That Boy From Trash Town

by Billie Green

  And sometimes dreams simply refused to die.

  Give it a rest, for heaven's sake, she told herself as she negotiated an S-curve in the path.

  She had been coming to the little park for a couple of weeks now and her time was getting steadily better.

  Every time she ran she managed to cover the three-mile course in a little less time.

  Me and Zola Budd, she thought with a grin.

  Whitney wasn't trying to run off an excess of energy; she wasn't running in an attempt to deal with sexual frustration, although heaven knew she would take any help she could get in that department. She was running because, after a month of standing in one spot at the factory, she was afraid that everything she ate was going to slide to her ankles. And since none of her new friends kept horses or belonged to a gym, she had sought out this little park two mites from Garden Court.

  She was concentrating on keeping her breathing regular when another runner reached her. Barely noticing, she waited for him to pass, but instead he began to keep pace with her. When she dropped back, he dropped back. When she picked up her speed, he followed suit.

  Seconds later she stopped abruptly and bent over, her head hanging loosely, her hands on her knees to support her upper body as she drew in short, painful breaths of air.

  After a moment she raised her head to look at Dean, her hands still on her knees. He wore his ratty old cutoffs, track shoes and nothing else.

  Whitney dropped her head again. Looking at him was a bad move. She definitely wasn't going to cool off or catch her breath that way.

  "Are you following me?" she asked finally, her voice rough from exertion.

  "I am," he admitted readily as he jogged in place. "But so is that thin guy and the one with the Regis Philbin hair. They're waiting for you to notice them. I, on the other hand, have never believed in being subtle."

  She gave a breathless little laugh. "You're an idiot. I had my best time going until you came along." Eyeing him enviously as he continued to jog in place, she muttered, "Show-off."

  Spotting runners behind them, she moved off the trail so that the two men could pass. One of them, a thin man, shot a look at Dean before they moved out of sight.

  "Eat your heart out," Dean said with an evil grin, then moved over to lean against a tree. "They're obviously not Gilbert and Sullivan fans." At her inquisitive look, he added, "The Yeomen of the Guard. You know, 'faint heart never won fair lady' and 'none but the brave deserve the fair.' I think they threw every cliche" known to man into that song."

  She shook her head. "That's incredible. No, really, it is. I don't think I know another man who goes to Gilbert and Sullivan for advice on how to meet women. And I certainly don't know any men who would admit to it, even if they did. Is this how you got Barbara hooked? Serenading her with 'Titwillow' and 'Three Little Maids'?"

  He examined her with a cool look. "You keep this up and you won't have to worry about your running time."

  "Why's that?"

  "Because I'll be behind you chunking rocks."

  Her laugh was slightly stiff. She wanted to ask him if he saw Barbara on his trips back home—he had flown to San Antonio four times in the past three weeks—but she firmly quashed the urge.

  Turning her head, she stared at the path ahead. "Only half a mile more. I can make that. Easy. Sure I can. Okay, not easy, but I can still make it. I've got fortitude. Strength of purpose. True grit."

  With a little moan, she drew in a deep breath and was about to start out again when he caught her arm. "Are you going to Rick's tonight?"

  She shook her head. "No, Lloyd has a cold, sol thought I would stay home. There's a slasher movie on television that I missed when it was in the theaters. You know how I love snuggling up on soft cushions, cocoa and popcorn in hand, white I watch innocent people being disemboweled."

  He chuckled. "You're still trying to get back at your mother for not letting you see Poltergeist all those years ago."

  She glanced away from him. "I don't think I'm ready to think about Mother yet," she said slowly.

  With a determined effort, she shook away the feelings. "Gotta run. See ya," she called over her shoulder as she started down the trail again.

  Dean didn't catch up with her this time. Whitney knew he could have easily enough. But he didn't. She should have felt some small satisfaction for having successfully put him off. She should have, but she didn't.

  After returning to her apartment, Whitney showered and changed into a striped silk caftan, then she ate the salad she had picked up at a local cafe—she still wasn't much good in a kitchen. It was almost eight when she began arranging her nest. Cushions and afghan on the floor in front of the television. Cocoa on the right, popcorn on the left.

  The movie had just been announced when there was a knock on her door.

  Stop it, she told herself as her heart jumped in response to the sound. Her heart jumped because even before she opened the door, she knew that it was Dean.

  He grinned as he leaned against the doorjamb. "I had a sudden craving for cocoa, popcorn and horror movies. I can't figure it out. It came over me all of a sudden." He moved past her into the room. "Besides, you know you always watch these things with your hands over your eyes. You need someone to tell you when the gory parts are over."

  Whitney wasn't going to say a word. She was too lazy, too comfortable to fight him tonight. And after all, he was right. She needed him.

  When he reached the couch he stopped to take off his shoes, then, without consulting her, he rearranged the cushions on the floor to accommodate two.

  "This movie we're watching," he said as he patted the floor beside him in an invitation for her to sit down, "is it the one where every time the hero stumbles across a bloody body he gazes up at the moon and says, 'He is evil and he must be destroyed'?"

  With only the smallest of hesitations, Whitney joined him on the floor. "How should I know? I told you I haven't seen it. So don't even think about spoiling the ending for me."

  He snorted. "How can you spoil a slasher movie? They're all exactly the same. This really ugly, really unimaginative dude systematically splatters the blood of a bunch of really cute, really stupid teenagers, and everybody dies except for the girl with the best looking body and the guy with the best looking hair."

  She threw a handful of popcorn at him. "You are evil and you must be destroyed."

  "Where's my cocoa?" he asked, calmly picking popcorn out of his hair. "Is this how you treat all your guests?" Then, as she walked into the kitchen, be called, "How come I haven't heard you talking about the company picnic? Lloyd says everyone's looking forward to it."

  Lloyd says too damn much, she thought with a slight frown. Dean and her father had taken to each other immediately and now it seemed like every time Whitney saw one of them, she saw the other, as well.

  "It's no big deal," she called to Dean. "The big shots at the factory are springing for some fried chicken and potato salad, then we all get together at the lake and build goodwill and company camaraderie by trying to annihilate each other at baseball and volleyball and horseshoes... that kind of tiling."

  "Baseball?" he said when she handed him a cup of cocoa. "You're pretty good at that. You might just be able to redeem your reputation. You know, let them all know that there are certain kinds of balls that you can manage to send in the right direction."

  "Somebody's been talking," she said grimly. "Is it my fault you never took me bowling?''

  He laughed. "Don't worry. You can show them your stuff when you get a bat in your hand.''

  Whitney took a sip of cocoa, watching him from the corners of her eyes. It almost sounded as though he were hinting for an invitation to the picnic. It would certainly make the day more interesting for her. And really, it was only a picnic. What would it hurt if—

  She broke off the thought with a little shake of her head. She couldn't keep doing this. For her sake, and for his, she had to show him that she could make it on her own.

  "It'll p
robably rain," she said with an indifferent shrug. "And to tell you the truth, it wouldn't disappoint me all that much if it did. The only reason I'm going is so I can spend more time with Lloyd."

  She could feel his eyes on her, but she didn't look up. Staring at the television, she said, "There's that music. It must be time for the first murder. You'd think these people would catch on. If I were there, as soon as I heard that music, I'd run." '

  Accepting the change of subject with a slight smile, Dean settled back against the couch and began to watch the movie with her.

  He was right: the movie was a cheap copy of a dozen other horror movies. But that didn't make it any less bloody, any less terrifying.

  Half an hour later Whitney said from behind her hands, "Tell me when he gets through killing her."

  Dean laughed. "He hasn't even started yet. She's still walking up the stairs. Now she's turning onto the landing. Now she's— Oops, there he goes. Again. And again. And again. And—"

  Whitney doubled up her fist and hit him twice, her eyes still closed. "Stop it. You know I can't stand it when— What's happening now?"

  "She's dragging herself toward the telephone, showing a little bit of shapely thigh there. Titillation in the midst of destruction. Okay, you can Open your eyes now. I think she's gasped her last."

  Shuddering, Whitney stood up and walked into the kitchen to put the empty popcorn bowl in the sink. "How can you be so callous? The woman died."

  "It's only a movie. And it wasn't even particularly well-done. I don't have any practical experience, but I'm pretty sure you wouldn't say 'Ooh...ooh...aah' while some maniac is hacking at you with a meat cleaver. She didn't even gurgle when he got her in the throat."

  "Will you cut it out?" she said in exasperation as she glanced over her shoulder into the living room.

  An hour later the movie was over at last. Whitney had been sitting with her back resting against the couch, the afghan pulled up to her nose so that she could hide under it if the need arose.

  Now, throwing the afghan aside in disgust, she said, "What a rip-off. There is no way you can kill an adult male by tying a plastic garbage bag over his head... because no matter what they say on the commercials, those things are not that strong. For heaven's sake, his teeth were a foot long. We saw him rip through a Boy Scout tent with them. And he can't get out of a little plastic bag? Well, I ask you."

  Dean stopped laughing long enough to say, "Maybe it was suicide."

  "Right," she said with heavy sarcasm as she glanced at her watch. "I have to go to bed so I can get up and go to work tomorrow. Now I'll be up all night listening to every noise, every creak and groan this place makes. Why did you make me watch that stupid movie?"

  "Me? You're the one who wanted to prove you could take it." He rose to his feet. "I suppose this is your cute way of telling me to vacate the premises. You want me to check under the bed for you?"

  She gave him an indignant look. "I'm perfectly capable of looking under my own bed.. .and in the closet and the bathroom and on the window ledge and..."

  He turned toward the bedroom. ''I think we'll both feel better if I check."

  "Dean...Dean." She trailed after him. "This isn't necessary. I was just teasing. Dean, would you listen? I'm not worried."

  In the process of opening the closet door, he paused and looked over his shoulder, one brow raised in skepticism.

  "Okay," she said with a shrug,"I'm worried. While you're in there, look behind the overcoat at the back. Then you can check for living dead in the bathroom."

  Giving a short bark of laughter, Dean walked into the bathroom and looked around. The area around the small sink was cluttered with cosmetics and other female paraphernalia. He picked up a vial of perfume; held it for a moment, then sat it back on the counter. A thick, white terry-cloth robe hung from a hook on the door. In white, Whitney looked like a sexy angel, and in his imagination, he could see her in the robe, the thick cloth emphasizing the slenderness of her body, her dark hair resting against the wide collar. Without thinking, he reached out to touch it, wondering if the smell of her flesh was still on—

  "Hey," she called, "you're not being garroted or anything, are you?"

  He jerked his hand back with an awkward movement. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

  Reentering the bedroom, he found her sitting on the bed. "Nothing," he said, forcing a smile. "Not a body, bloody or otherwise."

  "What is it in us that makes us want to be scared out of our wits?" she asked as he moved beyond her to check the window ledge, then make sure the window was locked.

  "It's not just horror movies," she continued, pulling her feet up beneath her. "It's roller coasters and fast cars. Skydiving and jumping off bridges with rubber bands on our feet."

  While she speculated on human nature, Dean watched her from the corners of his eyes, pretending not to, pretending that he was having trouble lowering the blinds.

  He really wished she hadn't decided to sit on the bed. Because the image he had conjured up in the bathroom was nothing to the vision that took hold of him now. He saw himself pushing her back on the bed, her dark, silken hair spreading out across the pillow, her flesh bare and warm beneath his fingers.

  With an abrupt movement, he shoved his hands into his pockets. Touching her, he thought sadly. Touching Whitney. It couldn't happen. Ever. Because if Dean got too close, she would be touched by more than his hands, more than his body. She would be touched by the past.

  Whitney was bright and clear as crystal, and Dean wanted her to stay that way. She had only ever had brief glimpses of the darkness, and she didn't know that even now, years after the fact, the ugliness of his childhood still visited him. He had to keep that away from her. He would be damned if he would let the black imprint on his soul touch her.

  Releasing a slow breath, he said, "All clear. I'll get out of your hair now."

  At the front door, he pulled up a stiff smile. "Good night, sleep tight, don't let the psychotic killers bite." He opened the door, then paused. "I have to fly home tomorrow, but I should be back before you get home from work. If Lloyd is feeling better I'll take us all out to dinner. Eating your own cooking is making you lose weight."

  "That's very funny. You're no wizard in the kitchen yourself."

  He started through the door but again turned back to her. "You're not really going to be afraid tonight, are you?"

  "I'm fine. I'm just very sleepy," she said pointedly.

  "Good... good." But instead of leaving, he leaned against the door frame and met her eyes. "Are you ready to talk about your mother yet?"

  She bit her lip. "No— I don't know. Maybe."

  Exhaling a little sigh, she leaned against the other side of the door, her face very close to his, and he could feel her soft breath on his lips.

  "It's really weird, Dean," she said quietly. "Maybe pitiful is a better word. I'm so much in the habit of overlooking the things she does, always saying 'that's just Mother.'" She shook her head. "Sometimes something will remind me of her and I'll find myself smiling before I remember that I feel differently about her now. I don't want to be one of those people who expect everyone around them to be perfect, to never make mistakes, but— The thing is, if I found out she had an affair, or even that she had robbed a bank, I think I could come to grips with that. Because it wouldn't have been done to me. What she did, that was done to me, even though I know she doesn't see it that way. I keep telling myself that she really loves me, but sometimes I just don't know. How could she love me and hurt me like that?"

  "She loves you," Dean said. "Even I don't doubt that. But she has different standards, different values than you and I do."

  She caught her bottom Up between her teeth, and after a small pause, she shook her head again. "I just don't know what to think. I only know that I woke up one day and found that the woman I thought was my mother never existed. Ifs as though I made her up. Do I love her, or do I love my idea of her? If she's someone I don't know, how could I love her? You can't love
a total stranger."

  "Come on, Whit. You're looking at this from the wrong angle. There is one part of her that you didn't know. All the other parts were real. They just weren't the complete picture. You have to take the part you knew—the part you loved—and add this new part to it. You say you could allow her to make a mistake, and I believe you. You would have stood by her if she had run someone down in her Mercedes or something like that. But what she did wasn't a single act. And it wasn't just a careless mistake. She knew what she was doing. Which means there is a flaw in her personality, in her basic philosophy. And that's the part you're having trouble with. She really thought she was doing what was best. You know it was wrong and I know it was wrong, but faulty judgment is the flaw you have to allow in her."

  She shook her head in a restless movement. "I don't know if I can."

  "You don't have to do it tonight." He reached up and stroked her cheek with one finger. "I know you. You'll find some way to get through this."

  If he moved his head a couple of inches he would be kissing her. Only a couple of inches.

  Instantly he cursed himself for allowing the thought to form. Because now his mouth burned with the need to feel hers.

  Straightening away from the door, he glanced at Ms watch. "This time I'm really leaving," he said, hearing stiffness in his own voice. "You get to bed and get some sleep."

  When the door closed behind him, Dean stared at it for a long time. Leaving her was damned hard. And it got harder every time he had to do it.

  Turning away, he walked the few steps to his apartment and unlocked the door. After he had turned on the light he stood for a moment and looked around the room. Furniture, magazines, plants. All the things necessary for human comfort were here and still the room felt barren. It was funny how two could equal full when just one less added up to empty.

  Thirty minutes later Dean was lying in bed. He had left the window open because the air-conditioning was on the blink again, but there was almost no breeze. The room felt airless as he lay naked, his hands under his head, and stared at the ceiling.