by Brian Hodge
I can remember that, after Dami left with the kids, all Mikey ever did was work, sleep, and look for a new woman. He was always talking about meeting new women, asking them out wherever he went. He took out ads in the newspaper and even online. Funny thing was, I couldn’t tell exactly what he was looking for except that she needed to be female. He obsessed over whether or not women liked him, without ever stopping to consider if he liked them. He started taking his possessions to pawnshops in order to take women out on dates. They were just a bunch of bimbos, and he’d sell off his stuff just so they’d think he had a bit of money. As if any woman worth knowing is interested in your money.
I remember feeling really sad for Mikey around that time. Working in that crappy diner with that old lady bossing him around. He obsessed over her too, but in an even weirder way. Fran says I did a great job cleaning tables. Fran gave me a bonus for cleaning out the grease traps. Fran says I’m the best busboy she’s ever had. Thirty-some years old and pleased as pie to be the best busboy in town. It boggled the mind.
It was like Fran’s opinion of him was the most important thing in the world. I wondered if it didn’t have something to do with Mikey’s “Mama.” She was kind of a weird one too. She called Mikey on the phone a lot and kept him on for hours; his phone used to get shut off all the time because she’d use up all his minutes. I heard him on the phone with her once trying to explain how cell phone minutes work. I could hear her on the other end, repeating “But I called YOU …” I guess she wasn’t any dumber than the average mother; she was just a lot freakier and crazier than mine.
Anyway, after Mikey’d been at that diner place for a couple of months, he bought the police scanner. We used to hang out at my place, listen to it, and drink. Doesn’t sound like a very cool way to spend a weekend, but for a single guy, it kind of was. I never knew what kind of stuff went on, right in our town, until we started listening to that thing. The first night there was a fire, two traffic accidents, a liquor store robbery, and five of what they called domestics. Four of them were men beating up wives or girlfriends, and the other one was a father and son fistfighting. I couldn’t imagine ever raising a hand to my dad, but there you are.
Turns out, in Michigan there’re a lot of domestics, more than any other thing. We would know; we heard all of it. Plus, drug busts and thefts, people writing bad checks and having the cops called on them, neighbors getting into it with each other, and more husbands beating up their wives. One time, one of the wives fought back and bashed her hubby with a handheld steam iron. I’d like to think he stopped beating her after that, but who knows. They say men like that don’t change their spots...or something.
Michigan could be a really hopeless, boring, dreadful place to be. You dreaded each day of shitty weather: humidity in the summer, and freezing cold and bad roads all winter. It was enough to make even the soberest fellow need someone to take it out on. Not me, but other guys. Sick, I know.
I was pretty slow at picking up on what Mikey actually wanted with the police scanner. I thought he just wanted to eavesdrop on everyone, even when he got totally out of hand with it. Lots of people must have police scanners. The majority of them weren’t just waiting to hear whether or not the police had found bodies of people they’d left laying around. We’d both been drinking for the better part of the evening when we heard it.
“Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck!” Mikey just repeated it over and over, looking clearly alarmed.
“What? Dude, WHAT?” I asked him, punching him in the arm to calm him down.
“Listen!” He fiddled with the scanner a bit as a voice came through the static, talking about a body left near a rest stop. A rest stop in Michigan City? I was pretty impressed that scanner could pick up a signal from so far away. The cop said it looked like a homicide.
“Okay,” I said, “I heard it. What’s the big deal? Are you looking for a body? D’ja leave one somewhere?” I laughed, having no idea how ghoulishly accurate my statement was. He wasn’t looking for it, but it was definitely his.
“She was really pretty … I bet.” Mikey had a look like he’d suddenly snapped into focus. “Somebody killing a beautiful young woman like that …”
“What? How do you know she was beautiful? Or even young? They didn’t say.” I guess it was my drinking that let all of that pass over me without suspicion. Who thinks of these things? No one would really just think their buddy was a serial killer, even if he said a lot of weird stuff that made no sense. People didn’t always make sense, but they weren’t all killers. Not even close.
“Sure she was. What’s the point of murdering an ugly girl?” He laughed, which made me laugh.
“What’s the point of murdering anyone at all?” I asked him. It’s a good question, I think, if a bit too philosophical for drunk talk. Usually our drunk talk stopped once we found something to watch on TV.
“Huh? Oh, I don’t know. I’m just saying.” He brought us each another beer and I did my best to stop thinking about the police scanner, and the body of some poor girl lying dead in a rest stop, where truckers are getting blown and dogs peeing any old where. That’s not proper for a girl’s final resting place.
Chapter Twenty-Two
(Mikey)
New Girlfriend Revisited
Things were going great for me when I met Elise. I had a sweet job at the diner and my boss was really happy with me. Dami and the girls were out of my life forever, or at least for now. That stupid dick cop told me I couldn’t be outside their place anymore. I told him, it’s a free country. He was some kind of fascist. Anyway, I’d gotten my car fixed so it was running right. It was the perfect time for me to meet a nice woman.
Elise was a shy type who managed a bookstore; plus, she did some kind of women’s volunteering work. We talked a lot about books and reading. I didn’t really do a lot of reading, but was able to fake it pretty good. I have a way of talking to people that lets me figure out just what they want me to say, so I can say it back to them. It really helps me get to know people and helps get them to like me.
I thought Elise was pretty. I’m really open-minded about female beauty, which you can tell because I dated Elise even though she was about thirty pounds overweight and already starting to show her age. She must have been well over thirty; I never actually asked her. Mama says asking a woman her age is akin to a slap in the face. Mama would know; she’s given more slaps in the face than anyone I know. Elise was kinda old, but at least she didn’t have any kids to sap all the money outta me like my last wife. Best of all, Elise thought I was the handsomest guy she’d ever seen.
I wanted to take Elise back to my house for dinner and drinks, but I couldn’t. That heathen hooker was still in the living room. Most of the blood was cleaned up, but the room smelled strongly like dead hooker and bleach. I have to say that after the first few days, she was really starting to freak me out. I skeeve corpses like most people do. Lately, though, it’s like everywhere I look is another one. I decided I wouldn’t take any more girls to my house. I’d probably keep using the vacation house, even though the drive was longer. If anything went wrong, I could just pretend someone else had broken in. It was a genius plan.
After our third date, which is usually the sex date, I had to drop Elise off at home. After dinner out and a movie, I kinda figured she’d invite me in. But no. She was playing hard to get, the way some homely women do. I was perfectly civil to her. I didn’t even try to feel her up in the theatre; that’s how much of a gentleman I am. Besides, like I said, she was only somewhat cute. It’s not like she was irresistible or anything.
Eventually I decided it was high time I got rid of the heathen hooker’s creepy body. I wrapped her up in a sheet, then again in the fitted sheet. I saw on a TV show where they caught a guy because he wrapped a body in a fitted sheet. They busted him when they searched his house and he had the rest of the set. You gotta get rid of the whole set, and then they can’t prove whose sheets they were. I threw the pillowcases on top of her and picked her u
p to put her in the car. She was so light, not like when I brought her here and she was all squirming and fighting me.
I thought about putting her near where the pretty redhead had been. But every time I went to see that one, somebody was around. That rest stop was really popular at night for whatever reason, and I wasn’t able to get alone time with her very much. I think we’d only been together twice since I left her there. Then the cops found her. That’s kind of why I kept the heathen hooker in my house. She and I had a lot more sex after she was … you know … dead. I have to admit, I found it very convenient to have a woman around just for sex who didn’t argue or want anything from me, like an orgasm. I was beginning to understand Dad’s fascination with whores.
The heathen hooker wasn’t looking so pretty anymore. Her face kind of sank in; it was gross. With that in mind, it was easier to remember that she was a terrible sinner and would no doubt be in hell right now, or as soon as I buried her. I forgot how that worked. Besides, I wouldn’t really be burying her so much as dropping her off somewhere. I don’t think I even had a shovel, except maybe one for snow. You can’t dig a hole with a snow shovel; everyone knows that.
My cell phone rang as I was getting on the expressway. I figured it was a good idea to take this body far away from where I or Dami or anyone I knew lived. I’m clever like that.
“Hello?” I answered, trying not to sound nervous. When I remembered how much trouble I’d be in if anyone knew what I had in the car, I got totally scared. I was torn between pulling over to talk and getting the hell out of there as fast as I could. I’m not good at talking and driving at the same time, but I answered the phone anyway. It might have been someone good.
“It’s Mama. Can you come over, Pooter? I need you to come over.” God. This again.
“I can’t right now, Mama, I’m in the middle of something.” That would never work. I heard her gasp through the phone, followed by a sad sigh.
“You’re in the middle of something?” she said, as if it couldn’t possibly be true. “Something more important than saving your mother from whatever’s scooting around in the attic and making a terrible racket?”
“Mama, I told you if you aren’t going to pay someone to fix the roof, you’re gonna get squirrels up there.”
“Why should I pay someone to fix the roof when my son is perfectly capable of hammering a few nails. Why I—”
“Mama, I keep telling you there’s more to it than that. I’m not a carpenter; I’m a mechanic. And—”
“Actually, son, you’re a busboy. So long as you need money from your mama, you’re damn well going to come over here when I need you. I don’t ask much from you, boy.” She droned on and on until I finally agreed to come over. It was always the same with her. And for a moment, I thought about bashing her head into a wall and leaving her in the attic she feared so damn much.
I pulled off the expressway at the next exit, not entirely sure which road it was. I smiled when I saw the totally deserted rest stop up ahead. I pulled right in and parked. I didn’t see anyone at all, not even an empty truck. Still, I figured I’d better look around some, and I walked into the building and used the vending machine. You can never have too many candy bars, after all.
Once I determined I was alone, I looked around for a good place to leave the heathen hooker. I put her in the same kind of marshy spot as the redheaded girl. This time, it was behind where the trucks parked, so somebody would probably find her soon. I was just about to leave when I thought of something funny. I had two more bus tokens in my pocket. I took them out and tossed them on the heathen hooker. I’m not quite sure why, but I found that really, really funny at the time.
After all that, and stopping over at Mama’s, I treated myself to a couple of cheeseburgers. When I got home I found that, even though the heathen hooker was gone, the fetid stench of her sin was still everywhere. Before I went to bed, I opened up all the windows even though it was below thirty outside. Hopefully, I could have Elise over for a nice meal soon.
Chapter Twenty-Three
(Dami)
Help from the Circle
“Let’s all welcome our newcomer, Dami … yanty?” The facilitator stammered over the unfamiliar grouping of letters. I couldn’t blame her; my name was nearly unheard of in this country.
“Dami is fine.” I ended her awkward guessing game.
“Dami,” she repeated, “it’s good to have you here.” I assumed they said that to everyone, but it sounded very sincere. Sondra smiled from the seat next to me, obviously pleased I’d decided to join her at this meeting.
“Tonight we’re going to cover some basics, like what we mean when we call ourselves survivors of abuse.”
The leader, if that’s what she was called, went on to talk about the different kinds of abuse: physical, emotional, sexual. I learned that being forced to submit to my husband was a crime in the United States, one that was occasionally prosecuted by the courts. Spousal rape was rarely reported, but it was against the law, and the police might have helped me if only I’d known.
Michael’s talk of religion and sinfulness as it pertained to the girls was also abusive according to the law. It’s called religious abuse and it was probably also perpetrated on Michael by his mother. I had no reason to think the abuse ever stopped for him. She was a maddening woman, one I never felt comfortable with. I viewed the United States’ culture as being needlessly litigious and hyper-concerned with semantics rather than substantial social progress. These women were not that.
These women were tremendously helpful and supportive. One of them had endured a trial where she was acquitted of murdering her husband. Her name was Nancy and her nose had been broken twice. It was healed now but misshapen. She’d been trying to get a legal divorce, but her husband wouldn’t sign the papers. One night, he broke into her house and forced himself on her for hours, while the children were sleeping in the next room. Tears welled up in her eyes as Nancy told her awful story. She was tied to the bed and couldn’t even defend herself. Two weeks later, he broke in again. She shot him twice before he could climb through the window.
“My God, really? You shot him? Twice?” I just couldn’t believe it. She was sitting there so calmly, talking about murdering her husband. It was magnificent. Inspirational.
“Then what happened?” a chubby, dark-haired girl asked, setting down a large bottle of expensive-looking spring water.
“When they came to arrest me I was sitting next to the body. My kids slept through it and I didn’t wake them, though the police weren’t as polite.” The women laughed at this. Was this kind of story so commonplace here that it was the stuff of comedy? These women amazed and frightened me at once. Nancy’s words discomforted me. To tell the story of killing someone, of getting away with murder, in such a casual fashion? Horrible. Still, I liked this Nancy, and her vengeful story.
At the next week’s meeting, I learned even more about the regulars, as they were called. The facilitator did this job as a volunteer; she had a full-time day job. Two of the women there were lesbians who had been abused by female partners. They talked about the therapy they had undergone, the different treatments they’d had in their efforts to move on after some truly horrific things. One of the regular’s husband played Russian roulette with a gun against her head when he got too drunk. Another followed his wife everywhere she went for weeks, even with an order of restraint in place.
Something snapped in my head when I heard that. Michael was following my girls around to terrorize them. That was the very definition of stalking. Sondra nodded knowingly at me.
“You should totally report him,” she whispered.
“Report what?” The leader asked. I explained just a little about what had been happening, the girl’s terror, my shame. The facilitator pulled out some paper and pens and the group helped me make my list. I tried to remember each time he drove by our house, every instance when one of the girls came home crying because they’d seen him at school. In just a few minutes, I
had a page and a half of unique incidents when he had violated our privacy and our space. I had enough information to phone the police with. I didn’t. Embarrassment, fear, I don’t know what—but something kept me from calling the police again.
“Thank you so much,” I said to the facilitator as the meeting ended. “I’m so sorry, but I’ve forgotten your name.”
“No problem, Dami.” She held her hand out for me to shake as if we were meeting for the first time. “I’m Elise.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
(Mikey)
An Even Keel
Mama’s pappy, my grandpappy, used to say that the best way to live life was on an even keel. He said the hardest life to find yourself in is a calm one, but if you can get it, it’s the best kind of life to have. You need to be your own boss, or at least have a job you’re good at, where you’re appreciated. You need a good woman, and to own your own home outright, no splitting with the bank.
I was well on my way to what Grandpappy wanted for me. My job was easy, and I was the best at it. No one was a better busboy or dishwasher than me. I had a nice enough woman in Elise, who was simple and charming, and thought I was good-looking enough for her. Thanks to the money my Uncle Stan had left me, this home was all mine. I even had a vacation home to go to sometimes. An old friend of mine had parents so rich they could afford a second house. It just sat empty most of the time, but I had keys and I went up there sometimes, just to think. You could scream bloody murder in that place and no one would hear.
When it comes to calm, I find that everyone is always trying to mess mine up. This was especially true of diner—I mean café—customers. It was like a mission with these people, getting upset about stupid shit like ketchup and extra ice and a bunch of crap nobody would remember a hundred days, let alone 100 years, from now. People bothered me with stuff like that all day long. That wasn’t even my job.