Noreen pounded on the window. Her shouting sounded far away through the closed window. “Please, Jared. I’m sorry. I’m so scared. I need someone to talk to.”
He went to the window, pulled back the curtains, and opened it. “How about a psychiatrist?”
“Please. I’ll explain everything.”
He slid the window open. “I need to piss. Go unlock my door and we’ll talk.”
She nodded, her eyes protruding as if her brain were pressing on the backs and they were about to burst out of her skull. She disappeared into the darkness. He pulled on his jeans and a t-shirt, went to the door, and waited. A moment later, he heard the bolt slide. He yanked open the door and stalked across the hallway without looking at her.
He flipped the light switch and slammed the bathroom door. The damaged mirror glared at him. The first time he’d seen that deck hanging out over nothing, he should have realized the precariousness of the situation. He’d known she was wacky, or flat out nuts, and done nothing to get away from her. He wasn’t locked in his room by Noreen’s ridiculous bolt, he was locked there by Alex and her refusal to let him get anywhere near her. He pressed his knuckles to the scratched mirror, wanting to smash his fist into it. All that prevented him was the thought of glass tearing apart his skin.
When he finished using the toilet and washing his hands and face, he opened the door. She was standing right there.
“Don’t ever do anything like that again,” he said.
“I know, I’m sorry. It was an impulse. But you keep sneaking out of the house. And you come home so late. I…”
“Ever given any thought to why that might be?”
“You don’t like me.”
“That’s…”
“You like her.”
He didn’t answer.
“I’ll make coffee. Or tea?”
He shrugged.
“And oatmeal?”
Betraying his desire to be stoic, his stomach growled.
She gave him a weak smile. “See, you’re hungry.”
He followed her to the kitchen. Anger roiled his stomach more than hunger, but he was mildly curious to see what she had to say. He stood near the counter. The tile floor was cold and so unyielding the small bones of his feet ached. He watched as she filled the coffee carafe with water and scooped coarsely ground beans into the filter. He would have preferred tea, an offer she’d clearly forgotten the moment she made it.
When the coffee and oatmeal were on the table, they sat across from each other. Noreen squirted maple syrup into her oatmeal. Jared’s stomach turned over and he pushed away the container of brown sugar after a adding a single teaspoon to his own bowl. He stirred the sugar and oatmeal as he dribbled in a bit of almond milk. Noreen used his almond milk rather than her own carton of cow’s milk, but he didn’t point that out either.
“This isn’t going at all how I’d planned,” she said.
“What do you mean?”
“Our living situation.”
He agreed with her, but her version of what was wrong would be vastly different from his own, far from reality. “It’s not perfect…” He thought of the dead rat. It seemed so long ago, its importance diminished. “The bolt is intolerable. If anything like that happens again, I’m gone.”
She pushed her bowl to the side and rested her forearms on the table. She leaned forward. Her hair fell over her cheekbones and brushed against the edge of the table. “I thought we’d hang out together more.”
“I told you I’m not…”
She held up her hand. “I get it. I’m not stupid. But I still thought, because it’s a small place, because…I don’t know…” Her eyes filled with tears. She wiped them away with the ring finger of each hand. “I’m scared. I need company and I thought we’d eat together, hang out in the evenings, at least some of the time. I realize everyone has their own life, but it’s like we’re staying in a hotel.”
“We have nothing in common. We’re just renting rooms.”
If his use of the plural upset her, she didn’t let on.
“What are you so worried about?” he said.
“Not worried. Scared.”
“Of what?” He wasn’t sure he wanted to know.
“I saw something. It terrified me.”
“What did you see?” He was tired of dragging things out of her. Why couldn’t she get to the point? Had she seen him and Alex? He wasn’t sure how that was possible. Maybe she’d seen one of them enter the other’s room, but that would be all. His bowl was almost empty. “What are you trying to say?”
She sat up and took a long, slow breath. She seemed to hold onto it for a moment. “The mirror. I scratched it up because I saw something, and it scared me.” Her eyes filled again, but she left them alone. “I was cleaning the sink and I looked up and I saw a face…in the mirror.”
He laughed.
She let out a little shriek. “Don’t laugh at me. I need your help. Alexandra won’t help me, she dismisses my feelings, but you seem kind and generous. Maybe there is something to Buddha.” She blinked rapidly. “It wasn’t my face.”
“Whose was it?”
“It only flashed there for a second, so I…”
Did she really expect him to believe she’d seen some kind of apparition? “You’re upset about something and you’re imagining things. If the bathroom was steamed up and your mind was elsewhere and you looked up quickly, you might be startled by your own reflection.”
“You must really think I’m dumb.” She picked up her coffee mug and took a sip.
“I don’t.”
“I saw a woman’s face. More than once. I don’t like being here alone at night. It seems like you and Alex stay out later and later. Especially you, I thought having a man around would be…I don’t know, more comforting.”
“We didn’t rent your rooms to be your bodyguards or your live-in companions. I’m sorry if that’s what you were hoping for. You should have been more clear about it up front.”
“But then you wouldn’t have taken the room.”
“That’s right.”
“So I had to keep that to myself.”
He shoveled two more spoonfuls of oatmeal into his mouth, pushed the bowl to the side, gulped down his coffee, and stood up. “I’m going to head out.”
“You don’t have anything to say?”
“About what?”
“The face…And getting to know each other better. Supporting each other. That’s what communal living is all about.”
“Not what I signed up for.”
“But you’re into all that stuff…meditating and vegetables…”
He thought about his bold statement to Alex — the assertion that living in close quarters with other human beings would develop his awareness of Buddhist principles, keep him rooted in the tangible world while he explored the intangible, the interior universe, through meditation and yoga and lectures from visiting gurus. Now, as his words echoed around inside his head, they sounded arrogant. Somehow he’d thought it would be easy, fun. Living with two women would offer interesting insights into the parts of his personality that needed polishing. He’d imagined cooking together and sharing meals, small conflicts over water usage or musical tastes, and possibly a few spats between the two women that he’d be required to mediate. The garden was supposed to get him in touch with the earth and allow him to impress them with the fresh, healthy food he brought out of the ground. They’d be grateful for the rich taste of naturally grown food, allowed to ripen while it was still attached to the earth, taking in the maximum amount of nutrients from the soil and sun. He hadn’t even gotten around to purchasing seedlings! But in general, he’d assumed they would each go their own way, live separate lives, the time together casual, not fraught with the aching, consuming emotions of intimacy. “If I wanted to live in a commune, I would have looked for one,” he said.
She stared at him.
“I can’t help you with panic attacks that cause hallucinations, or whatever it
is. I was serious earlier — you should see a psychiatrist.”
“That’s not very nice.”
He carried his dishes to the kitchen, rinsed the bowl and mug, and placed them in the dishwasher. “Thanks for the oatmeal. And coffee.”
“I know you prefer tea. I forgot.”
He shook his head rapidly, trying to dislodge the scratchy fuzz of confusion that resulted when she spoke, as if she were engaged in a completely different conversation.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. I’ll see you around.”
“So you have no sympathy that someone might be…haunting me. Or tormenting me?”
“I think any torment you’re dealing with is inside your head.”
“Why don’t we all plan to go out to dinner? The three of us.”
He walked around the table and took a few steps toward his bedroom.
“I’ll set it up,” she said.
It was a mistake to leave it open, but responding would send her reeling off in another direction. He’d deal with it later. Maybe before any dinner plans came to pass, she’d realize she needed to take his advice regarding psychiatric care.
45
Los Angeles
Randy was zoned out, staring into the thick grove of trees surrounding the weather-battered picnic tables where we were seated. I leaned my head against his shoulder and wrapped my arm around his thigh, hugging his leg like a life preserver.
We sat in buzzed silence for quite a while — his buzz. I simply waited, breathing softly as I might if I were stoned. My bones and blood, my stomach and lungs and heart burned with fury when I heard the word whore, so often accompanied by an unconscious sneer. The word is used so easily. Worse, is the frequency with which women use it to refer to women they don’t like, or women who threaten them in some way, however minor. Women who don’t follow someone else’s rules are labeled whores.
It’s not okay for a woman to have sex whenever she wants — that’s whorish behavior. Of course, many would argue, insisting that it’s the acceptance of money for sex that’s the issue. But it’s not. Women who have sex whenever and with whomever they please are called whores or sluts. Men who do the same are called — men. Boys being boys. The irrepressible male sex drive. A woman who does take money for sex is considered the lowest form of human existence, and so the word gets thrown around at anyone who isn’t behaving herself.
The night was getting colder. We hadn’t seen another soul.
There were no lights in this section of the park. A newer, more spacious picnic area had been established near the children’s play structure and swings. The tables where we sat had been there since the sixties. The wood was rotted and stained dark as if it had soaked in the discarded cells of every human being who sat on the benches and ate off the tables. Even people who came to the darker sections of the park to drink or get high didn’t favor this area, despite how well hidden it was. It gave off an atmosphere of decay. It was the type of secluded, overgrown space where you often stumbled across hypodermic needles and limp, wet condoms littering the ground. The possibility of finding a severed hand, maybe an entire corpse, wasn’t out of the question. The trees grew together overhead, obscuring the sky and even in the daylight it was cold and dark. Squirrels rarely darted across the ground and the only birds in the branches above were crows.
“How about that vodka?” Randy said.
My fingers felt as if they’d frozen onto the metal container. I moved it slightly. Ice rattled as I lifted it out of my bag.
“I’m thirsty,” he said.
“You should have brought a sleeping bag.”
He laughed. “How would that help me not be thirsty?”
“So we could get friendly.”
“Oh. Ha. Ha. I’m kind of wasted. Are you gonna give me a drink or not?”
I unscrewed the cap and handed it to him. He took a long swallow and handed it back. I replaced the cap and set the container on the bench between us.
“Aren’t you thirsty?” he mumbled.
“Not really. Maybe later.” I handed the container back to him and stood up. I walked toward the trees.
“Where are you going?”
“Just checking out the area.”
“There’s nothing to see, not to mention it’s impossible to see.” He laughed with a soupy, confused sound as if he’d already forgotten what he was laughing about.
I walked into the grove of trees. Most were pine, the branches high above the ground, too high for me to even brush with my fingertips, much less grab onto and hoist myself up. I walked farther. It smelled damp and musty.
Randy called after me. “Hey! Come back. It’s not safe.”
“Just a sec.” I pulled out my key ring. It had a tiny plastic egg-shaped trinket that shone a red light when it was squeezed. I’d found it a few weeks earlier in the student lounge, stuffed between a cushion and the side of a chair, a broken chain attached to it. It was an ingenious little gadget and somewhat addictive. I squeezed it often, and wondered how it worked, whether the light would eventually die out. So far, it was as strong as ever.
Straight ahead was a barren fruit tree of some kind. All its leaves were gone. There was a huge gnarled bulge near the base of the trunk and another smaller one near the top of the trunk where it split out into two thick branches and several smaller ones. I grabbed the largest branch. Despite the dead appearance of the tree overall, the branch was firm and didn’t give when I lifted my feet off the ground and let it hold my full weight. I climbed onto the bulge and reached up to the other large branch about eight feet off the ground. It too was sturdy. I slid down off the gnarly bulge.
“Alex? Where are you?” Randy’s voice was faint, not because I’d walked far, but because he must have been sipping steadily at the roofie-laced vodka tonic. A guy falling under the influence of a date rape drug — a whore’s revenge.
I put my bag on the ground and pulled out a long, one-inch thick rope. I tossed it over the lower branch and wrapped one piece around the other until I had a tidy noose. I’d studied the proper construction of the knot online at the University library. I stood for a moment, contemplating a suicide note. Finally, I decided it wasn’t worth the effort.
The story that would be inferred from anyone who knew Randy was that Dianne had cast him aside and he’d never gotten over the heartbreak, or the damage to his ego. He’d decided if he couldn’t have her, no one would. It’s a clichéd story, retold many times every year, throughout the world. Once she was dead, he was filled with remorse — for his own loss, not genuine regret over taking her life.
I returned to the picnic table. Randy was lying on the bench facing the sky, his eyes closed. The thermal mug sat on the table. I picked it up. A few sips and most of the ice cubes remained. I stuck it in my bag. I put my hands in his armpits and unceremoniously dragged him off the bench. His feet thudded as they hit the ground.
It took about fifteen minutes to drag his nearly unconscious body to the tree I’d chosen. I was sopping wet under my arms and across the back of my neck and all the way down my spine. I took a sip from the water bottle in my well-stocked bag and walked back to the tables. I grabbed one end of the closest table and began dragging it across the hard-packed dirt, scraping through the pine needles and pieces of bark.
When it was finally in place beneath the noose, I pushed and bent and shoved Randy’s sleeping body until he was back on the bench. I got onto the table top and dragged him up onto it. I looped the noose around his neck and tightened the knot. I sat down to catch my breath. Randy groaned. He tried to speak, but the words sounded like something out of a Furby with a dying battery.
I finished my water, stuffed the bottle in my bag, and stood up. I kissed his very fine lips, but there was no pleasure. They were loose and floppy with unconsciousness. I shoved him as close as I could to the far end of the table then walked around the other side. I rubbed my hands together and took a deep breath. I squatted, grabbed the bar connecting the benches to
the table, and with every ounce of strength I could summon, I yanked the table. As the table crashed toward me, I rolled out of its path. It scraped my arms and one of the bench corners jabbed at my thigh, making me cry out.
When I stood, Randy was where he belonged. He was grunting and gagging, making horrible noises, his feet kicking as they tried to find solid ground, but his eyes remained closed. His body started to shudder and I turned away, offering him the dignity of privacy as he died. Not that he deserved it.
46
Aptos
After sex with Joe, the desire to have Jared in my bed waned. Sex with Jared was decent, very good, in fact. But remembering Joe’s body, thinking about the way he touched me, the charge that came from an equal level of power between us, played a big part in how quickly and thoroughly I came when I was with Jared, rather than Jared himself. The equality I felt with Joe was difficult to explain. I don’t know if it was because we’d started off simply chatting, flirting in a very disconnected manner. Neither one pursued the other. Neither of us wanted something the other couldn’t give or didn’t possess. There was no first move. We were simply two bodies, expressing whatever passed through our minds in that moment. Smoking cigarettes together contributed to the balance of power, as the rhythm of our breathing aligned, as the smoke filled the space between us when our voices fell silent.
It’s impossible to make sense of desire. Much smarter and better educated people than I have tried, and for the most part, failed to gain significant insight.
None of that stopped me from opening my bedroom door when Jared knocked. I no longer went to his room, but he didn’t seem fazed by my lack of pursuit. The hunger in his eyes was ravenous, so out of proportion to mine, I had to look away, embarrassed by his need.
The Woman In the Mirror: (A Psychological Suspense Novel) (Alexandra Mallory Book 1) Page 23