Ugly As Sin

by James Newman

  There was nothing much to see beyond that, though a list of questions-and-answers on the “Notes” section of her page caught Nick’s eye...

  More than ever, he yearned to meet this young lady. He only hoped this silly Internet questionnaire wasn’t the most he would ever know about her:

  *** LUCKY 13: 13 QUESTIONS, ALL ABOUT MOI ***

  #1) WHAT’S YOUR BEST FRIEND’S NAME?

  MOM

  #2) WHAT COLOR UNDERWEAR ARE YOU WEARING?

  NOYB

  #3) RIGHT NOW I’M LISTENING TO:

  the rain outside my window

  #4) WHAT’S THE LAST THING YOU ATE?

  lasagna

  #5) FAVORITE HOLIDAY:

  Christmas

  #6) THE LAST MOVIE I WATCHED:

  don’t remember, some cheesy horror movie

  #7) WHAT BOOK YOU ARE CURRENTLY READING?

  The Scarlet Letter (for school but it’s actually pretty kewl)

  #8) HAVE YOU EVER LOVED SOMEONE?

  not like that

  #9) EVER FIRED A GUN?

  yep (last weekend was my first time, my mom’s boyfriend bought me a tattoo & taught me how to shoot all in the same day—it was BAD-ASS!!!!!!!!!!)

  #10) SMOKE/DRINK/DO DRUGS?

  gross/no/does my epilepsy medicine count?

  #11) DO YOU HAVE A TEMPER?

  not really

  #12) THE CELEBRITY I WOULD MOST LIKE TO MEET ONE DAY:

  an old wrestler named the Widowmaker (he’s my grandfather—no joke!)

  #13) HOW DO YOU WANT TO BE REMEMBERED WHEN

  YOU DIE?

  that I treated people good

  The words on the screen blurred. Nick plucked his trusty handkerchief from his back pocket and wiped his eyes with it, hard.

  The celebrity I would most like to meet one day: An old wrestler named the Widowmaker. He’s my grandfather...

  For once, it wasn’t just Nick’s right eye that leaked uncontrollably now.

  Before he closed the computer’s browser and retired to his room, he reread #9. At least a dozen times.

  His heart raced as he tried to make sense of it.

  Have you ever fired a gun?

  Sophie’s reply: Last weekend was my first time...my mom’s boyfriend taught me how to shoot...

  †

  The next morning he sat in his motel room, munching on a hard sausage biscuit from the Gas-N-Go across the street while he thumbed through the Midnight Sun. On the paper’s front page was an article recapping Eddie Whiteside’s murder exactly one month ago, and the subsequent search for Sophie Suttles. A piece further down the page detailed the events at the Sunrise Motor Lodge (“SHOOTER STILL UNIDENTIFIED”), and while the writer of this article hinted that what happened there might have some connection to Sophie’s disappearance, Sheriff Mackey and his men had declined to corroborate, so the focus was more on the fact that Nick Bullman was a former TV celebrity born here in Polk County than on his blood relation to the missing teen.

  Nick tossed the newspaper onto his bedside table, reached for the remote control to turn up Good Morning America. One of his old cohorts had written a “tell-all” autobiography about his life in the Biz, his struggles with sex addiction and steroid abuse, and now he was coming on the show to talk about how Lance K. McDougal III had bribed his publisher into burying the book. Needless to say, Nick was intrigued.

  But when the phone rang he almost dropped his biscuit.

  He brushed crumbs from his lap, muted the television before picking up the receiver.

  “Yeah? Who is it?”

  “Mr. Bullman? Sheriff Mackey.”

  “Sheriff.”

  “I wish I was calling with better news. Thought you’d like to know that we got the results back on your man’s fingerprints. Came up with jack shit. No criminal record. Nor has ever served in the military.”

  “Dammit,” said Nick.

  “No luck with his gun, either. The serial numbers had been filed off. That doesn’t always work as well as most folks think, but in this case we got nothing.”

  “So what happens now?”

  “I want to talk with the owner of the motel again. Hopefully something will jog his memory.”

  “Wouldn’t hold my breath if I were you,” Nick grunted.

  Papers rustled on the sheriff’s end of the line. A police scanner beeped and squawked. “In the meantime,” said Mackey, “an associate of mine is working up a sketch of our John Doe. I aim to get that on the front page of the Sun by this weekend. Somebody’s seen this guy around—just a first name would be a hell of a start—chances are it’ll lead to a known accomplice or two.”

  “I appreciate the update, Sheriff,” said Nick.

  “Don’t thank me, Mr. Bullman. It’s my job. Contrary to what you might think, we are on the same side here.”

  “Never said we weren’t.”

  “I know this is hard for you. Hard for your daughter. About what I said the other night...hell, I’ve known Melissa since she was in middle school.”

  “She told me that.”

  “Well, I guess that’s all for now. I’ll be in touch.”

  Nick hung up the phone.

  †

  Around noon Nick pocketed his keys, preparing to go out. Exactly where he was headed he hadn’t decided yet. At some point he planned to revisit the house on Gorman Gap Road, since his initial search of the place had been rudely interrupted. Also, he thought he might spend a day or two driving through a few of Midnight’s neighboring towns and cities (Hendersonville, Columbus, Tryon, Morganville); maybe he’d get lucky, spot Sophie hanging out near the homeless shelters or on a park bench somewhere. It was an extremely long shot, but it was better than nothing.

  He felt restless. Had to get out and do something. Sophie wasn’t going to just fall out of the sky, land in his lap, and they’d all live happily ever after. It was time to move...

  But then, as he was preparing to do exactly that, Nick heard a knock at the door of his motel room.

  It was quiet, tentative. Although he doubted anyone would come gunning for him in broad daylight, he hefted the tire iron he had brought in from the Bronco, carried it across the room with him.

  He nudged aside the curtain. Then quickly unlocked the door and drew back the chain. “Melissa? Hey...”

  The nasty weather from the night before had moved on, yet the day was still gray and damp, as if the storm had left its smaller brother behind to bully Midnight some more. A mist of light summer rain blew across the parking lot. Tires hissed on the nearby highway like conspiratorial whispers. At the corner of the building, a mangy stray dog cocked one leg and pissed on the side of a dumpster. From another open doorway a few rooms down, a woman bellowed over a too-loud TV that if she had to tell Toby one more time to pick his colorin’ books offa the floor he’d be sorry.

  Behind Melissa, in the parking spot directly in front of Nick’s room, her Toyota idled quietly. Nick saw what looked like several bulky grocery bags sitting in the passenger seat.

  His daughter took one last drag off her cigarette, tossed the butt out in the rain before she spoke.

  “Can I come in?”

  “Of course.” He stepped aside. “Is everything okay?”

  She rushed past him, plopped down on the edge of the bed. “It’s been one month today.”

  “I know.”

  She started chewing at her fingernails, as if that was what she had come here to do.

  “You, uh, wanna turn off your car, stay a while?” Nick asked her.

  “I can’t. I have to drop by work, pick up my paycheck. I just wanted to come by and...”

  He eased the door shut, then quickly moved to sit beside her. Beneath his added weight, the bed sank all the way to the floor.

  “What is it, Melissa? What’s going on?”

  “I wanted to ask you something. I didn’t call ’cause I wanted to ask you in person.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “This is gonna sound cr
azy, with everything else going on. And you gotta understand...it’s not that Sophie isn’t on my mind every second of every day. God knows she is. But I need to stay sane. I need to have some sort of...routine. For both of us. And I think something like this...it’ll go a long way toward helping me feel like I’m keeping things normal for her...for when Sophie comes home.”

  “I’m sorry,” Nick said. “I’m not sure what you’re asking me to—”

  “I want to cook dinner for you,” she said. “Will you come to my apartment? Tonight? Will you let me make Sophie’s favorite dish for you?”

  “Lasagna,” he remembered.

  She gave him a sad little smile.

  “Melissa, you don’t owe me anything—”

  “I know. That’s not why I’m doing this. I just...it’s what I need, okay?

  I want someone to enjoy Sophie’s favorite meal the way she used to. She begged me to make it several times a week. Eddie got so he couldn’t stand the smell of it. Now that she’s gone, I’d give anything to bake my lasagna for her again. To hear her say how much she loved it.”

  “Well, then,” said Nick, “I would love to try your lasagna, if you’re sure you’re up to it.”

  “I’ve already bought the stuff to make it,” she said. “Just got back from the grocery store.”

  “Great. I’ll be there.”

  “How does six o’clock sound?”

  “It’s a date.”

  She told him how to get to her new apartment. They said their goodbyes for now, and she hurried outside to her car.

  Nick watched his daughter’s Camry depart through the drizzle.

  He stood there in the doorway for several minutes after she was gone, lost in his thoughts. He barely even noticed the fate of that dog he’d seen pissing on the dumpster a few minutes ago; it lay mashed against the curb on the other side of the street now, flattened by a passing vehicle.

  Elsewhere in the motel, that loud-mouthed mother was hollering at Toby to bring her a damn belt ’cause she was tired of talkin’.

  Nick shook his head, closed the door.

  He realized he was still holding the tire iron. Had been the whole time.

  †

  He dropped his empty beer bottle into the wastebasket, where it clanked loudly against the three down in there that he had already drained.

  He had dressed as nicely as he knew how for this occasion: blue silk shirt with black flames climbing up the torso, brown trousers, and snakeskin boots. But the shirt was too small for him; its buttons threatened to pop off and fly across the room with every breath he took. He hadn’t realized the pants were so wrinkled until he was driving over here. As for the boots, he had owned them since Melissa was a toddler.

  He was sure he looked ridiculous. Like pinning a diamond brooch on a warthog. Splashing cologne on a catfish. But as soon as his daughter answered the door, she had stood on her tiptoes, kissed him on one scar-hardened cheek. She told him he looked nice. And nothing else in this mean old world mattered.

  “Smells delicious,” he said now. “Anything I can do to help out in here?”

  She was busy making a salad, slicing a plump tomato with a butcher knife. “Nope. Just stay out of my way.”

  “Far be it from me to argue with a woman wielding a blade.”

  He watched her finish with the tomato, whirl to check on her lasagna in the oven, then pause to light a cigarette. Her eyes were once again red, swollen, as if she had spent most of her day crying, but he could tell she was happy to have him here. She wanted this evening to be perfect.

  “Hope you’re hungry.” Her cigarette bounced between her lips as she whittled away at a carrot.

  Truthfully, Nick didn’t have much of an appetite. The aromas that filled her kitchen smelled heavenly, no doubt about it, but a hard ball of anxiety had settled in his stomach since he first entered her apartment. He feared they were wasting precious time—standing here bullshitting, preparing a hearty feast, while his granddaughter was out there somewhere, undoubtedly terrified and being forced to do God-knew-what. But Melissa had explained to him why she needed to do this. If this was what it took to dry her tears for a few hours, to help give her some semblance of peace until Sophie was found, so be it.

  He left her alone in the kitchen, wandered into the living room.

  Melissa’s place was sparsely furnished, devoid of anything that might have given it any sense of her. The spartan furniture and dimestore decor had obviously been provided by her landlord. No pictures hung on the apartment’s cream-colored walls. The only exception was a framed photo of Sophie in one corner of the living room; it sat on a crooked end-table next to a portable CD player. A potted plant with ragged brown leaves occupied one windowsill like a tormented soul contemplating suicide. The view from that second-story window: railroad tracks, a coin laundry, and a seedy-looking pool hall.

  Nick paced back and forth across the living room, his hands in his pockets. Through the apartment’s thin walls, he heard a toilet flush. Bass-heavy Latino music thumped from the speakers of a passing car down on the street.

  He felt more restless than ever.

  He wandered over to the CD player, saw a single shiny jewelcase beside it: The Very Best of Etta James. He pushed PLAY.

  Etta sang her heart out about how she wished someone would care.

  A ding from the kitchen then. Silverware rattled in an opened drawer, and Melissa called out to him with an update: five more minutes, and it’d be time for dinner.

  “I’ll wash up,” said Nick.

  “Bathroom’s at the end of the hall,” she said. “You’ll have to let the water run for a minute. It always comes out rusty at first. Looks like blood.”

  †

  He finished washing his hands, drying them, and now he found himself just standing there, staring into the mirror above the sink.

  The face that leered back at him was like something out of a horror flick. A mad scientist’s creation dressed up in the best Midnight Big & Tall had to offer.

  Nick took a deep breath, let it out slowly. Otherwise, he didn’t move. He just stood there. Not even blinking. Staring at his own wretched face...

  ...something he hadn’t done for the better part of a year-and-a-half.

  Not that he’d been counting the days. He just knew. The way other folks could recall how long it had been since they took a trip to the beach, made love, or confessed their sins to a priest.

  The last time Nick Bullman had intentionally looked in a mirror, he’d been sitting up in a hospital bed in Durham, North Carolina. He was hooked up to IVs that pumped him full of painkillers every time he tapped the little joystick the nurses had placed in his palm (which he did, frequently; it probably looked as if he were playing a videogame no one else could see). The doctors had done the best they could. But he knew he wasn’t the only one who felt a sense of crushing disappointment when the bandages came off. As the fidgety young nurse held a mirror up to his face, they informed him that there had been extensive nerve damage. The men who attacked him had sliced deeply into muscle, even nicking bone with their blade. Infection had set in. He nearly lost one eye. Things might have turned out differently if they’d had his real face to work with. If someone had thought to pick it up off the floor that night, put it on ice, they might have been able to reattach it. Unfortunately, the face Nick Bullman was born with had been “regrettably misplaced,” according to the official euphemism (he imagined some hick cop confusing it for a wad of bloody rags, sweeping it into a dustpan and tossing it out with the trash). He listened to their spiel, saying nothing, trying not to hate them despite the fact that, mere minutes before they walked into his room, he awoke sweat-drenched and screaming from a surreal Dilaudid dream...a nightmare in which a gang of prankster surgeons grafted stiff pink nipples, wrinkled scrotum skin, and puckered brown anuses all over his new “face.”

  As he lay there gazing with a sick stomach upon the mess that had become of his once-handsome features, he squeezed the handle o
f the nurse’s makeup mirror so tightly it broke off in his hand.

  At that moment Nick vowed never to look into a mirror again.

  Mirrors were hateful inventions. They existed only to torment him. He loathed them like most folks loath speeding tickets, head lice, and waiting in really long lines.

  Of course, it would have been silly to suggest that he had gone a whole year-and-a-half without glancing into a reflective surface even once. Naturally, he caught glimpses of himself out of the corner of his eye: in his Bronco’s cracked rearview mirror, in the lenses of a stranger’s sunglasses, in the gray square of a television screen seconds before he turned it on.

  One thing he made sure of, though: he never did it on purpose.

  But so much had changed these last few days.

  Nick knew he had never been a “good person.” Since returning to his hometown, though, he felt as if a great weight had lifted off of his shoulders. He was starting to think he could be, one day. Something akin to a “good person.”

  Nick Bullman didn’t know shit about self-analysis. But he did know he was trying. And that had to stand for something, didn’t it, in the grand scheme of things?

  At last, he had confronted his inner fiend. He decided it was long past time that he gazed upon the grotesque outside of himself as well.

  You wanna reveal a man’s true colors, sometimes you gotta dig deep, get to the skull beneath the skin...

  It had taken a combination of over two thousand stitches and staples to fix him up. A total of six operations over a period of eight grueling months. Numerous skin grafts from his thighs, back, and buttocks...