The Winter Girl

by Matt Marinovich

  I nodded, but that wasn’t enough.

  “Say it,” she shouted at me. “Tell me you want to keep me trapped here like an animal. Torture me.”

  “I promise,” I said, watching her pinch her dark nipples and tug them upward, the dark scar tissue under her breasts gleaming in the sunlight.

  “Tell me I’m a cunt and you’re going to fuck me up,” she said.

  “I’m going to fuck you up, cunt. You’re not going to look the same after I’m done with you. I’ll tie you up and break your bones right in front of you.”

  “That’s better,” she said. “Maybe one day when you’re ready I’ll give you the key.”

  She looked up at me, unblinking, as my sperm began to land on her breasts and neck and lips.

  “I’m going to fucking flay you,” I said.

  “You promise?” she said. “You can do better than a sick old man.”

  She seemed to gleefully ignore the increasingly panicked sound of my wife yelling my name.

  “You’re taking pictures in your mind,” Carmelita said. “I can see it in your eyes.”

  —

  “You’re not in love anymore,” Carmelita said, wiping my come off her chest with a paper towel. “Is there any on my neck?”

  She lifted up her chin playfully and I nodded gravely. I’d become her human shame mirror.

  “Yeah,” I said, looking back down at the concrete floor as I tugged my pants back on. I was listening to the wet slosh of the washing machine. In the cold air, my sweat had dried instantly.

  I told her I had to go and squinted up at the light at the top of the basement stairs. For the first time, I noticed the moisture seeping through the walls, the threadlike legs of a daddy longlegs paused on the pockmarked Sheetrock behind us.

  “Sometimes things change so fast you don’t even feel it,” she said. She finished wiping my come off her chest and then crumpled up the paper towel and tossed it in the lint bucket. “By the time your brain catches up, it’s too late.”

  I was thinking about evidence now. How much I was always leaving behind in the house. Fingerprints, footprints, and now a soiled paper towel sitting in a galvanized lint bucket.

  Elise was calling my name again, but her tone had changed. It was accusing now. She wasn’t excited to tell me that everything was okay with the bank; she was homing in on me. Glancing out of the casement window, I could see her legs moving toward the edge of Victor’s property.

  “I’ll give you some money,” I said. “But you have to leave us alone.”

  “Five hundred and six dollars?” Carmelita said, tucking a few strands of hair behind my ear and then gently tracing a long vein on the side of my neck with her finger. “Maybe six hundred and eleven?”

  “It’ll all be nice even numbers from now on,” I said, trying to head off her sarcasm. “Bigger amounts.”

  “Scott!” Elise screamed. She must have been on the pool deck now, because I could hear her voice echoing off the wood. The tone of her voice had changed one more time. There was more worry in it now, as if something bad might have happened to me. Or maybe something even worse: that I was conspiring with this girl against her.

  As my wife continued to make her way toward me, Carmelita leaned over and pulled a fresh blue T-shirt from the plastic bucket and pulled it on, then a new pair of striped panties. Finally, a fresh pair of jeans that were a size too big for her.

  “I wear anything I find around here,” she said, for the first time a little self-conscious. Anything that touched on money or material almost made her look like her soul was caving in. There was another sweatshirt in the bin, an old gray Champion that Dick Swain must have once worn. She pulled that on too and then she asked me if I liked secrets.

  “I know something about your wife that you don’t,” Carmelita said.

  “Let’s not get too mystical here,” I said, turning away from her and watching the daddy longlegs scurry back up to a crevice near the ceiling, where the sorry thing was still completely visible.

  “She’s a born thief.”

  “How would you know?” I said, angry now.

  “Because Victor told me. He says it used to be a real problem. She’d take anything she thought she could get her hands on. It took a while for her friends to catch on, but pretty soon no one wanted to invite her over anymore.”

  I thought my wife must be standing right outside the sliding glass door now, cupping her hands and peering through the plastic covering the shattered glass. Why didn’t I hear the muffled sound of her calling my name again?

  “So what?”

  “It’s not a big deal. But just one of a hundred things I could tell you about her.”

  “Victor’s a born liar,” I said. “He was manipulating you, Carmelita.”

  Walking to the door, I could hear the pathetic sound of Elise lightly tapping her knuckles against the intact glass.

  “What’s another thing?” I said, wishing I hadn’t asked that question about my wife as soon as it came out of my mouth. Carmelita seemed to relish my moment of insecurity. She moved closer to me and tried to kiss me on the mouth, but I turned away.

  “How about I tell you one secret a day?” Carmelita said, running two slender fingers down my chest. “That’ll make you too scared to even go home.”

  “I’m not as gullible as I look,” I said, but the truth was I was starting to believe everything.

  “She used to have a half sister,” Carmelita said. “Two years younger than her. The girl followed her around like a puppy.”

  Elise was calling my name again, but it was farther away. I imagined she must be exploring the weedy edges of Swain’s property now, or carefully treading down the ruined stairs that led to the pier.

  “What happened to the half sister?” I said, impatient now. I didn’t want to just stand there facing her, looking confused. Elise and I had major problems, but we still weren’t finished. I reminded myself I was listening to a squatter who had allowed herself to be tortured by Victor for a few hundred dollars. Maybe this was just another way of getting paid.

  “I don’t know,” Carmelita says. “Victor says she just disappeared. But then out of nowhere, one day, she calls him again.”

  “I’ll double-check that with my wife.”

  “I don’t know if you should double-check anything with her. Victor told me Elise was the one I should fear the most. He told me that after he was through with his biting once. I was crying. Maybe I looked like I’d call the police.”

  “I’m going to tell her you’re gone,” I said, walking toward the stairs. “I’ll bring you the money later tonight, and then it’s over.”

  “Scott,” Carmelita said, pinching her nose and wincing, as if she were trying to recall something.

  “What is it?”

  “I want to show you something.”

  “My wife’s ten feet away. She’s looking for me.”

  But she wasn’t anymore. There was no more shouting of my name. Maybe she was scrambling down the gully now, or the stairs; maybe she was shading her eyes at the end of the dock, wondering if I’d drowned myself.

  Carmelita confidently took my hand and led me to the other side of the stairs. The brass key I’d given her was sitting in the keyhole of a closet door.

  “Open it,” she said.

  The contraption was a very narrow L-shaped wooden chair nailed to the floor. It was this closet that the brass key unlocked. There was a circular band of black nylon that was attached to the back of the chair and two more bands around the armrests.

  “What is it?” I said.

  “Sit in it,” Carmelita said.

  “Are you crazy?”

  “Then I will.”

  She squeezed past me and sat in the small chair.

  “He fastened the Velcro straps,” she said. “I know it’s only Velcro, but you can’t move an inch.”

  “Then what?”

  “He locked the door. See the lightbulb? It’s on a timer, like all the rest of the lights
, but it only stays on for half an hour. That’s how you know one day has gone by, or two, or three.”

  “He kept you here for three days?”

  “Six days once. I was so weak afterward he had to carry me out in his arms like a child. He liked that the most. He used to tell me it’s the sweetest part of being a father. The helplessness of the child.”

  “Well,” I said, my anger an acidic burn in my throat. “Why don’t we try for seven days? How about fourteen?”

  “Listen, Scott,” she said softly. “You can’t just invade a woman’s life and leave her worse off. It’s not good for anybody.”

  I heard Elise’s voice again, closer now. But she wasn’t calling my name, she was urgently talking to someone on her cell phone. I made out only a few phrases, but I distinctly heard You’re going to have to get your ass down here. Elise must not have been satisfied with the response she got on the other end, because whoever it was she was talking to had hung up. So she called back again. Answer your phone, she hissed.

  “What do you call that silly knife that used to be on TV?” Carmelita said. “They’d give you an extra one for free to chop tomatoes.”

  Elise, unable to work up the nerve to enter Swain’s home by herself, was now knocking on the sliding glass door of the living room again. This time, a little more insistently.

  “I have no idea,” I said, walking up the basement stairs. Carmelita stayed where she was, and when I glanced back at her, she made a quick chopping motion with her right hand.

  Of course, Victor had told her about his $2.8 million. Hung it over her head so that she’d do the little things he needed.

  “Walk up the stairs faster,” Carmelita said, giving me advice as I ascended the steps and caught sight of Elise cupping her hands and peering inside. “You’ve just heard her knocking. You were exploring the empty basement. You found nothing. And zip up your pants, Captain.”

  I did just as I was told, which seemed to delight Carmelita. I could still hear her gently laughing as I closed the basement door behind me.

  —

  Elise saw me at the last moment and lurched back, turning toward the sea, as if she might run all the way down the hill.

  I pulled open the sliding door and joined her on the patio.

  “She’s gone,” I said, glancing back at the house. “No sign of her anywhere and I’ve been in every room.”

  “Did you hear me calling you?”

  “I was in the basement. You have no idea how much junk I had to wade through down there.”

  I was explaining the many potential hiding spots in the dank basement when Elise flung her arms around my neck, pulling my head down until my forehead touched hers.

  “I thought I was going to get sick,” she said. “You don’t even know how fast my heart was beating. I thought she had killed you. I thought I’d find you lying on the floor in there somewhere.”

  I kissed her on the lips, quickly, because I thought she might somehow smell Carmelita on my skin. Then I squeezed her hand and started to lead her away from the house, but she wouldn’t budge.

  “I thought I just heard someone call my name,” she said anxiously. “Did you just hear that? Like sort of mockingly?”

  “No,” I said, using a little more force to drag her away from Swain’s home. “Believe me. You didn’t hear anything.”

  —

  Elise had found an ancient cigarette she had tucked away in a small velvet-lined box on the sideboy, and we shared it on the deck. We stooped forward, passing the Marlboro Red like a joint, exhaling through our teeth. The temperature had dropped below freezing again, but it was still early in the day.

  I handed Elise what remained of the cigarette and we both turned toward Swain’s house. I breathed a little more easily when I saw that Carmelita was not standing and watching us from the window.

  “I heard her voice,” Elise said, crushing out the cigarette against the railing. A few sparks flared away, and she flicked it into the dark.

  “There was no one there,” I said, staring across the gully.

  “Where is she?”

  “I told you I searched the whole house. Why would I lie to you?”

  “I don’t know, Scott. We’re not getting along. You just watched me poison my father. Maybe you’re hedging your bets.”

  Little thief, I was thinking, picturing her as a young girl, stealing money from the wallets of guests who had come for dinner. Little murderer. What had happened to her half sister? What were the other ninety-eight secrets Carmelita had promised?

  “I’m telling you,” I said. “I searched everywhere. The basement. The closets.”

  “You fucked her.”

  “Elise.”

  There’s something I always do when I’m lying and I need time to think. I repeat the first name of the person I’m lying to. It’s just one of the reasons I’m a terrible liar.

  “Just tell me the truth. Get it over with.”

  I listened to myself tell her the truth, chipping away at any unnecessary detail. It had been quick and disgusting. I felt fucking terrible. I was a stressed-out mess. I wasn’t thinking right.

  “I’m a mess,” I said again. “I’m so sorry.”

  I waited for her to scream at me or slap my face, but she did nothing. When she opened her mouth, her frozen breath curled toward me and vanished, curled toward me again.

  “It’s freezing,” she finally said in a voice that sounded much too calm. “Let’s go inside.”

  I opened the door and followed her in. On the dining room table she had spread out all of Victor’s old papers. Heaps of correspondence that she had started to separate into distinct piles before seemingly losing interest. There was a single Christmas card, looking very regal in a large red envelope, Victor’s name ornately handwritten on the front. I tucked my index finger underneath the flap and tore it open.

  It was a photo of Richard and Martha Swain, sitting in two large armchairs and tilted lovingly toward each other. Her white hair is cut short, but she looks remarkably healthy. It’s Dick Swain who’s gained weight, his face a sunburned red. On a table in front separating them were two porcelain statues of Mr. and Mrs. Claus, about the same height as the porcelain pig.

  On the back was written:

  Merry Xmas from the Capri Rehab (skilled nursing, Victor! Martha says this is the place for you!). Here’s to visiting the real Capri next summer and swimming in the Blue Grotto. Thanks for watching over the house. I know it’s been an eternity. We shall return! Yours R&M.

  “Who’s it from?” Elise said.

  “The Swains,” I said, stretching out my hand so she could see it. “Apparently, they’re alive and well in Phoenix.”

  She took the card from me and silently read it, then neatly ripped it up in four exact quarters and tossed it into the fireplace.

  “So much for your blackmail idea,” she said.

  “Whose blood is on the bed, then?” I asked her. I felt my back muscles getting rigid, the pain spreading outward toward my shoulders. I saw myself tearing off the comforter, and I saw the shape of that bloodstain again, turned yellow at its farthest edges.

  “How do I know?” Elise said. “You think I’m one step ahead of you? Finding ways to make this even more terrible?”

  “All right, all right,” I said, looking at what remained of the convalescing Swains in the fireplace. Were their bags packed? Were they on their way back? Would we have to kill them if they started to find evidence in their own house? The house that Victor had bought from them. Did they think they’d get it back somehow? Was Carmelita staying put because she thought it had been promised to her? One last sadistic empty gesture.

  “They’ll be there for months,” Elise said, crouching near the fire and striking a match. The remains of the Christmas photo turned black as they caught fire. “She still looks like death warmed over.”

  —

  “How about a drink?” Elise said, glancing at me over her shoulder as she walked toward the kitchen. “Th
ere must be a bottle of something left.”

  “Sounds good,” I said morosely, sitting down on one of the dining room chairs and picking up a single flimsy yellow invoice from the stack. It was for one pair of Magnanni Medallion-Toe Oxfords, two hundred and ninety-five dollars.

  “Why don’t you make sure that fire doesn’t go out?” Elise said from the kitchen. “And we’ll get drunk on whatever’s left.”

  I had pretty much polished off whatever was left, including the last of the Cutty Sark. But Elise announced that she had found a bottle of old Cognac deep in the cabinet.

  “I think it’s VSOP,” she said. “The label’s kind of ripped off.”

  “How about one of those skunky beers in the back of the fridge?” I said, unable to prevent myself from picturing the spiked Ensure she had handed Victor.

  I heard the clunky rush of ice cubes spilling from the dispenser, then one skittering across the floor. I put my hands on my knees, stood up, walked to the fire, and did as I was told. There was a stack of fresh newspapers that Victor had tried to read the week before. Sandra adding each New York Times and Wall Street Journal to the stack on the right of the fireplace. I tore off a sheet of Thursday’s Journal and crumpled it up, adding it to the two logs that were already sitting on the andirons.

  I was reaching for the box of safety matches when I heard the ice clinking in the glass behind me. I listened to Elise set it down on the dining room table, and then I heard the distinct metallic snap.

  When I turned around, I had just enough time to see her tuck the second red shotgun shell into Victor’s old Browning, and then she snapped the gun shut and aimed it at the general vicinity of my chest.

  I was already crouched by the fire, which was a fortunate thing, because I suddenly felt so light-headed I thought I was going to pass out. I wanted to say something important to Elise that would change her mind, but the back of my tongue felt as if it had doubled in size. I couldn’t speak.

  “This is the one thing Victor left you in his will. Isn’t that funny?” she finally said.

  I nodded. I thought it was vital that I laugh, but all I could manage was two small coughs. Elise took another two steps toward me, close enough now that she could safely aim the gun at my skull and be sure she would blow off the top of my head.