by Brian Hodge
“I’m sorry, who are you?” She narrowed her eyes and took another step toward me. I could have squashed her tiny throat in my hands, but I just stood there in the middle of all that Red.
“I’m Chandra’s father,” I said, feeling sickly and weak. I should have run away instead of looking weak in front of her. How would she ever respect me if I put my weaknesses on display? Chandra spit on the ground, clearly disgusted with me. I wanted to disappear. She was so mean.
“You,” Chandra said slowly, making sure I heard each word, “are not my father. You never were.” Damn. I don’t think she knew how much it would hurt me to hear her say that. Or maybe she did; I guess there was no way for me to know. Red. Coming.
“Listen to me you little—you dress like a whore, and I’ll be damned if—” I didn’t mean to yell at her; everything was just so Red. It was her fault, anyway. It’s women that put the Red on me in the first place. I had to teach her how dangerous that was. How else would she learn?
“I think that’ll do,” the venomous friend said, slinging an arm around Chandra’s shoulders and leading her away. It was a very friendly gesture, too friendly, maybe. I started to wonder if Chandra hadn’t maybe gone lezbo or something. I thought about that for the whole rest of the day.
Later that night my feelings were still hurting. I went out for a cheeseburger and then to that corner where the hookers stand around. There’s not just one corner, it’s a five- or six-block stretch where there’s nothing but whores selling their wares. You’d think it would be cool to look at, all these women giving it away just for the asking (and the money). But it wasn’t sexy, or even cute. It was kind of sad; the chicks were mostly ugly and had depressed, dried-up faces peering out over ratty clothes meant to look sexy. They weren’t sexy. Not really.
I drove around for over an hour, hoping one of them would catch my eye. It was kind of like you see in the movies, where they lean against your door when you roll the window down. Sometimes they’d say dirty things to me or flash me their tits or whatever. One time a black chick lifted her skirt for me, for no money at all. She had one of those Brazilian wax jobs. It was still kinda ugly, though.
“Hey honey, you want a date?” A leathery woman in a curly red wig leaned in toward my passenger window and I caught a waft of her cigarette smoke. The hooker rattled off her prices at me without even asking if I was a cop. I guess it’s pretty obvious I’m someone who can be trusted. That’s good. I like feeling trustworthy, especially around women.
I was about to go home when I saw something even more infuriating than my Chandra in her slutty skirts. A woman dressed in robes like in that movie, The Ten Commandments. She was clearly an idolater, a pagan and a heathen. Being a whore was bad enough, but to give in to gold and mammon and every evil thing in the world? Somebody needed to save this girl. Surely I could put my own selfish desires aside for one night to save this sinful woman from herself. She cried out for salvation; why else would she wear such a thing? It practically announced that she was a soul in need of spiritual help. If I could convince her to reject heathendom and embrace the one true Lord, Mama would be so proud. Plus, the hooker would probably let me fuck her for free, she’d be so grateful to me.
“You lookin’ at me, sugah?” The sinful woman had stepped up to my car. She purred into my window, leaning over to reveal excellent cleavage.
“Why yes, miss. Yes I am.” I got out of the car, walked around, and opened the door for her. The other hookers applauded and hooted at my gentlemanly gesture.
“We’re supposed to stay in sight,” she said, stepping into the vehicle.
“You’ll be fine,” I told her. “I’m completely trustworthy.” We went back to my house so I could perform my good deed for the day.
Chapter Nineteen
(Dami)
A Step Ahead
“How do you like being back to work?” Sondra, the other classroom aide, asked me as we sat on the playground eating sandwiches.
“Very much,” I told her, opening a bottle of imported spring water. Fancy water seemed like such a silly thing to spend one’s money on. But it was the most delicious water I’d ever tasted.
The sense of relief I felt at being out of such a precariously horrible situation was pervasive, accosting me several times a day. The simple act of getting up and going to work felt revolutionary. It reaffirmed a zeal for life I hadn’t felt since before my first husband died.
I took another bite of my tuna salad sandwich and looked out at the frolicking children enjoying their playground time. Seeing them, I could only think of my own daughters at that age—so sad after the loss of their beloved father. So frightened and unsure about their future. I really thought it best to give them the safety and security they needed. They deserved it. They were innocent and deserved only happiness. How could I have foreseen what was to come?
“So … are you married?” Sondra asked me, in what I’m sure was an attempt at casual conversation. My stomach squirmed.
“No. My husband—died.” I felt in my heart that I have only ever had one husband. Manu was ten times the man Michael was. Intelligent and kind, truthful and loving. How could I ever have settled for such mediocrity as Michael Goretti? It was an appalling reminder of my former state of mind. I was shamed even to think of it.
“Oh, I’m so sorry.” Clearly I had made my new co-worker uncomfortable. She put a hand on my shoulder, returning the favor. I leaned slightly away from her, hoping she wouldn’t ask for details.
“Thank you,” I said quietly, forcing my eyes away from her piteous simper. I could not quite say why her exaggerated pity annoyed me so.
“You should come to our women’s group.” She stopped herself. “I hear you have kids, right? Daughters?” I welcomed her attempt to change the subject and went on to tell her mundane facts about my girls, nothing of consequence. I wasn’t here to make new friends. I simply needed employment. I was the head of my own household now.
This was something I’d never imagined, frankly. Not for lack of ability, but because it had never occurred to me to leave my daughters fatherless. Contrary to the advice of my own mother, no father at all was infinitely better than an inappropriate one. This was indisputable. I was working and supporting the children on my own. In my deep despair following the death of Manu, I never would have believed it possible.
“I don’t have any kids, myself. Not yet anyway. My husband works such long hours, and our sex life is—” Was this woman really going to tell me intimate details about sex with her husband? I’d known her less than a month. Why on earth would she tell me such a thing?
“Oh …” I pretended I’d been listening when, in truth, I was trying my best to recite the story of Ganesh in my head. I did that more and more. The Remover of Obstacles had been gracious in his aid to me. Sondra babbled on about her husband’s drinking, his disinterest, his liking for pornography. It was all just awful. I began to wonder if a functional marriage was an anomaly rather than a norm.
“Are you … Hindi?” Sondra pointed at my bindi as she asked this. Ah, ignorance.
“Hindi is a language. I am Hindu.” Sondra looked visibly embarrassed, and I immediately wished I’d shown her more tolerance. People can’t be expected to know everything.
Suddenly my tuna sandwich seemed enormous. I returned it to its protective baggie and then to the brown paper bag. It was completely unappetizing now, but I felt guilt at the idea of throwing it away.
My daughters were in separate schools now. I didn’t like keeping them apart, and had considered asking their grandmother to school them in her home. My own mother was also a teacher, a fine one in her day. She never taught in public schools here, but she did work as a tutor for a time. Her credentials did not transfer here, and she had neither the money nor the energy for additional schooling so late in life. I still had time. I could be a professional woman again.
Finding this job in a Montessori school was the best thing that could have happened for the girls’ educat
ion, and for me. This school system continued through high school, so Chandra and Durga would both get an excellent education. Chandra was in high school. Montessori high schools are rare, so this was a wonderful opportunity for her. Durga would not be in high school for two more years, and both girls were uncomfortable being separated. Finally I convinced them it was for the best. After a year of my being a classroom aide, the school would pay for my education and recertification.
In some respects, each step forward was a half-step back. We were physically safe, but emotionally damaged. Durga woke with nightmares several times a week. Chandra flinched at the slightest provocation. I thought to put them in counseling, though my mother forbade it. I worried for them. I was sure each car that passed our new home was Michael, coming to take back what he believed was his. Deep down I believed he was a sick man, capable of anything.
With the girls settled in school and our lives finding a completely new kind of normalcy, I felt comfortable pursuing my own interests. In addition to working four days a week, I volunteered at the public library and was slowly learning basic computer skills. We were leaving the madness behind us and moving forward.
“Mother!” Chandra’s voice was full of panic as she ran into the house. I leapt from the sofa where I was just about to relax with a book. “He was there.” She was panting as if she’d run all the way home.
“Who?” I said, knowing full well whom she must mean. My heart beat furiously as Chandra explained how The Villain had gone to her school. He sat in his car, staring at her through a classroom window.
“What? Did you tell anyone? A teacher?” Chandra’s hands shook as she pointed toward our front window. He was there. Right in front of our new home, one I had never given him the location of. Sitting in his car and watching us as if...I could not even say what he might have been thinking. I picked up my keys and was about to drive to Durga’s school when I saw her coming up the walk. Michael just sat in the car and stared toward our house as she entered. I clutched my girls to me, and dialed the police.
Chapter Twenty
(Mikey)
Drinks to Get Drunk
I like to drink. I’ve been told I drink kind of a lot. I don’t know if that’s true; I mean, what’s a lot? Drinking helps me in a lot of ways; it lets me relax and think, which is something I need to do pretty often. I think about girls, work, my failed marriage (more like how my wife failed ME), and whatever else is bugging me at the moment.
Today I was thinking about Chandra and how she must hate me. I really needed to figure out a way to make it right. I’d probably drive by there tomorrow and see what kind of mood she was in. She’s not such a bad girl, and if she’d stop dressing like a ten-dollar whore she’d look really good.
I bought a computer for the girls when Chandra was in junior high. They needed it for research and to e-mail their friends. One night I caught Durga talking to boys in a chatroom. At her age? I was just disgusted. I took the computer away for a while, but the girls cried and complained so much that I ended up giving it back. Those kids got every damn thing they wanted in the end, that’s for sure.
I was thinking about that when the heathen hooker was tied to a chair in my living room. She reminded me so much of my daughter Chandra. So beautiful, so sinful. Only she was right here and Chandra wasn’t. The whore’s little blue outfit fluttered around her in a way specially designed to tantalize men. It was her profession and she was obviously good at it. Deep down, though, it’s the profession of all women. All they want is to get men to take care of them and buy them stuff, until they can leave for somebody richer and better. It was written all over them, especially this one. I barely even wanted to screw this one, her sin being so—what’s the word? Repellant. Her sin was repellant.
I drank another beer, just watching the hooker. Then another. I wished I had some more pot, but all my hiding places came up empty. Dami always said I shouldn’t be hiding it around the house. She was so pissy about it. I kept telling her it was only pot and that the girls wouldn’t get into it. After all, how likely was it that a teenage girl would take some of her dad’s pot? Dami liked to freak out over nothing.
I tried not to think of the hooker’s sins and salaciousness as she sat there with her scarf pulled down over her eyes. I wanted to see what her eyes looked like so I peeled the blue veil off her face. I expected a lot of fear, but got just a little.
“Hi,” I said to her, smiling.
“Fuck you,” she said back harshly, “Where the fuck am I?” She had a very foul mouth, even for a whore.
“We’re at my house. Sorry it’s not that clean. My wife just left me and I haven’t hired a maid or anything.” I couldn’t afford a maid, but she didn’t need to know that.
“What?” She looked at me and suddenly I found myself very attracted to her. Forgetting her sin and heathenry, I grabbed her.
“Kiss me.” I lunged at her, but nicely. She turned her head away as quick as she could. She wouldn’t even pretend to kiss me?
“No kissing.” She said it flatly, like she didn’t care about me at all. What is it with these women? Why can’t they just be nice and not make everything so damn difficult?
“No kissing. You know what? Just let me out of here.” I don’t think she could tell how serious I was about saving her.
“If you could let yourself go, you’d have done it already, right?” She squirmed a little before nodding her head.
“So if I tell you to do something, you’re gonna do it, right?” Instead of agreeing, she spits on my floor. Spits. On my floor. I crack her one right in the face, and she makes a sound like when you kick a dog.
“I said, if I tell you to do something, you’re gonna do it.” I wait for her to nod her head, or say yes or something, to agree with me. She doesn’t, so I hit her again and she makes the same sound, just a little quieter, like she’s trying not to scream. It’s sad in a way, to see her like that.
This vile strumpet spreads her legs for anyone with twenty dollars, but she comes to my house and won’t even kiss me. Won’t even look at me, when all I’m trying to do is save her from herself. No appreciation. I realize I’m no Richard Gere, but it doesn’t take a millionaire to save a whore.
I just want her to see things my way. That isn’t asking so much. I want her to understand how important it is to give people what they need. That’s her job. And it’s the oldest profession for a reason.
I walk around her in a circle. Her eyes follow me as long as they can, but her head can only turn so far in the Boy Scout knots I tied her up with. I slide my hand into her silky bra. It’s not a regular bra that fits on tight, like some kind of steel safe for boobs. This bra is soft like her sweet titties. Normally I like ‘em bigger than this, but I know this whore needs me as much as I need her. It feels nice to be needed.
“If you kiss me like you love me,” I whisper in her ear as I fondle her, “I’ll let you live here with me. I’ll take care of you and buy you things just like you want. You don’t have to be a filthy whore if you don’t want to.” For some reason, her eyes get wider and more afraid.
“You’re fucking crazy. Let me go!” Chicks always say that. Not just here, but in movies and stuff. No man is going to let go his dominion over a woman just for the asking. That would make him weak. “You haven’t done anything—anything you can’t take back.” She whines, “I won’t tell anyone I was here.” Yeah, right. She’s not going to weaken me, not with all the Red in the world. I could have saved her. She didn’t let me.
I show her my hunting knife. It’s the sharpest thing I’ve ever touched. It has a ragged edge on the bottom. Scary. The heathen hooker looks terrified; for a minute I feel bad for her. Maybe it’s not her fault she turned out this way. The Red in the room, though, is her doing. She didn’t have to bring the Red here, but she did.
She’s not a nice person. She’s a heathen and a whore with no desire to change, or do good. What’s the point of her being alive? She’ll barely look at me, let alone kiss me.
I start to untie her from the chair and she starts crying and thanking me. She realizes her mistake when I leave her wrists taped up and toss her on the living room carpet.
I untie her legs so I can get between them. I deserve it after all the effort I put into trying to bring her to here, and trying to bring her to Jesus. She didn’t have to be a whore; I would have helped her. It’s not my fault she doesn’t want any light in her life. She fights so hard against me fucking her that the whole room is Red by the time we finish. I know I should feel no pity for a godless whore, but it’s sad.
She cries when I put my hands on her throat. But she enticed me. That’s what women like her do. Young girls, they don’t know any better. This one does. I drag my new knife across her throat, as she screams. It’s loud, like a movie. I’m not sorry. Not for her, anyway. She had her chance. She had every chance in the world. She spurned both God and me. There was no saving her. And she made a bloody mess on my floor. I started to wonder how I was going to clean it up as I opened another beer.
Chapter Twenty-One
(Our Narrator)
Scanning for Signs of Life
People found it odd when Mikey bought a police scanner. He didn’t have much money then; he was working as a busboy in a little hole-in-the-wall diner. He listened all the time, and nobody could figure out why. He listened to it nonstop when I wasn’t around. Sometimes he even switched jobs with the dishwasher, so he could bring the damn thing to work and listen to it in the back of the kitchen. That was one thing about Mikey, when he got interested in something he did it to an insane degree. Everything was like an addiction with him, like he just couldn’t get enough of whatever it was, cheeseburgers, booze, porn, even that damn scanner.