by Brian Hodge
“You said he thought the Mona Lisa looked like she was about to fart! That should be enough to convince you that—”
“That’s got nothing to do with—”
“Look, the guy’s a … you know. You know he is. Why else would he have little girls’ clothes in his bachelor pad?” Sondra was mopping up dressing with a crust of sourdough, “If I were you, I’d be more concerned with where he got those tiny pants in the first freaking place. Don’t you think you should have asked about that?”
“I suppose … I don’t know … maybe.” She had me all flustered now. I wasn’t even sure now if I’d done the right thing at all.
I had assumed he’d bought the tiny pants, but that barely made sense. Why would a grown man, even a pedophile, walk into a store and buy such petite clothes? Did he take them off an actual child somewhere? Where was that girl now? Had she told anyone what happened to her? Parents don’t just do nothing when young children come home without their pants; they worry, they panic, they call doctors.
“Are you sure you’re not going to see him again?” she asked me, and I told her I was fairly sure I wasn’t. “Fairly sure? Are you joshing me? Why on God’s green earth would you ever see him again? You should—”
“I don’t know; I’m just saying … you never know what the future will hold.” There was something sweet, and well, damaged about Mike. I doubted Sondra would understand this. She had a habit of dropping men at the first sign of trouble, and tended to think everyone else should do likewise. I was a nurturer. I was good at it.
“The future? I can tell you your future if you keep hanging around with that … you know. You’ll be an accessory after the fact in the rape of some young girl. Is that what you want?” Sometimes it really pissed me off that Sondra thought she had such a monopoly on truth. There was no proof that Mike was a sick man doing sick things, just that one silly pair of pants.
I looked down at my sandwich, somehow not wanting to touch it. The idea of eating anything sent my stomach into a lurch. Did I really share my bed with a pedophile? Did his bizarre, ugly predilections go unnoticed in my eyes? How could I miss something like that?
After lunch, I declined Sondra’s offer of a ride back to work. I just wanted to walk, feel the wind on my face, let it blow away the sick sense of foreboding that hadn’t left me since I’d discovered the ominous pants.
Minutes later, the breeze had done its job and I was feeling closer to my usual self. I picked up a newspaper and headed to work. I wasn’t really in the mood for work, nor was I even scheduled to go in today. But for some reason it just seemed like the right place for me to be.
“Hi Elise, wait—what are you doing here?” My unannounced arrival didn’t escape the notice of the HR guy, who happened to be in. I nodded curtly to him and headed to the back office to read my newspaper. When I turned to the local section, a face I hadn’t expected to see stared out at me from the obituaries.
Damayanti Goretti was found dead in her home yesterday. The cause of death is believed to be smoke inhalation from a fire that is believed to be arson. … She is survived by her mother and two daughters. She was 34.
Damayanti? How many women could there be with that name? Perhaps it was a more common name than I realized, like how lots of Mexicans are named Jesus. There could be lots of women with that name; it didn’t necessarily have to be—but I was kidding myself.
Arson? Goretti? It all came together. My friend Dami was the ex-wife of my ex-boyfriend? It was unfathomable. How is it possible, even in a six-degrees-of-Kevin-Bacon way, to know both people and yet not know their connection to each other? It was staggering. And horrible.
More importantly, Dami had thought Mike was a pedophile. She’d believed he would hurt her daughters. She may even have set the fire that killed her. Could it be that Dami was responsible for her own demise? It was too awful to think about. And those girls … so young to be left without a mother.
I wanted to phone them and see if they were alright, but I had never met Dami’s children; I couldn’t even remember their names. Some friend I was. I wanted to send something, write a letter, do something, anything, to feel less responsible for this situation. I wasn’t even sure why I felt guilty, or what exactly I was guilty of. Yet the shame and guilt spread through me like a raging fire, the kind that kills you. I’d had sex with a pedophile. I didn’t know how this could possibly get any worse.
Chapter Forty-Four
(Mikey)
Ascared
The more I think about it, the scarier it is that someone came into my house just to burn it down. What if they were trying to kill me? I just don’t know about people anymore.
My so-called fiancée hasn’t called me in over a week, not since that day she left up outta here. At first I was relieved she was gone, but then I really started to miss her. I called her twice yesterday and three times today, just to say hi, but she didn’t answer. I suppose there’re any number of places she could be. I’ll probably try her again later.
I was pretty sure I could get her back if I wanted to. Women her age are … what’s the word? Reluctant. Women her age are reluctant to be without a man. Men make women feel safe, and they like that. Elise was an independent sort, but not so much that she didn’t want a man in her life. Obviously she did, or she never would have dated me in the first place. Besides, the sex was great for her. I’d try to get her on the phone later.
I wanted to have her back around because of all the nervousness I’d been feeling since the fire. I was nervous of the way that cop had looked at me, ascared of who was out there wanting to hurt me or damage my stuff. It could have been anyone—absolutely anyone out there wanting me dead. Why else would you start a freaking gasoline fire in a living room, unless you really wanted someone dead? Even Dami couldn’t have hated me that much. Women ruin men’s lives all the time, but not like this. Not Dami.
I’m ascared to think that all the time I was out trying to meet girls and working and stuff, someone was hating me enough to want to burn my house to the ground. I’m ascared to even guess at what Dami was actually doing here. They told me later that she was on medication and it made her pass out. The Dami I knew would never take drugs. Maybe someone poisoned her? Poor Dami, all dead and drugged in my house.
I can remember there being a fire once when I was a kid. Our back bedroom and kitchen went up from a blaze that I want to say started in the basement. I saved my whole family just by knowing what to do. Imagine—I was just a little boy, and I saved them all. We didn’t even have a smoke detector, so it’s very likely we all would have died if I hadn’t made everyone wake up in time. I even saved my dad, which I guess makes us square in the end. I miss Dad sometimes. Poor Dad, dying like he did.
Anyway, I don’t think they ever figured out how the fire started. It was just one of those things. The important thing to remember is that, thanks to me, no one got hurt. I can only think that if I’d been here when the fire started, Dami would have been saved.
I didn’t know if I should stay home at night, or maybe hire a house sitter. That would be kind of stupid. Maybe I could get one of those alarm systems like people have. I knew a guy once who had alarms that sounded like barking dogs. It was the best thing ever. And I bet no one ever tried to light HIS sofa on fire while he was trying to enjoy a nice day at the zoo.
The only thing I was sure about at present was that I’d taken too much time off work and needed to go back. I hadn’t seen my Angel in almost a week because of the fire. And Fran didn’t even know why I was gone. I drove to that crappy diner, getting more and more excited. I just knew my Angel would be there. She was. Sitting with her friends, eating french fries and drinking Cherry Coke, she was a vision of loveliness.
After a very long minute, I tore my eyes away from her and headed back into the kitchen, where I saw Fran talking to a Latino boy I’d never seen before. I hoped Fran wouldn’t make me start working with Mexicans.
“Thanks, Jorge; after you finish those dishes you
can go ahead and go home,” she told him, just like she’d told me a hundred times. “Michael! What are you doing back here?” She looked downright startled to see me.
“I just came in to check my schedule. I’m ready to come back to work. See, my house caught on fire and—”
“Michael, I’m sorry. No one knew where you were or what was going on. You really should have called.” I looked at her in what must have been horror. I must have been hearing her wrong. It sounded almost like she was firing me.
“But … my house! It caught on fire. I had to deal with police and firemen, and MY EX-WIFE DIED IN THAT FIRE!” Over in the corner, I saw a flash of Red. Fran looked at me with big, wide eyes like I might do any crazy thing in the world. Why would she look at me like that, so ascared, so nervous? She was firing me, and she looked frightened of what I would do. Just goes to show you that women are fucking nuts. They can feel victimized by anything at all.
She told me she was “letting me go,” and replacing me with this Jorge Mexican wetback fuckstick who was likely working for half the pay I had. All because my house caught on fire. Of all the stupid stinkin’ luck. Kicking a man when he’s down. It was a low blow, the kind of thing a man doesn’t get over too easy.
Women are like that; they never think about what their actions will do to a man. Like Dami never thought about what she was doing to me when she took the girls away. I learned to love those girls and then they were gone. Fran took my job and gave it away to fucking Jorge the Magnificent who could be around customers and didn’t have to stay in the kitchen all day—probably. She’d probably let him do all kinds of shit she used to bitch at me for. Old-ass ugly bitch! Not cool, Fran. Not cool.
Chapter Forty-Five
(Fran)
Ascared, Part 2
I didn’t know if I should call the police, or what, after Mike left the café. He was whipped into a right state after finding out his job was gone. He hadn’t been to work! What else was I supposed to do? He hadn’t even called. And he wasn’t exactly the best employee, even when he was here. I’d done the right thing here, and I’d stand by it.
Of course I already knew about the fire at Michael’s house. It was all over town before it even made it to the news. I knew about the ex-wife dying as well. I had to say I didn’t think Mike would have been so broken up about it, considering the way he talked about her.
The police must have thought Michael set that fire. They came back asking questions about when he worked and what kind of guy he was. I didn’t really know what to say. How do you put that sort of thing into words, anyway? All he really did was get mad. That’s no crime.
Jorge was a better employee in every respect. He came in on time every day, worked hard, and did what I asked of him. That’s really all you need to do to be successful in this line of work. Not exactly rocket science, but I guess it’s not for everyone.
The more I thought about Michael and his crazy look, the more I thought I should call the cops and let them know he didn’t work here anymore. No … that wasn’t really what I wanted them to know. I wanted them to know I’d fired him, so if anything happened to me they’d know it was him that did it. I felt like some paranoid old woman the police would just shake their heads at. Still, you never knew about these things.
I didn’t really think Mike was going to do anything sinister. But I certainly couldn’t rule it out. If I’d heard he’d done something terrible, it wouldn’t surprise me. But that wasn’t the same as knowing what he was going to do. It wasn’t! He said such odd things; sometimes he’d “joke” about rape and murder, as if he had no idea that such topics made people sick to their stomachs. Once he told what he called an “off-color” joke that turned out to be about a man having sex with a headless woman. It was disgusting, and he stood there giggling like a schoolboy in sex ed class.
“What is it you wanted to tell us today, ma’am?” the taller policeman asked, taking out his little notepad and a Uniball pen. Uniball was my preferred pen, so I always noticed when someone else was using one.
“About Michael Goretti, my former employee,” I told him, waiting for him to pick up on the firing.
“Former employee?” He raised an eyebrow. “Since when?”
I explained about him missing work, and Jorge, and that crazy look in his eyes. I wasn’t entirely sure if he believed me until he said: “Has he been acting strangely around any of your female patrons or employees?” The officer was deliberately casual, as if trying very hard not to react to anything I might say.
“Yes!” I told him without hesitation. But how to explain it? “We had to keep him in the back mostly, so he didn’t bother the female … uh … patrons.” I normally call them guests, but I guess patrons is fine.
“He was bothering them? In what way?” He was writing very fast on his little pad. I thought about offering them each a slice of pie, or maybe the lunch special, but they seemed too serious. His partner walked around my café, looking things up and down and occasionally nodding to the customers. He didn’t say anything to anyone, which was just as well. I didn’t need my café to be famous for employing some kind of crazy person.
“I think he was trying to flirt with them, but he was so clumsy at it that he ended up making people uncomfortable. I got a lot of complaints.” The cop nodded and continued to write. “There’s this group of young girls who come in a lot. He seemed to like them. I even got the idea he was going to follow them home one day.” He looked up sharply from his pad.
“Yes?” was all he said to me. I got the feeling I should have kept my mouth shut. How could they not judge me for something like that? If I really thought he was following those girls, I should have called someone or done something … I hadn’t. Who would want to involve themselves in something like that?
“Look, what should we do if he comes back in here? If you’d seen the look he gave me … he’s not right in the head. I’m telling you. We need protection.” At the word “protection,” Jorge stopped what he was doing and stood between me and the cop.
“Protection?” he asked in a thick accent.
“Protection,” I repeated, wondering if he actually knew what we were talking about. His English wasn’t good, after all. “What do we do when he comes back here to get some kind of sicko revenge? People do that, you know, they come back and shoot the place up. Kill everyone they think did them wrong. Happens all the time!”
“Do you think you wronged him?” the cop asked, no longer writing in his little notebook.
“No, I don’t. I would have fired anyone under those circumstances. It really had nothing to do with him.” I wasn’t sure why I felt so guilty about Mike, when he was a lousy employee and a weird, freaking guy. I guess it was because it was obvious that he wasn’t all there. He was scaring people, though, so I couldn’t have him in my café anymore.
“If he comes back in here and you don’t want him here—” the scribbling cop began.
“I don’t.” I interrupted him flatly.
“Okay, if he comes back here you just give us a call. Here’s my card; it has my private number on it. If it’s an emergency you can always dial 911.” The idea that we’d have to call 911 for help against Mike and that crazy look in his eye was perverse and terrifying. I just wanted him to stay the hell away from here. Maybe if we stopped selling cheeseburgers? Calling him up to tell him not to come here would almost certainly have a negative effect. And he would surely come back, if only to harass those young girls some more. It was so damn complicated. I just wanted to run my café in peace and hire help that wasn’t completely socially inept. Didn’t seem like much to ask for, but apparently, it was.
Chapter Forty-Six
(Mikey)
The Plans
Just last week I went to see that girl from a long, long time before, with the rich, brown skin and yellow sundress. I thought she’d only been a dream until I actually went to the place I’d imagined in my mind—and she was there, just as I thought I’d left her. Beautiful thing, s
o frightened of me in the beginning. And I was really nice to her, too. The snow and ice had kept her fresh and perfect. If I hadn’t been able to smell her, I’d have thought she was just having a little nap in a snow bank. I’d been visiting girls a lot, since I had a lot of time to myself.
It wasn’t so bad, having time to myself. I finally had time to put my genius plan into action. Time was more valuable than money, so I was totally going to ignore Fran when she called to ask me back. Just more proof of my good business sense. I took the last of the money from Uncle Stan (even Mama didn’t know I still had it) and got to work.
I bought a bunch of two-by-fours, which is what you use to make a structure’s frame. Bob Vila says it’s the hardest part because that’s when you have to plan everything. Once I had the frame made, I could figure out where the electrical wires could go. Then my Angel could have TV and lights to read by and stuff. I might even give her a tiny fridge or a heater or something. She’d be set. I couldn’t imagine someone not being happy in the little slice of paradise that would soon stand here. The cell I’d build for my one and only; it was gonna be magnificent.
I measured and cut and hammered the two-by-fours, deep in the woods behind the vacation house. I thought about my Angel and about Elise. Elise really had it coming. Maybe I could try the place out on Elise just to make sure it was good enough for my Angel, secure and all. Elise wasn’t that pretty, so there’d be no real tragedy there. She spent her time convincing women that they didn’t need men. Getting rid of her would actually be a service to men everywhere.
This was a perfect location; no one could even see the simple frame from the house, the lake, or the one and only street in the area. You’d have to be actively searching for it to find it.