I Like You Like This

by Heather Cumiskey

  Deacon shrugged it off as a way of doing business, even when a client attempted to get clean. They would cave eventually and end up calling him; the need to get high was always more powerful than their resolve.

  Jade’s cousin worked in a hospital, so hermetically sealed needles were pretty easy to get for their little operation. Bobby didn’t have as many connections as Jade, but his size came in handy for protection when a disgruntled client or unwanted outsider got out of hand. Toby’s size would also make him a good bodyguard, but Deacon was never going to let Toby into his circle—at least not that way.

  Deacon waited for the courtyard to clear out before making his call. Hannah’s mother was taking her to a follow-up doctor’s visit for her nose, even though she’d told her it felt fine. Standing in front of the payphone, he glanced back a couple of times at the table where he usually sat with Hannah, wishing she were here now. Then he dialed the old, familiar number, the one he used to prank incessantly as a kid and unfortunately still knew by heart.

  “Yeah. I know . . . I know. Listen—thought we could work something out. Meet me tonight at eight thirty, Gossamer Park . . . under the lights. Yeah.” Deacon hung up and dug his hand into his jeans for another quarter. “Yeah, hey, it’s me,” he said, jamming his other hand into his front pocket. He leaned in closer to the phone’s kiosk, shielding himself from the November wind that was rummaging through his trench coat. “I’m going to need you to do me a favor, tonight . . . yeah . . . I’ll explain when I see you, around 8:00 p.m. Good. And—you can’t tell anyone . . . especially Gillian . . . just between us. Yeah . . . and oh, I need you to dress preppy again.”

  Toby showed up right on time, pulling up in the candy-red Camaro that always made Deacon’s skin crawl. He could see the scene playing out in front of him: Toby getting the new set of wheels for his sixteenth birthday or something, his sweet, dear old dad dangling the keys in front of his face, both father and son beaming with pride. Hating him even more, Deacon traded his clenched jaw for a smile and continued with his plan.

  “’Sup?” Deacon said, acknowledging Toby with a casual lift of the chin. The other boy mimicked the gesture back, but then he immediately began fidgeting as if the bottom of his feet were on fire. Ignoring him, Deacon furrowed his brow and zeroed in on something past Toby’s shoulder in the distance. Toby turned his head.

  “Well, I guess your little lady couldn’t wait. Here she is now.”

  The chilly night air flowed thickly around the tall oak trees and park lamps, making it difficult to see her features fully through the fog, but there was the slender body, the long hair pulled back in that ever-present headband.

  Deacon smiled, watching Toby’s beady eyes start to blink rapidly. He pulled a pipe and lighter from his trench coat and began to speak to Toby like he was a child, sweet and steady. “If you’re going to work for me, you’re going to have to have a go . . . just this once, of course.” He motioned the pipe toward him, concealing his contempt in the shadows.

  “You’ll front me the money then?”

  “Of course,” Deacon said, already seeing the end in sight. It was all going to happen, and at his own hands; he felt wonderfully wicked and just. Here’s to you, Dad.

  “Not here, out in the open. I don’t want Taylor to see me.”

  “Turn away then, keep it low,” Deacon gently coaxed.

  Toby took the pipe and lighter out of his hands. His palm shook waiting for Deacon to drop the rock into the pipe, and sweat bubbled across his brow as he fumbled with the lighter, unable to get it to light. He turned away and just about dropped the pipe, before Deacon caught them both.

  “I–I don’t know, man. I don’t think I can do it.”

  “Try.”

  Toby shook his head, and tears came from the corner of his eyes. He glanced back at the girl waiting in the fog then to Deacon again.

  “I can’t, bro. Please . . . please don’t make me—”

  “Everyone who works for me—listen. You’re the one who needed the cash so badly. Do this for me; I need to see your level of loyalty. I’ve got the money on me.” Deacon was still holding the pipe and lighter under Toby’s face, just waiting for the virgin to inhale.

  “I can’t,” Toby said, jerking his head back, fear lighting up his eyes as they nervously darted from Deacon’s face then back to the girl coming through the fog. Toby took a of couple steps backward, nearly tripping over his feet, before he turned and tore off toward his car. “T–Taylor, I–I–I’ve got to go . . . I’ll call you later!”

  Jade stopped walking and nodded, offering a flimsy wave. Toby peeled out of the parking lot without looking back.

  Deacon kicked the ground, exasperated, manically walking around in a circle, clenching and unclenching his fists. He’d punch a wall if there were one. Fucking waste of time. Pussy.

  Jade finally emerged from the shadows in her over-the-top preppy ensemble, causing Deacon to laugh heartily for the first time in a long time.

  “Nice job,” he said, composing himself.

  She yanked the headband off her head, rolled her eyes at him, and eagerly took the glass pipe from his hands.

  CHAPTER 30

  1966

  SWALLOW ASPIRIN 4 X A DAY. CHECK.

  Smoke incessantly. Check.

  Drink Dong Quai or Raspberry Leaf tea. Check. Check. Take exorbitant amounts of vitamin C for two weeks. Check.

  Raise arms overhead whenever possible. Check.

  Jump from the top of the stairs. Check.

  Still Babette’s belly grew.

  The “fall” from the top of the winding staircase was by far her best effort. Kingsley patted his young wife’s head and called her clumsy that day. She hid the unwanted pregnancy from everyone, especially from the man she was growing to detest more by the minute. She’d had affairs herself, of course; but at the end of the day, she had to keep up the pretense, that ghastly arrangement she’d made with her father, who had promised to leave her alone for once in return.

  But after she married, her preppy playboys had lost interest. Even the string of pool boys, the tennis pros, and the stately gentleman in the black suit who polished the silver once a month couldn’t keep up with Babette’s appetite. Eventually, she grew bored, and she sent her stallions to the glue factory for poor dressage and showing.

  When her period didn’t come those first few months, Babette brushed it off like everything else. After all, they were never going to have a family. That was certain. But when she didn’t bleed in her fifth month, her worry spread like an unreachable itch. Five plastic sticks later, she knew no reputable doctor would give her an abortion this late in the game. There had to be another way.

  Babette set off into the city’s Chinatown area to see a renowned mystic she’d heard about through her ladies’ teas. The acclaimed sorcerer owned a shop—part opium den, hidden away and annoyingly hard to find—that specialized in “female issues.”

  Babette was already out of breath when she reached the squat storefront. She wiped her brow with a monogrammed handkerchief and surveyed her surroundings. The place looked more like a forgotten grocery than opium den. Black vertical bars donned its cracked, newspaper-covered windows, along with a partially lit hanging neon sign for Chinese beer and cigarettes that buzzed like a horde of dung beetles. No tinkling of bells welcomed her as she stepped over its threshold. Instead, she was met with a vacuum of silence and a hanging cloud of sweet-smelling dust that immediately made her cough.

  In the far corner, a young woman stood bent over a magazine atop a long glass counter filled with stacks of Asian newspapers. She busily snapped her gum, ignoring Babette’s presence. The girl’s hair was shaved to a finger’s length on either side around her ears, while long, spiked, jet black and electric blue tips fanned the center like a rooster. Her guarded eyes were rimmed in thick black kohl, her thin lips painted blue. To Babette, it was obvious that the girl dabbled in street drugs and was part of that new punk scene she’d read about in the Times.
Some mystic, she thought.

  She cleared her throat. “Hello?”

  The girl disappeared into a back room through a doorway covered with long, flowing, floor-length silk curtains embroidered with green, gold, and black dragons, that swooshed seemingly on their own from side to side. Babette heard her speak in clipped, harsh commands. Then there was nothing. Babette began turning her wedding band with her left thumb, making small circles. One, two, three, four, five. She moved on to checking the backs of her earrings—one, two, three, four, five—and straightening the strands of necklaces over her suit—one, two, three, four, five. She had just started the sequence again when the girl returned to the counter; with a great flourish, the silk curtains parted, making the dragons resume their dance. The surly punk-rock girl suddenly became the least of Babette’s worries.

  More male than female in appearance, the androgynous mystic blinked soft, clouded eyes that made Babette wonder if she were blind. Her shrunken-apple smile exposed large gaps in her teeth, while her head vibrated off her pencil neck like a jack-in-the-box. Her round, curious face spawned wiry black hairs that started at her brows, snaked through her nostrils, and mottled her pruned chin like a stubbly beard. Compounding her diminutive stature, her back was stooped and twisted by an abnormal protruding curvature, perhaps from birth, that had frozen her in a continuous bow. Babette forced herself to keep her focus on the old woman’s face and not the thing that seemed to be following her.

  It was evident that the elderly woman wasn’t going to speak English, even if she knew any. Punk-rock girl reluctantly introduced herself simply as Wei, her granddaughter, and began translating the many ways their ancient sisters before them had performed natural miscarriages. The young girl’s articulate speech surprised Babette, who raised her initial assessment of the girl to at least college-educated. Probably a state school.

  Within minutes, Babette had purchased all of the recommended teas and herbs, along with an illustrated pamphlet, written in English, providing the step-by-step guidelines to handling unwanted pregnancies.

  Relieved, Babette nodded and smiled politely at the mystic. She was closing her purse to leave when Wei suddenly stopped her.

  “My grandmother would like to examine the baby.”

  What?

  With surprising ease and agility, the mystic traveled around to the front of the counter and placed her T-Rex claws on either side of Babette’s belly. The baby kicked wildly at her touch, delivering Babette a surprising amount of pain.

  The old woman closed her eyes, and her face stilled, along with the baby’s movements. After several long breaths, she spoke, looking into Babette’s eyes as she did.

  “My grandmother says you’re too far along. This baby will be born.”

  Shit, shit.

  “And that he already knows.”

  He? “I’m sorry, what does he know?” cried Babette.

  “He knows that he’s not wanted.”

  Jumping from the stairs happened nearly a week later, after a few too many bourbons and what was probably her millionth self-pity cry. She was praying to just die already rather than become someone’s mother. Her own mother was so horrid—why would anyone ever aspire to that? It was bad enough growing up with the burden of being the child of a woman who had killed herself, her mother’s shame forever scarring her life.

  Still the baby grew. As did her hate.

  “Is it mine?” asked Kingsley, looking forlorn and confused the night she finally told him. Babette had knocked on his study door after downing two highballs with very little ice. She was sort of hoping he’d take care of the thing once it came out. Wet nurses, nannies, and au pairs, whatever it took. She would be out of the country by then. European playboys could keep her amused for a while.

  “Afraid so,” Babette said, knowing she’d ridden all of her other horses with Trojans.

  “Goddammit!”

  “Yep.”

  CHAPTER 31

  December 1984

  “HEY THERE!” SHE SAID, SURPRISED AT HER OWN EXUBERANCE. She had waited most of the day to call him, rehearsing different scenarios in her head.

  “Hi.” He sounded sleepy, but at least she’d caught him at home.

  “So your birthday’s Saturday, right?”

  “I guess?” Hannah could hear the smile in his voice.

  “Well, I’d like to see you that day, celebrate a little, maybe?”

  “Yeah, sure. I’ll pick you up.” He didn’t sound overly excited, but at least he was willing. “I’d like to see you.”

  “You would?” she teased, feeling her heart sing.

  “A lot.”

  Hannah convinced her mother to drive her to the grocery store the following Saturday morning so she could buy Deacon a birthday card and some flowers. They were meeting later at the library and then heading back to his house to be alone. She hadn’t told her mom what she was getting or for whom, because they hadn’t discussed Deacon since the time she saw them kissing outside their house. Even with all of the late-night calls and Hannah dragging the downstairs phone into her bedroom, neither of her parents had asked her about it. Maybe they were just relieved that she finally had a friend.

  Hannah’s mother already had an order waiting at the pharmacy, so it wasn’t too hard to persuade her to go to the store. Alone in the greeting card aisle, Hannah giggled picking something out for Deacon, staying away from anything that seemed too mushy or made it look like she was trying too hard. The flowers were easier. She knew exactly what kind to get, and she couldn’t wait to see the look on Deacon’s face when she gave them to him. It’s what a girlfriend does for her boyfriend, she thought, laughing to herself.

  Driving home, Hannah noticed her name across the top of the paper prescription bag next to her on the seat. “What’s this, Mom?” She glanced over at her mom’s profile and her tight-knuckled grip on the steering wheel. Her eyes appeared sunken inside her sharp cheekbones, making her look older. Maybe she was dieting again—not like she needed to—or maybe she was still worrying about Kerry. “Mom?”

  “What?” her mother answered sounding distracted. Hannah realized she was driving faster than normal. Instinctively, she placed one hand on the dashboard to brace herself.

  “What’s this?” Hannah motioned to the bag just as her mother slammed on the brakes, narrowly missing the car turning in front of them. Both of their heads catapulted forward, then snapped back and hit their headrests.

  “Dr. Kittleman refilled your painkillers,” her mom said, moving the car forward like nothing had happened.

  “Why? It’s not like I need them anymore.”

  “You ungrateful bitch,” her mother said under her breath. “I got them for you in case you needed them, so you wouldn’t wake in the middle of the night from the pain.”

  “When have I ever done that?”

  “Leave it, Hannah.”

  Hannah closed her eyes, feeling the familiar sharpness inside the top of her ribcage. The ache rolled over then traveled down her right arm into her thumb. I never want to be with somebody who makes me feel this. Never, she swore.

  Hannah carefully pulled out the red roses, along with Deacon’s card, from her book bag. She propped them up across his pillows in the center of the bed. They looked perfect. All she had to do was write something in the card before he got upstairs. She’d been toying with whether or not to sign it with the “L” word. Things had been really amazing between them lately, but he hadn’t said it yet.

  Hannah opened the drawer in his nightstand, looking for a pen. She pushed aside a torn piece of a Blow Pops box top with writing scribbled on the inside—when her hand jerked back like she’d touched something hot. Her mouth grew dry, and her blood began to pulse in her ears. Whatever she’d eaten earlier now polluted her mouth. Her hand shook lifting the first Polaroid from the drawer, then another one, followed by another. Thinking at first they were pictures of an ex-girlfriend, she gasped when she recognized her outfit and those boots—the first and last tim
e she ever wore them.

  She wanted to scream, scratch his eyes out, but she couldn’t make a sound. She forced herself not to look away. Each of them depicted her lying on her back in her bedroom with her hands inside her clothing, grabbing herself. Hannah shuddered at the last one—the most disgusting of the three— which showed her finger in her mouth, her pants zipped down, and her legs spread.

  That bastard posed me! But why?

  Her stomach dropped recalling Deacon’s “brotherly” way that weekend, how he’d helped her clean up and dispose of her incriminating bloodstained clothes and dirty rags. Stupid, stupid girl! Her head swiveled, and she spotted the camera on his bureau. She hadn’t noticed it until now. She lunged and threw it against the wall. Wildly, she looked around the sparse room for more. She started pulling apart the roses, ripping off their heads. Stupid, stupid girl! The tiny thorns ripped through her hands, sending blood trickling down her arms and pooling inside her elbows. She felt none of it.

  How many people have seen these photos? How far did he take it?

  “It wasn’t an accident. It was all planned!” she screamed, attempting to rip the pictures and then, when that proved hopeless, crumbling them in a ball. Blindly, she began throwing whatever was in her way. Her bloodied hands flew to her face, and she dug her nails in deep before a wave of cool air from the hallway hit her back. She could feel him there. She glared back with everything she had, not caring how she looked or what she’d done to his room.

  His lips contorted as he spoke. “I took them when I didn’t know you. I was afraid you were going to rat me out. I thought I needed them, just in case. Hannah, please”—he tried to stop her from leaving the room, grabbing her shoulders—“I should have destroyed them after we got closer. I wanted to but . . . I liked looking at them.”