Choke on Your Lies

by Anthony Neil Smith

  I had grown in confidence after meeting her, discovering “college rock” at about the time it made me look a little more sophisticated to the smart senior girls who would become the hot alternachicks of our collegiate years. Poetry became songwriting—I knew how to strum guitar chords—and I slid into a niche I’m still comfortable with all these years later, although I no longer sing my verses.

  It also meant my friendship with Octavia became a liability. While we still spoke often, and even tagged along with each other’s family vacations a couple of times, I had disowned her in public. She didn’t seem to mind, and in fact I’d say she understood perfectly, giving me room to grow out of my shell.

  And that meant I owed her. You don’t want to owe anything to Octavia.

  She called in the marker soon enough, asking me to introduce her to the drummer in my band. He was a college sophomore, somewhat of a metal freak, but he played with us “pussies” because we got better gigs. He had long hair, a soul patch, wore Nasa Scientist-style glasses, and read a lot of fantasy novels. He was also a bit beefy, although not quite as large as Octavia. He already had a girlfriend, but that didn’t matter. If Octavia wanted him, I was dangerously sure she’d get him.

  If I could take back anything I’d done in my life, even more so than the mistake of asking Frances to marry me, it would be that introduction. It led to being in the middle of the most manipulative, angst-ridden, violent relationship I’d ever seen up close. Eleven months of it. The drummer knocked her around, bruised and scarred her in unforgivable ways, so much so that I left the band when the other guys refused to kick him out. But as with all things Octavia, it would be misleading to think she was a victim. She loved mental games, stoking jealousy, trying to insinuate different meanings from what he was saying, tying him in knots. I’m not saying she deserved any of the horrible physical pain she endured, not at all. I would never advocate that. Instead, I’ll say that I wish my drummer friend had been able to walk away before physically attacking Octavia. God knows he tried, before ending it the only way he felt would work.

  Thus, we come to the root of Octavia’s existence: other people are her own private soap opera. She needs the drama in her life to give it value. Real drama or manufactured, it doesn’t matter. She still finds a way to add fuel to the fire.

  Octavia loved the idea of tortured love a la Wuthering Heights. Our drummer wasn’t just a guy who liked fantasy novels. He was the fantasy novel. And all the bumps, bruises, public fights, all the hours I spent on the phone listening to both of them spill their bile about one another on me. Plus the details about their sex life that threatened to send me into a catatonic state. How she constantly talked about wanting to have sex with other men while he watched, powerless, tied to a chair or something. How, should he be polite to waitresses or sales clerks or happen to turn his head to acknowledge another woman, it was like flicking a switch in Octavia and led to hours of soul searching, tears, screaming, and then punches, thrown lamps and books and drumsticks, and then scratching, hair-pulling, angry fucking.

  And yet this was how she first discovered her attraction to other women, sometimes inviting a groupie or two to join them in spite of her intense jealousy. Drove our drummer up the wall, all the mixed signals.

  She is not a crazy woman. She is not a psycho. She is not, I swear. She is a genius. Calculating. Dispassionate. And nearly telepathic in her ability to read people.

  So why? Because she loved having the power to control someone that completely. She’d had small doses before, but for the first time this relationship gave her absolute control, even if it meant black eyes, deep bruises, and broken fingers. Octavia eventually learned to manage that impulse. For the years I kept my distance from her, she also retreated from others in her life, tempering her gifts and not letting them lead her astray like that ever again.

  The sad end, of course, is obvious in hindsight. After another weekend of confrontation—the drummer knocking Octavia unconscious this time—he decided to leave college, join a metal band heading for the West Coast, and cut all ties with Octavia. At least after all the other splits, she’d been able to call, work her magic and coax new flames out of the dying coals. She would even apologize, something I’ve not heard her do since. But it was as if he finally realized that a clean break was the only true break, and he was gone.

  We heard three months later: he’d hung himself from the ceiling fan in a shitty studio apartment he shared with four other guys. Dead. Free.

  The most devastating event of her life, I think. Not losing the relationship, as I think she’d already come to terms with that, but the belief that, of all the clutter and broken shards in his brain, maybe—just maybe, we’ll never be sure—she was the direct cause. She’s wormed her way inside, poked and prodded, and changed the way he looked at himself.

  After that, I would see her around now and then before graduating college and heading off to Chicago, or sometimes on trips home for holidays. We would meet for a lunch, or talk on the phone. I found her once at a club, embracing, kissing, and grinding against another woman. I mean, I had to ask, right?

  She told me, “I like women. I like men. But I don’t like love. It’s a sickness, that’s what it is. Mental illness.”

  “Come on, you know that’s not true.”

  “You? The poet? Telling me?” She laughed. “That’s like a priest trying to convince an atheist there is no God.”

  Love—that was the wild card, the thing that had hurt her most. So she banished it the same way she banished God, family, friends, and anything else that detracted from chasing her desires. Octavia—star of her own life, always the hero, and the supporting cast was interchangeable. Expendable, even.

  Still, deep in my heart, I felt so much for Octavia—love for who she used to be, sympathy for the darkness she couldn’t rid herself of, and fear of what she might do to others as her wealth and power grew. I couldn’t abandon her. If she lacked a conscience, I would try to supply one for her.

  But not right then. After this mess with Frances, I wanted Octavia’s unchecked villainy on my side for once. I just hoped I wasn’t opening her Pandora’s box, for I was sure there was no hope to be found at the bottom.

  FOUR

  The next morning, as I walked up the path to Octavia’s ridiculously luxurious European manor-style home in Edina, a suburb of Minneapolis full of the filthiest of the filthy rich in town, I passed an attractive young woman leaving. She looked to be about the same age as my undergrads, in low cut jeans and strappy heels. Her blouse was wrinkled, and she bunched it on her chest as if the buttons had been torn away. A weak smile, bedhead, and the paleness of someone who had either just seen a ghost or who had done things last night they were very ashamed of the next morning. I tried to grin back, but I’m sure it just looked pained.

  I felt bad for her, but I’m sure she got herself into this of her own free will, drunk at a club or a bar in the wee hours. Octavia had probably said something incredibly interesting—very good at trolling, I admit—and in a pretty seductive way. She would have been watching, making sure the target would be open to her advances. Listening, learning. Then all it took was splashing some cash around, more drinks. As I said, Octavia didn’t drink, only Cherry Coke, but the girl wouldn’t notice that. When it was finally time to take the girl back home to smoke a little weed and relax, it led to hours and hours of…well, they all walked out the next day with that look on their faces, no need for either woman to ask if they’d ever see each other again. Just the way Octavia liked it.

  I rang the front bell and Jennings opened it soon after. Saw me, then looked over my shoulder at the overnight guest fastwalking down the drive.

  “Don’t worry,” he said. “I called her a cab.”

  “Where did she pick her up?”

  “Chino Latino.”

  I raised my eyebrows. Where the college kids hung out.

  Jennings sighed, waved it off. “Please, don’t remind me. It was a loud night, though. She kno
ws I need my rest.”

  He wore a very crisp (and expensive) white dress shirt, black slacks, black shoes. The hip-and-casual modern butler, clothes paid for by Octavia, chosen by Jennings. At least that was one area where he was spared humiliation. All in all, and after a couple of margaritas, he had to admit that the job wasn’t so bad. Tending to the business of the house, the appointments, the maids and gardeners, the plans for entertaining guests, all that was fine. It was just Octavia herself, making sure to twist the knife just enough to make every day sting. Five years together, and Jennings had a nice wardrobe, chronic heartburn, and less hair to show for it.

  “She’s waiting for you in the conservatory. Would you like some coffee?”

  “Thanks, no, I’m fine.”

  “We have a very nice Guatemalan this week.”

  Couldn’t help but smile. “Do you really want to bring it in there right now?”

  An almost invisible shudder, but closing his eyes did it. “Just…distract her before she can insist.”

  He headed through the vestibule to the study, where he would prepare Octavia’s desk for the day, line up her calls and double-check her appointments. I started back to the conservatory, uncomfortable as usual in the ornate house, all dark wood and brass, with disconcerting prints and paintings—Hans Holbein, William Blake, Henry Fuseli—and some sculptures that looked like props from horror films. She’d never lost interest in the gothic, which became more to her than simply a style of dress. Now she was an art collector and connoisseur of all things macabre. But I think she mainly displayed these to keep her guests off balance. Her office was much more minimalist, except for the giant desk that she claimed once belonged to Russian royalty.

  The conservatory in one back corner of the house was the only place where Octavia had let nature overcome her otherwise baroque decorating choices, as it framed the large, sloping yard, full of old maples and white birch, eventually sliding into a small lake, where she had built a pier and a barbecue pit. There was also her greenhouse, where she grew something…unique.

  The sun had already burned away the fog. All of the windows were clear, the drapes pulled back, and Octavia was standing near the small table where she usually enjoyed breakfast. I saw that two plates had been set, so the poor girl had at least eaten a little something before she left, but her mostly full plate next to Octavia’s, scraped clean, said a lot.

  Not to mention that Octavia was holding a hefty strap-on dildo, black, wiping it off with a hand towel. She wore a satin robe, tied so loosely that I could see her skin beneath clear down to the belt, with her hair pulled back tight and twisted into a severe bun held in place by chopsticks.

  She glanced up at me. “What bad timing.”

  Sure. She’d planned it this way, I assumed, so that her conquest and I would pass each other and I would find Octavia blissfully shining her strap-on. The room smelled of fruity candles, sweat, sex, and marijuana

  I averted my eyes. “Please.”

  “It’s just a fucking toy.”

  “Octavia…”

  “Okay, okay.”

  I looked back, and she started across the room, tossed the thing on the obviously sweat-stained loveseat near the windows, and covered it with a pillow. “Better?”

  She didn’t bother tightening the robe. She came back to the table, sat down and said, “Let me see the deed.”

  I pulled the paper from my pocket, handed it over. She unfolded it, read through quickly. Held it closer. A good half a minute staring at my signature. Then, “You say you didn’t sign it?”

  “No, with everything I’ve got, I swear I didn’t sign it.”

  She pointed behind me. “There should be a pen near the phone. Hey, do you want some coffee? Tea?”

  Remember: give Jennings a break. “No, I’m fine. Had some earlier.”

  “But it’s a real nice Guatemalan.”

  “Really, I’m okay.” I stepped back to a small end-table which held a wireless charger base, the handset beside it, next to a notepad and pen. I picked those up.

  “Now come sign your name ten times, one below the other.”

  I sat down and moved the guest’s plate aside, wrote my name on the notepad a few times.

  “Not too fast, either. Like when you sign an important letter.”

  So I slowed my pace, tried to ignore my natural tendencies and get rid of the tics.

  Octavia slapped my hand. “Goddamn it, you’re not trying to stump me. Just sign.”

  I finished, and she held the deed next to the pad, nearly touching her nose. Eyes back and forth, comparing the official signature with the fresh ones. A smile appeared on the edges of her lips, then spread full on, showing lipstick-smudged teeth.

  Octavia slammed the document to the table. “Fake.”

  “Oh god.” I placed my palms against my cheeks. I’d been holding my breath, let out a relieved gasp. “Okay. Good. It’s fake.”

  “But you’re still fucked.”

  I squeezed my eyes shut. “What?”

  “You’d pretty much need a confession to make anything stick. This is tricky stuff. Look.”

  I opened my eyes. Octavia held the deed over, pointed at the signature. “See the line under the signature? It’s very hard to tell, but the signature is not exactly straight across.”

  “So? Doesn’t that make it more real?”

  “When given a straight line, we tend to follow it more than you think. Like we force ourselves, right? But when we don’t have it…” She flipped the paper, underscored my sigs with a black-polished nail. “You sweep up at the ends. Can’t help it. You just do. Mick Thooft. Mick Thooft. Something about those two O’s and off you go. Except when you write on a line, I bet.”

  I turned back to the official line, the forgery. Even there, I could see how I had wanted to float the end of my name into the ether. “I never thought about it before.”

  “Duh. Of course you didn’t. Wouldn’t need me if you’d paid closer attention.”

  Ouch. “I was out of town.”

  She leaned closer. “You were out to lunch.”

  Ignore her, block it out. “But, okay, how would you know these are different from when I sign on a line?”

  “Let me see your wallet.”

  I handed it over. Should’ve thought longer about it. She immediately went for my driver’s license. Checked the signature. “No line on this anymore, I remember.” Then my three credit cards. “Lifts. Lifts. Oh, this one’s just scribbled. What a mess.” Then into my receipts. I had a bad habit of shoving them in there after eating out or buying books. She unfolded a few. All had lines.

  She placed them all right on top of each other. “You get it?”

  Just like the deed. Fighting to stay on the line.

  “All right, point taken. I still don’t see how it helps me.”

  Octavia sighed. “Of course not. You wouldn’t. Give me a hand. We’ll go to the office.”

  If she saw the photo of Nuha in there, she didn’t let on. More than fine with me. I stood, and we took each other by the forearms, hers slippery with some sort of body oil. After she was up, I took a whiff. Cinnamon.

  “Jesus, why can’t you just…date? Really. There are plenty of men out…and women, yes, and women, who would find you fascinating. Wouldn’t that beat…this?”

  She rolled her eyes and started off towards the hallway. “Fuck, what, chubby chasers? Or, or, like, someone my own fucking size?”

  “Maybe not. Maybe if they know the real you—”

  “The real me would hate anyone who thought I was someone they could take home to Mom. No thanks.”

  “I’m just saying. Don’t you want someone who comes back?”

  “That’s what I have Jennings for. And you. And Pamela. Not going to fuck it up with fucking, am I?”

  “You know, one time, I’d like to see someone leave here happy. I mean, filled with joy, feeling refreshed.”

  “Shut up, Mick. Shut up.”

  “Should’ve seen her f
ace.”

  Kept going, cut me off by shouting, “Jennings! Jennings! Office!”

  I got right on her heels. “Even a nice submissive. There are probably plenty of them who would love a night with you. Check CityPages.”

  At the entryway into her grand study/library/office, she spun and pounded a fist on my chest. It hurt.

  “You know why, goddamn it. Don’t try sending me on a guilt trip. Like, oh, Octavia, they only come home with you because they’re drunk. That’s not fair to either one of you. Well, fuck them. They hate me the next morning, fuck them, all right? They were plenty fine with me until then. Jennings!”

  “Right here.” He breezed past me. “Everything’s ready.”

  “I need a magnifying glass.”

  “Fine.” Jennings waited.

  “What?”

  “I couldn’t help overhearing,” he said, looking at the hardwood floor instead of meeting her eyes. “Perhaps you should listen to Mick, dearie. He’s really looking out for you.”

  Octavia opened her mouth, then froze. Blinking, choosing carefully. Held up her finger, and then, “We weren’t talking to you.”

  “I know, but still—”

  “What did I ask for?”

  “A magnifying glass.”

  “Right.” Waved him off. “So swish your ass on over there and find one.”

  Chastened like a puppy, he gave us thin lips and a quick retreat. I had often wondered if, when no one else was around, they were like brother and sister. But I’d never seen any evidence of it. Mutual loathing seemed more likely.

  Octavia turned back to me. Her robe had opened more, and the wave of odors and warmth from last night’s tryst overwhelmed me. Through her smudged eye make-up, severe hair bun, raw lips, I remembered those eyes. Looking into those eyes right before I had kissed them so many years before. How hurt they had been after the drummer left her, and again when he took his life. And now, how I felt as if I saw the fight going on in there—the demon versus the shy, vulnerable fat girl with the pretty face. She deserved better and knew it. But she was having too much fun getting even.