Under The Blade

by Serafini, Matt

  The road bent to the right, leading into the town proper. A grassy park centered by a giant white gazebo split traffic into two ways, incoming to the right and outgoing to the left. A two-story middle school evoked a quaint academic feeling with its perfectly groomed lawn and rows of loaded bike racks.

  She passed a local credit union that looked jockeyed by female retirees, a post office with white sandblasted steps and gleaming titanium railings, a pizza and sub place called THE SHACK, and a general store simply called EARL’S.

  On the left, a tiny strip mall of local businesses was anchored by a used book swap. The walkway up to city hall was lined with circular stone slabs nestled in between waist-high shrubbery. The library was tiny, and looked all but abandoned. Beside it, an Italian restaurant boasted about being family-run for five generations. A few homes sat scattered throughout, all of them updated to vinyl siding and satellite dishes.

  Forest Grove had grown since her last visit.

  Then she saw the sign. At the outskirts of town, staked into the ground and isolated from everything else. Somewhat faded, slightly crooked, and somehow perfectly readable: CAMP FOREST GROVE: 5 MILES.

  Melanie stared at it through wide eyes. A lake zigzagged through a painted canopy of trees, leading to a log cabin that was bathed in an overly orange-y glow of sunshine. Graffiti looked to have been whited out and painted over a few times. One of them, a nice place to die, was a visible scar beneath a hastily brushed-on crown of hemlock leaves.

  Panic took her as that night came screaming back. Again. The multiple gashes that had torn Jennifer’s neck open, the wide-eyed realization of imminent death etched in Lindsey’s eyes—

  Stop it.

  But she couldn’t. Unpleasant memories assaulted her from every recess of her mind: the swarm of mosquitoes as she pushed the canoes into Lake Forest Grove, Hoyt’s repulsive odor, and his coarse skin on her fingertips as she tried fighting him off. His blood on her hands and inside her body when she swallowed it.

  I never saw that bastard die.

  Yes, he was dead. That’s what they said, at least. But she hadn’t seen it.

  Drenched in sweat, Melanie decided she’d had enough of a workout for today and did a U-turn, crossing the street and jogging back the other way.

  It was close to three by the time she got back to Desiree’s. She stumbled in and climbed up to her room on wobbly knees, heading directly to the bathroom and cranking the tub’s hot water. Her clothes were drenched and sweaty as she pulled them off, leaving a scattered trail across the floor. Desiree had stocked an assortment of bubble baths and oils in the cabinet, and Melanie could hardly believe her dumb luck. This was far too high maintenance for a country bumpkin-y bed and breakfast. And yet, here it was.

  When piping hot steam was lifting up off the water, she slipped beneath the bubbly foam and cradled her neck into the padded crevice. She arched her back and stretched her legs outward, kicking up a puff of foamy soap while resting the balls of her heels against the bath’s rim. Then she draped a moist facecloth over her eyes and tried desperately to starve off the enduring panic attack.

  An hour slipped past, possibly more. When she climbed out, her fingers looked like raisins, but her breathing was regulated and her muscles had loosened. She toweled off and lathered her body in moisturizer, walking over to the closet and deciding on a tank top and sweats to cover goosebumped flesh.

  She climbed onto the bed and folded her legs Indian-style in front of her laptop. The words didn’t come easy, but she jotted the stream-of-consciousness blather down anyway—an effort to capture every thought that had spilled from her during this afternoon’s flashback series.

  Desiree’s knock yanked her out of the rabbit hole of despair that she was documenting, saying something about dinner. It didn’t fully register, and Melanie just wanted to get back to her notes, agreeing to be downstairs at 5:30 to help set the dinner table.

  Once she was certain the old woman had again made it down the stairwell, she returned her attention to the memoir. Everything on the page now felt distant and foreign, as if she had written none of it. The moment had passed for the night, but this was a good enough start. The whole book didn’t need to be planned out during this trip. This was about jogging her memory, and she’d done enough of that for one day.

  Pushing her work off to the bed’s edge, Melanie got up and collected her scattered clothes off the floor when her eyes widened and her heart jumped into her throat.

  In front of the door, on the linoleum, she was staring at the outline of a naked and watery footprint.

  ***

  Brady hadn’t planned on being home this early.

  Judging by Trish’s reaction, she hadn’t planned for it either. Her green eyes flecked with traces of hazel, watched him with something approaching disdain. She wasn’t planning on him being here, and looked like she wanted it even less.

  “Hi.” Brady smirked and unbuttoned his uniform, tugging at the sweltering cotton tee beneath.

  She came up through the cellar door wearing an old Cure t-shirt that exposed her colorless midriff with every movement, and tiny sweat shorts hung lopsided off her waist. With arms folded across her chest and her head tilted to the side, she said, “I didn’t make supper. Not after your text.”

  “Wasn’t expecting you to.” Brady moved to kiss her and it was like planting lips on a marble slab. “I don’t know what kind of hours I’m keeping these days. I thought I’d be later, but Donnelley decided he’d rather shuffle papers than go to his kid’s year-end musical. But hey, whatever gets me home by eight. Anyway, how was your day?”

  “A waste.”

  “Sorry. What were you doing down there? Unpacking?”

  “Sort of. I was looking for something. My, uh, yearbook.”

  “Nostalgic for an old boyfriend?”

  “Not funny.” A look that chilled.

  “I know.” Brady knew better than to poke her when she was upset, but sometimes he couldn’t resist. Yesterday’s blackout was worrisome, and Trish took to lectures like cats took to discipline, so he couldn’t force the issue. There was no choice but to take her at her word when she said she wasn’t using again. Teasing was how he diffused the tension between them.

  Even if he suspected that she might be using again.

  He called the hospital this morning but they still didn’t have the damn toxicology report back. It was hard to believe that they wouldn’t find something in her system to explain the blackout, and also her skittishness.

  Or maybe you can give your wife the benefit of the doubt.

  Cynicism was a side effect in this line of work.

  “What’s in the yearbook, anyway?” He thought it best to come at this from a different angle. “I’d like to see it, you know. Considering that I’ve never seen your graduation photo.”

  “And you never will.” The corners of her mouth hinted at a bashful grin. “There’s nothing in it, save for some memories that I’d long forgotten.”

  “Does this mean you’re warming to the idea of being here?”

  Her laugh was spiteful, the smirk was gone, and her eyes offered a non-verbal way of telling him to fuck off.

  Brady inched past her with his arms up. Touching her now might illicit one of those buzzes like in the game of Operation, and he’d had enough grief for one day.

  She headed back for the cellar.

  “Hey,” he called.

  She cocked her head sideways.

  “I haven’t seen you in a few days. Was hoping that we could maybe spend the night doing something.”

  “Like what?”

  “Whatever you want.”

  “I want to get unpacked.”

  “Okay,” Brady said and shrugged his shoulders. That sounded like a terrible thing to do after twelve hours on the job, but he wanted to spend some time with her. “Let’s do that.”

  “I’ll do it,” she said, “alone.”

  Brady didn’t know what to say. Trish had been distant—an
noyed—since the move. This wasn’t something that she wanted, and he had sort of forced it on her. But after yesterday’s incident in the forest, he was starting to think that something else was wrong—something that went beyond a small town allergy.

  He had hoped that her negative attitude would recede once they got into the swing of things. Admittedly, there was still a bit of an old world element in the grove. Some of the townspeople could barely handle the idea that Scott Bishop was running the general store now, expanding the beer and alcohol section beyond what Earl had ever envisioned. A gateway to debauchery, obviously.

  Brady wasn’t crazy about the fact that his neighbors called to register a noise complaint on their first full day of residence. Trish’s taste in music was questionable, most of her bands were obnoxious and tone-deaf, but she’d been blasting it in the middle of the day when she was well within her right to do so. He’d forced her to turn it down as a show of solidarity—even if meant they shouldn’t hold their breaths for an invite to the next Brady BBQ.

  Yes, there were some setbacks here, but nothing they couldn’t adjust to. He just needed Trish to fight for it, and not against. She shut down at nearly every conversation, from yard work, dinner plans, or God forbid, eventual children.

  “Why don’t I help you out?” he said.

  Trish smiled and her eyes softened, revealing a glimpse of the woman he’d fallen in love with. “I don’t think so. I’ll unpack a few boxes and that will make me feel better. I don’t need your brawn to help me bring anything upstairs.”

  He brushed the sarcasm off. Her independence had been an accelerant to their romantic blaze back when she was waitressing at an Irish dive pub in lower Manhattan. Brady used to go there at the end of his patrolman’s shift, compelled by a thirst for cheap pitchers and endless mozzarella sticks.

  “This should help destroy that physique” were the first words she’d spoken as she plopped a greasy plate down before him. Only the corners of her mouth hinted at a smile, and Brady knew instantly that he liked her. She wasn’t his type, and he obviously was not hers, but polarity could be a powerful thing. Her jet-black hair was cropped short, and bangs curled down over a few inches of forehead. Tiny ears poked out beneath her hair, and were just awkward enough to be an adorable characteristic. The girl might’ve been a vampire—with chalky white skin, black nail polish and matching lipstick—but damn if she didn’t rock the look. Her jeans were torn, and Brady could see dark lace underwear when the shreds moved just right.

  He watched her that night, seeing flashes of quick-wit and confidence that built into a serious attraction—untoward compliments broke upon her like ships on lighthouse rocks. You didn’t get through to Trish Sleighton unless she let you in.

  He dropped into a kitchen chair with a sigh and fumbled with the home-stitched placemat. “My men are still behaving like a bunch of supermarket bagboys. Fine to my face, but every time I turn my back, it’s open season.”

  “Dad says you gotta put the fear of God into them.”

  “Took away their Sunday football-watching privileges, isn’t that worse? Got Steve Maylam working Monday nights, too. Effective immediately and until football season ends. I feel like that’s a good start.”

  “I like Maylam’s wife. Missy is the only person I’d call a friend in this wonderful little berg. The only desperate housewife I know who’ll talk David Lynch instead of potato salad recipes.”

  “When’d you talk to your dad, anyway?”

  “He came by the house today. Told me that you’ve got to be more like him, and that people are starting to wonder about us.”

  “That guy…”

  “…got you a job.”

  “And so I’ve got be his clone?”

  “No. I actually told him that was absurd. You know how he is, though. Hates to see things change. Doesn’t know what he should be doing now that he’s out of the picture. If anything, you’re sweet to let him come around and help out as much as you do.”

  “There’s a lot of ebb and flow to get used to. He just wants to make sure that he leaves his town in good hands. And I don’t worry about him. I worry about you.”

  “You’re such a dork.”

  “And you’re rusty. Girl I fell in love with would’ve told me to worry about my cholesterol instead, and then send me packing.”

  “Yeah, well you kind of live here so I can’t exactly throw you out.”

  “When you’re in a mood there’s no getting through to you.”

  Trish came around the table and clasped her smooth hands over his shoulders. “I know I’m a terrible wife, okay? Selfish. Bitchy. Probably a little conceited, too. And I know you’re having issues at the new gig. But you wanted this. I’m trying to be patient, and I’m waiting for things to click.”

  “Maybe that’s the problem. You’re sitting around waiting for life to make sense instead of doing something about it.”

  “It’s not easy, Nate. You know what you want and you have it. But me? I’m a long way from chic bars, gallery exhibits, and indie movies. This place sucks for me.”

  “You know what sucks? When your career goes so far south that your wife’s father has to pull strings to land you a job. We agreed that this was the best option for us—as a family. There’s upward mobility in this, a lot more than in private security consulting.”

  “Not as much money, though.”

  Brady felt his anger boiling. Trish kept cutting wherever she could. And once his wounds were open, she was ready with the salt. “Dammit. Again? Do I really have to explain why I want to stay in law enforcement as opposed to consulting?”

  “Sorry I brought it up,” Trish threw her arms up on her way back down into the basement. “You definitely do not have to remind me…of anything. Why don’t you trot back out on those mean streets and let me get some fucking work done.”

  “Work? Ha!” he screamed out as the door slammed. Her footsteps froze just beyond the door, and he knew at once that he’d touched a nerve. If she was hurt at all, he was glad for it. Trish wasn’t curing cancer in that cellar; instead, she was finding out that she wasn’t in her twenties anymore, learning that there was more to life than some fucking social scene.

  Brady’s momentary triumph reshuffled and turned to guilt. That was a card he never intended to play. This move hadn’t been easy on her, but she didn’t understand how good they had it: a great house, fantastic job security and most importantly, a great place to start a family. Country living at its finest. Good schools. Safe neighborhoods. A strong sense of community. Forest Grove had it all and he served its citizens with pride. Yeah, they were a little too old-fashioned in some respects, but the world was changing and that wouldn’t last forever.

  Brady’s stomach rumbled with the expectancy of dinner. He’d be supporting one of the local places tonight. Loved the huge slices at Walt’s Pizzeria, but they were all he ever ate. Tonight felt like a good night for a steak tips sub, or maybe a Mexican cheesesteak since all his guys raved about it.

  And maybe another ride through town after that. He was still trying to get a sense of routine in the grove. Who should be where and at what time. Learning that meant it would be easier to spot things out of the ordinary.

  Brady got up to leave, thought about telling Trish where he was going and decided against it.

  She doesn’t give a shit, he thought.

  And left without another word.

  ***

  Marcy was feeling good. Better than good, actually. Her head swam with so much Kentucky bourbon that even wrong decisions felt like the right ones. Like leaving the bar with two guys because she couldn’t make up her mind. And then agreeing to go for a ride.

  Vince was driving. The sideways glances he threw in her direction were absolutely ravenous, but he stayed quiet and kept his eyes on the road. He’d been doing shots of Kettle One all night, but assured her that he could keep his shit together on the road no matter how much he had to drink.

  “Everyone’s good at something,�
�� he’d smirked. “I’m the world’s greatest drunk driver.”

  The absurdity of that statement might not have charmed her under normal circumstances. Even now, she recognized it as completely irresponsible and asinine, but her alcohol-soaked skull seemed to giggle at everything Vince had to say. That he’d slipped his shirt off at her request probably had a little something to do with that, too. Only time she took her eyes off his chiseled swimmer’s physique was to make sure Caleb remained as interested as Vince. He sat in the back—his arms sprawled out across the seat tops like the Audi was a lounge. He watched her silently from the shadows with narrow eyes and a wolfish grin.

  I’m totally going to let both of them have me at once. The thought of it alone made her thighs moist. All that attention on her and her alone. Two men competing for her affections. Both of them trying to provoke the bigger reaction. They looked ready to bring their A games and so it was only fair she brought hers too.

  “Tell me again,” her words sound like mush. “Why we’re driving all the way out here when we could’ve gone back to Caleb’s empty dorm. We might’ve been having fun already.”

  “We used to come out here all the time in high school,” Vince said. “All the local kids did. Some old campground. We can do whatever we want out there and we don’t have to worry about…interruptions.”

  Interruptions. Like girlfriends. These idiots shouldn’t flatter themselves. Marcy had her own complicated relationship waiting for her back at school. And if Kev wasn’t such a sleazebag, she wouldn’t have gone trolling for revenge sex tonight. The scrub thought she wouldn’t find out that he’d been banging all his co-workers at the video store. She figured this would be enough payback for them to call it even.

  “Here’s the turnoff,” Vince said, squinting through the pitch darkness outside the car’s headlights. “Just a quick hike from here.”

  “An old camp?” Marcy said, airing her displeasure.

  “Better than a hotel. And don’t worry, there’s beds.” Caleb said, as if that made it preferable.

  Vince pulled the Audi onto the dirt turnoff and killed the engine. Marcy got out on her side and instantly slipped a palm over the stiffened bulge in Caleb’s shorts. “We could walk all that way.”