But he knew.
“Doesn’t surprise me,” he said.
“What do you mean?”
“You’re a mess.”
“And you’re unemployed.”
“No,” he said. “I got a job. Remember? I told you that.”
“Where?”
“On the porch, when we were talking at the door.” He gave her a concerned look, a look that asked how much pot she’d been smoking lately.
“No, where’s the job?” she asked.
“California.”
She stopped. “Really?”
“Yeah.”
“What, um…” Her voice caught and the words stuck in her throat. She had never considered the idea of him leaving. “A university?” She drank most of the rest of the lemonade and wished she had another.
Austin shook his head. “A private company. A startup that uses new technology to examine biochemical processes.”
“That’s exciting.”
As they started walking again, he asked tentatively, “What was… what was that in your tone just now?”
“I didn’t have a tone,” she said coldly. “When are you leaving?”
“In a few days.”
She stopped again and tried to think of something to say to cover up her sense of loss. She didn’t want to encourage that long simmering feeling that he was always hiding from her. Always so incompetently hiding.
“I always dreamed of living there someday,” she said. “By the sea, without the bitter winters and the oppressive, steaming summers.”
She rebuked herself inwardly. Jesus, you fool, why don’t you just beg him to invite you?
Fortunately, he didn’t read her remark as she had feared, or if he did, he wasn’t going to follow up on it.
“And you’re staying here?”
“I’m staying right here,” she said. She drained off her last ounce of lemonade as they rounded a corner. In one more block, she’d be at her door, telling him goodnight. And in a few days, he’d be gone.
They walked in silence that final block, and she inwardly derided him for not having the nerve of Dirk Jaworski, for not just going after what he so obviously wanted—even though she knew he’d never get it. Half of her wanted him to try, dared him to try.
They made it all the way to the door without a word. She opened it, then turned and reached for his empty bottle. “Want me to take that?”
He handed it to her silently, and in the darkness, she couldn’t make out the expression on his face.
“Can I tell you something?” he asked.
Just like Austin Reed to ask if he could tell me something, she thought. If you want to tell me something, then tell me. You’re not like Dirk at all. Imagine Dirk asking: Can I put this in you? Don’t ask permission. Show some confidence. Be a man.
She tried to puzzle out his intentions there in the dark, but all she could see was the silhouette of the man standing with both feet firmly planted on the ground. He was too far away to attempt a kiss. But then, he might just be the type to fumble into it from an awkward distance and wind up with his mouth against her nose.
“What is it?” she asked, tensing slightly in anticipation of him making a fool of himself.
“Do you remember the first time we talked?”
“Yeah.”
“I called for Dirk. To tell him I got the job, that I’d be moving here. You answered and said he wasn’t home, and then we talked for an hour.”
“Get to the point.”
“When I pictured coming here, the whole town, the university and everything, was colored with you.”
“And what did you think?” she asked with a hint of scorn. “That you would come and seduce me away from Dirk?”
“I thought you were the loveliest human being I had ever encountered.”
The words caught her off guard, landing like a blow, and stirred an instant rage that she struggled to contain.
“And what do you think now, Austin? After knowing me for two years? After watching the shit show of my life? How’s your little fantasy doing now?”
Her words didn’t shake him. He said simply, “If I never see you again, I want you to know that there’s one person on this earth who thinks the world of you.”
She turned and went inside without a word, closing the door on him.
She threw the empty bottles violently into the recycling bin in the kitchen, then pulled them back out with equal violence and threw them into the trash.
She ran upstairs and shut herself in the bedroom. She brushed the laundry from the bed in one angry sweep, then sat down, then got up and paced across the clothes she had spent the morning folding.
What a pathetic attempt at seduction, she fumed. I think the world of you, she mocked. Who cares what you think? You’re bland and boring. You’re Peter Pennypacker looking for his Louise. You’re bald and… wait, you’re not bald. Or pudgy. But you will be in a few years. Probably.
In her mind’s eye, she saw herself in a polka-dot dress with Louise Pennypacker’s idiotic 1950s housewife hairdo, and the rage in her heart swelled to a point that frightened her. She felt that if Austin Reed were to set foot in her room at that moment, she would kill him. She would kill Dirk too. She might even kill herself.
She looked at her hands.
Oh, God, I’m shaking.
I’m shaking.
She opened the top drawer of the nightstand and pulled out the bag of sticky green buds. She found the rolling papers, but her hands shook too much to roll a joint. She remembered the remains of the joint she had smoked earlier. The roach still had three good hits in it, but where was it? She tore through the laundry on the floor and found it, the paper soaked with brown resin.
Where was the lighter? There was one in the bathroom. She rushed in and picked it up from the counter by the sink. She sparked the flame and caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror, the roach stuck to her lip, her hands shaking, her face drawn and pale, eyes filled with rage and ringed with dark circles of depression and fatigue.
How could a little pass like that have set you off so badly, she wondered. So what if he hit on you? A hundred guys have hit on you. You shake it off. Who cares?
She let the flame go out. She took the roach from her lips and left it by the sink beside the lighter.
On the edge of the bed, she sat quietly with her eyes closed and ran though the encounter on the porch. What set you off, Wanda Wiley?
He didn’t try to touch you. He wasn’t rude or presumptuous. He simply said what he felt. And that was bold, wasn’t it? It was bold of him to lay it on the line like that. Not like Dirk, with his false courage. Dirk who doesn’t really put his feelings on the line, who spends days or weeks grooming his targets and then pounces only when he’s sure he’s already won. Dirk isn’t a risk taker. He’s a manipulator. He only goes after the types he knows he can get.
She felt bad about turning her back on Austin, shutting the door in his face. She realized in hindsight what had triggered her astonishing rage. In offering her an alternative to Dirk, Austin was trying to take something from her. He was taking the dream into which she had poured most of her energies these past six and a half years. The dream of making it work with Dirk, of capturing the heart he was incapable of giving, of winning the illusory prize that could never be won. Dirk’s heart belonged to Dirk alone. No one could seduce his love away from himself.
Dirk could get to her in many ways. Through fear, through her insecurities, through desire. He could turn her on against her will, even when she hated him. But he could not say, “I like your book.” Or even, “I read your book.” He could never have said, “I think the world of you,” and even if he tried, he couldn’t have meant it, because the only thing that mattered in Dirk’s world was Dirk.
She couldn’t shake the fear that Austin’s words had put in her, the fear that she would have to abandon the central project of her life. That was the sore spot—realizing
how much Dirk really had been the center of her life, that she had poured into him even more energy than she had poured into her writing. To walk away from Dirk would be to admit that all her energy had been wasted, that all her hopes had been illusory and vain.
How insolent of Austin to ask, to even suggest, that she do all that for him! She couldn’t shake her anger at him, her resentment at the threat he posed to her hopes and dreams.
But his words had hit their mark, and there was no undoing the effect of knowing that someone truly cared.
7
Hannah slouched on the couch of the old Victorian farmhouse, contemplating the hygiene of wearing that blue satin sweep-me-away dress for what felt like four consecutive days. She could hear Trevor in the bathroom blubbering and talking to his man parts. “These could be our last hours together,” he sniffed.
I wonder how long he can keep that up, she thought. He’s been at it for thirty minutes. His morose complaints were beginning to bring her down. She tried to think of something to distract him.
The light coming through the crack in the curtains showed that the fog had thinned. Maybe a walk, she thought as she stood and approached the window, a walk in the timeless, spaceless fog will take his mind off his willy. I can’t believe how much time he spends thinking about that thing.
She opened the curtains to a surprising scene. The fog had not only thinned, it had receded a good sixty feet from the side of the house to reveal rosebushes, not yet in bloom, and what looked like flower beds carved in curving lines between sections of thick green lawn. The beds were empty, but the dark soil was rich and promising. This was the most she’d ever seen of the house’s surroundings.
She left the living room to knock on the bathroom door. She would encourage Trevor to go outside with her and have a look at the scenery. But first she paused to listen to the prayer he uttered with such anguished sincerity.
“Oh, Lord, you know I don’t believe in you because anyone who would create so many tree-hugging hippies and self-righteous liberals has got a screw loose. But whatever. It’s your universe. All I’m asking for right now is a little bargain. You let me keep my willy, and I’ll turn my life over to you. I’ll do whatever you want, except vote Democrat. I’ll spread your word far and wide. I’ll even read the bible. The whole thing. I’m that serious.”
Hannah knocked. “Trevor?”
“Is that you, God?”
“No. Are you still crying?”
“Trevor Dunwoody doesn’t cry!”
“Come out here.”
“I’m busy.”
“You sound sad. Come outside. I want to show you something.”
“Oh, alright,” he sighed.
She heard him zip his pants and then the door opened.
“Trevor,” she said excitedly, “look at this.”
She led him through the kitchen.
“How long until I go back into my book?” he asked. She was glad to hear some firmness returning to his voice, though she could still hear the fear.
“I don’t know,” Hannah said. “Whenever Wanda starts writing again.” She opened the back door and they went out.
“Look!” she whispered.
The fog had receded to expose half an acre of lush green lawn, rhododendrons, and a towering magnolia. They both had to squint in the brightness of the day.
Hannah looked at him with wonder and whispered, “Something happened.”
“Yeah,” said Trevor. “That dweebus made a pass at her.” His eyes fixed on the iron handle of the well pump, and an idea struck him in a blinding flash. “Salvation!” he cried. “Where are the tools?”
“What tools? And what dweebus? What are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about tools, baby!” His energy had flipped so quickly from morose to manic, she wondered if he was bipolar.
“There are some tools in the basement, but—”
Trevor dashed into the house before she could finish. She followed him in and from the kitchen could hear his footsteps thundering down the stairs.
She stopped at the top of the steps and called, “Trevor?”
“Profit!” he cried excitedly, and in a few seconds, he was on his way back up with a heavy wooden toolbox.
Hannah had to step out of the way to avoid being knocked over as Trevor sped toward the rear of the house with the tools.
Hannah went back through the kitchen and found him outside at the well. She pulled up her dress to keep the satin from catching on the splinters of the threshold as she exited.
“Trevor, what are you doing?”
“Man’s work, honey. Step aside.” He held an adjustable wrench to one of the bolts that attached the handle to the pump. The handle was about three feet long. At one end, it was fitted to the human hand. At the other end, the end Trevor was working to detach, it flattened out to a triangular iron plate about six inches wide at the base and almost one inch thick.
“Who is dweebus?” Hannah asked.
Trevor grimaced as he forced the wrench down with all his strength.
“Joe Boring,” Trevor said. He fell forward as the nut loosened, then he immediately attacked the second nut.
“What do you mean he made a pass at her? How would you know if someone made a pass at Wanda?”
“Didn’t you hear them?”
“No,” said Hannah, surprised.
Trevor lurched as the second nut loosened.
“You can hear their words?”
Trevor pointed up toward the sky. “Comes from the same place as the typing. You really didn’t hear?”
“No! I’ve never known what she says aloud or what anyone says to her. I only get the feelings. And something happened. Something changed. I don’t think she’s fully aware of it because this is the sort of thing I always know first.”
While she spoke, Trevor had loosened the nuts enough to start twisting them off with his fingers.
“Step back,” he said. “This thing is heavy. I don’t want it to fall on your feet.”
“What are you doing with that? I need it to pump water.”
“I’ll bring it back.” He slid the long iron handle from the bolts and his arms sagged under the weight of it.
“What did Joe Boring say?”
“I don’t know. Some hapless pickup line. Total loser. Guy’s got no game at all.”
Trevor set the flat triangular base of the iron handle on the ground and opened the top button of his pants. For a moment, Hannah feared he might ask her to kiss Little Willy goodbye. But his attention wasn’t on her. He lifted the heavy handle from the ground and slid the triangular base into the front of his pants. The handle stuck out of the top, almost up to his collar bone.
“I need a truss to hold this thing in place.” Trevor patted the steel plate that protected his precious willy and said, “That’s three quarters of an inch of iron. No one’s going to shoot through that unless they have an assault rifle or a .44 Magnum. Hey, you don’t know what kind of piece the president packs, do you?”
“I know nothing about guns. Trevor, who was Wanda talking to? And what did he say? This is important.”
“I don’t know. It was some guy, uh… Houston. Or Dallas. Or…”
The sound of clacking keys drifted down from above.
“Oh, shit!” Trevor exclaimed. “She’s at the keyboard again. I need a truss or this thing’s gonna slide down my pants leg. Do you have an industrial strength bra I could borrow?”
“There’s no time. Trevor, what did Dallas say to her?”
“He said, um…” Trevor put on a mocking voice. “You’re the loveliest human being I’ve ever encountered, Wanda. I think the world of you. Ha! In Trevor Dunwoody’s world a line like that would put a guy in the friend-zone forever.”
The clacking of the keys grew louder. Hannah grabbed him angrily by the collar and said, “Screw Trevor Dunwoody and his stupid game. He meant what he said, and she knew he meant it. That�
�s why it got to her. That’s why the fog has thinned and the day is bright. That’s why the soil is rich and the bushes are green.”
“Step away from the man,” Trevor said, brushing her hands off. “I have a president to save.”
Hannah grabbed him again. “Listen, buddy, I heard you praying in the bathroom just now, and I’ll give you a little piece of advice. The god of this world is Wanda Wiley, and if you want something, you’ll have to ask her. Your big iron dong shield will do you no good. She’s furious with Dirk, more angry than she even knows, because she won’t let herself feel what’s really going on inside her. That’s why I’m trapped here. And that’s why she’s going to blow your cock off. You’re as domineering as he is.
“If you want to save your willy, you say a prayer to Wanda. You tell her that from now on Little Willy will be the last part of you that ever meets a woman. The first part will be your ears, and then your mind, and then your heart. You tell Wanda that, you make it a solemn vow, or Little Willy is history.”
“Willy,” Trevor corrected. “Not little willy.”
And then he disappeared.
8
On a wet October evening, Trevor Dunwoody emerged from the black iron gate that separated the White House grounds from the brick and stone of Pennsylvania Avenue. The meeting in the East Wing had ended on a disquieting note. The CIA now believed that the Russians were not involved in the theft of the president. The leads in Paris had evaporated, and the FBI had cleared all of the white nationalist groups that had earlier been flagged as potential suspects. The president was simply gone.
Trevor trudged heavily through the thickening mist with both hands on his crotch to support the immense weight of the iron pump handle that protected his manhood. His thoughts drifted from his mission of finding the president to a more immediate concern. How long could he afford to tie up both hands supporting his fifty-pound willy shield? What if he needed to shoot someone, or shake the hand of a foreign dignitary?
Wake Up, Wanda Wiley Page 5