by Britney King
I am unfazed by his cruelty. It is well worn; I have been broken in like an old pair of shoes. “And Matthew…what did he do?”
“He misbehaved. A bit too much like his mother, if you ask me.”
“But what did he do? I can have a talk with him.”
I can see he’s reaching—this isn’t about Matthew at all. “He touched my letter opener after I told him not to. He thinks it’s a play toy. Talk is cheap, Vanessa. And anyway, it’s too late for that.”
“No!” I cry. “Sean, please don’t do this...”
He covers my mouth with his hand and leans in close. His spittle wets my face. “If you cause a scene, it’ll only be worse. Not just for you. For everyone.” He steps back and crosses his arms. “But then, they’ll hardly hear you down here.”
I feel the tears sting my eyes. “You can’t do this, Sean. He’s just a baby.”
“He’s not a baby. He’s a big boy now. I heard you say so yourself. The other day…on the bed, remember? I listen to everything you say, doll. Don’t forget that.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“Children need discipline, Vanessa. Spare the rod, spoil the child. Everyone knows that.”
It’s just flesh, I tell myself as my husband positions himself in front of me. He slides his zipper down, and I watch as his pants drop to his ankles. It’s just flesh, I’m thinking as he thrusts his hips forward, pinning my head to the wall. I go over the morning in my mind. “Open your eyes and look at me,” he says, and I do.
“Tell me you love me.”
“I love you,” I choke out when he pulls backward. Drool drips down my face. He thrusts forward once, twice—I don’t know how many times. He likes to watch me gag.
“Good girl,” he calls and I can see where he is coming from. I have swept and dusted and mopped. I am wearing the Dior dress he left for me laid out on the bed.
But I do not feel good. I feel dead inside. I feel nothing at all. A mother shouldn’t feel this way; I should be fighting, not performing sexual favors like they’re my duty. But they are my duty, and there’s no way out of this. It’s not like I can run. Where would I go? How would I hide?
To understand why I stay, you’d have to understand the mechanics of this church. I thought what I grew up in was confining, but I was wrong. It has nothing on this. I could run, but I wouldn’t get far. I have no money, a child, nothing to my name, little formal education, and prostitution doesn’t exactly look great on a resume. Plus, they’d never let me go. They’d never stop looking. They’ve invested too much. I’m a commodity to them— something to be traded, consumed.
Aside from the church itself, Sean would never let me take his son. He’d never be okay with losing, he’d never give up the perks he enjoys from keeping me around. And I’ll be the first to admit, it isn’t always this bad.
The sleeping with strangers…that I don’t even mind so much. In fact, I find sex therapeutic. I’m a young twenty-something, and as my husband likes to remind me, all of my basic needs are taken care of. What else is there?
I don’t know. But whatever is in those capsules has knocked any fight right out of me. I can barely keep my eyes open, much less make elaborate plans to escape. Real life is not like the movies. Sean says that a lot. Thankfully, for me, my training and my knowledge of my husband’s body takes over.
It’s just flesh. In training, we learned how to disassociate the act of a thing with the emotion of it. Sex is like driving a car, we were taught. The experience can be enjoyable or not. It’s up to the driver to decide. We had to learn to be the driver.
We learned about erogenous zones, areas of the body which have heightened sensitivity thanks to the concentration of nerve endings there. There are specific zones and non-specific zones, and often the key is variation, but not always. We learned common fellatio and cunnilingus techniques. We learned the art of varying pressure, fetish practice, manners, and perhaps most importantly, how to be discreet.
There were other things too—important details to understand when you’re dealing with something as sensitive as seduction. We learned how to make sure you aren’t being followed, and how to deal when and if a client’s spouse finds out. It’s always when, not if. People aren’t so good about lying about the things that really matter.
Then there was the basic stuff like how to use aliases and exit strategies. We were drilled on techniques like sticking phones and other valuable materials in inconspicuous places so as to smuggle them to and from the situation. We learned how to lift data from hard drives. With a time limit. They taught us to keep secrets, and what it takes to morph into something you’re not. We learned how to give and receive pain—how to be cold and hot—and the art of detaching all the while pretending otherwise.
This knowledge makes a person a very valuable asset, and also, a dangerous one.
By early evening, when Matthew still isn’t back, I panic. The moment Sean arrives home from golfing, I corner him in the kitchen. “Where is he?” I demand.
“Relax,” he says. “Is it so much to want an evening alone with my wife?”
“No,” I answer cautiously. “But when will Matthew be home?”
He glances at the clock on the mantle. “Within the hour. I hear he’s had a big day.”
“What—”
“And you,” he says cutting me off. “How was your afternoon? Busy, I presume.”
“Yes.” I kick off my heels. He insists on them.
“Good, get comfortable. I’ve ordered dinner to be delivered.”
He ushers me toward the dining room. “But first, your next dose.” He hands me two pills.
I set them on the table. “I need a drink.”
He watches closely. “You must be starving.”
“Yes,” I say. “But first, I need to send Adam an email. I’ve just remembered something he will want to know.”
“Use your phone.”
“It’s dead.”
“Figures. Charge it in the office. I’ll want to see it after dinner.”
I nod, and then I start toward the office.
“Oh,” he calls, halting me in my tracks. “And grab a bottle of wine from the cellar while you’re at it, would ya? I’m thinking a red will do.”
“Sean!” I yell from the cellar. He doesn’t answer, and he doesn’t come, not right away. “I’m not seeing…”
“What is it?” he asks as he descends the stairs. He’s so slow; it feels like an eternity.
“I’m not seeing the cabaret.”
I watch as he fumbles around, pulling several bottles from the shelf before placing them back. “This should do,” he says finally. He takes the bottle and holds it in front of his face to better see the label.
“I don’t know how I missed it.”
When he turns toward me, I take his prized letter opener and jab it in his neck.
He stumbles forward once, twice, three times, before falling completely. He’s on his stomach, and I have to step over him. I pull on the letter opener, but it doesn’t budge. I tug harder, but it’s tough to get out, tougher than I thought, like it’s caught on something, something like bone, although I know that can’t be the case. I angle it, and with another tug, I’m staring at the shiny metal in my hand. But then I panic at the sight of all the blood, and I stab him again. His eyes bulge, and he’s aware of what’s happening, and that makes it all the better.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Elliot
When there’s a knock on the door, I’m hoping it’s Emily. I haven’t heard from Vanessa, and I’ve been fighting the urge to text for an appointment all day. But mostly, I’ve had other things on my mind. Surely, Emily has seen the posts on Instalook, and she is pissed that I have moved on. My wife was never the kind of woman to share. Not the spotlight. Not even our daughter, as it turns out.
I open the door to find my mother’s face staring back at me. She pushes past me, which is probably better. No point in airing our dirty laundry for the neighbors. Never
one to waste a minute, she says. “Elliot, good God,” she says. “Where have you been? I’ve been trying to get a hold of you for three days.”
“I’ve been busy. Swamped.”
“Clearly.” My mother’s aged since the last time I saw her—years in days it seems—and if she weren’t such a wretched person, I might feel bad. “Now, I need to know what you were thinking, going there?”
She follows me from the foyer to the living area. “What brings you by, Mother?”
“You went to jail. What do you think brings me by?”
“A phone call would have been sufficient.”
“Tell me about it,” she says and so I do.
“It was nothing. Just a common misunderstanding.”
“Please explain how one can misunderstand a trespassing charge?”
“It’s my house.”
“Your obsession is going to cost you your future, Elliot. And for what?”
“They are my future, mother.”
“No, Elliot. They aren’t. I thought this had been made clear.”
Her eyes scan the room. “Where’s the sofa?”
“I spilled something.”
“I don’t think you understand. Your actions have consequences, Elliot. We can’t just buy your way out of trouble. You aren’t a child anymore.”
“Then stop treating me like one. Mind your own business.”
“Oh, good,” she seethes. “You want to talk about business? You could very easily cost your father his seat in the Senate. You could cost us this campaign. Is that what you want?”
“I think you’re being a little dramatic.”
“You need help, Elliot. Consider this an intervention.”
“I’m pretty sure interventions are typically comprised of more than one person, mother.”
“Nathan is on his way, as is your father…and a doctor.”
“This is farcical.”
“We thought you were getting better. It’s clear you aren’t.” She looks like she might cry. I know my mother better than to believe that. “Nathan says if you agree to help, the board will consider letting you stay on.”
“What kind of help?”
“He’s recommended a wonderful place. They’ll treat you for the exhaustion you’re experiencing, and you’ll be out in no time.”
“Exhaustion?”
“You haven’t been sleeping. Everyone can attest to the fact that you’ve been working around the clock on this deal. It isn’t such a stretch.”
My father doesn’t knock. He lets himself in. When I turn, I see my attorney at his heels.
“Wonderful. It’s a party,” I say.
“Elliot,” my father nods, and extends his hand. “I’m going to make this brief. We need you to sign this so we can get you treated.”
“I don’t need to be treated.”
“You are on the brink of losing your company. You have been arrested twice and you are an embarrassment to this family.”
“I’m not signing anything.”
“Elliot, this could really help you,” Nathan interjects. “I know it’s hard to see it now, but a little rest and relaxation would do you good. And this covers all our bases. The board has agreed to let you stay on provided you agree.”
“Agree to what?”
“It’s all laid out there,” he says, pointing to the stack of papers.
“I need time to look it over.”
“There isn’t time,” Nathan says.
“You’ve had time,” my mother says.
“This is ridiculous,” my father says.
“The detective called us this morning, Elliot,” my father informs me. “He requested information as to your mental state. He wanted to know whether there have been any… issues.”
I walk over to the window, take out my phone, and start to text Vanessa. I don’t know why, but she seems like the kind of person who would understand my predicament.
“The cameras in the parking garage don’t show what you said occurred the night you were assaulted. They show you getting into your car and exiting onto the street.”
“I drove myself to the hospital.”
“The detective showed us the tape, darling,” my mother says quietly. “You were not injured when you left that garage. It’s very clear. It shows you walking Mrs. Louis to her car and then entering your own.”
“It shows wrong.”
“So you have no way of explaining what might have happened? How your injuries occurred?”
“No.”
My father crosses the room, and suddenly we’re eye to eye. “Are you on drugs, Elliot?”
“What do you think?”
“I think you need help.”
“What I need isn’t up to you.”
Nathan clears his throat. “I didn’t want to bring this up, Elliot. Forgive me. But there’s the issue with the prostitute to consider...”
“Prostitute,” my mother gasps. “What prostitute?”
“They’re suggesting they have photos of a call girl leaving your apartment,” Nathan says.
“Is that true?” my father asks.
“Of course, it’s not true,” my mother says.
Nathan knows it’s true, so I say, “So what?”
“Well that’s not all,” my attorney continues. “I’ve been sent photos of a call girl…she’s in a precarious position, and there are bruises…they’re threatening to send them to the press unless we meet their demands.”
My father pinches the bridge of his nose. “Dear God.”
“What demands?”
“It’s not exactly clear yet.”
“Quite frankly, Elliot,” Nathan says. “We need this to happen.”
“Whose attorney are you?” I shake my head. “Whose side are you on?”
“He’s a friend of the family, darling. He’s your friend.”
“I thought you said I don’t have any friends.”
The doorbell rings.
Please let it be Emily. She’ll sort all of this out. She was always good at that.
“That must be the doctor,” my mother says.
My eyelids are heavy, and my skin feels clammy and cool to the touch. I’m sweating, and the further my body drifts from sleep, the warmer I feel. I try to sit up but can’t, probably on account of a blanket over the top of me that feels like lead. This and I’m just too tired.
“Do you know where you are, Mr. Parker?” a deep voice asks.
I can’t open my eyes. I can’t summon the energy. Maybe I don’t even care.
Someone pats my shoulder. “You’re probably feeling a bit tired. This is good news. You’ve come to rest, and we’re here to help with that.”
I flex my fingers and then my toes. I can’t tell whether I’m actually moving them, or if I’m just imagining myself doing it.
“Rest up,” the voice says. “And welcome to the rejuvenation center.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Vanessa
My husband isn’t dying, and he’s supposed to be dead. It’s not that I meant to kill him; I just didn’t mean to keep him alive, either. To remedy the latter, I’ve placed duct tape over his mouth to help with the moaning, and I’ve tied his left leg to the gas pipe to remedy the situation where he tries to drag himself up the stairs. Needless to say, he’s probably not going anywhere. Fingers crossed.
I’m just finishing re-patching his neck, something I learned from hunting with my brothers back when I was a kid, and they were forced to take me along hunting with them because if they left me alone, I’d only get into trouble. My older brother’s foot got caught in one of those claw traps—nasty things, they are—and it was six-year-old me who had to get him out. I had to patch him up using his T-shirt. Blood soaked all the way through. It’s pressure that stops the bleeding, and I learned the harder you press, the faster it clots.
The doorbell rings, and I rush to the door to find Gina with a sleeping Matthew in her arms. “Don’t worry,” she says, lowering her voice, her eyes sca
nning for Sean. “They just asked him some questions and put him in religion class with the others. Nothing else happened.”
I take him from her arms. “Don’t ever touch my son again.”
“Vanessa, listen to me. They know you let Matthew play with technology.” She says it like the very thought is poison, like she can’t bear to let the word roll off her tongue. “You should be very careful.”
“Thank you for the warning.” I’m jostling my son in my arms. I’m tired, it’s been a long day, and he’s heavier when he’s sleeping. “I’d better get him to bed,” I tell her finally. I can’t let on that anything is wrong.
After I place Matthew in his bed, I begin deftly packing a bag. I’ve always meant to have a ‘go bag,’ but it was too risky. If Sean had found it, it would have been the end of me.
Things don’t look so good for me as it is. If they send me back to the rejuvenation center, with Sean half dead in the cellar—or at least I hope he’s that way—there’s no one to care for Matthew. If they find him, the rejuvenation center will be the last of my worries.
I throw a few pairs of jeans and several chunky sweaters into my bag. There’s probably not much use for the designer dresses or heels where I’m going. That’s not to say that I know where I’m going, exactly, only that I have to go.
First things first: I have to make my husband dead. Somehow that seemed easier before I saw all the blood, when I still had the resolve. Now Matthew is home, and they haven’t hurt him, and now I’m thinking this is all one big misunderstanding, and that maybe I can fix it even if I know I can’t.
I’ve just finished packing Matthew’s things when my cell phone rings. Adam’s face pops up on the screen. He wants to FaceTime, but I decline it and answer the call the old-fashioned way.
“I need to see you,” he says.
I wait for him to go on.