by Strand, Jeff
"No problem."
She adjusted her mask and spoke even more softly. "I like it." She had a pleasant voice, not the ghastly growl or the high-pitched cackle I would've expected.
Her father cleared his throat and she placed the drawing in her lap.
"Anyway, it's just a way of saying I'm sorry." I shifted a bit, ready to leave. I could feel a trickle of sweat running down the side of my face, but didn't want to call attention to it by wiping it away.
"Thank you."
"You're welcome."
"People aren't...people aren't usually nice to me."
I wasn't sure how to respond to that.
"We're done here, right?" Malcolm asked.
I took a step toward the doorway. "Anyway, sorry once more about last night, and enjoy the owl."
"It's my favorite one. What else do you draw?"
"I do a comic strip. It's called Off Balance. There aren't any owls in it. I might add some, now that I've had practice. There aren't that many owls in comic strips, except for that 'Give a Hoot, Don't Pollute' one. That's not a comic strip, though." I realized that I was nervously babbling and shut the hell up.
"I'd like to read it someday."
"Okay."
I had the feeling that if I didn't leave soon, her father really was going to stab me in the face with something, so I quickly stepped out of the cabin. Malcolm followed me, pushing the door closed with more force than was probably necessary.
"You happy now?" he asked.
"Yeah. I just wanted to say I was sorry."
"And now you have."
He walked me to the front of the house, then sat back down on his rocking chair, clearly indicating that I was supposed to leave. I got back in my car and drove away.
Wow. That was one of the weirdest, creepiest encounters of my life, and I'd had some weird, creepy encounters over the years.
I was glad it was over.
Anyway, I'd done the right thing and I felt better about myself after paying that little visit. Assuming that she hadn't already crumpled up the owl picture and asked "Who the hell ever told that untalented hack that he could draw?" I'd made her happy.
Not many people are nice to me...
I didn't really owe her anything beyond my apology—it's not like I'd vandalized her home and contaminated her drinking water. A quick "I'm sorry" and a drawing of an owl and my karmic debt was complete.
Still...
I had copies of all six Off Balance collections at the cabin. If she wanted to read them, it couldn't hurt to drop some off. I sure wasn't going to spend any more quality time with her crabby dad, and I had no intention of carrying on another uncomfortable conversation with a chick in a creepy mask, but why not leave a couple of books by her door? I might get a new fan.
I couldn't quite explain why I didn't simply want to erase the incident from my memory. I guess I felt sorry for her. Hard not to feel sorry for a burnt-up girl locked in a shed in the woods. Once I'd burnt my finger on a hot stove and acted like a total baby for the rest of the evening, so I couldn't even imagine the horror of having her entire face burnt—and cut.
Did it still hurt?
So I'd leave her a couple of books. Add an extra bit of reading pleasure to her life. No big deal.
CHAPTER FOUR
Very early the next morning, Ignatz woke me up by pushing his food dish all over the wooden floor. It was something that dumb dog did on a regular basis, but usually I wasn't sleeping so close to the source of the noise.
"Knock it off," I called out.
Ignatz did not knock it off.
"I'm gonna nail that thing to the floor if you don't quit it," I informed him. "And I mean your nose, not the bowl."
Unfortunately, my dog was both disobedient and didn't understand human English, so I finally just mumbled a few anti-canine curses and got up. I showered, got dressed, microwaved an inedible breakfast burrito, and then signed copies of my first two Off Balance collections, That Bug Has Issues and I Tripped Over My Own Shadow. (I'd originally called it Tripping Over Shadows, but the publisher thought that might have drug connotations. I was fully prepared to fight the sheer stupidity of this until I decided that I liked I Tripped Over My Own Shadow better.)
I drove back to Blister's house. If there was a car in the driveway, I was going to drive right on past, since I had no particular interest in having her dad force-feed me a shotgun. If he wasn't there, I'd drop off the books and speed away. (Which, I had to admit, was very much the sort of immature behavior that got me into this situation to begin with, but I figured that leaving a couple of Off Balance collections at her doorstep wasn't quite the same as, say, leaving a bag of burning dog crap. Some critics would disagree.)
There was no vehicle in her driveway. I pulled in, shut off the engine, and grabbed the plastic bag that contained the books and a short "Hope you enjoy these!" note with a smiley face. Inexplicably feeling like a criminal, I quickly walked over to the shed, set the bag of books down in front of the door, and—
"What the hell are you doing?"
I glanced over into the woods. Blister, wearing her plastic mask, stood about twenty feet away. She was wearing blue jeans and a t-shirt. Most noteworthy, she had a revolver pointed at me.
I'd never had a firearm aimed at me before. It was a lot scarier than I would've expected. I immediately raised my hands in the air. "Don't shoot!"
"What do you want?"
"Just dropping off some books. That's all. Really."
"What books?"
"My books. Cartoon books."
She walked toward me, closing the gap between us by half. "Why?"
"I just, y'know, thought you might want to read them. You'd said something about that yesterday, so I figured, well, I've got the books, and I thought I could save you a trip to the bookstore." Babbling. You're babbling. "I know it's kind of weird to give books away for free when that's how I make my living, but I got paid for the original strips when they ran in papers, so it's sort of like getting paid for them twice. Well, not sort of, exactly like getting paid for them twice." Still babbling. Stop it. "It's good business to give away free samples. I figure, if you enjoy these, you might buy the others. I know, I probably should've knocked on your door and just given them to you, but I'll be honest and say that your dad scares me."
"My dad isn't here."
"I know. The gun scares me, too."
She regarded me for a moment. At least I think she was regarding me—it was hard to tell exactly what she was doing through that mask. "Thanks for the books," she finally said.
"You're welcome."
"You can put your arms down."
I slowly lowered my arms.
There was another long, uncomfortable silence. Finally she spoke again. "Do you want to come inside?"
I didn't, not really, but she was still pointing the revolver at me. "Uh, sure."
"You don't have to."
"No, I'd like to."
She lowered her arm. "Sorry about the gun."
"That's okay. Guns protect people."
"You really don't have to come inside. I was just offering. I've got Cherry Coke."
"I'm always up for Cherry Coke."
She nodded and walked up to her door. I stepped back to get out of her way. I was perspiring in a very unattractive manner but, as before, I didn't want to call attention to it by mopping off my forehead. She opened the door and walked inside. After a moment of hesitation, I followed her.
"I didn't expect you to be outside," I said. It was a lame comment, I knew, but I'd made so many lame comments by this point that they all sort of blurred together.
"My dad lets me walk outside. He doesn't keep me caged up like an animal."
"I'm sorry. That's not what I meant."
"No, it's okay. It is a pretty messed-up situation." She pulled the books out of the bag and looked them over. "Thank you. I've never met a cartoonist."
"No problem. I've never met a..." I wasn't quite sure how I'd intended
that sentence to conclude, so I let it drift away and hoped she didn't notice. I shifted my weight awkwardly. I wasn't used to being so uncomfortable in social situations—I was typically an outgoing kind of guy—but I felt like a teenager asking for his first date.
"Do you want to sit down?"
I sat down on the couch. Blister—Rachel—walked over to a small portable refrigerator, opened the door, and took out two Cherry Cokes. "Do you want it in a glass with ice, or just the can?" she asked.
"The can's fine."
She nodded and brought me the Cherry Coke. I popped it open and took a long gulp. The silence continued, so I took another long gulp to fill it.
Rachel spoke first. "Can I ask you a question?"
"Sure."
She tapped her plastic chin. "This mask—it's creepy, isn't it?"
I wasn't entirely certain how to respond to that. "Hell yeah!" would be a poor answer if it turned out that she'd made the mask herself. I settled for a non-committal shrug.
"Be honest," she said.
"Yeah, it is, kind of."
"I hate it. It's itchy. I don't care what you look like, how gross your face is, a mask is more unnerving, don't you think?"
"I'd agree with that."
"Maybe if the mouth moved it would be okay, I don't know. For a long time my face was wrapped in gauze. It was actually a better look, but it's too much of a pain to wrap myself up every day." She sighed. "You saw my face already, right?"
"Just a glimpse."
Rachel hesitated. "Do you mind if I get rid of this creepy thing so we can talk like regular human beings?"
"No, no, not at all, go ahead."
I braced myself and put on my best poker face as she slowly removed the mask. I'm pretty sure my expression didn't give anything away, but...dear God...
It wasn't that I couldn't handle the sight of a burn victim. I'd seen burn victims before (though, admittedly, never this close and never this bad). But in addition to the scar tissue, her face looked like it had been assembled from a dozen jagged pieces that didn't quite fit together properly, like a skull that had some burnt flesh haphazardly slapped onto the surface. Her mouth was in better shape, and also the area around her eyes, but the rest was an absolute mess.
I remembered what the bait store cashier had said: she'd been cut as well as burnt. Savagely cut, from the looks of it. Scraping bone.
I felt sick to my stomach—not because of her appearance, but at the thought that somebody had done this to her on purpose.
"Do you want me to put it back on?" she asked.
"No." I quickly looked away.
"Thanks. I really hate that thing. If I start looking too disgusting, let me know and I'll turn out the lights."
"No, that's okay," I said, not sure if she was kidding or not. An instant later I decided that she was.
She pulled a chair out from the shed's one table and sat down. "Sorry about the gun."
"No problem."
"You can never be too safe."
"Absolutely."
"And my dad makes me carry it when I go out for a walk."
"That's not surprising." I took another drink. I'd almost emptied the can already. "Does he make you wear the mask whenever you go outside?"
"He makes me carry it around in case I run into somebody. Or, I guess, in case somebody is standing at my door trying to sneak over some books. When I first got back home I tried to class it up with porcelain masks, but I broke about twenty of the stupid things and had to switch to plastic. So now I kind of feel like white trash."
I had to laugh out loud at that. I now felt slightly more relaxed. Sure, my sense of relaxation was still somewhere between "in the dentist's chair for a quartet of root canals" and "what's that creature doing on the wing of the plane?" but I appreciated the mild improvement.
"Do you live around here?" she asked.
I shook my head. "Nope. Just visiting."
"Relatives?"
"I'm staying at my agent's cabin. There was sort of an incident and he wants me to stay out of the public eye for a while."
"What kind of incident?"
"Here, you be the judge. Let's say that that these horrible little kids were throwing rocks at your dog, and you asked them nicely to stop, and then you went to one of their mothers and she didn't care. So the next time they threw rocks, you burst out of your house with a fake severed head and a fake chainsaw, and you were covered with fake blood, and the kids flipped out and ran away, and one of them fell and broke his arm. Is that funny?"
Rachel was silent for a very long moment, her face completely motionless. Finally, she spoke: "That's fucking hilarious."
"I know, right? Thank you! Thank you so much!" I was becoming a huge Blister fan.
"Is the kid going to be okay?"
"Yeah, the little piece of crap will be fine. I broke my arm on the monkey bars once. It's all part of being a kid."
I finished off the Cherry Coke, and then realized that my owl drawing was up on her wall, prominently displayed.
"Glad you liked the owl," I said, gesturing toward it with my empty can.
"I love it."
"So do you ever get to go out and...do stuff?"
"Are you asking me out?"
I was glad I was done with my drink, or I would have choked on it. I barely stifled a cough. "No! I mean, no...I mean, no, I was just curious."
"Relax, I was just kidding."
"Not that I—"
"Chill. No, I don't really go anywhere. I don't get a lot of social invitations these days."
"How long have you been...?"
"A disfigured freak?"
I smiled. "You're very dark, you know that?"
"I know. I try to be sunshiny, but the whole 'grotesque monster' part gets in the way."
"You're not a grotesque monster."
"Would you sleep with my picture by your bedside?" she asked.
"Hey, when I was a kid, I slept with a Frankenstein figure by my pillow," I told her. A couple of seconds later I decided that my comment was in extremely poor taste. "Not that I'm saying you look like Frankenstein. I apologize. I didn't mean that."
"Jason, if you say that I have bad breath or body odor, you'll hurt my feelings. Otherwise, it's cool. I'm not an attractive woman."
"When did it happen?"
"Five years ago. Which version of the story did you hear?"
"Boyfriend...blowtorch..."
Rachel nodded. "Oh, then you heard the true one. That's unusual."
"So did he really...I mean, is this something you want to talk about?"
"I don't mind talking about it. Is this something you actually want to hear?"
I nodded.
She leaned a bit closer. "Before I tell you this story, I have to ask: are you scared of clowns?"
"No."
"They terrify me..."
CHAPTER FIVE
Dad made the cake himself. It didn't turn out right, even using mix from a box, and she's pretty sure it's because he forgot the eggs, but Rachel doesn't mind. It's the best cake she's ever had.
"Eighteen years old," Dad says, looking at her from across the table. "Jesus Christ. I'm doomed."
She laughs and blushes. She takes another bite of cake, being careful not to drop any crumbs on her new green dress.
The doorbell rings. Rachel is simultaneously excited and nervous, because she knows who it is, and she knows what they're planning to do.
Dad smiles and nods. "Go on. Leave your Dad all alone on your birthday."
She gets up from the table and goes over to give him a kiss on the cheek. "I'll be home early."
"Yeah, you will. Seven-thirty."
She laughs.
"Okay, midnight. And I'll still be up, so don't go letting your coach turn into a pumpkin."
"Love you, Dad," she says, scurrying out of the kitchen, through the living room, and over to the front door.
Brandon is there, not quite as dressed up as her, but definitely upgraded from his usual att
ire. He tells her happy birthday and hands her a wrapped present. Excited, she tears the present open, purposely shredding the wrapping paper as much as possible (she's not into the idea of opening gifts with restraint) then removes the lid of the box.
Inside is a tiny clown figurine.
She sighs. "You creep."
"Like it?"
"Yeah, right."
She playfully punches Brandon in the arm as he laughs and makes scary noises with it.
* * *
They skipped the movie, just as they'd planned, and now they're parked in his car, kissing. Brandon grabs her breast and she pushes his hand away.
"What?" he asks.
"It's not a squeeze toy."
"We're gonna have sex and I'm not allowed to touch your boob?"
"Be gentle." She grins. "Mostly gentle."
"I can work with that."
"You're lucky you get anything. Fucking clown."
"It was a joke!"
"No, jokes are things that are funny. That was just mean. That's not a birthday present."
"Okay, okay," he says. "I've got your birthday present in my pocket."
"I'm sure you do."
"No, seriously."
He reaches into his pocket and takes out a small jewelry box. Rachel's anger vanishes as he hands it to her.
She opens the box.
Inside is a beautiful silver necklace. The charm is a clown face.
"You asshole."
Brandon howls with laughter.
"Do you really think you're getting laid tonight?" she asks.
"Maybe there's something in my other pocket."
"I don't care. You're in a jerk mood and I want you to take me home."
"Seriously, here's the real present," he tells her, taking out a second jewelry box.
"I don't want it. Not tonight. Give it to me tomorrow."
"It's not your birthday tomorrow."
"Brandon, take me home. We're done for now."
"But you promised." He sounds almost whiny.
Rachel gapes at him. "I promised? I didn't promise you anything. We had an unofficial agreement to go all the way that was based on you not being a complete dick. I think giving me two scary clown presents voids the deal."