Calling Home

by Janna McMahan

  “Call your mommy.”

  “Get off me or I’ll scream.”

  “Scream all you want,” he hissed. He lowered his face down close to hers and his eyes were black and weird. “You can run down there to the lobby and yell at the top of your lungs, but nobody’ll believe you. You wanted to come up here with me. Everybody saw that. You’re stupid if you think anybody would believe you.”

  He was right. She was stupid. She didn’t even know him. Stupid. Stupid.

  “You like me. I know you do.” He pressed his lips down on hers. She tensed and tried to turn her head back and forth. “Go on. Fight me. I know you want it.”

  Shannon struggled and slapped at him as he raised her up and pulled her jacket off. He was strong. He shoved her back into the pillow and a streak of pain crawled up her neck. She wanted to fight, but she was weak; she wanted to scream, but she was afraid. She was tired. She felt as if she had been spinning around and around on a tightly twisted swing.

  “I won’t hurt you,” he whispered into her ear. “You’ll like it.” Maybe he wouldn’t hurt her. It would be easier to give in than fight. If she gave in, it would be over and maybe he would take her home and nobody would find out. Nobody would ever know.

  “That’s more like it,” he mumbled into her neck. He lowered himself down and kissed her deeply. He was heavy, his hands moving like eels under her blouse and inside her jeans. He was still on her and he sat up and pulled his shirt over his head exposing his smooth, tan chest. “Stay there,” he said and stood up to scrunch down his jeans and pull hers off. When he slid her panties down she was dry-eyed and terrified. When he raised her arms to remove the delicate blouse she didn’t fight him. “You’re pretty,” he said as he eased down on her again and began sucking her nipples, which sent shock waves of tingles through her body. He guided her hand to his hard penis, but she jerked away. “Easy now. Enjoy yourself,” he said. His mouth moved down her stomach and when he reached her legs he opened her wide and licked, his tongue finding her most sensitive spots. For a moment she forgot what was happening and lovely new sensations rushed her body, but suddenly reality returned. She trembled with shame and anger.

  He handled her like a rag doll, pulling her pelvis up to meet him and when he entered her, pain burned though her body. It didn’t last long, but while he was thrusting inside her, she gripped his shoulders and tried to remember the clouds from the day at the lake and she hoped that Will wasn’t up there watching. Jake grunted and heaved. His eyes squeezed shut and he hissed, “Fuck it. Fuck it.” Outside in the hall, people were knocking around, laughter coming closer and fading away again. He was slamming into her, hurting her. Outside, girls giggled and a guy said, “Hey, bitch! Down here!” A door slammed. Help me, Shannon thought. Please, help me.

  After he raped her, Shannon pretended to sleep while Jake sat in a chair in front of the television turning the dials for what seemed like hours, the blue light flashing over his naked body and finely cut face. In the early morning, his snores jolted her awake. She got up to go to the bathroom and was humiliated to find blood on the sheets. Something glinted and she reached down and scooped up the delicate chain that had been torn from her neck, the heart gone. She was sore when she sat on the toilet and tried to wipe to see if her period had started, but no more blood came. When she finally realized the significance of the blood, she locked the bathroom door, ran a tub of hot water and sat in it crying into a thick towel.

  A couple of hours later, Shannon was in the IROC at the Hyatt’s entrance waiting while Jake paid. She cranked the heater to full blast, but she still trembled. She thought of driving off with Jake’s car, but she knew that would only make more trouble for her. On the way out of Lexington, they stopped at Frisch’s Big Boy and Jake ordered a huge breakfast plate and scarfed it down like he’d never eaten in his life. Shannon, who now had a raging headache, sipped coffee and fiddled with a piece of toast while she avoided looking directly at him. When they got back in the car, Jake cranked up music and left it on until they smelled the sulfur wells on the outskirts of her town and they passed the signs that said, FALLING ROCK’S KIWANIS WELCOME YOU! and BAYLOR COUNTY 4-H, BUILDING BETTER CITIZENS.”

  He drove her back to her truck. Once they passed the iron bridge, he pulled over and switched off the music.

  He said, “Hey, things don’t always work out between people, you know. No hard feelings, right?”

  He was staring straight ahead, fingers tapping impatiently on the gearshift. She wanted to reach across and scratch the side of his pretty face. To rip flesh and raise blood.

  Instead, she said, “Go to hell.”

  24

  Roger blew smoke at the water stains on the ceiling above the bed and listened to water spraying in the bathroom. Bootsie was taking one of her half-hour showers and the humidity reached him with a hint of peaches. Once out, she began her routine of plucking and lotion application. Roger could see a tiny foot on the sink, toes wrapped around the edge.

  “Roger?”

  “What?”

  “Just wondered if you were still out there.”

  “I’m still here.”

  “I been thinking.”

  “Oh, no. Not again.”

  She popped her head out. She had a pink towel wrapped around her hair and her face was anemic without makeup. “Listen to me, Mr. Funny Man. I’m serious.”

  “Okay.”

  “I’ve got a problem.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  Her voice bounced off the tile walls. “My contract on our building is up at the first of the year and I swear they’re jacking the rent on me almost double.”

  Great. She wants more money, Roger thought. Bootsie came to sit on the tiny stool at her makeup table and began to brush her tangled hair. “How’s it look?” she asked. Her hair was now a dark shade of red.

  “I’d have to see it dry.”

  “It’s called Sunset.”

  She examined herself closely in the mirror. A shaft of morning light fell on the bed. Roger watched a male cardinal whistle and tweet on a limb outside the bedroom window.

  “I’ve been thinking that it would be a good deal if I sold this house and got one in town with a garage that I could renovate into a shop. I’d be right there. No driving all the way in every day. No rent. Tax deduction. What you think?”

  He mulled her words, flicked his ashes into a crystal tray he had balanced on his stomach. “I think that puts me out of a place of business.” Smoke curled toward the ceiling.

  “We could start looking for a new building for you. One with more room.”

  “I think I’m fine and dandy right where I am.”

  “There’re lots of places to rent around town. Never hurts to keep your options open. Besides,” she said. “I’m tired of living out here in the sticks.”

  “I don’t want to live in town.”

  “You practically lived in town before.”

  “That’s different. My old house used to be in the country when I was a kid. Town came to us.”

  Bootsie threw open the doors of her closet. She zipped hangers along, snapping them in a way that let Roger know that her mind was made up, but Roger didn’t really think she was serious. She’d threatened a few times to move back to Louisville, but it always turned out to be a lot of lip service. When they fought, which was infrequently, the result was usually some pretty interesting sex. She certainly made up in a more pleasurable way than Virginia ever did. The best he could expect from Virginia was a casserole or homemade lasagna.

  He got up from the bed and put his hands on Bootsie’s shoulders, trying to give her a neck massage, but she shrugged him off. “Hey, I didn’t mean to rain on your parade. We’ll look for a place.”

  “I’ve already made an offer on a house.”

  “What?”

  “I found a house I like and I made an offer.”

  “When?”

  “Yesterday.”

  “So much for my input.”

  She
sighed, crossed her arms, and tilted her head to peer up at him. “Look, Roger. I moved to this godforsaken town because of a man and when we split up I promised myself that I’d never be manipulated by a man ever again.”

  “You just lied to me.”

  “I didn’t lie. I just was breaking it to you easy.”

  “You kicking me out?”

  “Not kicking you out. I’m giving you notice. I don’t intend to be in that building come January, so you’d better look for another place for your shop. If you want to live with me in town, then we can talk about it, but I’m not buying a house based on what’s convenient for you.”

  “Thanks a lot for the notice. That’s real big of you.”

  Her eyes snapped and she said, “You’ve been living with me for more than a year now, rent-free. I was fine with it as long as we were getting along good, but we haven’t exactly been burning up the sheets these last few months.”

  “Shit.” Roger walked away down the hall and then came back and pointed his finger at her and practically shouted, “What do you want from me?”

  “I want some passion. I want a man who craves me. You used to be that man. You used to fuck my brains out and now I’m lucky if we have sex once a week.”

  “Oh, so I’m not fucking you good enough.”

  “No.”

  “Maybe I’m tired of the sick things we always do.”

  “What?”

  “Maybe I’d just like some normal sex for once. Not some kind of torture or hanging from the light fixtures sort of thing. You can’t ever just have plain clean sex, you’ve always got to be tied up or half suffocated before you can get off. I think that’s sick.”

  “Don’t kid yourself, Roger. You need that, too. That’s why you picked me. You’ve got a thing for hurting women.”

  “That’s not true. If I had a thing for hurting you it’s because you like it. You eat it up. And the truth is, that kind of crazy shit gets old after a while.”

  “Fine!”

  “Fine!”

  “Why don’t you stroll on down to that little brown church in the wild woods and find yourself some holly roller? Maybe one of those long-haired women in culottes are more your speed.”

  “If you’re so sophisticated why don’t you move back to Louisville so you don’t have to put up with us stupid hicks here anymore? Then you can go back to your old profession. I hear you were real popular.”

  “I was a dancer!” Bootsie screamed. She picked up a glass from her makeup table and flung it at him. It smashed, and liquid dripped down the wall. Roger never blinked or moved. They glared at each other, panting, waiting for the other to speak first. Finally Roger walked down the hall. He grabbed a beer from the refrigerator and carried it to the car. All the way to the shop he held the beer unopened, between his legs.

  He flipped on the fluorescent lights and a blue film fell over his work space. He tried to think of a mount he could work on, but he was too wound up to concentrate. He decided to load shells. Roger pulled a chair up to the progressive reloader, inserted a spent shell, and yanked down the handle. A newly packed shell was spit into a box on the end of the assembly belt. The clear tube that fed shot was nearly empty. He took a large coffee can from a shelf and stuck his hand down into thousands of tiny lead balls. They slid like mercury between his fingers, a feeling he had loved since childhood. Moving his fingers back and forth in the slippery pellets calmed him.

  Women—you couldn’t figure out what they wanted. The one you loved didn’t want to be touched. The one you didn’t really want wanted you to fuck her everyday. Your wife blamed you for everything but stuck by you through thick and thin. Your lover let you slide on screw-ups and then dumped you out on the sidewalk without warning. He heard Bootsie’s Chevette rattle up outside and he waited for her to step into the shop. When she came in she was all fixed up, her makeup perfect again, every hair in place.

  “Hello,” she said. “Still mad?”

  “Some.”

  “I know I surprised you with the house and all.”

  “You’re right about that.”

  “I meant to tell you earlier, but I just didn’t know how.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “They accepted my offer on the house.”

  “Congratulations.”

  “I’ll need to put mine on the market.”

  He whacked down the reloader making the mechanisms grind. A new shotgun shell tumbled out. She waited until the machine grew quiet again and then said, “I’m going up to a friend’s in Louisville for Thanksgiving. I’m leaving now.”

  “I’ll clear out of the house while you’re gone.”

  “You don’t have to.”

  “Feel like I do.”

  “No. Stay. At least until you can find a good place to go.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll get out. It’s the least I can do. Make things easier on you.”

  “You got any place to go for Thanksgiving?”

  He pinched his cigarette in his teeth and peered at her through smoke. He looked at her a long time, trying to find something witty to say, something that would burn her, but nothing came to mind, so he said, “I always go hunting on Thanksgiving.”

  She shrugged. “You know you can stay here until the end of December. You may be able to stay longer if they haven’t rented the building by then.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  He could tell she was waiting for him to make amends so she could go off on her holiday feeling good about herself. That was one of the decent things about Bootsie, she didn’t hold a grudge, but he just couldn’t find it in himself to do the same.

  She seemed as if she had run out of things to say. “You want me to give you a trim before I go? You look a little shaggy.”

  “No, honey. I don’t want a goddamn thing from you.”

  “Ooookay, then,” she said. “I’ll be on my way.” She stopped with her hand on the door handle. “Hey, listen. It’s none of my business, but maybe you should try to go home. Maybe your wife’ll take you back. There’s a reason you two didn’t divorce each other last year.”

  “You’re right. It’s not any of your business.”

  She paused. “I wasn’t looking for love, you know.” He could hear sincerity in her voice. He hated that.

  “Have a nice life,” Roger said and grabbed the coffee can. The barrage of lead balls streamed into the reloader drowning out all other sound. He poured slowly, giving her time to leave. When he looked toward the door, Bootsie was gone.

  Now that she’s done with him it’s alright if he goes back to his wife. Well, shit and fall back in it. Like he’d even consider signing up for another round of Virginia. Roger needed to shoot. He gathered his shell bag, his bright yellow glasses, his ear protectors and coveralls. He had cleaned his gun earlier and the smell of oil and solvent was sickly sweet as he slid his shotgun into its padded case. His stomach growled, and on the way to the range he stopped at Belcher’s Minit Mart. Inside, a frightfully blonde teenager was draped over the checkout counter watching traffic. Roger grabbed a Mountain Dew from the cooler in the back and a pack of Marlboro Reds at the counter. He eyed a long sheath of pickled bologna coiled inside a glass jar, white gunk floating on the top.

  “Give me a hunk of that.” He set the soda and cigarettes on the counter. “And some crackers.”

  “On a health kick today?” the girl said, gum going around and around in her mouth.

  “Nothing wrong with a little pig meat in a tube.”

  “You’re Shannon’s dad, right?”

  “That’s right.”

  “I’m glad she won Junior Miss. She’s real nice.”

  He sort of smiled at the girl. It suddenly seemed painful to think about Shannon. Back in the car, he drove the curvy road toward the trap range. He remembered how tight he used to be with his daughter. Shannon always came running to him when things got too hot with her mother. He’d taken her places with him, had let her try her hand at trap and she’d hit about
half the targets her first time out. That meant talent. Will had been the same way, a natural shooter. Shannon wouldn’t kill anything, but she liked to be in the woods about as much as any girl he’d ever known. Her favorite thing was working the bird dogs. They’d take a cage of quail out in a field, let them go, and then sit on the tailgate while the birds scattered. The dogs would be going crazy, yelping and whining to be let out of the box. A while later the dogs would trail the birds, their tails rigid with excitement, weaving through grain fields. Shannon never tired of watching dogs work. She loved it when they went on point. Her favorite thing was to see a covey on the rise, but she wouldn’t let Roger kill birds when she was with him. This suited him, since you didn’t usually kill your training birds right off.

  Roger heard shots and could see the bright white floodlights before he pulled into the field beside the range. He took his time unzipping the case and looking at his gun. He ran his hands over the smooth stock. He filled his shell bag and put on his golden shooting glasses. Finally, he went inside the snack shed and paid to shoot. At the range, men huddled up to a wood stove. Some kept their hands shoved deep into pockets. Roger leaned his gun up in the wooden rack while he waited his turn.

  “What you up to tonight, Roger?” Jimmy Ratliff asked.

  “Aw hell, not much. What’s going on up to the high school?”

  “Same ole, same ole. We’re all real proud of Shannon.”

  “Thanks. Ain’t many folks here tonight.”

  “Holidays, I guess.”

  Five guys were on the lines shooting, including Harley Jones, who had never acted like he knew anything about Roger and Bootsie. There was Larry Gabehart, the high school principal, Emmett Hord from the insurance office, Stewy Baxter from Green County, and a load of farmers, including Floyd Crabtree. When the match was finished, each leaned a gun in the rack and stood around the stove.

  “Hey there, Roger,” Stewy Baxter said. “Long time no see.” They shook hands. “I just got married, don’t you know.”

  “Sorry to hear it,” Roger said. The men laughed.