Fickle
Page 30
Me: (almost amused) Don’t con me. I didn’t say anything of the sort.
Burly-Bear: (mildly) You did, though. Shock’s a funny thing.
Me: You mean I confessed and you let me walk out of there? That would be the day.
Burly-Bear: New perspective on the BPD, huh? I wanted to take you to see a doctor, but you were adamant about leaving on your own. (He shrugs.) Much as we’d like to, we can’t do much to help people if they don’t want it.
Me: I’m afraid you misunderstand. I didn’t mean that you were careless to let a witness who might be in shock leave on her own cognizance. I meant that you would not let some girl wander off after she half-confessed to murder, signs of shock or not. I just don’t believe it.
Burly-Bear: Yeah, well, I agree that my partner sees the similarity between your father’s death and Pearle’s as highly suspicious. Add that to the fact that Pearle and you weren’t quite the strangers you claimed you were, and to him we’re in the proof stage. But to me, the whole thing read different. I was the one who talked to you most, remember, and it wasn’t tough to recognize that you were blaming yourself for not having prevented the guy from jumping. It’s a classic reaction to a suicide. And, yeah, I was surprised that you showed up in Pearle’s internet history, but, again, a little digging into his situation made it clear that he was a guy on the make, and his finding you attractive wasn’t a long shot. (He pauses to shrug, glancing over at me.) The information that we’ve picked up about your past, well, it just makes it clear why you were so seriously impacted by Pearle’s decision to take himself out with a train.
Me: (I turn away and stare out my side window for a while before answering.) You’re not as dumb as you pretend to be, Sergeant.
Burly-Bear: Thank you, I think. (He taps the steering wheel as if making a decision.) You didn’t…see your father do it?
Me: (shaking my head without turning to meet his eye) No.
Burly-Bear: Report I read, just your mother was on the platform. That was her statement, any rate.
Me: (sensing a question somewhere in his remark) We—my brother and I—were inside. My mother bought us some cookies out of a machine in the waiting room—shortbread, I think, stale as hell—we were busy crumbing those all over ourselves. This should have been a clue that something was wrong. Dad was the one who gave us sweets. Mother wasn’t someone who put herself out in those little ways to make sure her kids felt loved. Anyway, they were out on the platform together, talking. They were tense, but then they were always tense. They hated each other from as early as I can remember. Why they would ever have married…when I think back on how really fine he was…(I turn my head sharply, then shrug.) And no—no one ever accused her of pushing him. It was a freight train and the engineer was hanging off the side—he gave the evidence that my father did it to himself. She was nowhere near the edge. (Burly-Bear tries to interrupt but I know what he wants to know—how his cop mind works—and so I just go ahead and tell him.) And, yes, the engineer who gave evidence became involved with my mother and married her, but that was later, after the whole thing was over, after he got to know her and saw how needy she was, with her feral son. (I can’t help pronouncing the words “needy” and “feral” with the disdain they deserve.)
Burly-Bear: But he knew her from way back. From when she was a girl and used to come over the Canadian border to Star-of-the-Woods for partying.
Me: (I snort a laugh) My mother, down from middle-of-nowhere, Canada, to party in edge-of-nowhere, Vermont. Imagine someone remembering her from her wild days. (I shrug.) But, yes. Apparently this rather amazing coincidence is how they got started up, Frank and Attalie. Unfortunately, the rest of their lives together couldn’t quite live up to their rather tawdry fairy-tale beginning. But, well, you know how it is. First you dream, then you die. In between, you eat your peck of dirt.
Burly-Bear: You didn’t like your stepfather?
Me: Frank? What wasn’t to like? He made a ton of money, considering he was completely unskilled, virtually illiterate, and about as ambitious as the rest of the OTB crowd. And he footed the bills for me and my brother to go to private schools. Of course, he whipped my brother like an animal every time we got the boot for something or other. Ah, but there’s parental care for you right there. Yep, whippin’ spells lovin’ in the hearts of many a fine stepdad.
Burly-Bear: (nodding slowly. He knows it’s the right time to tell me I don’t have to continue, but he doesn’t want to shut me down. I mean, he’s working, you know?) So, why would the both of you get the boot from school when your brother would be the one to get in trouble?
Me: (shrugging indifferently) Well, they’re not going to have me in one and him in another, so what was the difference which one of us got the boot?
Burly-Bear: (carefully) Why not separate you? Why shunt you around from school to school just because your brother’s flailing?
Me: (still speaking at my window) He wasn’t flailing. He just didn’t like being treated like a grunt in reform school when he was actually just a teenager whose parents didn’t give a damn about him. And they didn’t dare separate us. She knew not to do that. If she knew one bloody thing it was that.
Burly-Bear: (real lightly) Why?
Me: (I go to get out of the car and he moves to stop me but doesn’t quite dare touch me. I pause, though.) Look, thanks for the lift and thanks for coming out there.
Burly-Bear: Did your father ever touch you?
Me: (I freeze. I don’t even have a voice for a moment and just stare at him over my shoulder, my mouth open. Finally I half-croak an answer.) Well, I love a funny exit line as much as the next gal, but…?
Burly-Bear: (ignoring my attempt at banter) I mean your stepfather, Frank. Did he ever try anything? I ask because I sense there’s something you’re holding back something painful.
Me: (I settle back into the car. I breathe out calmly and meet his eye.) You’re a great cop, and you’re a great guy, and I’m beginning to realize that you’re more than just a little intelligent. But you really need to stop trying to help so much. Honest. Could you do that?
Burly-Bear: (I spread my lips into a smile and, slowly, he smiles back.) I could try.
Me: Good man. (I manage a wink before I hop out. I don’t look back, entering my place.)
GIVE IT TO ME STRAIGHT
marleybones @ February 7 12:23 am
I have to say, I’m somewhat floored by how open you’ve become over the past few days. And I’m beginning to think that I’ve been a little “off” about you. You don’t need much protecting. You’ve been handling yourself for quite some time. But, still, you’d be amazed at how useful it can be to have someone to lean on when you choose to lean. And, the way you write it, at least, Burly-Bear is aiming to be that support.
fickel @ February 7 12:26 am
Well, I gave him what he wanted.
36-D @ February 7 12:30 am
I am, like, bawled over. My closest friend growing up was molested by her father. She had one of those repressed memory awakenings—I would never believe this if it didn’t happen like right on my street—she was in total denial about it but she confronted him, hoping he’d just say it wasn’t so and then they could search for why she had a false memory, but instead he left the room while she and her mother thought they were still discussing it, and next thing they hear is a shot and he’s dead in the basement.
i.went.to.harvard @ February 7 12:34 am
I would like to step in quick and say, with all sorts of respect for 36-D, that I don’t think this is the time for a discussion of molestation. Burly-Bear is using his training, and maybe his gut senses, too, but let’s not all pile on to such a very delicate topic. I know I’m not in a position to police the rest of you, but I can’t feel more strongly on this one.
webmaggot @ February 7 12:36 am
And it’s bowled over, tits, not bawled over.
36-D @ February 7 12:39 am
Whatevah—I wasn’t saying it was like fickel was
in the exact shoes as my friend. I just…aw, shoot, you’re right as always, Mr. I.am.perfect.because.I.went.to.harvard.
i.went.to.harvard @ February 7 12:40 am
Hey, I dropped out, remember? No hard feelings, now, please? You’d be surprised how easily I lose sleep over something I posted.
36-D @ February 7 12:41 am
So sleep. I’m totally fine. :)
roadrage @ February 7 12:43 am
Uhh, speaking of losing sleep, has anyone else found this Full Frontal url?
chinkigirl @ February 7 12:48 am
Holy TOLEDO!!! I have just skimmed his verbal sewage! Do you think this guy’s for real?
marleybones @ February 7 12:52 am
You know, it’s interesting that this is your reaction. Because when I read it I kept noticing how the tone changes, as if someone’s trying out different personas, sometimes pretending that English isn’t his first language, sometimes forgetting about that and writing in fairly perfect grammar. And I noticed a number of interesting facts, if anything about it is to be believed. For example, if this guy trailed fickel home from the train station the night Mr. Suicide (excuse me, Pearle) died, then there’s no way she could have made it over to Pearle’s loft to remove traces of her presence (not that any thinking person would have bought that outlandish idea in any event). So there’s some silver lining, if any can be identified, IF the thing is for real.
roadrage @ February 7 12:58 am
I noticed a couple of details like that, too, but to me that’s not the first thing to worry about. fickel, this dude—whether or not he’s putting on an act—is off his marble. If you give this url to the cops they can track him down.
webmaggot @ February 7 01:04 am
You want to square things with Burly-Bear, do it in one fell swoop by handing him this, the gun and the will. Not only will he “solve the Concord mystery,” but nothing makes a guy feel like he’s got brass ones than having a girl who’s pissed at him turn to him for protection.
fickel @ February 7 01:07 am
Well, I might do that (and not so he can feel his future children go to brass). On the other hand, I’m sure you folks understand that it’s fairly easy to make a blog untraceable. They’ve got all sorts of services these days to encrypt data beyond random matching, even. I ought to know—you think this blog is easy to trace?
chinkigirl @ February 7 01:09 am
Nevertheless, I think that proudblack’s fears are well taken. I think the cops are with us.
fickel @ February 7 01:10 am
I don’t see how they could be, unless they’ve been on a computer where I’ve logged on. What makes you think that, chinkigirl?
chinkigirl @ February 7 01:14 am
I don’t know. Lately I just get the feeling we’re being watched. Maybe it was reading Full Frontal and finding out that we’ve had at least one ominous lurker.
fickel @ February 7 01:16 am
Shudder. I have to think. TTYL.
32
02.07 @ 3:03 am
Evy Gustafson sux
Evelyn Gustafson Evelyn Gustafson Evelyn Gustafson Evelyn Gustafson Evelyn Gustafson Evelyn Gustafson Evelyn Gustafson Evelyn Gustafson Evelyn Gustafson Evelyn Gustafson Evelyn Gustafson Evelyn Gustafson Evelyn Gustafson Evelyn Gustafson Evelyn Gustafson Evelyn Gustafson Evelyn Gustafson Evelyn Gustafson Evelyn Gustafson Evelyn Gustafson Evelyn Gustafson Evelyn Gustafson Evelyn Gustafson Evelyn Gustafson Evelyn Gustafson Evelyn Gustafson Evelyn Gustafson Evelyn Gustafson Evelyn Gustafson Evelyn Gustafson Evelyn Gustafson Evelyn Gustafson Evelyn Gustafson Evelyn Gustafson Evelyn Gustafson Evelyn Gustafson Evelyn Gustafson Evelyn Gustafson Evelyn Gustafson Evelyn Gustafson Evelyn Gustafson Evelyn Gustafson Evelyn Gustafson Evelyn Gustafson Evelyn Gustafson Evelyn Gustafson Evelyn Gustafson Evelyn Gustafson Evelyn Gustafson Evelyn Gustafson Evelyn Gustafson Evelyn Gustafson Evelyn Gustafson Evelyn Gustafson Evelyn Gustafson Evelyn Gustafson Evelyn Gustafson Evelyn Gustafson Evelyn Gustafson Evelyn Gustafson Evelyn Gustafson Evelyn Gustafson Evelyn Gustafson Evelyn Gustafson Evelyn Gustafson Evelyn Gustafson Evelyn Gustafson Evelyn Gustafson Evelyn Gustafson Evelyn Gustafson Evelyn Gustafson Evelyn Gustafson Evelyn Gustafson Evelyn Gustafson Evelyn Gustafson Evelyn Gustafson Evelyn Gustafson Evelyn Gustafson Evelyn Gustafson Evelyn Gustafson Evelyn Gustafson Evelyn Gustafson Evelyn Gustafson Evelyn Gustafson Evelyn Gustafson Evelyn Gustafson Evelyn Gustafson Evelyn Gustafson Evelyn Gustafson Evelyn Gustafson Evelyn Gustafson Evelyn Gustafson Evelyn Gustafson Evelyn Gustafson Evelyn Gustafson Evelyn Gustafson Evelyn Gustafson Evelyn Gustafson Evelyn Gustafson Evelyn Gustafson Evelyn Gustafson Evelyn Gustafson Evelyn Gustafson Evelyn Gustafson Evelyn Gustafson Evelyn Gustafson Evelyn Gustafson Evelyn Gustafson Evelyn Gustafson Evelyn Gustafson Evelyn Gustafson Evelyn Gustafson
fux wit choo
33
February 8 @ 4:04 am
>HOW BOYZ SPELL LUV<
One way or another, we all work for our own vices.
–brainy little sleaze in Asphalt Jungle
Well, I had a full day today—more than full, making up for lost time on two manuscripts I’m supposed to be blue-penciling, which turned out to be incredibly doable once I put my mind to it (and talked my fellow peons into doing a “fat lunch” over at Faneuil Hall, which apparently included some lovely desserts of a highly alcoholic nature, thus giving me much of the afternoon to myself). No message from Dame Judith on my “status” at the bottom of the editorial totem pole. With luck I’ll just bite the big one at pay raise time and live on. Oh, and I called Burly-Bear and left a message to phone me. Thinking twice, I called again and left news of the Full Frontal site. So that should give him some bedtime reading that’ll crisp his nose hairs.
Anyway, I’m in the office late enough to take a nearly empty train home and walk a few deserted streets to get to my place. By the time I get here I’m feeling like the whole of Cambridge has checked out and forgotten to tell me about the organized mass exodus. I do what I can to ignore the stillness. I drop my keys loudly on the kitchen table, click on lights, change to sweats and my favorite stretchy T-shirt, boil some red lentils, and put on some old Pink Martini (God I love that guy on trombone). By the time I sit down to blog, I’ve managed to create a reasonable mental facsimile of what my life used to be. Ha ha ha, aziff.
At 10:45 or so the buzzer sounds. I don’t startle easily, but I find I’ve got warm prickles swimming up my skull. I go to the door, taking solace in the fact that it’s closed with the chain on. I press the squawk-box button.
Me: ’Lo?
Him: Yo.
Even with the static feedback, I recognize Burly-Doll’s basso rumble and hit the buzzer. I wait until I hear him at my door. Man walks softly for a big boy. He knocks—just knuckles—precise, but again soft. I pause, eyes closed, breasts pressing gently against the door’s molding as I breathe.
Danger…nudging at my door…
…then I flip off the lock and open it.
The Mysterious Hottie is there, leaning a hand against the doorjamb, studying his own shoes. He raises his head and smiles his sneaky smile, eying me through his lank blond hair. I’m amazed and alarmed that it isn’t Burly-Bear and at the same moment I acknowledge to myself that I’d subconsciously recognized the M.H’s voice, and his step, and the way he would rap on a door.
The next moment I am—quite honestly—scared, based on what I now know, or think I know, or don’t know at all but could be talked into knowing, about him. Y’know, like how he sorta kinda coulda been Mr. Suicide’s boyfriend. And how he sorta kinda coulda stepped out from behind a post in the Hynes station and shoved Mr. Suicide to his death. And how he sorta kinda coulda been the person who attacked dickel. And like how he sorta kinda coulda needed the Peacock and the Colonel and Slenderbuns out of the way because they could connect him with Mr. S. And like how he sorta kinda coulda figured out that I’d lifted the sketch of the necklace from his place and thus had put him together with all the crap raining down on my life for the past days since the f
ateful evening that some lonely and confused middle-aged man decided to approach me in a deserted Boston train station and strike up a conversation, just as the train was about to roar into the station…dot…dot…dot…shit.
Me: (looking, I’m sure, exactly as if all of the above is ping-ponging around in my head) I’m not sure I want you here. (Still, I back up, which makes room for him to enter.)
M.H.: You want should I clear out? (walking in)
Me: (my spine bumps against my desk chair—it’s one of those old office chairs, the kind that rotates, and one of my favorite pieces, and I grip it behind my back, not unlike the way a girl would grip a lucky charm in a moment of unbalance.) I’m online. On the blog. You know my blog, I mean, don’t you?
M.H.: (Letting the door fall shut behind him, he chuckles briefly.) I’ll see your blog ’n’ you’ll see mine—is that how it goes these days?
Me: (I shake my head briefly. I need a second to pull myself together and, like, locate some bug spray to squirt in his eyes if he should start rummaging in my knife drawer.) Beer?
M.H.: Be great.
Me: (I nod toward the kitchen and he slings off his coat, letting it fall on my couch, then walks through to the kitchen area and helps himself. I stand there, clutching the chair and admiring his sweater, which, although loose, is drapey enough to make clear that it’s just him underneath it—as opposed to, say, him and the bloodstained ball peen hammer he likes to carry tucked into his pants at the small of his back. He turns and screws off the beer’s cap, takes a swig, and tips the bottle my way. I shake my head and he, reflecting my own pose, lets himself lean back against the refrigerator. I begin again, awkwardly.) You know my blog, I’m sure, so if you’ve been tuning in lately you also know that my brother’s alive. He’s going to be okay.
M.H.: (pausing as if to drink this in) Your brother? Good to hear.