by Skye, Mav
May wrings her hands together, says, “I wasn’t in the hot tub, Jenn.”
“Okay. Fine. Whatever. You were somewhere else. All I know is I saw a key in the drawer right here. Or here…” I open the one to the left. It contains blank writing paper with the initials FB and stamps. I toss them on the floor, then stomp on them. “Didn’t you say you saw Fat Bastard with a silver key by the safe? Are you sure you didn’t see him open it.”
“Yeah, I saw him by the safe with a key.” May looks away. “He blindfolded me. I didn’t see anything else.”
“I won’t complain. If you hadn’t seen that safe in the first place…”
May hangs her head and says quietly, “It was just by chance.”
“By chance, my ass. You were always the sly one. I’da been caught right out. It’s a good thing he had the hots for you instead of me, huh?” I laugh.
May stands and Fat Bastard lays, both silent.
I keep talking to fill the emptiness that has slipped in.
“Anyway, thanks to you, we’ll never have to do this again. We’ll find a little house somewhere in the country where everyone has flowers hanging on the front porch and the town smells like cow shit from the dairy fields. Where no one breaks down doors in the middle of the night…” I trail again, and try to laugh a little happy laugh, not wanting to dig the emptiness into a grave.
I glance at May. Her head is still hanging. Dirty blonde hair piles around her face. Her eyes, dark and pooling, watch nothing. She probably didn’t hear a word I’d said, but she hears me talk about it often enough, the little town with baskets of flowers and the dairy fields… “Fuck it.”
I keep searching the desk drawers. When I hear a noise, I see May has snapped out of wherever she was. Good.
However, her demeanor worries me.
May’s naked legs quiver. She brings the knife around and holds it with two hands over Fat Bastard’s bulging belly. His erection wavers. “Can’t we just off him, like, you know, in the movies. Then we can search the house? I can help you look?”
Fat Bastard shrieks.
I dump out another drawer. “No, May, we can’t just off him like in the movies. You aren’t a killer and neither am I.” I stop and look at her. She looks away from me, then glances down at the kitchen knife. Maybe giving it to her was not such a hot idea.
She growls, “You don’t know what he did to me. Maybe I am a killer.”
I slam a drawer. “You’re full of bull. He wanted you for three nights. Three nights, May. I haven’t asked you to help out since the break in because I know how rough it was. But we both know how to handle our johns. And this one is a rich son of a bitch. It’s almost over now. I’ll be able to take care of you. Neither of us will ever have to--”
“He’s a pig,” whispers May, her frail body wavering in the firelight. “An ugly pink pig. And I think the pig needs to be butchered.” The black silk floats from May’s shoulder and lands on Fat Bastard’s face. It makes his throat more prominent. Great rolls of red pink flesh mound up and blubber out.
“Piggy, piggy,” says May, her face changes, hardens. She lifts the knife to stab.
I jump out from behind the desk and snatch the knife from May. “What the fuck, May!”
She looks at me startled, then back down to the squirming body on the floor. “Oh,” she says and shrugs like it was a joke. “He really did look like a pig.”
I recognize the look on her face, the illness coming on. She calls it Letting Go. I call it psychosis. Shit.
May shivers in her blue lace panties. I take off my Godzilla t-shirt and hand it to her. I say, “Besides, what would we do with his body? Your prints are all over this place. We take the money and leave. No one ever finds us. That’s the plan.”
She takes the shirt and looks at me as if she’s a million miles away.
“Remember?” I press.
She says, “You’re giving me your shirt?”
I say, “You’re only wearing underwear.”
She says, “You’re only wearing a bra.”
I say, “And my sexy getaway jeans…” I put my thumbs in my waistband and draw guns like a cowboy. I receive the reaction I was hoping for: May smiles, her blue eyes crinkling in the corners. That looks more like my May.
“Besides, “ I say. “It’s a wonder bra.”
“Wonder woman,” she says and laughs, sliding on the t-shirt. I laugh too, as if there wasn’t a Fat Bastard tied and gagged at our feet, as if my little sister wasn’t about to butcher him like a pig while Letting Go, as if we weren’t about to rob him for every penny he was worth. And run for our lives.
4
The Whistling Deer Head Speaks!
May helps me dump out the last two drawers. Nada. We both sigh. Fat Bastard squirms on the grizzly rug like a maggot—piggly maggot.
“Where did you get this anyway?” May snatches the knife off the desk and whisks the blade up and down the soft skin of her arm. I notice rope burns on her wrist. They hadn’t been there before.
“The kitchen.”
She frowns. “His kitchen?”
“Our kitchen, duh?” I say.
“Oh,” she smiles at me and drops it on the cherry wood. “Well, maybe the key’s in a secret compartment under the desk.” She ducks under and begins to search.
I watch her. “You’ve been here three days. Didn’t you see anywhere else he might have hid it?”
“I was tied up like that most the time.” Her hand shoots out and points at Fat Bastard. “And that kept whistling at me.” She points at the moose head above the fireplace.
I’ve been avoiding it. The horned thing is enormous. The neck and head extends several feet out from the mantle. Its paddle ten point antlers stretch out and up to the cathedral ceiling, casting sharp shadows on the wall. The slight tilt of its face gives the moose head a thoughtful appearance, as if it had been plotting ever since the hunter had sawed off its head and hung it there.
I am drawn to its black, empty eyes. I shift uncomfortably and turn back to the desk. “Whistling?”
May says, “But then it started talking. It told me about mother, how I looked just like her when I was gagged. And that’s how we—“
“Mother? Our mother? May…” I shake my head. “We?”
“We, the deer head and I,” May points at the moose again, ”-- talked Fat Bastard into letting me gag and tie him up.” May giggles high and shrill.
My mind wrestles over images of May whistling and plotting with moose heads. Why had May brought her up? I think of mother’s thin face, the prominent kiss shaped scar on her cheek, the circles under her eyes… and then it strikes me. “May, he tied you up?” I look under the table at her. She doesn’t reply.
I walk over to Fat Bastard. His eyes beg me to set him free. I spit on his face. He cringes under my saliva. I lean over and flick his ear. Hard. Twice. “Be glad that’s all I do, you sick fuck.”
I stand and contemplate kicking the pig, then a thought occurs. “Where did Leroy wander off too?”
May says, “Um, I don’t know. He left earlier, said he had private matters to attend to. Fat Bastard wasn’t happy.”
“Do you know when he is coming back?”
Fat Bastard mumbles under his rag. I shake my head at him.
“Yeah, he said, early morning.”
I look over at the desk. “Early morning as in six AM or early as in two.”
“Don’t know.”
“Shit.”
“Right?”
Sparks pop in the fireplace as if in agreement with us.
“Jenn!” shrieks May.
“You found it?”
“No key,” she grins, “but I found this. He shoved it in me a lot. I knew it was around here somewhere.” May scrambles out from under the desk holding a pistol. Black and shiny.
Horrified, I say, “He shoved it where?”
May, excited, waves it around, and runs her finger over the hammer. “This is how it works, I think…”
“Don’t do that, May!” I grab at the gun. There is a BANG! My arms fly up and I teeter backwards. “Woah!”
The bay window shatters. Frogs croak.
“May.” I hold my hand out for the gun.
She hides it behind her back and shakes her head. “Finders keepers.”
“Holy shit, May, that could’ve blown our whole plan. Give me the goddamn gun.”
May speaks rapidly. “No, I get this one, Jenn. In case he escapes. Remember? I watch him and you find the safe key. That was the plan. I know how the gun works now. It won’t happen again. Promise.”
Her mouth grows grim and set. I know that look.
Calm. Calm, I need calm. We both do. What we need to do is find the key, get the money and get out. That is the plan. I take a deep breath. “Ok, May. You get the gun. But set it the fuck down on the desk and don’t touch it unless you need it. And I mean it.” I point my finger at her.
She nods and laughs at me, sets the gun down on the desk, then glances up at the moose. She approaches the beast and tosses her arms in the air theatrically. “The whistling deer head speaks!”
“It’s a moose, May. Does Mr. Moose know the last time you took your meds?” I glower at her.
She’s standing underneath it, staring up at its nostrils. Fat Bastard is writhing at her bare feet.
“Where’s your med box,” I say. “Let’s get that first, then the key.”
She shrugs. “The pig burned all my things. I don’t know when I last took my meds. The deer head doesn’t know either. It says I don’t need them anymore.”
Gah.
“May,” I say gently.
She turns and looks at me, her blonde hair sweeping over the shoulder of my Godzilla t-shirt. Her blue eyes are glassy, almost feverish.
I want to hold my little sister and tell her the difference between moose and deer, tell her that dead moose heads can’t talk. I want to explain we are in a bad situation with Fat Bastard, and it’s going to get a lot worse if Leroy shows up before we’re gone. But this will only upset her, so I have to play her game. “Ask Mr. Moose to whistle you a happy song while I search for the key.”
She smiles, “Okay, Sis. Hurry up, already.” She kicks Fat Bastard in the gut, then walks back a few feet and sits cross-legged in front of the fireplace, humming to herself.
For a moment, I admire her. I wish I had kicked Fat Bastard like she had. Spitting on his face and flicking his ear while his hands are tied seems baby-ish.
I walk to the bookshelf where I had seen Fat Bastard earlier. I pulled out the book (Treasure Island) he had looked behind. Nothing. I open the book cover, scrawled inside were the words:
Jan. 4, 1998
To my fellow c-a-d-a-v-e-r.
Ha! Ha! Ha!
Then a signature I couldn’t read. Sick Puppy. I ripped the pages out, letting the papers fall to the floor.
I yank off the next book, then the next book, and shred them. When the shelves are empty, I throw the bookcase to the floor. It clashes and bangs. Nothing hides behind it.
“Shhhhhh!” says May, bringing her finger to her lips, then turns back to the moose head.
I seize a painting off the wall. It’s an original Thomas Kinkade entitled, “Nature’s Paradise.” Deer overlook a lake with little critters flying overhead. Beyond the lake, nestled into the grass, is a cottage with candlelight glowing from the windows. I wonder if there are young women tied up inside under a giant moose head. I wonder if their mother is a crackhead whore off doing some guy in the local Laundromat, just over the sloping green hills. I flip the canvas over. No key. I toss it on the ground, then kick it. Hard. The green hills splinter, leaving no path for the crackhead whore to rescue her daughters. Good. They are better off with the sadistic perv.
I methodically go around the room, trashing it like mama junkie used to trash our place. I throw the couch cushions to the side and feel between the cracks. Winner! Winner! I find a quarter and a used condom. “Sicko fucko,” I mumble, while eyeing a Tiffany vase. It sits by itself, high up on a shelf.
I stack the couch cushions together and stand on them. Stretching up on tiptoe, I finger the delicate crystal. It falls into my palms. I sweep my fingers on the shelf, but find nothing. Inside the vase are dried leaves and a dead spider-- huge dead spider.
I wind up like a pitcher and hurl the Tiffany at the baby grand. Tiny crystal splinters explode off the wood. It’s a satisfying sound.
“Damn straight!” May yells, startling me.
I look at her, she is looking at the moose head, then looks back at me like- what? I shake my head, and step around the shards. “Where next?” I wonder out loud.
May shrugs and says, “I guess that leaves the kitchen, the study, the wing down the hall, and the cellar.”
5
Bite the Apple
I head off to the kitchen, leery of leaving May with the gun, but someone had to watch the Fat Bastard.
May calls, “Jenn, will you toss me an apple? I’m hungry.”
I don’t know why I cringe as I step into the kitchen. It looks normal enough, sorta fancy. Farmhouse sink, stainless steel fridge and granite counter tops. Cabinets perch to the left. On the right is the stove with more cabinets. The kitchen opens to a narrow dining area. A chandelier hangs over an elegant ebony table. Directly behind the table, opposite from each other, are two doors: one black, one white.
That eerie pressing down feeling of panic rises in my stomach. I glance at the white door, then the black.
“Sis—apple! Make that two apples.”
I jump at her voice. “Geez, hold your horses! Where do these doors go?”
“White is outside, black is the cellar. Um, duh?”
A soft tap trembles from the black door. Tap Tap Tap…
I hold my breath, alert and listening. The tap is gone. Could I have imagined it?
“SIS! Gawd…”
I breathe again and tiptoe to the table, still eyeing the black door. On the table, fruit spills over a wrought iron basket. Apples and grapes are plump, fresh, and untouched. I reach for two apples and a handful of grapes and clutch them to my chest. With my free hand, I trace my fingers along the ebony to the deep gold bordering the table. In the gold are fleeing emerald serpents with ruby eyes. Trees of silver separate each serpent. From the silver branches hang tiny gems of amethyst and sapphire. “Incredible,” I breathe. Must have cost a fortune.
I hear something, quiet and whispery.
Snapping my head toward the black door, I drop the fruit back on the table. A high-pitched whine slithers through the air. It stops. I glance back and forth between the white and black doors.
I force myself to walk to the white door. The dead bolt is locked. I peek out the peephole. All I see is dark. Of course, at one AM it would be.
I hear a shuffling and turn to the other door, the black door. There is a bolt on this one as well. Why? I rest my palm gently on the handle and lean into the black painted wood. I put my ear against the door, holding my breath, listening. I hear something again, just barely, like a moaning ghost. The door handle turns beneath my fingers. Oh fu--
“Sis!”
I jump at May’s voice and scramble backwards. I watch the door handle, but it doesn’t move. Am I losing my mind? Geez. I grab some apples and grapes, and split the kitchen.
“I think someone is down in the cellar. “ I say as I toss her the apples and nibble on a few grapes. My gag reflux kicks in, I am much too anxious to eat.
“I think so too.” May nods. She is sitting cross-legged by Fat Bastard with the gun in her lap. “Let’s ask the pig.”
She leans forward and rips off Fat Bastard’s gag.
“May, don’t!”
Fat Bastard’s mouth is wide, his teeth yellow and sharp. He says, “Gotcha! I gotcha both. Leroy will be here soon and we’ll eat you for fucking dinner. I’ll filet you up like a bird on Christmas and gulp you like thick pudding —“
“Eat this, Piggy.” May stuffs the apple in h
is mouth. Fat Bastard stops midsentence.
“May!” I say again, exasperated and shaken.
“He deserved it! Look, now he really does look like a pig!” May snorts at Fat Bastard as he tries to spit the apple out. “Stop! Or I’ll stomp it in.” May stands and raises her foot.
I grab May’s hand and drag her to the hallway. “Come on, you’re helping me trash the bedrooms.”
She shrugs and takes a bite of her apple. “ ‘kay.”
“So, which room is the safe in?”
“The cellar.”
I halt in front of the study door. “The cellar? I thought you said one of these rooms.”
“Yeah, I said a room. The cellar is a room.” May reaches for the door handle, then quickly withdraws her hand. “Did you see that?”
“What?” I almost scream. My nerves are fried.
She points at the handle. “A ginormous, colossal spider just crawled over the knob. It was so huge! A wolf spider, I think. No way am I touching that thing.”
“Colossal? Where’d you learn that one?”
“A guy called his you-know-what-that once. I totally wouldn’t touch it.”
I raise my eyebrows.
She shrugs. “It wasn’t that big.”
“The spider?”
“No, Jenn, his dick, geez.”
I nod slowly at her, mouth a sarcastic Okay… and open the door.
The room is small and simple with a desk, chair and laptop computer. The window is heavy with curtains, light cannot find its way around them. I notice immediately something covering the walls like webs.
“What are they?” I ask.
“Pictures…” she breathes.
I flip on the lights. Women, thousands of photographs of women, plaster the walls. Women in their yards standing in front of their houses, gardening. Women lounging on chairs on the beach, women playing tennis, swimming, undressing in windows, one appears to be doing laundry in a Laundromat.
“Dear God...” I say. “He’s a stalker.”