Mister Tender's Girl

by Carter Wilson

I walk to the counter, grab a pen, and pull a flyer off the bulletin board. I turn it over and write on the back—www.mistertender.com password: gladstone—then I hand the paper to Brenda.

  “I’m very private, Brenda. You know that. But five minutes ago, I learned privacy’s an illusion. So if you want to know more about me, just go here.”

  She looks at the paper and reads the back.

  “What is this?” she asks. “Who’s Mister Tender?”

  That’s a question requiring a lifetime of answers, so I don’t give her any. As I head to the front door, I sweep my gaze through the coffee shop. Every face I see is a familiar one, customers I’ve served for months. Years, even.

  The man with the salt-and-pepper beard and green eyes isn’t here.

  Fifteen

  My house is only five blocks away, but the snowstorm makes my destination feel impossibly distant. I trudge east on Harrison Street, sucking in chilled air while tumbling, puffy snowflakes act as a million tiny sound dampeners, rendering my world as silent as the inside of a snow globe. Or coffin.

  I pass a house fully prepared for Halloween. Bony arms reach out of the snow-covered lawn. One of the hands grips a bloody, plastic butcher’s knife, a jarring departure from the smiling bats and googly-eyed witches along the front porch.

  I bury my hands deeper in my pockets and keep moving. I imagine faces in windows, watching me pass. Gazes tracking my direction, hands scribbling down what I’m wearing. What direction I’m headed. The mood on my face. Reporting back to their coven what has become of Alice today. And I can’t argue with the fascination. Who wouldn’t want to know what became of that girl nearly stabbed to death by her own friends, the little twins who were convinced a comic-book character was controlling their minds? Throw in a brother with some kind of wasting disease and a mother addicted to martyrdom, and you have a fully fleshed-out television serial.

  I finally reach my house. Richard’s car is here, but he’s probably sleeping after working the night shift. I’m not in the mood to go up to the Perch, wake him, and ask if he remembers someone standing in my yard taking a picture of the house months ago. So I head inside. Turn off my alarm and go room to room, opening each closet door. No monsters. I also look under my bed, finding nothing but a thin layer of dust coating the hardwood floor.

  The tingling begins. Incoming panic attack.

  God, please no.

  I can’t do this.

  I’m not strong enough.

  I can’t spend another night in a sweaty ball on my floor, wondering if each struggle for breath will be my last.

  If I do nothing, the attack will come. In fact, it’s already started. On rare occasions, I’ve been able to stave off the attacks, but that window’s closing fast. I run down the stairs and grab my car keys and the gym bag I always have packed and at the ready. Out the door, into my car, and I wrestle through snow-packed streets to the gym, which is only a half mile away. Sliding. Floating. I don’t even bother with the seat belt, because, at this point, it seems laughable I should care about plunging through the windshield.

  I make it.

  Run my membership card through the digital reader with barely a hello to Tim. Race to the locker room, where I set a record time in changing. The tingling is strong now and moving up my fingertips to my hands, my chest tightening. Focus, Alice. I take the hand wraps from my bag and unravel them to the floor, black snakes. With a precision and speed borne from years of practice, I bind my hands and wrists into tight, powerful rocks.

  Hair pulled back into a whip. Shoes and socks off. Grab my water bottle, stow the bag in an empty locker, and run to the back corner of the gym, the hundred-square-foot stamp where the boxing equipment stands.

  No one is using this area, and if they were, I would have fought them for it. Fought and won.

  I start with the heavy bag, working combinations in a smooth, steady rhythm, focusing only on what’s directly in front of me, pushing against the creeping madness edging into my mind.

  Jab, cross, hook, kick.

  Jab, cross, hook, kick.

  I set the round clock. Three minutes on, thirty seconds off. In moments, sweat slicks my face, my arms, my thighs. It’s a good sweat, leaching the toxins from my body. I switch moves.

  Jab, jab, left hook, uppercut, knee.

  Keep going. Ignore all other thoughts.

  I slip into a trance, transport into another world, one in which I’m in complete control. The bag resists me, but I hit it harder, cause it pain, defeat it one blow at a time. This bag is everyone who watches me. This bag is telling me I owe it fifteen thousand dollars. This bag is posting my real name and address to the world. This bag is a junkie ex-boyfriend.

  Jab, cross, elbow, punch high, then low.

  One round. The thirty-second rest is an eye blink. Begin again.

  Sweat flies from my body and rains onto the heavy bag with every punch and kick. Round after round. I go until my muscles beg me to stop, then I go longer. I don’t care. If I die doing this, I’d be proud. Finally, I turn to the speed bag, then start hitting it one hand after the other, first using the backs of my hands and then the sides. I’m sloppy at first, and my exhaustion keeps me from establishing a smooth rhythm, but I find it. It’s here I finally feel the panic attack retreating, taking shelter against the force of my will, waiting to come out again when I’m more vulnerable.

  Not today. You won’t get me today.

  Over and over, two hits right hand, two hits left, repeat, repeat, repeat. The bag slams against the wooden drum with a hypnotic percussion, and soon, I’m locked in with it, unable to do anything else but lock in and keep going.

  Thucka, thucka, thucka, thucka.

  War drums. Those words flash in my mind, and then I see imagery. Armies on the horizon, moving toward each other in a slow, machinelike march. Suddenly, all I can think of is death. I can see it, even smell it. Crisped, rotten meat. Ripped, exposed bowels. Burned hair.

  There are no guns in this battle—only weapons that cut. Broadswords, daggers, bayonets, hatchets.

  I don’t stop hitting. I want to pound this bag until the seams burst apart.

  Harder, harder, faster, faster.

  They can’t get you, Alice.

  They will get you, Alice.

  They can’t hurt you anymore.

  They’ve never stopped hurting you.

  They are ghosts.

  They are everywhere.

  I’m screaming. Not in my mind, but in the gym, above the sound of my fists and my rage, I am screaming. Screaming at everything that has ever done anything to me, because all I want is to be left alone.

  I close my mouth. As I let my swollen hands drop to my sides, and as the last trail of my voice fades to silent, the bag wobbles and then rests still. It’s in the same condition as when I started. I haven’t hurt it. I haven’t seemed to change it in any way.

  Tim stands across the room. He stares at me with hesitation and concern, as if I’m an escaped animal who needs to be very carefully lured back into its cage.

  “Alice,” he says. “Are you okay?”

  My chest heaves with exhaustion. Sweat runs into my eyes, turning my world into a glassy haze. The tingling sensation is gone.

  “For now,” I say.

  Sixteen

  Sunday, October 18

  Today is the fourteenth anniversary of my attempted murder. I had almost forgotten, but my phone screen reminds me. October eighteenth. I remember it mostly as it was referred to in court, the solicitors repeatedly saying, “On the night of October 18…” I will hold no memorial on this day, carry no special reflections. I’ll just try to get through it as I do every other.

  I rise from my bed and place my bare feet on the cold floorboards. Light streams around the closed curtains, and I walk over and crack them open an inch. I used to throw them open wide.


  It seems at least a foot of snow came down. It certainly won’t bring Manchester to a standstill but will surely slow it to a New England crawl. Brenda is opening the Rose today, and I know she’ll be there because she’s within walking distance. I text her, telling her she can open the shop a little late. Sundays we open late anyway.

  Okay, she replies. Will you be in today?

  I think on that for a moment, then reply, Not sure yet.

  Truth is, I have no idea what I’m doing today. Ideally, curling up in a ball and hiding, or disappearing down some magical tunnel leading me to some other world. My own Chancellor’s Kingdom, where even the scariest things can’t hurt me.

  That would be wonderful.

  You doing okay? she texts.

  I don’t reply.

  Back at the window. My car is blanketed by snow. Next to it is Richard’s, behind which fresh tracks indicate he came home from work not too long ago. He’s up there in the Perch, likely sleeping.

  Or maybe there’s a little hole in the ceiling, one through which he’s threaded the tiniest of cameras, the kind with the fish-eye lens that can view an entire room. Maybe he’s up there now, laptop open, watching me. He sees me in my loose cotton shirt that barely covers my underwear. Maybe he’s been watching me in my sleep, waiting for me to stir.

  I move to the bathroom, where I grab my robe and cinch it tightly around me. Back in the bedroom, I scan the ceiling but see nothing more than smooth white plaster.

  Down to the kitchen. The coffeemaker has a fresh pot waiting for me, and I pour a cup and stir my laptop to life. The local news site tells me not to drive unless it’s an emergency. I wonder if a drug dealer named Freddy coming after me counts as an emergency. I’m an easy target at home. Maybe he’ll come knocking on my door this morning, seeing if I have his money, which of course I don’t.

  No, he said I had two days. I have until tomorrow.

  Why am I taking him at his word?

  And what good is another day if I’m not going to give him what he wants? Then what happens? Then he pushes in my door and bursts inside the house. Nice place you got here, Alice. I’ll attack and hope for the best. But it won’t be that easy, will it? He’ll have a gun—

  (or a knife)

  —and he won’t hesitate. He’ll hurt me before I can hurt him. Because his is a world of violence, and despite all my self-defense, mine is a world of fear. I was able to strike first in the gym because he didn’t expect it. But when he comes back for me, he’ll be prepared.

  The sinister book sits on the counter, and I reach for it. I inspect the inscription once again and this time lick my thumb and smudge the ink. It smears. The words are truly handwritten, not printed. I’m convinced my father wrote these words, but when? And, more importantly, why?

  An idea hits me. More of an impulse, really. Maybe an act of desperation.

  Back to the laptop.

  www.mistertender.com

  On the screen, the same inscription as in the book, a simple scan of the original. I type in the password and navigate back to the forum, back to the thread titled Alice. No new posts since yesterday.

  I find what I’m looking for, a link to register. To become a member. Hell, I’ll become a member. The most famous one of all.

  Members can post.

  I choose a random username and password, and when I’m told I need to provide an email to complete my registration, I jump over to Yahoo and create a new email account under a false name.

  Minutes later, I’m a user on Tendertalk, but all I do is stare at the message board. I have no idea what I’m going to post, but a few things come to mind.

  FUCK YOU is one of them. LEAVE ME ALONE is another.

  But I don’t actually want anyone knowing who I am. I want to do a bit of trolling myself. Maybe post a comment or question that might reveal a bit about who is watching me. Perhaps I’ll pose as a newbie who has recently became obsessed with Alice Hill. Maybe Mr. Interested will take me under his wing and guide me into his underworld, show me this deep, dark web of stalkers. This is like the goddamn Phantom of the Opera. Christine in the bowels of the Paris Opera House.

  But before I type a single thing, a direct message appears in the inbox of this forum. It’s from the master of ceremonies himself, Mr. Interested.

  I click to open it. The message only has two words.

  Hello, Alice.

  Seventeen

  I snap my head and look out the kitchen window, convinced Mr. Interested has a pair of binoculars trained on me. I see nothing, but that doesn’t stop me from pulling all blinds closed. The kitchen falls into a soft darkness, and I flip on the lights, then sit back down at my laptop.

  Who are you? I type.

  Seconds later:

  I’m an observer.

  An observer of what?

  Of your struggles.

  An instant queasiness overtakes me. Ice filling my guts.

  I just want to be left alone.

  I don’t think that’s really true. None of us really wants to be alone, Alice. We all need each other. We all need help.

  I don’t need help.

  Yes, Alice, I think you do. How are you going to pay Freddy Starks his money?

  I don’t know who that is.

  Yes, you do. Your visitor from Boston.

  Are you him?

  No, but I know he was looking for you. Could be, perhaps, I led him to Jimmy. And then to you.

  I stand and push the chair back. Race to the front door and make sure it’s locked. It is. Check the alarm, which is still set to Stay. Any door or window that opens will trigger it.

  Back to the computer.

  Are you watching me right now?

  No.

  How did you know it was me on the message board?

  This time, his reply takes nearly a minute to come.

  I know the range of IP addresses used by your computer. An address within that range was associated with your registration. An educated guess, call it.

  Breathe in, count to four. But I can’t do it. My heart is racing too fast. I get to three before I have to gasp for air.

  What do you really want?

  I want to take care of you.

  But you sent that man to find me. Why?

  It doesn’t matter now, Alice. He’s here. So what are you going to do about it?

  I pause a moment. Then:

  I’m not going to pay him.

  In an instant, he replies.

  Then you have to kill him.

  I’m very close to shutting off the computer, but I don’t. His last words seem to pulse on the screen, and though I don’t respond to him, I keep looking at the chat, wondering if he will write more.

  Moments later, he does.

  He’s coming for you, Alice, and he won’t go away until he gets what he wants. You should see what he did to Jimmy.

  Oh God.

  Is Jimmy dead?

  No, but he probably wishes he were.

  How do you know all this?

  I follow things that interest me.

  Then he posts a link to a page within the Boston Globe website. I click on it, and it takes me to a brief article, dated one week ago, about a man found beaten outside a bar in the North End. There’s very little detail, but the man was identified as James Haskill, 29, of Boston.

  How do you even know about Jimmy and me?

  Because I’ve been watching you for a long time, Alice. I know you better than anyone. Which is why you won’t go to the police. You know if you do, I’ll make sure they know about what you and Jimmy did three years ago. The murder you committed.

  I had nothing to do with that.

  I suspect Jimmy would be happy to blame it all on you.

  I pound the keys.

  I don’t know what you want
from me. I just want to be left alone.

  Mr. Interested ignores this.

  Check the planter box just outside your front door. Dig a few inches down, and you’ll find a plastic bag with a gun in it. The gun cannot be traced. When Freddy comes for you, shoot him. Tell the police it was self-defense and that you took his gun off him.

  What the hell?

  There are so many things to ask, but I before I can type another word, someone knocks on my front door.

  Eighteen

  I might not have knives in the house, but I do have a baseball bat. Youth sized, aluminum, light and strong. I race upstairs and grab it from beneath my bed. I’m confident in my self-defense abilities, but I don’t know who’s waiting on the other side of that door. Better to have a weapon other than just my own fists and feet.

  (Check your planter box just outside your front door)

  I peer out onto the front porch through a crack in the curtains. Some, but not all, of the tension in my shoulders slides away as I see Richard standing there. I hold on to the bat as I open the door. Frigid air washes over me.

  “Hi, Alice, sorry to bother you so early. I heard you moving around…figured you were awake.”

  Monitoring me. Listening to me.

  “Hi, Richard.”

  His gaze darts to the bat and then back to my face.

  “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

  “It’s okay,” I say. “I was already startled before you knocked.”

  “Everything okay?” His dark eyes register concern. A day’s worth of stubble molds his cheeks and neck, and his dark, stringy hair hangs over his forehead, giving him a haggard look. He’s at least a half foot taller than me, but his frame is so slight, it wouldn’t be unreasonable to think he’d topple easily with a light shove. Or breeze.

  “What do you need, Richard?”

  “Well, like I said, sorry to bother you, but the hot water’s out again. Would you mind checking the pilot light on the heater?”

  I relax a little. The heater is a constant problem. But I keep holding the bat.

  “Yes, of course. Sorry about that. I really need to get that fixed.”