Eye of the Beholder

by Shari Shattuck

  And then it overwhelmed her: a night two years ago that no amount of effort or logic could block or erase from her memory.

  She was sleeping when he came in drunk. She heard him run into something in the living room and then swear as though it were the something’s fault. She sat up in bed, tense, knowing that drunk and angry were a dangerous combination in her estranged husband—dangerous for her. Closing her eyes, she prayed that he would go to the guest room, pass out, and be in a bad mood at breakfast, but she heard him coming noisily down the hall, stopping at the bedroom door.

  He tried the lock, cursed, and then called out to her in a mocking tone, “Oh, cupcake, my little yummy girl.”

  Leah clutched the sheets and looked at the phone. The house was up a long, twisting road from the main street; it would take the police a long time to respond, too long. He banged loudly on the door. “Open up! I’ve got a little something for you, you nasty little bitch!”

  She flew out of bed and reached for her jeans with shaking hands. The thought of facing him in a nightgown horrified her. Not that she was any match for him fully dressed. She put the pants and a T-shirt on quickly and then listened. She heard nothing; maybe he’d gone and passed out. Hoping fervently that it was so, she backed up against the wall.

  The window next to her shattered as a lawn chair came flying through it. Leah screamed and tried to flatten herself against the closet door. There was glass everywhere, and she was terrified that if she took even one step in the dark her feet would be cut to shreds.

  The shadow of Vince’s tall figure was climbing through the window. He stepped onto the glass wearing his motorcycle boots without any fear of injury and looked at the empty bed. Whimpering, Leah cowered as far into the corner and the dark as she could, like a lizard hiding from a snake.

  But snakes don’t need to see their victims; they can sense them. Vince turned slowly and moved toward her. She could hear his breath coming fast; she could smell the tequila on it. As he came toward her he unbuckled his belt and pulled it off, opening his fly.

  “Get on the bed,” he ordered.

  “Vince, please, you’re drunk. Let’s talk about this tomorrow. C’mon, you don’t want to do this.” Leah could hear the pleading and the fear in her own voice, and she despised herself for it.

  He laughed. He liked it when she was afraid, and she knew it. It turned him on; she was only feeding his sickness. She hated him with every terrified fiber of her being—she hated the bastard, and he laughed.

  “Get on the bed.”

  “No,” Leah said through gritted teeth.

  The belt lashed out, striking her across her chest, the thin T-shirt offering only the pretense of protection. He grabbed her by the hair with his left hand and half lifted her across to the bed. Leah could hear the glass crunch under her feet, but the pain of her hair being squeezed into a tight fist and wrenched away from her head distracted her. She landed facedown and he held her there, pressing her face into the sheets. With the chunk of her hair still in his left hand, she felt him use his other hand to pull down his pants. Tears of pain and anger stung her eyes but were absorbed by the linens. She tried to cry out, but the mattress muffled the sound. He grappled roughly with her jeans and with three yanks had them off. Next he grabbed her thin shirt at the back of the neck and ripped at it. The collar caught at her throat and choked her, but he kept ripping until it came away. She felt as though her thorax had been crushed.

  “Open up,” Vince ordered, and Leah automatically pulled her legs together and crossed her ankles, fighting back the only way she could. Both of her hands were holding the wrist of his hand on her head, trying to lessen the intense pain of her hair being pulled out at the roots.

  “Do it!” he growled, and she felt the lash of his belt across her back, the loud smacking sound accentuating the stinging pain. He struck her again and again until finally, willing to do anything to stop the pain, she had spread her legs and sobbed while he climbed behind her and forced his way unnaturally into her, using her in a way that she would never—could never—tell anyone about while she wept and raged impotently. The thought of pressing charges and making this shame public was unimaginable.

  That distant night wavered in her memory as Leah looked down at the box in front of her. With hope and hatred in her heart, she opened the door and slid out the drawer.

  It was filled with cash and several hundred small bags of white powder.

  All the breath went out of Leah’s body. She had to lean both hands flat against the counter to keep from swaying visibly. Taking one of the small bags, she stuffed it into the top of her bra and quickly closed the box, turning both keys. Then she retreated hurriedly from the room, praying that the bloodless state of her face didn’t show too badly. She went rapidly back down the hall.

  “Hey! Hold on, there!” Jerry’s voice called out sharply.

  Leah froze and turned back to face him.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” He held out his hand. “My key?”

  “Oh,” Leah stammered, and crossed back to him, holding out his master key with a shaky hand. “Sorry.”

  Jerry was watching her—was it suspiciously? Had he seen her go to a box that wasn’t her own? Could he even possibly know that it had been Vince’s? “Are you okay? You look pale,” he told her.

  Leah exhaled, relieved. His voice sounded nothing more than politely concerned. “Oh, I’m fine. I am getting over a little bit of a bug. You know, all the rain and stuff,” she blabbed pointlessly.

  “I hope you feel better,” Jerry said, taking the key and returning to the pool of green light.

  “Thanks. I do.”

  Leah hurried back to her desk, checking around surreptitiously. No sign of Vince. She walked back to the teller’s door, and as Towler buzzed her in she asked, “Is Vince back?”

  Towler looked up from his customer and shrugged. “I don’t know. I didn’t know he went out.”

  The small hairs on Leah’s arms stood up. But she smiled as though it were all for the best and crossed to his door, clutching the contracts, and forced herself to knock casually.

  No answer.

  She opened the door. “Vince?” He wasn’t there. She went in and put the contract down on his desk again, pulling his heavy key chain and its single small charm out from behind it. She returned the key to the desk drawer and was just sliding it closed when she heard someone behind her.

  “What are you doing?” Vince’s voice was cold and hard.

  “Oh.” Leah jumped and turned around to face him, pushing the drawer closed the rest of the way with the back of her leg. For the first time in her life she hoped her hips were wide enough to block out the view behind her. “I was just bringing in these loans for you to sign off on. I was leaving them on your desk.”

  Vince’s eyes had narrowed; they darted from her face to the drawer and then back again.

  She tried to distract him by collecting up the papers. “Here, if you could just sign them. It’s a standard home loan; you’ve already seen the approvals.”

  Vince ignored the offered papers, crossed around her, and slid the drawer open an inch or two, just enough to see that his key was there. Then he turned a look on her that was almost pleasant. She didn’t like it. Had he seen her put it back?

  “Of course I can.” He took the papers from her, sat down in his chair, and signed off with a flourish. “Nice work, by the way.” He smiled as he handed the papers back to her.

  “Thanks,” she muttered, and turned to leave.

  “You know”—he stopped her—“there really isn’t any need for us to be so uncomfortable with each other. We were married; it didn’t work out. You got the house; I got the account. Everybody’s happy. We should just let bygones be bygones, don’t you think?” He leaned back and put his hands behind his head. As he did, a glint from his silver belt buckle caught Leah’s eye.

  She looked into his smiling face and said coldly, “Yeah, Vince. No hard feelings.”

&nb
sp; Chapter 12

  “Am I good?” asked Dario as he pulled the black smock off of Whitney and flourished it as though it were a matador’s cape.

  “You are a hairdressing god,” Whitney told him, her dry wit easily rising to his flamboyant level. She fluffed for a minute and then added, “I lay my laurel wreath at your feet. I canonize you the patron saint of styling.” She made the sign of the cross in his direction regally, like the pope giving his holy blessing.

  “Stop right there!” Dario held up one strong, masculine hand. “I draw the line at the requirements for sainthood. The miracles I can do, but dying a martyr’s death just doesn’t appeal to me.” He turned to Jonathan, who was standing next to him nodding his head, and handed him the smock. “Besides, you’re Catholic, aren’t you, Jonathan?”

  “Uh . . . yeah.” His wicked assistant playfully smiled.

  “Are there any gay saints?”

  “None that the nuns told me about in Catholic school. I did hear somewhere that there was a cross-dressing pope.”

  “I heard that too!” said Whitney enthusiastically. “And they didn’t find out she was a woman until she died and they were preparing her body for burial.”

  Jonathan balled up the smock and shot it into the laundry bin. “Bit of a shock, that.”

  Greer came out of the hallway from the treatment rooms and clapped her hands together in delight at the sight of Whitney’s new shorter, more flattering haircut. “I didn’t think it could get much better, but it did!”

  “Hmph,” Dario voiced in a mock-hurt tone.

  Greer smiled at him, amused. “I was just going to get a sandwich next door; would you like to join me?” she asked Whitney.

  “Great, that was all part of my master plan.”

  “Dario?”

  “I’ve got two more clients, but I’ll come over and get something to go in a few minutes, thanks.”

  Without waiting to be asked, Jonathan patted his perfectly flat tummy and said, “I’m on the South Beach.”

  The two women were going out the door when they ran into Leah coming in with the paperwork in her hand.

  “Oh, hi.” Leah looked surprised. “I was just bringing you the papers to sign. But if you’re on your way out, I can come back, or you can come by the bank on Monday.”

  “Perfect timing. Do you know Whitney Whitehorse?” Greer asked.

  “No, I don’t think we’ve met. Hi, I’m Leah Falconer.” The two women shook hands warmly.

  “Nice to meet you. Why don’t you join us for lunch?” Whitney invited.

  Leah looked unsure. “I don’t want to intrude.”

  “Don’t be silly; you’ll be great company.” Greer laid her hand on Leah’s arm and steered her to the shop next door. “Besides, I want you to meet Jenny Sanchez. She’s terrific, and her shop is so darling.”

  The bells on the door jangled as the trio entered. Several other customers were scattered about on the living room-style sofas and tables. Jenny stood in intent conversation with a handsome young man at the counter. Greer assumed from her frustrated body language that this would be her husband. The women approached the marital spat warily, but when Jenny saw them she broke quickly away, waved a big hello, and then came out from around the counter to meet Leah and kiss both Greer and Whitney on their cheeks before extending a hand toward the handsome young man.

  “This is my husband, Lewis.”

  Lewis muttered hellos, said he was just leaving, and kissed Jenny’s cheek. She watched him go, shaking her head, and then effortlessly switched to another channel.

  “You,” she said to Whitney, who kept unconsciously reaching up to pat her shorter hair, “look fabulous. Is that a new cut?”

  “Why, yes, thank you for noticing.” Whitney pretended to be only slightly pleased. Greer and Jenny shared a quick, knowing look.

  Jenny turned her effervescence on Leah. “I’ve seen you at the bank; you always look good.”

  Taken aback at the unsolicited compliment, but pleased, Leah said, “Thank you.”

  “Okay, what can I get you?”

  They all placed their orders and took a cozy table by the window. Greer signed the papers after giving them a perfunctory once-over.

  “Don’t you want to read them though?” Leah asked.

  “I know what they say. We already discussed the terms, and I have faith in you.” She winked and then rose to help Jenny when she saw her balancing several plates on her way to the table.

  “Can you join us for a few minutes?” Greer asked her. There were no customers waiting now.

  Jenny looked around. “You know what? That sounds good. I’ve been on my feet since six a.m.” She pulled a chair over from nearby and sank gratefully into it, relaxing by degrees like a stop-motion picture show.

  Greer frowned at her. “Now that your business is picking up, why don’t you get someone to help you? You can’t drive yourself this hard; you need to take a break.”

  Jenny shook her head. “Can’t afford it yet.” She sighed. “You’d think my husband could help me out when he’s not working. I mean, if I ask him to come fix the disposal or lay tile, he’ll eventually get to it, but as far as making coffee and change, no way. The concept of my needing a break is beyond him. After all the time I spent helping him build up his contracting business, now, when things are light for him, instead of helping me he stresses about the fact that he’s not making tons of money. They just don’t get it.”

  Whitney nodded. “I know; some men just can’t get past that caveman mentality.”

  Leah looked at her curiously. “Meaning?”

  “Meaning that once they’ve clubbed the meat and brought it home, they think their obligation to the relationship is over. It’s not really their fault; it’s how our society brainwashed them.”

  Greer watched them all flow into easy conversation and felt warm inside.

  Jenny smacked her hand on the table. “Exactly,” she said emphatically. “It’s not that he’s a bad guy. He means well, but sometimes I just want to pick up his little brain and squash it to see if it really is hollow.”

  The door opened and Joshua came in, his helmet under his arm. Greer beamed proudly. “Hi, sweetie.”

  “Hi, Mom.” He leaned down and kissed her. Whitney sighed wistfully as she watched the gesture of affection. Joshua said to her, “I’ve got a message for you, babe.”

  She shook a finger at him. “I told you not to call me that.” Then, out of the side of her mouth, she added, “Not in public. What is it?”

  “Um, Luke told me to tell you that you’re not going out tonight. Joy’s grounded.”

  Whitney sighed, and, placing her elbows upon the table, she let her face fall into her hands and rubbed hard on her temples. “What now?”

  Joshua fumbled a bit over the next wording. “I guess she, uh, snuck out last night.”

  Whitney didn’t even look up. She nodded her face-hand combo and groaned. “And?”

  “And, uh, had a few cocktails.”

  “And?”

  “And fell asleep out back on one of the deck chairs, where Luke found her this morning when he made her get up and vacuum the house.”

  Jenny grimaced. “Ooh. That’s harsh.”

  Greer bit her lip to keep from laughing. Leah felt too out of the kid loop to comment.

  Whitney looked up at Joshua. There was a moment’s silence. “Vacuum the house? With a hangover?”

  Joshua nodded solemnly and then said, “I might be betraying my fellow teenagers, but I thought it was really good parenting.”

  Their laughter was still shaking the shop when the bells jangled again and the handsome landscape architect, Sterling, came in. Jenny jumped up, wiping tears of amusement from her eyes, and went to wait on him. Greer couldn’t help thinking that his eyes lingered on her longer than was casually friendly when he said hello. She wondered if she was hopefully imagining it, and decided that she wasn’t. But it gave her a thrill of insecurity—and possibility. Could he be attracted to h
er? She’d had relationships since her marriage to Geoff, but they’d all fizzled out. Eventually she had gotten to like being on her own and just stopped looking for someone else. For the first time she realized that she’d probably chosen to stay a single mom because it was just less trouble. The revelation surprised her; she didn’t remember planning to be alone. Now, to consider flirting and mating an option again felt slightly alien. She glanced surreptitiously over at Sterling. He was laughing with Jenny at the counter, but he glanced back over his shoulder at her, as though checking that she was still there. Greer blushed and looked away.

  Whitney was watching her. She asked pointedly, “So, what’s the dating situation for you two?” She looked from Leah to Greer.

  “Oh, pretty nonexistent,” Leah said glumly. “I’m recently divorced from a real son of a bitch, and I guess I’m just a little gun-shy.”

  “What happened?” Whitney asked, as though she were inquiring how Leah had gotten a dent in her fender.

  Leah didn’t answer immediately. Jenny’s return to the table eased her hesitation and discomfort. Sterling took a table close by, and Greer wished she had the nerve to invite him to join them. Whitney was still looking questioningly at Leah.

  “He had a bad temper,” Leah said at last.

  “Oh, boy. One of those,” Whitney said, and then added reassuringly, “I’m sure you’re better off without him.”

  “I wish I were,” Leah said, surprising herself with the confession. “Without him, I mean. He’s still my boss.”

  “Ow. That sucks,” Jenny commiserated.

  Greer guessed from her reading that it was far more than a bad temper, but she didn’t know anything specific and she revealed nothing. That would be up to Leah to share when and if she chose. Nonetheless, her interest was piqued. She wondered if this man, still so predominant in Leah’s life, could be the future threat as well. She remembered meeting Vince, and the chill that had crept up her arm when he shook her hand.