignored by her daughter, and frankly she found the workers to be har
mless and polite and wasn’t even sure which one he was talking about until Mark mentioned that he was white.

  Mark swore at her, saying that all of it was bullshit and that the work would take until spring and that they had stayed in the apartment for Heather’s well-being, not to make Karen’s easy life easier, and she left that fucking kitchen window open all the time so that anyone could catch pneumonia and if it was so hot in there then maybe she should get off her ass and go outside and do something.

  Karen was stung. She sure as hell didn’t need to defend her life to her own husband and she didn’t need to tell him what she did for their family or that she would be fine if he wanted to move out and visit Heather on weekends or that she was staying no matter what and just this week she was going to put out feelers in publishing and how dare he call her selfish when she had an appointment to see a plastic surgeon to make herself more youthful and sexy for him?

  But instead of all that, she took a breath and said something she had been thinking for a long time: that Mark’s interest in their daughter was unhealthy and made her uncomfortable. She shrouded the accusation in concern but after noting his horrified reaction, retreated slightly from her insinuation and made it worse. She told him bluntly that she didn’t know what it was like to be a father and she worried about Heather attracting the wrong types or any types at all, but he was an overprotective mess and pathologically jealous of any man nearby.

  Mark was sick at her suggestion and screamed at her hypocrisy. Of all people, she was the one with the obsession. She was the one who couldn’t see anything in the world except her daughter. He demanded they move. If she didn’t want to do it for him, she should do it for Heather, he yelled, because Karen never did anything for him; he was last on her list and she wouldn’t even make him a cup of coffee unless it was to impress Heather.

  It felt good for Mark to say this but he wished he could take it back when she grabbed a pillow and left the room. As he sat alone on their unmade bed, his anger turned inward because he knew he deserved all of this for gutlessly sharing real danger with his wife. He now understood that this was an emergency and not an excuse for the truth to come out between them. Karen’s terrible words were clearly her envy out to destroy his closeness with Heather and he just had to be bigger and stronger now. He apologized to Karen with no caveats and agreed that he was overreacting and that they were not going to move.

  Karen slipped into bed next to Mark, full of false forgiveness. In her mind, nothing had been resolved and she felt no regret for what she thought, only that she’d said it out loud. She stole a look at him over the top of her tablet as he turned in his sleep and couldn’t believe the funny, adoring man she had married had become a paranoid failure who didn’t even see her. She turned off the light and thought of the future and imagined having a lover, maybe one of the handsome fathers at the school who was just looking for a fling, and she dozed off with her hand resting inertly on her sex, soothing herself the way she did when she was a child.

  Mark pretended to sleep while he considered if he should warn Heather or even tell her but his hold on her affection was so tenuous he dared not disturb it. He thought it wouldn’t be kidnapping if he took his own child to Turks and Caicos for a perfect vacation and then maybe Karen would get the message and join them. He was so sorry he had told her. He should have surprised them all with a sudden vacation and paid someone to move them before they returned but now it was too late and he thought about how he should take Heather away anywhere and how he could drop something heavy from high up like a plumber’s wrench or a brick and crush the Worker’s skull.

  Heather read in the dark on her phone as she did most nights, aware that her parents were coiled with the tension of not being themselves while they thought she was awake. She heard their bickering that night but had learned to ignore it years ago because it was always about her and never going to go anywhere serious. Her Mother and Father were especially blind to feelings. Her Father denied he even had feelings and her Mother assumed everyone shared hers. Heather didn’t know for years that her ability to see people’s feelings and even feel them sometimes was unusual and when she discovered that the cruelty and rudeness that adults and friends inflicted on each other was unintentional or at least uninformed, she decided to withdraw, overwhelmed by the pain of typical human behavior.

  Heather had always felt beautiful and sensed what was fair and known that everyone wanted to try their best but seeing how different her parents were at home and how they couldn’t share in each other’s happiness made her question what she had done to their lives. She used to listen to their fights, sometimes even sneaking into their room to hide at the foot of their bed and pray for them to divorce so that her love would finally be divided equally between them and she could smile at the world without worrying that Mark or Karen would intercept it.

  As Heather read about the world’s events, her heart would hurt but she was always looking for a new angle to build a debate case that would send her to the Stanford Invitational in January, which meant a trip to California and a shot at the nationals if her Father didn’t stop it. She loved arguing and traveling and meeting new kids but she chose debate with its path to public policy and the law, having gradually learned that neither of her parents were satisfied with their meaningless careers. She swore that she would do everything to avoid their unhappiness by studying hard and trying to make friends and not enemies. She also loved winning, which she did often and politely, appearing earnestly concerned with facts and morality but secretly cheering with victory.

  This dishonesty troubled her, as did her increasing interest in herself. It had been years since she’d worried about her Father having a heart attack while jogging or her Mother being wrecked with sadness when she left for school. But why should she care about them? Didn’t both of her parents deserve to be ignored for being exhaustingly needy of her time and affection? Hadn’t they earned it? Other parents acted similarly but Heather’s were the most suffocating and although it took some effort, she was never disloyal by sharing their behavior, knowing it would be a catastrophic betrayal if the world discovered the Breakstone family wasn’t perfect.

  The more difficult secret, which the world must never see, was the melancholy that lived just under her smile. Heather knew she should give it up or replace it with gratitude and she would gladly give it up if only it didn’t feel so good to be sad. Her favorite moment each day was right after she put her phone on the dresser and before she fell asleep, when she listened to the traffic and thought about each lonely horn, so random, and all the adults and the places they were going and how they were in such a rush.

  Heather wanted to write so many thoughts down but she knew a diary was beyond the amount of privacy her Mother would tolerate and so much stayed inside or came out in whispers when she sat in front of the mirror on the back of her bedroom door. Between the books her Mother gave her and countless classes at school, she was embarrassed yet prepared for the hormonal onslaught ahead and she was always taking note of it. She thought her hair could use some lightening and one of her teeth was turned and she was still too young to know for sure but it looked like she was going to have clear skin and that was a gift.

  She joined the other girls in their complaints about their weight or uneven breasts but she had become increasingly aware that her tall, long-legged, narrow-waisted, and for now nearly C-cup figure was rare, if not ideal, and she was beginning to sense everything that meant when she looked in magazines or walked down the street or got a stare from one of the building’s construction workers when she came and went.

  She realized now that her friends wanted to be seen and pretending to be a bad girl was the best way for them to both defy their parents and get a certain kind of attention. She wasn’t sure how much interest she could stand and only went along with her girlfriends to not get caught being a baby or incur more envy by adding purity to their list of her perfections. So, like them, she started to use every moment out of her paren
ts’ sight, whether walking to and from school or in Central Park or even hiding on the roof of their building, to talk loud on her phone and smoke cigarettes and chew gum and wear makeup and more revealing clothing, including temporary alterations to her school uniform like rolling her skirt waist to raise the hemline and stealing smaller blouses from the lost-and-found to accentuate her bust. She even borrowed the fantasies of her friends about the girl-faced boys who sang the music they liked and the vague scenarios of being whisked away and embraced in the dark and was, like them, open to the idea of being kissed passionately but truly scared and not ready for anything else.

  Heather hated that she couldn’t talk to her Mother anymore and couldn’t figure out how it had become so awkward, but it had and she was sickened by her Mother’s phony lightness as she clumsily begged for intimacy. She could feel her Mother’s desperation for any detail related to Heather’s sexual stirrings so she could cry and share and urge control with embarrassing condescension.

  Heather refused to touch on the subject even though she knew her Mother would be put at ease knowing that being at a girls’ school meant only a few girls were having sex and all the boys that Heather met were either shy like her or interested in those few girls having sex. She would never tell her Mother any of that because it would only open the conversation to the more troubling monologue in Heather’s head, which was her growing disgust with who they were and how much they had.