by Jody Gehrman
There’s no time for psychoanalysis now. It’s impossible to probe your past, locate the source of your psychosis, and undo the damage. I’m a dreamer, a romantic, yes, but even I know there are limits to the miracles love can work.
It’s time to face facts. If you’re incapable of love, then I have no reason to live. If I have no reason to live, then you need to die, too, because I was your only hope. This is not malice talking; this is me taking pity on you. Without my love, you’ll crawl off to some other meaningless job at an even more obscure and lackluster college. You’ll try to write and fail. Words will pile up, but none of them will mean anything. You’ll lose faith that you’ll ever have anything meaningful to say. You’ll flail and thrash about and drink too much and fuck men with big cars and receding hairlines. You’ll shop at Target and eat at Applebee’s and go to the movies alone on rainy afternoons. As middle-age descends on you, with its sagging skin and flabby, deflated dreams, you will hate yourself. You’ll want to die, but you’ll lack the courage to do anything about it.
At least if we end it all now in a showery burst of fireworks, our work stands a chance of being read.
KATE
By the time the cops get here, Sam has slipped out of the house and driven off into the night. He must have heard me make the call. I feel weirdly guilty, imagining him overhearing my whispered plea for them to come right away. Then I feel pissed about feeling guilty. This little psycho invaded my inner sanctum. Yeah, okay, so he came armed with cinematic gestures—flowers and candles and wine—but do those make his break-in any less invasive? No, I tell myself. They do not. Get a grip, Youngblood. You need to get over this ridiculous sense that you owe him something. He’s stalking you, plain and simple. It’s beyond stalking now. It’s breaking and entering. His actions grow bolder every day, his demands more outlandish. He’s systematically ruining your life; you need protection.
The officers who show up are a strange pair. One’s a woman about my age, mid-thirties; the other’s a man in his early twenties, so fresh-faced and chipper it’s impossible to take him seriously. I invite them in. My mind’s racing in a million directions at once—scanning the dirty dishes in the sink, wondering if I have a beverage to offer, trying to remember if I stashed that bag of weed in the depths of my underwear drawer the last time I rolled a joint. I’ve never called the cops before unless you count Detective Schroeder, and I feel deeply self-conscious, unsure of protocol.
Once we’re settled on the couches in the living room, the fresh-faced kid, Officer Huff, pulls out a notepad and a cheap ballpoint pen, which he bounces against the arm of the couch with manic energy. He’s fidgety, the sort of kid who frequently shows up in my classes full of gangly enthusiasm.
The woman, Officer Grodynski, looks tired and unhealthy. Her skin has a slightly gray pallor, and her mouth is bracketed by the parentheses of a heavy smoker. She fixes me with a concerned frown. “Tell us what happened, ma’am.”
I try to sound calm and reasonable as I explain the day’s events: my conversation with Detective Schroeder, my walk in the park, my discovery that Sam was following me. They listen intently, the kid jotting down notes the whole time.
When I get to the part about staying at Zoe’s and waking in a panic, Officer Grodynski interrupts. “You thought he might harm the baby?”
“It seemed possible.” I massage my forehead. “Not likely, but possible.”
“And you know the intruder how?” she asks.
I answer her question simply. “He’s my student.”
“What grade do you teach?”
“College. I’m an English professor.”
“And, just to be clear, this is the same young man you spoke to the detective about?”
“Yes.”
“When was that?” Huff asks, gripping his pen tightly.
“This morning—I mean, technically, yesterday morning, since it’s already tomorrow.” I know I sound frazzled, but I don’t care. It seems impossible my meeting with Detective Schroeder happened less than twenty-four hours ago. My sense of time is twisted, distorted by fear and lack of sleep.
Officer Grodynski’s brow furrows. “On Wednesday morning, about ten hours before the break-in?”
“Yes. Something like that.”
Her bloodshot eyes sweep over me, assessing. “Why did you go to Detective Schroeder specifically?”
“He’s investigating the murder of Raul Torres, a man I sort of dated.” I can feel myself blushing. “I have reason to believe Sam had something to do with Raul’s death.”
“And Sam is…?” she asks.
“The kid who broke into my house tonight.” I can’t keep the edge of irritation from my voice.
The two officers exchange a quick smirk. It reminds me of students in class, the way they mock me silently with their eyes.
“Is something funny?” It comes out sharp, tinged with panic. I probably seem paranoid. I will myself to calm down.
“Not at all,” Grodynski soothes. She offers a condescending, tight smile, and I want to scream. “So, let’s get this straight. You came home at what time?”
“Midnight … ish.”
“And you were coming from?”
“My friend’s house.”
“Does this friend have a name?” Grodynski asks.
These two are seriously testing my patience. “Zoe Tait. She just had a baby. I was staying there because I suspected Sam was stalking me, and I didn’t want to be alone.”
“And you came home because…?”
“I told you. I got worried in the middle of the night that Sam might follow me there.”
Huff pauses to study me. “That’s when you found the intruder?”
“Yes.”
“So you came home a little after midnight, and this student was in your house, right?”
“Right.”
“Where was he?”
“In my bedroom.” My voice breaks on the last word. I can feel my heart racing at the memory.
“I see. Has he ever been in your bedroom before?” Her tone’s elaborately neutral, detached, which somehow manages to make the question more insulting.
“No. Jesus, I told you, he’s my student. He broke in, okay?”
“Has he ever been here before?”
A sick feeling washes over me. “Yes.”
“With your consent?”
“Yes, but…” I trail off. But what? I’ve no idea how to finish that sentence.
They both stare at me, eyebrows raised in expectation.
“It was just once, and I didn’t really want him here, but I didn’t know how to get rid of him.” My voice shakes with defensive anger. “The point is, this guy’s dangerous, okay? He hacked my email, and now he’s broken into my home. I have reason to believe he’s mentally unstable and capable of violence. Are you going to do something about it?”
They stare at me blankly for a moment.
Officer Huff opens his mouth to speak, but Grodynski gets there first. “We’ll file a report, look into it. We’ll do everything in our power to ensure your safety. You may want to consider a restraining order as well.”
“But that takes time, right?”
“It does.” She fixes me with an expression that teeters between pity and disapproval. I’m certain she’s thinking uncharitable things about me, the professor who lets a student into her home one night and complains he’s stalking her the next. Her training forbids her to judge me openly, but the tightness around the edges of her mouth, the reserved skepticism in her eyes, tells me everything. “In the meantime, I’d suggest locking all your doors and windows, installing a security system. You can’t be too careful.”
I feel like a frightened child who’s been sent back to bed armed with the promise that there are no monsters under her bed.
When they leave, I watch the red glow of their taillights disappear like demonic eyes retreating into the darkness.
SAM
Everything I’ve done for five years got me close
r to you. The GED and community college. Working at shitty cafés and bookstores and bars, saving every cent. Not buying music or seeing movies or eating anything but rice and beans so I could afford an apartment in Blackwood. It’s a shitty studio, moldy and sordid; the rank odor of cat piss lingers in the green shag carpet. It’s so depressing when it rains. The gray light illuminates the peeling linoleum of the tiny kitchen, the trail of ants snaking along the counters. All this I’ve endured so I could inch a little closer to you. I was sure if I could look you in the eye, land in your orbit, fate would take care of the rest.
I suppose it has. Destiny has its own ideas about where we’re headed.
Not New York. Instead, it’s the great beyond for us. The mysterious final frontier.
Have I really done all I can do? Is there any hope left? I scrape around in the dark corners of my psyche, trying to locate some shred of optimism.
You’re a storm, Kate. You’ve blown through my life, leaving nothing but windswept destruction in your wake.
I can’t help but admire how you’ve decimated me.
You won’t be convinced. I see that now. I have offered you the romance of the century. We would’ve been epic. That’s what kills me, you know? We would have rewritten the classic love story; Henry and June, Mary and Percy, Scott and Zelda—they would have paled in comparison. You’re supposed to be a writer, Kate. Can’t you see the exquisite story I’ve handed you? The tale of forbidden love, of dreams forged against the odds. How can you not eat this up? Women flock to rom-coms and devour romance novels with greedy enthusiasm, but what happens when a regular Joe tries to sweep a woman off her feet? I’m the perp here. You stood in a room filled with flowers and candles and called me an intruder.
That’s messed up, Kate. I’m just saying.
So, no. The answer is no. Deep in the darkest corners of my consciousness, there is no lint of optimism clinging to the crevices. There’s no ray of hope to illuminate my dark night of the soul. You’re blind. You’ve got no idea who I am or what I can give you.
Because of that, I’ve got my Glock cleaned, loaded, and ready.
And okay, so the answer’s not no. It’s sort of. I do cling to one hope. I’ve sent my manuscript to G. P. Putnam’s Sons. They were the first ones with the balls to publish Lolita in the States, so I figure they earned me. It’s got a cover letter that begins, By the time you read this, I’ll be dead. I will have killed many others as well. This is my story.
Posthumous fame isn’t what I had in mind, but like I said, sometimes destiny has its own ideas about where we’re headed.
I only wish you could have written something new before we die. Of course, I haven’t read Blood Ties, but I’ve got a feeling it’s not your best work. It leaves me with an uneasy feeling, knowing the story you send out into the world after you’re gone isn’t up to your usual standards. I want everyone to remember us by our final, beautiful sentences, as seamless and as sculptural as ocean-battered boulders.
You deserve that. We both do.
I’m afraid there just isn’t time. There’s no way I can continue walking around with the hope of our shared life extinguished inside me. All my love for you, all that burning-mad desire, now smolders. It’s a charred battlefield. I can’t carry it. There is nothing but death and destruction in me now.
KATE
On Thursday morning, I change my outfit three times before I leave the house. I want to feel impenetrable. All my clothes seem flimsy, though, ridiculously vulnerable. I can’t imagine how I ever allowed myself to enter the battlefield so naked. That’s how campus seems now. Like a place of war.
At last, when I’m out of time and have to just decide, I settle on a pair of jeans, boots, a thick cotton sweater, and my father’s leather jacket, a World War II bomber. It’s way more casual than anything I’d normally wear on a workday, but I want to feel able to move, able to run if I have to.
Is that paranoid?
I just feel so unprotected. It’s up to me. Detective Schroeder’s squinty questions, Officer Grodynski’s restraining order, Officer Huff with his fidgety hands—none of them can help me now. I enter that classroom with full knowledge of everything I’m up against. I know Sam’s unhinged. I can feel him coming apart, disintegrating. It’s strange. I’m not sure how I know this; I just do. Well, there’s the obvious. He did hack my email and break into my house. I’m pretty sure he killed Raul. A bubble of hysteria escapes me as I mentally list these offenses—not so much a laugh as a cross between a snort and a sob. Beyond these glaring warning signs, though, I sense him turning a corner into even edgier territory. The connection I’ve never fully wanted to acknowledge is stronger than ever now. It’s like a part of me lives inside of him.
When I walk into workshop and see he’s not there, I surprise myself with a jolt of disappointment. If I’m honest, though, this is the contradiction that’s haunted me ever since I first laid eyes on him. He mesmerizes me. I’m entranced by his smooth, hypnotic voice, his face with its carefully arranged emotions. His slightly wooden affect only makes the occasional flash of real feeling more potent.
He’s fascinating.
I realize this as I stare at his empty seat. He fascinates me.
For the briefest second, I regret my unwillingness to surrender completely to his spell. I remind myself how totally crazy this is. He’s poison. Running off with him would be a one-way ticket to drama and destruction. There’s nothing stable about what I feel for him. I’m embarrassed by the raw, hungry desire he stirs in me. It’s obscene. I could never grow old with him; watching him age into salt-and-pepper dapper while I wrinkle and rot like overripe fruit? It’s the stuff of nightmares. I will not go gently into that cellulite-ridden night.
“Professor Youngblood?” Jess watches me, her eyes full of glee. I’m reality TV right now; I’m a train wreck. “Is everything okay?”
No! I want to scream. Everything is not okay. Everything is wrong. My best friend has a parasite attached to her breast, my boss thinks I’m fucking my psychotic student, and the cops are ineffectual!
“Sure. Everything’s fine. Let’s get started.” I write words on the dry-erase board. Workshop Today: Kayla, Skylar, Jess, Cody. I can see my arm gripping the pen, can see the ink, stark black against florescent white, but at the same time, I’m floating above myself, watching it all from the ceiling.
Jess studies the list on the board. “What about Sam?”
“What about him?” I return, too sharply.
A snicker from across the room. I catch Tyler kicking Kayla’s foot gently. My vision swims. I’m an animal in the zoo. They’re all imagining me fucking Sam, I just know it. God, I’m going to be sick. I can feel the bile rising at the back of my throat. I swallow hard.
Jess flashes an innocent smile. “Isn’t his story supposed to get workshopped today?”
“He’s not here. If he shows, I’ll add his name to the board.”
“Is he okay?” She puts on a worried frown. I will destroy this little bitch.
“As far as I know.” I hear myself saying words, but they sound foreign, like they’re coming from someone else entirely. I’m impressed with how crisp and professional they sound, but they’ve got nothing to do with me. “Why don’t we start with a quick writing exercise? Take ten minutes to compose your own obituary.”
Kayla raises her hand, and I nod at her. “Do we write it like we’re old or like we died, like, today?”
“Whichever you prefer.” I’ll never understand why people who allegedly value words cram three “likes” into one sentence.
Skylar groans. Jess checks her phone with a flip of her hair. Mercifully, though, they take out pens or laptops, and before long, the room settles into the quiet, soothing sound of people writing. I have always loved this sound. The gentle click of fingers on keyboards. The scratch of a pen carving its way across the page. It’s the subdued excitement of libraries, the claustrophobic coziness of many minds concentrating, burrowing into their private worlds side b
y side. Kayla scribbles furiously, her dyed-orange hair hanging over her face like a curtain, a soft clicking inside her mouth as she plays with her pierced tongue. Jess sets down her pen and scrolls through her phone again, looking bored. A gust of wind pushes against the skylight, flings a spasm of raindrops against the glass.
That’s when Sam walks in. Holding a gun.
SAM
Finding the right gun is like finding the right woman; you know when you’ve met your match. No amount of research can substitute for the visceral feel of your body melding with hers. I got mine from Motherfucker Number Twelve, a tweaker in Boonville who liked nothing better than to get high as a kite, go out into the hills, and shoot wild pigs. He was a repellant little worm. Vivienne was only with him for about four days—even she could see this guy was trouble—just enough time for me to steal his Glock, which turned out to be the gun of my dreams. It was fate. This little baby has fifteen rounds on tap, an indestructible polymer frame, dual recoil-spring assembly. The streamlined controls and the revolver-like simplicity make it an object of understated elegance. I named her—can you guess? Lolita, of course. Light of my life, fire of my loins. My sin, my soul.
With the Glock in my hand, this classroom looks so much smaller than I ever imagined possible. How did I never notice before? It’s the perfect space to trap fifteen wannabe writers and one real thing, the ideal hunting ground. Room 313 doesn’t look like a place of learning anymore. It doesn’t even look like the place where you and I first met. Instead, it’s a boxy wooden crate packed with frightened rats. The windowless hovel’s only light comes from the skylights overhead. As I take in the circle of shocked expressions around the table, I’m struck again by the malformed wrongness of every face except yours. Raggedy Ann with her pierced eyebrows, her studded nose, the tongue piercing that’s visible as her jaw hangs slack. Cleavage’s lined eyes—now kewpie-doll wide—and shiny, pink lips. Tattoo Man, the vet, who, in spite of his stories about his bravery under fire, stares at me in frozen horror.