by P. J. Tracy
A little dose of selective fear is a good thing, a necessary thing. You just have to decide when it’s important to be afraid of something, dear girl.
Great advice from Aunt Netta, who’d been a veritable font of axioms. She hadn’t been afraid of much, certainly not her cherished ’57 Thunderbird convertible that had ultimately ended up being her coffin in a bad accident on the 405 on a lovely spring night. As gruesome as it all was, Melody thought that Netta would have been pleased by the way she’d left this world, in her precious, cherry-red buggy, top down, radio blasting, her gray hair flying in the wind right up until the time the semitruck had crashed through the median into oncoming traffic and onto her. Even if the ’57 had been outfitted with airbags and roll bars and every other modern safety feature, it wouldn’t have changed Aunt Netta’s outcome.
Another of her maxims came to mind, that there were two ways out of every trouble, and the right way sometimes isn’t the one you think of first. But there had been no way out of that kind of trouble.
Melody often wondered what her world would look like now if she’d been able to live out her adolescence happily with Aunt Netta instead of getting shunted off to her last known living relative, the sack of shit who Social Services called her father. There was no question it would be much better. She’d definitely be a college graduate by now, a music major; that had been Netta’s dream for her. Maybe she’d even be happily married with a kid or two. That semi hadn’t just taken one life. But at least she still had one, and she wasn’t going to squander it feeling sorry for herself.
Teddy, the caretaker and dilettante gardener, was hacking away at an unruly rosemary hedge in the courtyard. It filled the air with a heady menthol smell that somewhat neutralized the skunkiness of marijuana that perpetually emanated from him. He wore his hair in ratty dreadlocks and was wiry and sun-cured, a piece of human jerky. He could have been as young as thirty or as old as fifty, but Melody suspected he fell somewhere in between. “Hey, Teddy.”
He did a graceful pirouette, shears still held aloft, and gave her a beneficent stoner smile. His eyes were fixed in a permanent squint, but slices of glacial blue peeked out through a brown terrain of wrinkles. “Mellie! What do you know?”
“I know the hedge is looking good.”
“You think so?”
“I do.” She had always wondered how he was able to prune things to perfect symmetry time after time considering his enthusiasm for cannabis, but asking the question would have been unforgivably rude.
“Thanks. I’ve been reading online about this guy who calls himself The Plant Whisperer. He says if you empty your mind and listen closely, the plant tells you what to do. I think there might be something to it. It’s the same with the waves. They tell me what to do, too.”
“That’s a nice philosophy. I have a hard enough time getting animate objects to be honest with me. The wind’s picking up—are you going out?”
“Most definitely. Surf’s supposed to be going off at Zuma.”
“That’s good?”
“It’s great. Hey, if you ever want to try it, they call me the Dalai Lama. I can get a quimby charging in a day or two, no lie.”
Whatever that meant. “Thanks, but I’m a landlubber. I hate sand and the ocean freaks me out. You can’t see what’s underneath you.”
He scratched his jaw thoughtfully. “The men in gray suits, they freak a lot of people out. If it makes you feel any better, I only know one dude who got lunched by one. But he lived, just lost an arm, and he still surfs. The sharks were here first, we have to share.”
Melody gave him a pained smile. She had no intention of sharing a body part with a prehistoric fish. “Yeah, I think I’ll stick to dry land.”
“That’s cool, no pressure.”
She stooped to gather a few fragrant rosemary clippings. “Can I take these?”
“Help yourself. Put some in your tea. It’s good for your liver.”
“My liver could probably use the help. Thanks, Teddy.” She waved goodbye and unlocked her apartment. It wasn’t much, but it was hers. There were polished hardwood floors and fresh paint, and in her humble opinion she’d done a decent job pulling it together on the cheap with flea market bargains and one very long day at the colossal IKEA in Burbank, where she’d spent most of her first paycheck and all her tips from Pearl Club. It was a step in the right direction. Progress.
But for all the progress she’d made in her accommodations and her life, Sam had forced her to acknowledge all the confusing white noise clamoring in her brain. He’d done an excellent job reminding her to listen to that finely tuned inner voice that warned of danger and could sometimes save your life. It was why she’d finally run away from Coachella Valley, why she carried pepper spray, why she had a little snub-nose gun stashed beneath her mattress.
But Ryan had muted that voice with his illusive charm, and now she had a black eye and a decision to make. How could you tell when a dream might become a nightmare?
A little dose of selective fear …
But weren’t there mitigating factors to every risk, even dangerous ones like dating a man of means with an inconsistent temper? Why else would people helicopter ski and base jump and free dive if they didn’t ignore that voice in the interest of something that improved their life?
Her phone kept squawking at her—texts from Ryan, none of which she read—so she turned it off, along with the fierce temptation to see what he had to say. He could stew for a while longer. Maybe he could stew forever, she wasn’t sure.
She went to the kitchen, put the rosemary clippings in a vase, and decided to brew a pot of proper coffee. Not that Sam’s offering hadn’t been kind, but it had tasted awful. As she was filling the carafe at the sink, she noticed her curtains fluttering over the kitchen table like gauzy butterfly wings, taking flight on the breeze. Had she left the window open? She didn’t think so.
She felt the hairs on the back of her neck rise and sting like tiny, gnawing teeth. If somebody had been in her apartment, were they still here? Would she even know since she’d done such a good job of silencing that voice in her head?
“Goddammit,” she hissed, gathering strength and then stalking through the apartment, armed only with pepper spray, refusing to be a prisoner in the only sanctuary she’d ever had.
Her pulse pounded in her ears as she made an exhaustive search of each room, looking for anything out of place—the kitchen, the living room, the bathroom, and finally the bedroom. Her nervous, heavy breath stopped up her throat when she saw the vase of long-stemmed red roses sitting on her dresser, two dozen of them. No note, just the roses, but she knew they were from Ryan, an offering on the altar of absolution.
She felt a brief flush of happiness, then guilt for being such a malleable mark, then all of that was usurped by a creeping anger. Ryan didn’t have a key; her door had been locked, so that meant he’d pried open her kitchen window and climbed in to leave his apology bouquet. There was nothing charming or sweet about that. It was an unforgivable breach of her previously inviolate space. She could never leave her windows unlocked again. He was taking things away one at a time. That was the way it worked.
Abusers are controllers. Abusers are manipulators. Prince Charming gives you a black eye, then breaks into your apartment and leaves you roses. You forgive him, capitulate, and the next time it will be worse.
Her warning system had been reawakened and it growled in the back of her brain, but she decided to keep suppressing it, at least for now. The roses were just too pretty. Live in the moment, appreciate what you have.
And she did, marveling at the twenty-four perfect blooms. She fingered a few of the soft, velvety petals, then shoved her face in the bouquet and sniffed deeply. They didn’t smell like much—she’d read somewhere that you had to sacrifice certain characteristics to hybridize for beauty and durability and get long-stemmed roses like these, and the first to go was fragrance. But she didn’t mind that they were Frankenstein flowers with no scent—she’d ne
ver gotten roses from a boyfriend before, not even a single, cheap stem from a kiosk or a convenience store.
A rap on her front door dispelled the thrall of the roses and her grip tightened on the pepper spray. Fear and paranoia were bedfellows. Once they had you in their command, they didn’t relinquish their dominion easily.
“Mellie, it’s Teddy.”
She sighed in relief, let her shoulders unbunch, then went to the door. A split second before opening it, she pushed down her sunglasses from their perch on her head and covered her black eye.
Teddy was holding an enormous handful of rosemary clippings. “Extras, if you want them. I don’t know how much tea you drink, but it’s good for the bath, too.”
“That’s sweet, Teddy, thank you.”
He swept into a dramatic bow. “At your service.”
She hesitated. “Did you see anybody come into my apartment last night or this morning? Or leave?”
He frowned, creating a rugged corrugation of creases on his forehead. “No way, definitely not. You’ve got a problem?”
“No. Not really.”
“If you have a problem, I’ll help you.”
“It’s nothing, somebody just brought me flowers when I wasn’t home. I’m the only one with a key, so I think they came in through the window.”
His eyes widened in alarm. “You call that nothing? I say that’s some bad juju, girl, and you’re nervous. I can tell. And you should be. I’ll keep a lookout, and you keep that gun of yours loaded. There’s some fucking maniac they’re calling the Monster running around the city. You can’t be too careful.”
“No, you really can’t be too careful.” Melody felt a sudden emptiness in her stomach. Not hunger or hangover but a vague, painful void originating from someplace else. It was the feeling of being alone. “Thanks. Do you want some coffee? Rosemary tea?”
“I’m good, thanks. Hey, do you know somebody with a black Jeep?”
“No. Why?”
“I see one around sometimes. Parks outside. Maybe you have a secret admirer and he brought the flowers.”
Melody’s thoughts stuttered, then stopped. Sam had asked her if Ryan drove a black Jeep. “I don’t know anyone with a black Jeep. Maybe he lives around here.” Or maybe he’s watching you.
Teddy puffed up his narrow chest. “I told you, I’ll keep an eye out. If you need anything, give me a shout, I’m always here unless I’m surfing.”
“Thanks. Stay safe, watch out for the men in gray suits.”
“For sure. And you watch out, too.” He swept into another theatrical bow and went back to the courtyard, his gait swaying a little.
She watched Teddy start on the lemon trees with his pruning saw and clippers, then retreated to her bedroom, turned her phone back on, and picked up the texts from Ryan, which had started early this morning.
I’m so sorry about last night, Mel. Give me a shout.
Mel, call me.
Mel? I’m really sorry, please call me.
Meet me? My place 2 nite?
Mel? I’m SORRY.
There were more, but she didn’t bother reading them. She took a deep breath, then composed a short text back to him.
Thx for the roses. Don’t ever break into my apartment again or I’ll kill you.
She almost pressed send, her finger poised on the key, just a few millimeters away from taking a stand. Time dragged as she stared at the face of her phone and the text bubble that contained all her fury in a few simple words. She knew where the anger came from, but she’d never seen it in print and it was strangely liberating. To hell with it. He’d scared her more than once, he’d hit her, and now it was payback time—even if it was an idle threat made in the heat of the moment. It would probably make him laugh, which humiliated her and made her angrier all at the same time.
Jim the Scrub Jay suddenly appeared at her bedroom window and tapped insistently with his stout beak. He was looking for his morning peanuts. She pressed Send, hoped she wouldn’t regret it, and went to the kitchen to get Jim his breakfast. He was such a funny, resourceful bird—he stuffed his mouth full of peanuts, flew to the sweet gum tree, stashed them in the hollow where the trunk split, and came back for more.
Her phone blatted out a text alert, startling her and Jim, who dropped a big mouthful of peanuts and flew away.
What roses? What are you talking about?
Chapter Eleven
AFTER MELODY LEFT, SAM FINISHED HIS coffee over the obituaries, a ghoulish habit he’d acquired recently, then swallowed some aspirin and walked through the house he and Yuki had purchased with a VA loan. They’d furnished it nicely with a joint account bolstered by her job as a graphic designer and made grand plans for their life together. The den, now a weight room, would become a nursery when they decided to have kids. The unremarkable backyard would be reimagined with plantings and a tiled patio. There would be a grill station, a firepit, and seating for all the guests they’d have over on the weekends. Maybe a pool one day.
There wasn’t an ocean view in this part of Mar Vista, but the house was close enough that you could smell the sea and feel its dampness, especially at night. It was a damn good starter home for West LA and a fine place for a young couple to build a future. That was all before he’d signed up for his second tour.
Yuki had insisted he stay in the house because it was familiar, it was home, and it would help his recovery. But it wasn’t home without her, it was just a house. A roof over his head with an empty refrigerator and a half-empty bed.
He slipped into his running shoes and did a few stretches against a wall, trying not to think of his future, as remote and uncertain as it was. Dr. Frolich had suggested that he might find solace in imagining better things in the coming days and months, but he couldn’t muster a positive vision. He couldn’t muster any vision at all. He wasn’t sure if that was from lack of imagination or fear of it.
At least he could still run. He could run forever. He would take his usual jagged route, side streets off Bundy Drive to Brentwood, then down San Vicente Boulevard to Santa Monica and the ocean, roughly eight miles each way.
The Los Angeles morning was bright and warm, the sky cerulean, smudged with a few streaky clouds. The sun hadn’t quite burned off the marine layer yet—that damp, ocean-borne haze tourists always mistook for smog—and he could feel its weight, its presence as he eased into a jog. He blocked out the sounds of traffic, construction, car alarms, and leaf blowers and focused on the sound of his feet slapping asphalt, his breath echoing in his head. After four miles, his pores opened up and he started sweating, flushing out the toxins from the night before. For the last time. At least that was the plan.
When he got to Brentwood, he cut through the grounds of the West Side Veterans Affairs campus, which seemed appropriate. The lush, three-hundred-plus-acre grounds were home to empty, derelict buildings that ironically hadn’t served veterans in decades. It did serve lots of other interests by leasing storage facilities to movie studios, a baseball stadium to UCLA, an athletic complex to Brentwood School, and a laundry service for hotels. There were vague plans to renovate part of it into housing for the multitude of homeless veterans in LA and eventually provide other services. What a great idea, using VA property to help veterans. Why hadn’t anybody thought of that before?
On San Vicente, he paused to drink some water and catch his breath under the exotic umbrella of a coral tree, a subtropical transplant in a city filled with transplants, both botanical and human. Sweat was now coursing freely down his face, painting dark splatters on his Army shirt. He was almost to the ocean. He did have a future after all—make it to the ocean.
Several joggers bobbed in place at the crosswalk, waiting for the light to change. An underweight young brunette in hip, expensive workout wear glanced at him, then did a double take. He got that a lot. There weren’t many people walking around with two faces.
Then again, she might not have even noticed. She could simply be aghast at his comparatively ghetto running atti
re and the unseemly amount of perspiration he was producing. He occasionally saw a fair athlete on his runs, but the majority of them were dabblers who didn’t work hard enough to sweat much because they weren’t conditioning for survival, they were conditioning for vanity. The real agenda here transcended physical fitness, and the superficial mattered most. San Vicente Boulevard and adjoining Adelaide Drive were picturesque meat markets abundantly stocked with prime cuts. And in their world, he was probably offal.
The woman looked vaguely familiar, but that didn’t mean anything. Sometimes every stranger looked familiar to him, and sometimes everybody he knew looked like a stranger. And it was Los Angeles—she could easily be an actress he’d seen on TV.
She gave him a tentative smile, then her aggressively groomed brows furrowed in concern. “Are you okay?”
Sam suddenly felt his strong legs start to wobble and weaken and he let himself sag to the base of the tree as squiggly red lines started to dance in front of his eyes and across the woman’s forehead.
It’s important not to panic when these things manifest, Sam. Try to breathe through it. Brains heal, but it’s a process.
Easy for you to say, Dr. Frolich. “I’m fine, thanks. Overdid it is all,” he lied.
“Are you sure?”
“I’m sure…” his peripheral vision started to blur as the red lines morphed, writhing into letters. That had never happened before. He watched in fascination as a word formed on her smooth forehead, like it had been seared there with a branding iron: Accident.
“Katy, come on!” The impatient voice of one of her running pals.
“I’m okay, go,” he reassured her, then closed his eyes, focused on the rhythm of his heart. The red word eventually pixilated and disappeared into a fine, sparkling dust. When he opened his eyes again, Katy and her fit, fashionable, impatient friends were gone, replaced by a lone male jogger who was glancing at him warily. Just another crazy, freaking out under a tree in a Brentwood median—it happens every day, his expression said.