The Woman

by Jack Ketchum

  You and I will have a little talk about this, he thinks. We’re not done yet.

  He shambles toward the stairs.

  EIGHT

  I’m losing them again, she thought. Hell, if I didn’t have my looks I’d lose them even more. How can almost an entire classroom go sullen on you? How did you make geometry into something bigger and more important than simple chalk figures on a blackboard?

  It had been bigger and more important for her when she was their age. As a teenager Genevieve Raton had looked at another blackboard in another town and saw the positions of the stars and planets, crop circles, the pyramids of Egypt, the topology of a mountain range. The straight-edge for her held the principle of order. From the compass flowed grace, symmetry, even mystery.

  Teaching was probably just not rooted in her blood though, she thought. Descartes was. Physics was. But why should that make all the difference? It hadn’t to her. Her own high school teacher was no genius at teaching. It was the subject that hooked her, not the man. Mr. Boorman always had yellow sweat stains circling the armpits of his starched white shirt, for god’s sake.

  At least she had her youth going for her. It was only her second year at this, still pretty much fresh out of college. So the kids could relate to her a bit on a personal level. And the boys could relate to the fact that she was pretty.

  They just couldn’t relate to geometry.

  Apathy abounded.

  She sighed and immediately regretted it. You had to be upbeat with kids no matter what.

  “Okay, so who can tell me what a scalene triangle is?”

  “Three unequal sides!”

  That was Jack. Jack again. Her single truly attentive geometry student — who couldn’t help but blurt it out. Thus making him immediately the object of major scorn from the rest of the class. Brownie.

  “That’s right. But didn’t we forget to raise our hand on that one, Jack?”

  “Sorry, Miss Raton.”

  But he wasn’t. The little guy was grinning. A bit embarrassed by his own enthusiasm, maybe, but not sorry. In a way she had to admire his pluck. The courage of a true nerd, born and raised. It didn’t seem to bother him at all that Eric Durdaller was snickering at him one desk behind.

  Eric and his buddy Gary Franck seemed interested in one thing only in her class.

  Her tits.

  “All right. What other kinds of triangles are there? Name them for me.”

  Silence. Vast and deep. Only Jack’s hand in the air. Come on you guys, you know this!

  There was no way she was going to Jack for an answer. Maybe Peggy Cleek, she thought. Peggy had started off the year as one of her best students. But she’d fallen off considerably since. She still had her good days but now, you never knew.

  She walked the aisle. Caught Tommy Barstow staring at her legs.

  Peg seemed to be doodling in her notebook.

  “Peggy? Taking copious notes, as usual, right?”

  She was going for a wry tone here, not a mean one. But she wasn’t entirely sure she’d pulled it off. It had been an exasperating day so far. She was having a lot of them. And the look on Peggy’s face was almost pained. An overreaction, she thought, in any case, even if she did sound a little mean.

  “Ummm….just some notes, yeah…”

  “So, what other kinds of triangles are there, Peggy?”

  She looked around as though the answer were written on the walls somewhere.

  “Scalene?”

  And Genevieve guessed that the rest of the class had been paying more attention than Peggy had at least because that drew a pretty good laugh. Peggy flushed. Then clutched her stomach. Dear god, she thought, is this girl going to get sick in my classroom? Over a triangle?

  “Please. May I be…?”

  “Yes, Peggy, you may. Sure.”

  The girl was out of her seat and out the door in a matter of seconds.

  And then the whole class fell hushed for a moment. All you could hear was the door slamming rattling the glass window and then the uncomfortable shuffle of feet. What was going on here? She’d guessed menstrual pains at first. Now she wasn’t sure. Did the class know something she didn’t know?

  It was Jack who broke the silence.

  “Isosceles. And equilateral. Right?”

  “Right, Jack.”

  As she walked back to the blackboard past his desk she was tempted to pat him on the head like the good little doggie he was. She resisted that temptation.

  ~ * ~

  When the class broke for recess Peggy still hadn’t come back from the girls’ room. Genevieve went to her desk and opened her folder, flipped a few pages. Notes, doodles, the usual. She stopped at a drawing. It was not a bad rendering. Done in black felt-tip pen. A small house, like a dollhouse — but empty — within a small, equally empty room. Something canted in the angles of each.

  She closed it just as Peggy came in, head down, hands shoved into the pockets of her oversized hoodie.

  “You okay, sweetie?”

  “Yeah. I just need to get my stuff.”

  She watched the girl gather up her folder and her books and backpack and thought no you’re not. You’re not okay at all.

  You, Peggy Cleek, bear watching.

  ~ * ~

  Brian was tired of shooting these damn hoops. Despite what his father might think he wasn’t tall enough or fast enough to be really good at the game no matter how long and lean he’d gotten or how many free throws he landed. Nor would he ever be. His competition on the playground was proof of that if he ever needed any. He drifted over to the tetherball pole. A game in progress.

  Cyndi was hitting clockwise and Walter counter-clockwise. A bunch of kids were hanging around watching. Walter was easily a foot and a half taller than she was, but Cyndi was a tiger at competition and practically a grasshopper at jumping. Tiger and grasshopper. Kung fu tetherball? At first Walter looked to have the advantage, lazily and confidently using his height to fist-pop one over her head. But it wasn’t too long before Cyndi got under the ball and stayed there. And soon she was whipping his ass easily. Outmaneuvering him every time. The girls were giggling. The boys were split — about half of them cheering her on and the other half solemn.

  Their macho at stake along with Walter’s.

  Meanwhile Cyndi kept pounding the ball toward the sky while Walter stumbled around flustered missing most of what she was whacking at him and minutes later it was over. The ball clunked against the pole and wound down.

  Cyndi had barely broken a sweat. Walter looked bushed. He slunk away to the water fountain.

  This was the same kid who used to call him chubs in the second grade, the same kid who gave him a bloody nose in the third. Brian felt no pity.

  “Who’s next?” she said.

  “Me,” said Brian.

  Why not? It didn’t look like any of the other guys were going to risk it.

  “Your win, your serve,” he said and stepped to his side of the pole.

  At first he thought he had her. He returned, she returned, he returned again. She hit a good one over his head but he stepped in and slapped it, fast, and damn near hit her in the face. He wouldn’t have exactly wanted to do that but he wouldn’t have minded either. But she ducked just in time. And Cyndi was nothing if not agile. She waited for the next go-round and then started slamming it, darting all over the place and pretty soon he was helpless.

  Thunk.

  “Damn, you’re good.”

  She smiled. “Why thank you, Mr. Cleek.”

  He smiled back at her. “My father’s Mr. Cleek. I’m Brian, remember?”

  “Why thank you, Brian.”

  He turned and threw her a little wave as he walked away. Cyndi liked him. Had for a while. He could practically feel her eyes on his back.

  As for him, he was probably as pissed off as Walter was. Maybe more so. But he wasn’t about to show it. No way. Let her think he’s cool with it. Hey, you lose one every now and then. No problem.

  He w
alked into his empty classroom and at his desk pulled out his backpack and from it, his pack of Trident Wild Blueberry Twist gum. Unwrapped a stick and chewed it awhile until the flavor began to fade. Then he walked over to Cyndi’s desk right beside his where she’d left her oversized Hello Kitty purse. He unzipped it and found her hairbrush and worked the gum deep into the bristles, pressing it flat with his thumb. Returned the brush to the purse and zipped it up again.

  Cyndi was no Lady GaGa in the put-together department but she’d be sweaty and tangled when she returned from recess and she was vain about her pretty long blonde hair.

  He went outside again and watched the basketball game a while until the bell rang. The class filed in. Feet scuffling the floor, the scrape of chairs.

  Cyndi flashed him a smile as she sat and sure enough, unzipped her purse and took out her compact and hairbrush.

  He got her on the first brisk stroke.

  “Owwww!”

  The brush wasn’t exactly stuck there but to get it out she was going to lose some hair.

  “Cyndi?

  “There’s like, glue or something in my…”

  “Hang on a minute.”

  He got up and walked over, bent in close to her hair and checked it out.

  “Gum,” he said.

  He stood. Looked at Walter seated with his jock buddies way in back.

  “Dude,” he said. “A girl beats you at tetherball and you…”

  He shook his head.

  Walter just stared up at him, clueless. Half the girls in class crucified the poor guy right then and there.

  “Lemme see if I can…”

  He took the brush in both hands and gently moved it side to side.

  “Owww! That hurts!”

  “Jeez, Cyndi. I’m sorry.”

  “It‘s okay. I‘ll do it. Thanks for trying.”

  She looked up at him and he could see that she bought it. That concerned look he had. He could do that look for anybody. His father. His mother. Anybody.

  She took a breath and pulled it free.

  “Damn! Damndamndamn!”

  Yeah, a very nice chunk of wispy blonde hair.

  NINE

  She wakes to the taste of blood in her mouth. Her own now. She licks her lips. They’re dry and cracked and sore. Her head is pounding. She stands. It hurts to stand. There is something pressing into the center of her back, pushing her forward. A ledge of polished wood. She adjusts herself as best she can to accommodate it to the long muscles of her back, taking pressure off her spine. Her eyes have adjusted to the meager shaft of light knifing through the bottom of the doorway so that when she looks above her head she can see that in her suspension her hands have turned a dark purple. She works her fingers together and apart and slowly the feeling returns to them so that they pulse with ache.

  She takes in her surroundings. Stone walls, glistening damp. A long narrow room with stairs directly opposite her leading up to a wooden door. Out of her reach to her left, wooden ledges like the one pressing into her back. Glass jars upon them — and inside the jars, food. She sees tomatoes, greens, and bright red and yellow jars of what she knows to be sweets. Her mouth begins to water. The taste of blood runs thin now.

  Between her feet the man has left a large yellow bowl. She knows what this is. This is to collect her piss and shit.

  Across the room she sees an old trunk, a wagon, metal traps for small game, hammers, tools, a saw. Should she find a way to free herself these last items can be of use to her. She hears dogs barking in the distance. It is impossible to know how far away.

  She hears metal scrape on wood, metal on metal. The door is flung open. Daylight floods the room, for a moment blinding her. The man stands at the top of the stairs. He pauses. There is something in his hand. In the wash of bright afternoon light she cannot see what it is. Only that it is small and pointed in her direction. Then her eyes adjust as he descends the stairs.

  ~ * ~

  Cleek walks to within three feet of her and stops.

  “So you like to bite?” he says.

  He waves his bandaged finger in front of her eyes.

  The woman just stares at him. He remembers that he has never liked a cat’s stare. A cat will look you in the eyes just as it’s about to spring.

  “You can’t understand a word I’m saying, can you. I get that. But I can damn sure make you understand who’s in charge here.”

  And then she does spring. Maybe a whole six inches before the cable clamps on her wrists stop her dead. He thinks, that’s gotta hurt.

  He slips the Springfield .45 pistol into the front of his jeans and takes the Peltor hunting earmuffs out of his back pocket. When he puts them on his voice is coming at him from a distance. He likes the sound of it. His voice like in a dream.

  “I’ve got kids to raise around here, lady, and disobedience is not something I want them to witness. They’re very good kids and I would very much like to introduce them to you. But if you’re not going to be nice, if you’re going to be disobedient, well, I can’t do that, now can I.”

  All he gets is that cold stare. Those scary eyes. But he’s not afraid of her now. He’s seen what she can do and from where he’s standing, it ain’t much.

  “Plus,” he says, “I need to feel better about losing my finger.”

  He takes out the .45 and shows it to her. Puts it right up in her face. Clicks off the safety.

  “Ever see one of these?”

  She has. Those hard eyes widen for a moment. Her head rolls away to the side.

  “Makes a loud sound, right?”

  He jumps at her.

  “Boom!”

  She doesn’t react. Just stares again.

  “Makes an even louder sound in a tight space. I’ll show you. But first I need a backstop. No ricochets.”

  There’s a three-foot length of 6x6 raw lumber leaning against the wall. He puts the gun to her cheek so she won’t get any more biting ideas and sets the block on the shelf behind her, standing it up lengthwise so that now there’s about eight inches of wood in back of her shoulder just next to her left ear.

  He takes two steps back, aims, and as the woman closes her eyes against what she thinks is coming, he shifts his aim left to the wood and fires.

  Even with the earmuffs on it’s a huge sound in that cellar. Wood splinters and flies. The woman screams. The scream turns into a roar. Her head trembles from the concussion then rocks from side to side. He pulls off the earmuffs and stuffs them in his pocket.

  She’s moaning. She opens and closes her mouth over and over like a fish gasping for breath on dry land. Blood seeps over her jaw and trickles down her neck.

  He’s blown out her eardrum.

  And that’ll teach you to bite, now won‘t it, he thinks.

  The eyes open. He reads both pain and anger there. But mostly pain.

  “I feel better about my finger now,” he tells her.

  He smiles. Actually the pain is not too bad by now. Seven hundred fifty milligrams of Vicodin has helped a lot.

  “I’ll be back in little a while. With the wife and kids. And you be nice, or…”

  He raises the gun, points it at her other ear, meaning to tell her that he can blow out that eardrum too but she misreads him, begins to struggle violently against the clamps and she’s howling again, throwing herself back against the shelving and forward against the clamps. All hell is breaking loose down here.

  He lowers the weapon.

  She quiets immediately.

  Good girl, he thinks. See? You can learn.

  He heads for the stairs but something stops him. The quiet. It seems suddenly unnatural after all that commotion. He glances back over his shoulder. The woman is as still as a statue.

  Watching him.

  ~ * ~

  In the dark she tilts her head to let the blood drain out of her ear. The dark is roaring at her like storm-waves against the shore and she thinks of those waves and that shore and wonders how far away they are from where she stand
s now and if she will ever see them again or if she will simply die trying.

  It will be one or the other.

  And soon.

  TEN

  Sometimes Chris thinks that it’s all about food — home and family are.

  He works in order to put food on the table. In the mornings Belle will have breakfast ready when the kids get up and an hour after that, their lunches packed for school. When he comes home from work there’ll be food by six o‘clock. The house always smells of food. Or baking. Belle hasn’t inherited much from her parents’ freak accident — her father sober, always sober, but the highway slick with icy rain — but she’s inherited her mother’s talent for baking. Cornbread. Banana bread. Cakes and pies.

  She’d come in third in last year’s county fair with the blueberry.

  Today it’s the cornbread. He can smell it riding high over the pot roast as soon as he walks in the door. He loves Belle’s cornbread.

  Brian is sprawled on the sofa watching some old Clint Eastwood movie on the 42” flat screen. Chris pops the clip in the Springfield and hands it to him.

  “One shy,” he says.

  “I heard. Whatcha shootin’ at, Pop?”

  “You’ll see.”

  He watches the movie for a minute. Eastwood is preparing a prison break. Brian goes to the cabinet, pulls out the box of shells and puts a fresh shell in the clip, then hands it back to him. He inserts the clip, safeties the weapon and stuffs it back into his jeans. He walks into the kitchen. And there on the table is the cornbread. He doesn’t know how Peggy and Darlin’ have resisted it, sitting right there in front of them. Peg is helping her sister with some sort of puzzle. He isn’t even about to try to resist. He lifts up a square and bites.

  Warm, delicious.

  “You’ll spoil your dinner,” Belle says. She’s stirring the gravy in the pot roast.

  “Not a chance,” he says.

  “You say that now.”

  “I certainly do.”

  He sees her glance at his finger again, the gauze and pads brown at the tip. He’s already been through the questions with her and the kids and told them basically nothing. I had a little accident with a new project of mine. No big deal. Luckily nobody has been around to actually see the damn thing while he treated it. They’re women after all. He wouldn’t have been surprised if one of them had fainted dead away.