by Jeff Strand
"I have to go to the restroom. Back in a second," said Abigail, leaving the table.
That didn't count.
She returned and we finished our healthy dinners. (Were pseudo-chicken nuggets healthy, or was the point just to not murder chickens? I'd pretend they were healthy until somebody told me otherwise.)
"You're looking very serious," she said.
"Am I?"
"You always look serious, but you're looking more serious than usual."
"I have something to tell you."
"I'm ready."
"It may upset you."
"Just tear the Band-Aid right off."
"You know I had a dad, right?" What a stupid thing to say. Of course she knew I had a dad. I should've started that sentence with "Durr..." though I'm thankful that I didn't.
"Yes," said Abigail. "And I know what this is about."
"You do?"
"I did some online research. Not deep-dive Internet stalking. Your father comes up pretty early in a Google search."
"I meant to tell you sooner."
"We're in the middle of our second date, Frank. It's fine. I knew you'd tell me when you thought the time was right. It's not like I came right out and told you that I'm a necrophile."
"What?"
"That was a joke." Abigail suddenly looked horrified. "Oh my God, did you think I wasn't kidding? I don't give off that kind of vibe, do I? No, no, no, total joke. Fuck. I thought you'd laugh."
"I'm laughing now," I said, forcing myself to chuckle. It would've only taken me a few moments to decide that she was messing with me, but there had indeed been a moment where I thought she'd upstaged my revelation about my dad being a mass murderer.
"I'm sorry. I was trying to lighten the mood. And, yes, I know it says something about me that I tried to lighten the mood by talking about having sex with corpses." She glanced around the restaurant to make sure nobody had overheard her. One woman obviously had because she quickly looked down at her plate.
"Well, you didn't actually talk about it," I said. "It was just a quick reference."
"Fair enough. Anyway, let's get back to your dark secret. I would've eventually confronted you about it, but not this early. It's not like you've ever shot a bunch of people. Did you?"
"No. Not even one."
"And I can't have kids, so we don't have to worry about passing those genes on."
I could tell that she immediately realized that this statement a) was kind of insulting, and b) did a scary-rapid fast-forward to discussions about us having children together.
"You know what?" she asked. "If we apologize every time one of us says something stupid, that's all we'll do. Can we agree to just ignore the fact that neither one of us knows how to behave?"
"Deal," I said. "Also, I'm adopted, so I don't have any office-shooter genes to pass down."
"Even better. I'm not saying I don't care about it. It wasn't like I clicked on the news article and went 'Eh, no biggie.' But it's not a deal-breaker for me. I'll judge you based on you, not something your dad did ten years ago."
"Thank you," I said. I didn't thank her for reminding me that the ten-year anniversary was coming up. "Do you have any questions about it?"
"No. I mean, I do, but they can wait. Are we done with the heavy stuff for now? Can we talk about vegan dessert?"
"We sure can."
The "no innocent cows were milked in the making of this" ice cream was kind of gross, but Abigail enjoyed it, and that's what was important. We parted ways outside the restaurant with a quick hug and a promise to see each other at lunch tomorrow.
Though I'd done a good job of hiding it, I was still pretty mad about the asshole who'd hit her. I wasn't going to hunt him down or anything. Abigail would be pissed if I got too much into her business. That said, she wasn't the only one who could do a bit of online research.
five
I'm no master sleuth, but I didn't have to be to find Neal. Some quick scrolling through social media (Abigail didn't post often, which was helpful—less to look through) and I found a selfie of her with Neal Miller. His arm was around her and they were smiling happily. He was way more attractive than me, but then again, so were most people. He looked pleasant enough.
His Facebook page was public. Unlike Abigail, he posted all the time. He was one of those people who shared every meal he ate, every movie he saw, and every social event he attended with the world. Abigail was right: he wasn't lonely. Lots of selfies with him and various women. About forty-five minutes ago, he'd used the "check-in" feature to let the world know he was at a bar.
I could use a drink.
I wouldn't do anything. I just thought it would be good to see the enemy in person. I wouldn't say a word to him; I'd keep an eye on him while I had one beer, and then I'd go back home. It wasn't an invasion of his privacy if he posted his whereabouts on social media.
Abigail wouldn't be happy if she knew I'd visited the bar, but I certainly wasn't going to post about it. And since I wasn't going to actually speak to Neal, she'd never find out. I wouldn't linger. I was entirely capable of keeping my temper in check, so I knew I could watch the piece of crap without succumbing to the desire to punch him off his bar stool.
The bar wasn't within walking distance—I mean, technically it was, but it would've taken three hours—so I drove. During the drive, I had at least twenty moments where I thought I should turn around and go back home. I ignored these feelings. A lot of people trusted their gut, but my gut was notoriously unreliable.
There were a few cars parked out front when I got there. I went inside. The music was too loud but I liked that the place was poorly lit. Everybody looked over at me, and a couple of them stared. I was used to that. As has been well established, I was a big creepy looking guy. People stare at those things.
Neal, who sat alone in a booth, was one of those staring.
When I caught him looking at me, he quickly returned his attention to his glass of whiskey. (Tequila? Bourbon? One of those.)
The bar had a perfect spot where I could sit facing Neal without it being obvious that I was watching him. I ordered a beer. The bartender asked what kind I wanted. I didn't care, so I said "Anything domestic."
Neal looked completely miserable.
Pathetic.
The guy was having a long dark night of the soul.
He seemed to be the kind of person who'd struck a woman in anger, and was consumed by feelings of self-loathing, wondering what kind of monster he really was.
I'm not suggesting for one second that I felt sorry for that scumbag. If Abigail wanted to cut off his testicles, I would've held him down for her. But...yeah, she was right. Neal was no threat to her or anybody else.
It was making me sad to look at him. I was ready to go, but I didn't want him to wonder about the scary-looking dude who came in, took a couple sips of his beer, and then left. I finished my frosty beverage at a reasonable pace. I never made eye contact. I made a show of constantly checking my phone, hoping that it might convey the image of somebody who was waiting for a friend to meet him here.
I considered sighing with frustration as if I'd been stood up, but I was such a bad actor that I might have sent the message I am here to spy on you. I simply paid for my beer and left.
I didn't have to think about that asshole anymore.
I drove back to my apartment, which I guess I haven't described yet. You're probably thinking "shithole" and you're not completely off the mark, though I did keep it clean. There were rust stains in the bathtub and blotches on the ceiling, but there was no food on the floor, and if there were dirty dishes in the sink they were always from the most recent meal. Same thing with clothes: I might've thrown the clothes I wore on a certain day on the floor before I went to bed, but they'd be in the laundry basket before the next day's clothing could join them.
Though I was most assuredly not a neat freak, I was also not a disgusting slob. If you made a diagram with "neat freak" on one side and "disgusting slob" on the oth
er, and you put a red dot in the center, I'd be halfway between "neat freak" and the red dot, if that makes sense. It helped that I didn't own much. I pared down my possessions before each move and didn't acquire much new stuff in-between.
My refrigerator and cupboards generally contained actual food.
My bed was a bed, not just a mattress on the floor. Admittedly, this was not true at all of my former residences, but it was for this one.
If Abigail were to come over, my apartment would give me little reason to be ashamed. It was small, yes, but I think she knew I wasn't rich. (Of course, I bought flowers from her every single day that I didn't want, and we'd splurged on expensive movie theater concessions, so maybe she thought I was a millionaire.) A quick vacuuming, dusting, and some minor tidying and I'd be good to go.
Well, and I'd have to take care of my bedroom wall. That was obviously the big issue.
I rarely had guests, and when I did, they weren't the kind of guests who would be going into my bedroom. With Abigail, I'd at least show her the bedroom as part of a tour, even if we weren't ready to spend any time in there yet. So I had to take everything down.
I honestly don't know how this is going to sound. I'll just say it: I kept pictures of all of my dad's victims up on my bedroom wall.
And their obituaries.
And handwritten stories I'd composed about how their lives would've gone had they not been murdered.
I'd started writing these when I was sixteen, a year after the shooting. I honestly don't know if my therapist would have considered them a healthy outlet or something really fucked up (I didn't tell her about them) but they made me feel better.
Sometimes I'd add to the stories, with as much as a couple of years between updates. Sometimes I'd throw one away and start from scratch, based on creative inspiration or just to reflect my improved writing skills. They ranged from a few paragraphs to an epic that was eight pages taped together. Various genres were reflected: romance, science fiction, mystery, inspirational drama, but the unifying theme was that I gave them all happy lives. New additions to their families. New opportunities. New adventures.
One guy won the Nobel Peace Prize. One lady stopped an alien invasion.
No, you may not read them.
It's possible to make a convincing argument that writing stories about the amazing future accomplishments of these people was simply a depressing reminder that their lives were snuffed out far too soon. I won't argue that. For me, I don't know, it was like a way of undoing the damage, even if I was the only weirdo who'd ever know it. The stories didn't have happy endings—they didn't have endings at all. They all stopped in mid-sentence. When I added to one, the new material would also stop in mid-sentence. No endings.
Stupid and childish, I know. When your dad kills eleven innocent people, you can judge me.
(If your father is indeed a mass murderer, I apologize for my snippy tone.)
(In fact, I apologize for my tone even if your father isn't a mass murderer. Inappropriate. Sorry.)
Basically, I'm trying to say that the wall of my bedroom was decorated in such a manner that it might be alarming to somebody who walked in there, particularly if the idea of eventually being intimate with me wasn't out of the question. I wasn't going to take it down quite yet, but I would before the next time I saw Abigail, just in case.
And, yes, having the pictures up there haunted me and gave me sleepless nights.
* * *
I almost—but not quite—wanted to tell Abigail that I'd seen Neal at the bar, just to reassure her that the guy felt terrible about what he'd done. It might give her an extra bit of peace. Obviously, since this would involve confessing that I'd looked him up online and then driven to the bar where he was drinking his misery away, I would be doing no such thing.
I was no longer twitching with anger, so the next day at work was a better one. Since we hadn't made plans for Abigail to come to my building (she'd mentioned the idea, but I also got the impression that losing sales during lunch was a problem) I walked to her flower stand with burgers in hand. I was comfortable with my ability to hog down a burger and fries in plenty of time to get back to work, but Abigail didn't need to see that side of me yet, and we settled for only eating part of them during our time together.
"Would you like to come over tonight?" she asked. "I'm a decent cook, so I could make us dinner and then we could watch a crappy horror flick."
"I'd love that."
"Are you allergic to anything?"
"The Twilight movies."
"Ha ha."
"I'm just kidding," I said. I'd never actually seen any of the Twilight movies or read the books. They might have been quite good. It wasn't a fair joke.
"Do you have any food allergies?"
"No." I wanted to make a comment along the lines of, "I guess we'll find out, if my face starts swelling up," though funnier, but it didn't seem like a good idea so close to the Twilight comment. I didn't want her to think I was trying too hard. It's easy to go from being amusing to being obnoxious.
"Any foods you hate?"
"Nope." There were actually plenty, including 90% of vegetables, but if Abigail made it, I'd choke it down with a smile.
"Perfect. Six-thirty?"
"I'll be there."
"It's building six, apartment 4B."
I had her full address. Things were getting serious. I tended to assume that most women didn't want me to possess such information.
As I walked home, I tried to figure out what to bring. You couldn't go over to somebody's place for dinner and not bring something. Traditionally it might be a bottle of wine, but this was yet another perfectly normal social behavior that I didn't think I could pull off. I looked like somebody who'd make you want to keep an eye on your drink at all times. If she had wine, great. I'd happily gulp down as much as she offered. But I didn't want to hand over a bottle and have her think, "Oh my God, he's trying to get me drunk so he can strangle me!"
I didn't have any condoms. That was something else I most definitely would not bring over, the whole "be prepared" thing be damned. Though it was our third date, the sex date, that traditional rule probably applied to relationships that had moved past the chaste hug stage in the first two dates. My preparation for physical intimacy would be to make sure I shaved in case she gave me a kiss on the cheek.
I could bring dessert, but she might be preparing dessert. I didn't want to buy something inferior to what she'd made, or, worse, something superior to what she'd made.
I wouldn't bring flowers, of course. I remembered that in high school I had a female friend—just a friend—who sold chocolate bars all year to raise money for her church. They were always on her desk. I didn't realize that our friendship was at the "exchanging gifts at Christmas" stage, so I was surprised when she came up to my locker in the morning and gave me a nicely wrapped present, which turned out to be my very own Bible. I told her that her present was still at home and promised to bring it the next day. (I'm sure she knew I didn't have one, but she wasn't the type of person to call others out on their bullshit.) I had no clue what to get her, so I thought and thought and thought and then suddenly, in what my deranged mind believed was a "Eureka!" moment, it occurred to me that, hey, I knew she liked those chocolate bars!
I bought her a six-pack of them. I didn't even choose a different brand, because I knew she liked that particular brand and wasn't sure what she thought of others.
She was extremely gracious about the gift and even sent me a thank-you card. It wasn't until a couple of years later, after I'd graduated high school and moved away, that I reflected upon this moment and it occurred to me that she had to have been sick to death of those things. My present was about as thoughtful as gift-wrapping a turd.
I was dense, but I did tend to learn the lessons from my complete lack of social awareness, and I would not be bringing flowers to the flower lady.
After much deliberation, I settled on buying a thank-you card. I spent a while trying to fin
d one that was funny and appropriate, but the selection wasn't all that great, and I just went with one that had balloons on the front. When I got home I wrote "Thanks for dinner!" on the inside and signed my name.
I watched TV until it was time to get a shower and get dressed. I gave my teeth an extra-long brushing. Looking in the mirror, all cleaned up and wearing a nice shirt, I still couldn't figure out why Abigail didn't repeatedly puke while we were together. Not that I was complaining. Even with my low standards, I wouldn't want a girlfriend who vomited whenever she saw me.
I picked up the card and left my apartment. As I walked out of the building, Marc was standing outside.
"Looking good, my friend!" he said. "Got a hot date?"
"I sure do."
"I won't wait up for you, then."
I laughed and walked to Abigail's place.
six
Her apartment smelled like spaghetti. Is there any better scent for an apartment?
I knew Abigail had cleaned up for my visit because she'd forgotten to put away a broom and dustpan that were leaning against the wall of the kitchen. It was even smaller than my apartment (which meant it was very, very small) but quite a bit nicer. Without even going into the bathroom I knew there would be no rust stains.
I'd envisioned an apartment where her walls were covered with posters for obscure horror flicks, and had that been the case I would have pledged my eternal devotion on the spot. Instead, she seemed to like abstract art, the kind that required talk of symbolism and stuff to fully appreciate. These were posters, not framed paintings, but they definitely gave the walls a classy look.
"Smells great," I said.
"Thank you."
"You're welcome."
I handed her the card, even though I'd planned to wait until after dinner. She tore open the envelope and removed the card. "No cash inside?" she asked, opening the card.
I laughed, and she immediately knew that I knew she was joking. It was a pretty good joke, comparing my thank you card to a birthday card that might contain money. If I hadn't realized she was kidding, I might have been offended by her lack of appreciation for my thoughtful gesture, but we were long past that stage.