Watch Me

by Jody Gehrman

  It’s far from extravagant. That’s because it doesn’t need to be. There is nothing I need to do here except prepare for my life with you. I’ve always known you’d never see this place—Jesus, the very idea makes me squirm. I retreat here only to sleep and eat and write and make myself ready for my next encounter with you.

  Today, though, not even my grimy studio can get me down. Today, it’s a priest’s cell, a place of worship. Last night—less than sixteen hours ago—I kissed you. Because of that, wherever I go, I’m in nirvana. This stinky little hovel is the Sistine Chapel.

  With trembling fingers, I work the combination on the padlock securing my steamer trunk. The Vault of Kate. I got this box at a pawnshop in Iowa five years ago, right after I read Pay Dirt. For a few months, that was the only thing in there—my dog-eared copy of your first book. Slowly, I started adding to my treasures. An article about women crime writers from The Chicago Tribune. It only had half a paragraph about you, but I clipped it out carefully, anyway. A review of Pay Dirt from The Boston Globe, another from The San Francisco Chronicle. I added a copy of Hidden Depths when it came out, more out of loyalty than any love of the book itself. I printed out some images of you from the internet—the one from your book jacket, another taken at a publishing event.

  Since I’ve moved here, I’ve added more personal items, objects that radiate an aura of Kateness. There’s the shriveled petal from your orchid, the one I watered that day at your house. I’ve secured it in a ziplock bag. In a small wooden box, I keep a napkin. One day after workshop, as you were leaving the room, you dropped it in your wake. It was smeared with your lipstick. I touch it now with one finger, tracing the shape your mouth made against the textured edge. There’s a page from the tiny notebook where you wrote your passwords in your office. You’d doodled a raindrop there and a few random words: proboscis, Matterhorn, indubitably. Whether you scribbled these because you were trying to spell them or they’re part of an arcane ritual, I’ll never know. I’ve kept it pressed inside the pages of Pay Dirt ever since. At the heart of the shrine, your black lace panties sit wrapped inside a red silk scarf. I take them out now and hold them close to my face, breathing deeply.

  When I’ve touched each item, felt its weight in my hand, I lock the trunk once again. The ritual complete, I feel even lighter than when I first woke. We belong together. I grow closer to you every day. Five years ago, all I had was your book. Now I have a miniature museum filled with pieces of you, each one more intimate than the last.

  I flip open my laptop and log into your email to see if you’ve written anything about me.

  Instead of loading your account, red text appears: Incorrect User Name or Password.

  The words start an alarm bleating at the back of my skull.

  No. Surely, no.

  I try again, typing each letter with slow, careful deliberation. My fingers feel like sausages, like meaty, useless appendages, but I manage to make them obey.

  The same error message appears.

  I stare at the screen, sick.

  For a long moment, words refuse to line up inside my brain. There’s just white, formless rage.

  I have to take several ragged breaths before I try one last time. Please, I murmur to the keyboard. Please, god, work!

  No. I’m out.

  You’ve changed your password.

  You’ve.

  Changed.

  Your.

  Password.

  Trust, Kate. We have to trust each other. How can you not see that?

  The betrayal, the slammed door in my face. It’s too much.

  I pick up an empty beer bottle and hurl it at the wall. It smashes into a thousand shards. My next-door neighbor snarls a curse through the wall.

  It’s no longer a magical day.

  * * *

  “I find the dialogue stilted.” Jess’s lips are extra glossy this afternoon, the tart hue of a tangerine. But no cosmetic can stop the flow of useless shit coming out of her mouth.

  “I agree. So unnatural.” This from the pierced-face Raggedy Ann who never speaks. Looks like all the freaks are slithering from the woodwork to condemn me.

  Jess goes on, frowning at the pages, her brow furrowing. “I mean, when the protagonist asks the guy for his last words? And he’s like ‘Holy shit!’ So our ‘hero’”—here she uses air quotes, her orange-manicured nails scratching at the air for emphasis (how I despise air quotes)—“shoots him in the head and says, ‘Wouldn’t be my choice, but it’s up to you’?” She does this part in a fake, deep voice, like a bad guy in a cartoon. “That’s, like, straight out of some Clint Eastwood movie.”

  I sit motionless, watching her with my blankest, most impassive face.

  You kissed me. We stood on your steps and I cupped your face with my hands, and your mouth blossomed under mine, and your small, perfect fingers wrapped around my neck. They were freezing cold, and I loved every inch of them. The snow fell around us in soft, enormous flakes, feather light and tinged with moonlight. There is nothing in this world that can take that kiss away from me. Not even this.

  “I thought that line was kind of cool,” says Todd, the tatted-up vet.

  “You would,” Jess says, and everyone laughs.

  “The thing I had a problem with was motive. Why did the main character kill this guy? Hardly seemed necessary.” Todd has an annoying habit of looking to you for approval whenever he speaks.

  “Unreliable narrator.” Raggedy Ann is hot for Todd. It’s sad. “The protag’s crazy.”

  Todd’s head bobs. He addresses you again, like you’re the only person in the room. “Yeah, but even batshit-crazy people have reasons for doing what they do. Might not make sense to us, but it’s first-person, so we should know what’s going on inside his brain.”

  “Good point.” You sit at the head of the table, presiding over us like a third-world dictator.

  Jess tries to elbow her way back into the discussion. “I don’t need the killer’s logic, but—”

  You cut her off. “Let’s explore Todd’s comment. How many of you felt there was insufficient motive for…” You consult the pages. “… Arthur to kill Santiago?”

  Everyone around the table raises their hands. Except me, of course. I’m just the writer. I don’t get a vote.

  You steeple your fingers together and nod. “As Todd says, it’s not necessary for us to agree with a character’s logic, but we should be privy to it. There’s a contract between writer and reader. We’re happy to inhabit a psychotic character’s troubled mind, but only if it sheds more light on the human condition. That’s the difference between violence that’s compelling and violence that’s gratuitous.”

  You disappoint me, Kate. It’s been a hundred and thirty-three hours since you tilted your cold face to mine and let me taste you. Since then, you’ve done nothing but shut me out.

  I get it. You’re scared. You think you need this stupid little job at this lame fucking college. The funny thing is, the sole reason this place even exists is so we could meet. That’s it. Everything else about this university is pointless. The elegant spires and gothic cathedral are nothing more than backdrops for what’s happening right here—you and me coming together. Except now you won’t even look at me. That’s fucked up. You admitted this place is full of small minds. Who knew yours would be one of them?

  I retract that. Your mind is not small. It’s massive. You’re recoiling from fear, like a sea anemone pulling inside itself. I want so much to show you there’s nothing to be afraid of. There’s nothing anyone here can do to us, as long as we have each other.

  And if we don’t have each other, there’s nothing here worth saving.

  KATE

  Marching across campus, a cup of coffee in one hand, my bag slung bandolier-style across my chest, I remind myself to breathe. There’s nothing wrong with what I’m doing. It’s sensible. Professional.

  So why do I feel like a world-class shit?

  I’m warning my department chair about a student
’s erratic behavior. It’s not personal; it’s prudent. In an era when campus violence has become commonplace, it’s my responsibility as an educator to report even subtle warning signs. If it turns out I’m overreacting, I’d rather be safe than sorry. Sure, it feels like betrayal, but that’s only because of a reckless kiss.

  Yeah, more than one kiss.

  The shared cigarette on Abby Lacy’s patio. I’ll tell you anything you want to know. The muted, wintry light inside my office. Whisper of lips against the back of my neck. Snowflakes swirling. Hands under my dress, fingers spanning my rib cage. Let me in, Kate. Please.

  I can’t let a passing attraction interfere with my duty to protect my students.

  God, I hate this. I feel like a whiny, self-righteous bitch, not to mention a hypocrite—impulsive slut one second, pious vigilante the next. Talk about an unreliable narrator.

  I reach into my leather tote one more time, touching the envelope filled with manuscript pages. Sam’s latest workshop manuscript. Ever since I read it last week, a cold ball of dread has sat heavily inside my chest, a tightly packed snowball trickling ice water into my veins.

  “Cold Blooded” is the story of a clean-cut, cherubic-faced college student who calmly kills people in his spare time. That’s not so unusual. Brett Easton Ellis inspired millions of imitators, young men intent on penning the next American Psycho. If I had a dime for every murderer’s POV short story I slogged through with my red pen, I’d be rich enough to retire that pen forever. My books are dark, so the students who flock to my workshop usually lean toward the macabre. Like attracts like.

  The story shouldn’t have bothered me. But it did.

  The scene where the narrator kills “Santiago” unnerved me like nothing I’ve ever read. It’s difficult to pinpoint why. Was it the glassy-eyed narrator, his medicated, numb approach to everything? The narrator duct-tapes his victim to a chair before shooting him in the head. Something about the scene was deeply visceral in spite of the character’s distance from everything he did.

  Of course, it’s crazy to assume Sam is capable of such violence in real life. That’s not what I’m saying. If writing about murder means you’re likely to commit it, then I’m a killer ten times over. Besides, if he planned to act out his dark impulses, why would he write about them? Wouldn’t that just implicate him?

  There’s something else that bothers me about the story, though. It bears at least a passing resemblance to Raul’s death. While police haven’t released the details of his murder, I do know it happened in his home, just like the scene in Sam’s story. Of course, Sam’s manuscript might be inspired by Raul’s death, nothing more. Maybe he read about it in the paper or heard people gossiping and felt compelled to imagine the scene in more detail. A sleepy college town trundling toward the depths of winter has little else to talk about. It’s not all that odd that the incident caught Sam’s attention.

  But then there’s the rust-eaten Honda. I saw Sam tear away from campus in it the other day, jerking the wheel and swerving around a minivan. For hours, I couldn’t figure out why it seemed so familiar. Finally, in the middle of the night, it hit me. When Raul took me home from our first date, that same Honda sat parked down the street from me, the windows opaque in the night. I remember how its silhouette tugged at me like a song you half-recognize.

  The cold dread in my chest won’t go away. I have to take action.

  Even if this is the adult thing to do, it’s still ugly. No matter how violated I felt when he hacked my email, there’s still that part of me that leaned in every time for his kiss. It’s like a dark twin I carry inside me. My wicked self wants to hole up with him in a hotel room, live on room service, cigarettes, and sex. My responsible self knows I have to cut ties, be professional.

  Besides, if he really is violent, someone should know. After I talk to Frances, I should probably call Detective Schroeder. That’s a little further than I’m willing to go, though. It’s one thing to send out academic smoke signals, let the tribal leaders know there’s trouble. It’s something else entirely to involve the police. Sam might be mentally unstable, but that doesn’t mean he’s a criminal.

  Reaching Frances’s office, I tap lightly on her door. Part of me hopes she won’t be here. No such luck.

  “Come in,” she calls.

  I push open the door and poke my head inside. “You have a minute?”

  “Sure.” She gestures for me to have a seat, though she’s still typing. Without turning away from the screen, she asks, “Did you have a good Thanksgiving?”

  “Yeah, it was fine. You?”

  “Tolerable. What’s up?”

  I balance on her wobbly visitor’s chair. “I want your advice.”

  She spins away from her computer, eyeing me over her glasses. “Okay. I’m listening.”

  “I have this student.” I search her book-lined office for the right words. There’s a large cobweb in the corner, near the window. A black spider dangles from its center, waiting calmly for victims.

  “That’s always where the trouble starts,” she says wryly. “Everyone knows this place would be paradise if it weren’t for the students.”

  I chuckle. It’s obligatory. Frances and I have terrible chemistry. Always have. It’s not like there’s anything in particular I dislike about the woman; we just don’t gel. The feeling is mutual. Once I overheard her discussing me at a holiday party. “Kate’s a mystery writer,” she’d said, with obvious distaste. “Genre fiction has its place, of course, it’s just not the sort of thing I read.” I considered going to someone else about this, perhaps the dean of students, but I knew if Frances found out I’d bypassed her, she’d take offense. With her chairing my tenure committee, I can’t afford to piss her off.

  I press on, trying not to think about how much her orange, frizzy hair resembles a clown’s. “He’s very talented. Actually, he’s the most talented student I’ve ever had. It’s just … well, I worry he may have some mental health issues.”

  “Mental health issues,” she repeats, her tone neutral.

  “Yes. I’m no psychologist, but something just feels a little … off.”

  “Can you be more specific?”

  I sip my coffee, gathering my thoughts. “He turned in a story to workshop last week. It’s probably nothing, but the violence in it made me uncomfortable.”

  She breathes out a quick laugh that startles me.

  “What?” I have a feeling I know what she’s going to say.

  “Isn’t that the pot calling the kettle black?” Frances is from Birmingham; every once in a while, like right now, I hear a bit of that southern twang.

  “I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Both your books—Pay Dirt and—what was the other one?”

  “Hidden Depths,” I mumble reluctantly.

  “Hidden Depths.” She hits each syllable like she’s savoring some delicious irony. “They feature a lot of gratuitous violence, you must admit.”

  “Not gratuitous,” I say, then immediately backtrack. “Well, not Pay Dirt, anyway.”

  “Regardless, it seems a little absurd for you to take issue with violence in a student’s work. Am I right?”

  Last year, Frances published a whole book of poems about insects. They’re supposed to be metaphors, but I suspect she missed her calling as an entomologist. She creates such clinical, dry images, carves them out like a surgeon. I can’t expect her to understand the difference between what I write and what Sam’s writing. I barely understand the distinction myself.

  I pull the envelope from my bag and place it on her desk. “It might be nothing. It’s just, with all the active shooter incidents—”

  “Are you saying he might actually be violent?”

  “I don’t know.” I hate how small my voice sounds. “Probably not.”

  “So why do you want me to read his story?”

  “Look, there’s something else.”

  Her eyebrows float toward her hairline. “Yes?”

&nb
sp; “I have reason to believe—” I hesitate. I hadn’t planned to tell her this “—that he hacked into my email and sent a message to my agent.”

  This gets her attention. “What did it say?”

  “He basically fired her on my behalf.” Admitting to losing Maxine as an agent could cast shadows over my chances at tenure, but Frances’s steadfast refusal to take me seriously pulled it out of me.

  “That is rather serious.” She studies her hands before meeting my eyes again. “Do you have proof?”

  “No. Not really.”

  “Not really?” A whiff of impatience enters her voice.

  “Just idiosyncratic word choices,” I say.

  She grimaces. “I’m afraid that’s pretty thin. And, frankly, we can’t afford to fling accusations at students without rock-solid proof.”

  I sigh and stuff the envelope back into my bag. “Good point. Sorry I wasted your time.”

  “I’m just trying to understand what you want from me.”

  She’s an efficient woman, I’ll give her that. “Did you ever have a student who unnerved you?”

  “Of course.”

  “How did you handle it?”

  “I drank a bit more but, thank God, every semester comes to an end.”

  I stand and take a couple steps toward the door. “Guess I’ll stock up on booze and pray for finals.”

  “Kate…?”

  I turn back to face her, one hand on the door. “Yes?”

  “This isn’t about that young man I met in your office the other day, is it?”

  “Same one.” I order myself not to blush. My body’s a damn traitor, though. Heat rises to my cheeks. I long to melt into the floor.

  She studies me over her glasses. “Interesting.”

  “How so?” The question’s out before I can stop it. I should just leave well enough alone, escape now, but it’s too late.

  “Sometimes we’re our own worst enemy.” There’s that drawl again, the wise southern lady issuing a hard-won truth. Her piggy eyes stare hard. I can feel them stripping away my pretenses, peeling me until I’m naked.