Anonymous

Home > Other > Anonymous > Page 4
Anonymous Page 4

by Christine Benedict


  She would tell him what happened, just to get it said. Then he could go inside and she would wait on him. She would give him dinner and sooth his sunburn with apple cider vinegar.

  “I had some trouble with Otto today.”

  “Is he okay?” Greg asked, his eyes on Otto, looking past her.

  “He’s fine. But he broke loose . . .” she started, figuring she would just get it all out. She told him about the briar bushes, and her flip flop making her fall. She told him about Otto cutting her leg with his horn. It was more of a deep scratch than a cut, but she showed him anyway. The more she told him the faster she talked, until she was rambling on about bugs and bites and how she could have really been hurt.

  “I’ve got to do something about that. I can’t have him running loose, chasing you all over the place,” he said, fidgeting with his baseball cap, never once looking at her.

  “I don’t know what I would have done if it weren’t for that swing set.”

  She could tell he’d had enough. He walked past her, toward the garage in what she took as his disappointment. Her gaze settled on the cracked ground beneath a sparse patch of grass.

  He took a step back. “A swing set? Where? I haven’t seen any swing sets.”

  “You can’t see it from here.”

  He went inside, looking terribly concerned, leaving her there by herself. It wasn’t like him to dismiss her, as such. She knew he was tired and hungry. She knew he’d had a rough day. But it hurt just the same. What was he thinking? All these weeks trying to cope with this house and all of its problems, her driving him crazy over every sound. That it had finally happened? That she was seeing things, hearing things, just like her mother had? She heard the screen door snap shut and saw him coming around the corner. He had a Cherry Nehi, and headed toward the barn in the direction of Otto. She could see him talking to the beast as he tightened its rope, the stupid thing licking his boots.

  Staring out at the open landscape, at the horizon, she yelled to him. “I’ll show you where the swing set is.” She walked out in the field where he already was. “It’s on the other side of the barn. It’ll just take a minute.” She went ahead. She would see it soon and she would show him and everything would be alright.

  Rounding the corner, she looked for it. But it was gone, the teeter-totter, the rusty chains, all gone. It seemed as though a vortex tugged her hairs straight up. But there was no updraft, no wind at all, just her and the bugs and the sun. She walked the tall grasses, asking herself, what happened to it? And stood forlorn, her arms folded, trying hard to see it, trying hard to bring it back, when Greg sauntered over.

  “So you got to see Julie today. That must have been nice. You’ve been wanting to see her again,” he said, taking her hand. He squeezed her fingers as though that alone would keep her from crossing the path her mother had.

  “Don’t.” She slipped her hand out of his. She walked on. He followed a bit and then he fell back.

  A few steps through the thistle; a few steps through the blackberry briars, she saw something strange—a fallen-down pile of rusty swing set bars that had been here so long the soil embedded them. She saw the same faded red and yellow colors that she had washed off her hands. And then she saw blood on one of the bars—her blood.

  Greg came up beside her. “Deb? Are you all right?”

  Chapter 6

  Debra mixed Epsom Salt and cool water in the tub. Naked she could see all the bruises.

  ‘Are you all right?’ Greg had asked her that just after they’d met. ‘Are you all right?’ The words repeated in her head. She sank down into the bathtub and laid back in the cool water. Her mind wandered to that place in her mind she’d do anything to erase, the memory of her mother that night. Debra was sixteen at the time, living with her mother and stepfather in Cincinnati.

  * * *

  Debra never understood why her mom married Bill, the man her mother had met in the nut-house. He’d been a patient there although Debra didn’t know why.

  Debra was outside with Greg, a boy she’d just met. At eighteen he was a couple years older than her. The two of them sat on a picnic table in a small fenced-in yard which was like all the yards on West 17th. The house was in the inner-city, and rundown, where she lived with her mother Aida and her stepfather Bill.

  She could see inside the kitchen window from the yard, and she could see Bill downing a shot of whisky, plain as day. ‘Bill seemed nice at first,’ she thought to herself—before the drinking started. Then her step-dad would sneak into her bedroom at night. He’d slip under her covers, and try to lay on top of her, and say be quiet, his whisky breath dampening her ear. But she would tell him right off, “You’re forgetting that I have a case worker. Lay one hand on me and she’ll throw you in jail so fast you won’t know what happened.” That would stop him cold. Just to make things easy though, she would sleep in a closet cube under the stairs where she’d made a soft bed for herself out of old coats. He’d never look there.

  “Would you like something to drink?” she asked Greg. He was fun and sweet and made her feel good.

  “What have you got?”

  “Root beer, milk.” She paused. “I’ve been drinking water. It’s very good for the skin.”

  He ran his fingertip down her cheek, “I can see that,” and pulled her close. He nuzzled a kiss on her neck. She loved it when he did that. But she saw that Bill was watching them from the kitchen window which made her pull away.

  “I’ll get us some water. Don’t go away,” she said.

  “I’ll go with you.” Greg held onto her arm.

  “No. I’ll be right back.” She went inside through the back door and walked into the kitchen where Bill was pouring a second shot of whiskey.

  “What are you doing out there? He’s got his hands all over you,” he said, spittle on his unshaven chin.

  She wanted to say none of your business, but held her tongue. “Nothing. I just came in for a couple glasses of water.”

  “Don’t lie to me. You need water to swallow drugs. Don’t you? That’s why you want water. Isn’t it? You’re one of those hippies.” Bill slammed down his emptied glass. “I won’t have it. Do you hear me?”

  “You know I’m not a hippie. I’m not taking drugs.” She said, anxiety, frustration burning.

  Bill pushed the screen door open. “Get out of here before I kill you. You hippie son of a bitch.”

  Greg hopped to his feet, red-faced. “Sir?”

  “Don’t sir me. Get out.”

  Greg left through what used to be a garden gate. Debra ran to her bedroom and locked the unreliable door, sick inside. Two hours later, Debra was still in her room when she heard her mother come home from work. Her mother seemed almost normal on this new medication. Debra could tell that even Aida was afraid of Bill. Aida walked softly; she closed the door silently, and kept the metal hangers from clanging when she hung up her coat. Debra stayed in her room, fretting about Greg, worried she would never see him again.

  Debra heard the phone ring, and she heard her mother answering it.

  “It’s 9:00 at night. Don’t you have any good sense? Call at a decent hour and you can talk to her.” Aida hung up the phone. Debra knew it was Greg.

  It was 10:00 at night when Debra slipped out of her room as quietly as her mother had come into the house. Stepping heel to toe, softly, not wanting to make a sound, she snuck down the hallway to the darkened kitchen. Bill’s face reflected the glow of the television where he stretched out on the couch. Her mother was ironing clothes that she had dampened the day before, the sour smell hot in the air. Not wanting anyone to hear her, Debra opened the cupboard door without turning on the light and reached for a glass, but it slipped out of her hand. She froze to the sound of breaking glass and closed her eyes, and thought for a minute that if she closed them tight enough, if she could hold her breath long enough, that she could take it all back. She heard the fake leather couch crunch. Footsteps.

  “What the hell are you doing up?” B
ill staggered around the corner, pulling off his belt, and turned on the light.

  “It was an accident.” Debra went for the broom.

  “I’m sick and tired of your attitude. You think I don’t know what you’re doing?” He doubled his belt. The belt slapped her legs.

  “Please . . .”

  “You’re on drugs! Say it!” He threw the belt down and drew back his fist. Debra felt the blunt force. Once. Twice. Three times. The pain so bad her mind went numb, a disconnect. It was as though he was hitting somebody else. Maybe she died just then. Or maybe she surrendered to a kind of escape that comes to those who can’t stand the pain.

  Then it happened. Her mom. The rifle. The shot.

  Bill was slow to die. So Aida shot him again. His body folded on the linoleum squares. The smell of spent whisky. Sour clothes. A cheery commercial played in the other room, “plop plop, fizz fizz, oh what a relief it is . . .” Debra and her mother waited, watching for Bill to move. A minute. A minute more. Watching. Waiting. Each of them holding their breath.

  The doorbell rang.

  “Look what you made me do.” Aida said. “Go live with your father. See if you can ruin his life, too.”

  Police flooded through the door. “Drop your weapon,” an officer yelled. Aida complied, her face grave, hard. Handcuffs clanked. A voice of authority recited a speech of sorts, talking about rights and such.

  Debra was guided outside, the cement cold on her feet. She clutched a blanket one-handed, and tasted the blood on her split lips. The neighbors stood, gaping in the front yard, summoned by the sound of gunfire. Greg was there, too, and tried to get through, but the police wouldn’t let him. Two policemen guided Aida out of the house in handcuffs to a waiting police car.

  Greg saw his chance and his way to Debra. “What happened? Are you all right?” He wrapped her shoulders in the blanket she was holding. Her face was green and bloody and swollen where Bill had punched her. Under a streetlight, Debra stared without blinking at the space behind her eyes.

  “I just wanted some water.” Her eyes finally focused on Greg. “I just wanted some water.” Tears hung on wet eyelashes. “. . . I can’t live with my father. How could she say that? My father is dead.”

  Greg pulled her into his own full warmth. Debra’s breath soft on his neck, she cried silently, the only way she knew how.

  Chapter 7

  Wanting to tell someone, anyone, Julie paced on her front porch with a troublesome letter addressed to her from a man who said he fell in love with her. It was an invasion of privacy a nameless man watching her jog, being so close, telling her his sexual fantasies. Whoever he was. Julie had been a waitress at a fancy restaurant, afternoons, where she’d served businessmen lunch which must have been where he’d met her.

  It was 9:30 in the morning. Kyle was on a job. Nate and Jeff, her teenage boys, were in the barn. No one would miss her now. Burning to talk to someone she walked to the end of her driveway and gazed at Debra’s house. It was strange seeing the house now. The towering lightning rods, the scary old place that simple-minded people whispered about. Who would have thought that someone like Debra would live there? Someone who didn’t fawn over tea and cupcakes, the pretense for idle talk among PTA and 4-H women around here. Debra was different. Julie was sure of it.

  She crossed the road and jumped the ditch, sparrows chattering on wires above which flocked to Debra’s catalpa tree when Julie walked under it. It was funny how she noticed the birds just now, like they were following her just for the sake of little-bird gossiping. Debra was sprinkling roses that seemed to flourish since she’d been there.

  “Hi Deb,” Julie called out as she neared.

  “Hi.” Debra pulled the hose for the length across the lawn. “I’ve been meaning to call you this morning. You won’t believe what happened. You know that swing set?”

  “That old thing?” Julie had no interest in this and it showed in her face. But that was alright with Debra. Julie’s remark was an acknowledgment. Julie had seen it, touched it, washed it off her hands, too.

  “The strangest thing—it collapsed out of the blue, and when . . . .”

  “I’m surprised it was still standing.”

  Debra stopped short. Julie had said what she needed to know, that she’d seen it upright. That’s all she needed. So instead of going on about it Debra said, “It’s a wonder it didn’t fall in sooner.”

  “I’m going to have one of my boys chain Otto to an anchor. I’ve got one that screws in the ground about two feet down. That ought to stop him from being a nuisance. I don’t know why I didn’t think of it sooner.” Julie fidgeted with her hand in her pocket, crimping the edges of the letter. “I want to show you something. Just between you and me, I got this in the mail today.” Her back to the sun Julie handed the letter to Debra. “I don’t know who sent it.”

  The sun in her eyes Debra asked Julie to come inside, and unfolded the page as she walked. It felt good to be the one who Julie trusted with something so private. Whatever this letter was Debra was glad for it. Glad that Julie picked her above anyone else. They came in the kitchen by way of the garage and utility room and sat down at the kitchen table, Julie watching Debra’s face as she read.

  Julie,

  You don’t know me, and I really don’t belong to the church. I put this letter in a church envelope, so your husband wouldn’t open it (if he’s like most men). I feel as if I have known you for years and finally got the nerve to write. I used to see you at lunch every chance I could. What a disappointment I had when they told me that you quit. I secretly asked questions about you in hopes to talk to you someday. Well that day never came. As with most things I do in life, I gave up. I still want to see you. If I don’t, I will hate myself for not trying. I just moved to a new development two months ago, and to my surprise, I saw you jog right passed my house Thursday night. Well, that did it. Almost blew my mind! You are so pretty! I love the way you look. I have never felt this way for anyone before. I must be crazy to write this, and you must think I’m a nut! But I have to tell you that I love you. From the second I saw you I knew I loved you! Well, don’t panic, I too am married and won’t make any moves toward you, but I had to let you know anyways. I won’t tell you my name because of feedback, but I will tell you I’m married, got three kids, and am 40 years old. You have been in my dreams every night since I first saw you. Even when I make love to my wife I see your face. As I said before, I won’t approach you, but I may write again, or if you’re brave enough, jog past my house again on Thursday about 7:00. I will be outside. I do trust you; please don’t get me in trouble. You will always be my lover in my mind and heart! Smitten

  Debra looked up from the letter. “This is serious. What are you going to do?”

  “There’s nothing I can do. Even if I knew who wrote this he isn’t breaking any laws. I don’t plan on meeting him; although I’d like to know who sent this.”

  “I don’t know what I would do if I got something like this.”

  “The worst part is he knows where I live. He might be looking in my windows. He could even be stalking me.”

  “Julie, think. Are you certain you can’t think of anyone who might have written this?”

  “Not an inkling. I can’t tell you how many men I waited on in that restaurant. Mostly businessmen, and for the most part they seemed normal. I’m a waitress. Being nice to customers is just part of the job.”

  “Has Kyle seen it?”

  “He was the one who got the mail this morning. He read it before I got the chance and then he asked me ‘what the hell is going on’ as if I knew who wrote this. Do you mind if I grab some water?” Julie helped herself to Debra’s kitchen cupboards. “Where are your drinking glasses?”

  Before Debra had a chance to stop her, Julie stumbled on her mismatched collection of cups and glasses. It would have been embarrassing for anyone else to see how little she had, but Julie didn’t draw attention to it. Debra read one line that was particularly disturbing, ‘When I
make love to my wife I see your face.’ Makes me wonder what he was doing when he wrote this. Makes me want to wash my hands.”

  Julie exaggerated a wide-eyed stare. “Next time he sees my face I hope he sees me slap him.”

  Chapter 8

  On the days when the house was quiet, it wasn’t all bad living here. Debra knew all her neighbors by now, the ones beside Julie and Kyle. Sam and Marie lived down the road; and even though Debra had been there several times, she kept forgetting to give back Marie’s cookie plate from when she and Julie first met.

  Debra was frosting homemade brownies with that purpose in mind. The frosting melting, she cut them into squares; and trying to make them look pretty she arranged several on Marie’s plate. Mrs. O’Shell always said that you should never return an empty plate. Mrs. O’Shell had been her foster mother for a time, a church-going woman who Debra held in the highest regard.

  Because the frosting was sticky Debra didn’t wrap them in foil or plastic; and left the house without covering them. The minute she stepped outside a deerfly wouldn’t leave her alone, bouncing off her face repeatedly. It seemed as though they were always waiting for her to come outside. She swatted as she walked, the insect biting her in jabs. “Go away!” She stopped halfway across the road, her swatting, it coming back in a maddening cycle. Of all places to land, it landed in the frosting which sucked it down like quicksand.

  “I can’t believe this,” she said out loud. Trying to edge the bug out she shoved it in deeper. Still hearing it buzz she moved the finger-stamped square to the edge of the plate, to make sure that no one would eat it.

  She neared Marie’s back yard from the edge of the ditch and saw their bantam rooster running loose. The rooster, a fighting breed, lorded over the borders, its wings flapping wildly when she crossed into the yard. It was the kind of rooster that could peck the eye out of an egg-sucking weasel which was what these neighbors wanted according to Marie. Debra was cautious, seeing it, baffled why anyone would let something so mean run loose.

 

‹ Prev