F*ckface

by Leah Hampton

  “No shit he is.” She kept her head down. “I should know.”

  “Does he ever bother you?”

  “No. I hardly see him. I make sure not to stop by Julie’s if he’s visiting the girls.”

  “How long those two been divorced?”

  “About a year.”

  Robbie shook his head. “Daughters. A man like that’s got two daughters,” he said, and pushed his thumb hard into the sole of his work boot. “Ain’t right.”

  “What do you know?” Margaret asked. Her voice was quiet, weak.

  “I know he’s a piece of shit,” said Robbie. “I know he must have been a piece of shit to you. And I know you weren’t the only one. Trina told me some stuff.”

  Margaret popped forward. “Did he do something to Trina, too?”

  The “too” was out of her mouth before she realized its portent, and she blushed hot.

  Robbie took a heavy breath. “He tried,” he said. “Grabbed her after cheerleading practice one time and almost … you know. Scared her pretty bad. She had bruises, but she got away.”

  He looked at the traffic again. “Trina didn’t tell the cops. She wishes now she had, but you know how things were back then. Nobody would’ve done anything. He was a quarterback.”

  Margaret nodded.

  “I fucking hate football,” said Robbie. “Hope Thomas never plays.”

  Margaret’s memory flashed onto Parker slamming Robbie into a rank of lockers in tenth grade and calling him a pussy. She decided she hated everybody in this town except Robbie.

  “Trina didn’t tell me until last year, after we started marriage counseling,” he said. “I was seeing this woman, and Trina found out about it, and … anyway. We were getting along OK; it was Thanksgiving. We were watching some show about that case in Florida. You know the swimmer, the one who got a life sentence for what he did to that girl?”

  Margaret nodded.

  “We got done watching, and Trina said, ‘Somebody needs to do that to Parker Hackett.’ I asked her what she meant, and she told me about how he attacked her.”

  Margaret unclenched her shoulders and put her hand on the bumper.

  “Should I quit talking?” he said.

  “No, I just need to stand up for a second. What else did Trina say?”

  “Not much,” said Robbie. He thumbed his boot again. “Just how she thought he was, you know. A predator. She was pretty sure he’d raped a couple girls. Stuff like that.”

  Margaret shifted her weight from one foot to the other, but she didn’t move. Robbie planted his feet hard on the pavement.

  “And I knew, Margaret. As soon as Trina told me, I realized I knew. I thought about you right away.” He coughed, shifted his ass on the truck’s bumper. “And you know I’ve got three sisters,” he said. “So I’m just saying, I don’t understand, but I do, kind of. From my sisters, from Trina. I think I understand.”

  Margaret leaned toward the door of the GameStop and measured the distance back inside. When the world didn’t end, she stayed put.

  “Parker was a dick to everybody. I never did like him,” Robbie said. “But I didn’t put the pieces together until Trina and me talked about you. She remembered how you skipped town after Julie got engaged to him.”

  A Harley roared past them through the intersection and rattled both their bodies.

  “And then there you were,” Robbie said when the bike had passed. “At the reunion. And I don’t know. You made sense. After all these years, I knew what made you act weird senior year.” He shrugged. “I mean, weirder than usual. It was clear as a bell when I saw you.”

  Margaret squeezed her drink, unsqueezed it. Squeezed it again. “I always liked Trina.”

  “She liked you, too. We all did.” He cleared his throat.

  They glanced at each other and looked away. “You ever tell the cops?”

  Margaret shook her head.

  “Your parents? Anybody?” he said. Margaret shrugged.

  “Well,” he said. “I’ve seen Parker a couple of times in Lexington. At that Hummer dealership on the interstate where he works. Still pulls the jock routine with me. Grown-ass man. I can’t imagine what it must have been like for you while he was married to Julie. Jesus.”

  “I wasn’t around,” she said. “I left. I didn’t come back here till she dumped him.”

  “Good,” said Robbie, flat and firm. “Good for you.”

  The sun tipped behind the trees and took some heat with it. Neither of them moved.

  “So it was junior year?” Robbie said slowly. Margaret let out a long, slow breath.

  Robbie put his hat back on. “I remember I finally got up the nerve to ask you to come four-wheeling, and you said yes, but then you didn’t show. Then I was sitting behind you in biology a couple days later, and everybody was talking shit about Parker scoring some girl in the woods behind school. I tried to talk to you, but you were gone. It was like you’d walked away.” He cast a loose hand in front of him. “I thought it was me. I thought I’d done something.”

  “The south hill,” Margaret said. “Not the woods.”

  He touched his chest. “Well anyway, Trina and me figured out what must have happened. There were rumors. It makes me pretty sad, thinking about it.”

  “They’re pulling down those trees. Bulldozed the whole hill. To make room for the new baseball field. For the new wires.”

  “I’m glad,” Robbie said.

  Margaret put her cup down on the sidewalk. “I want to go back inside now, Robbie.”

  He didn’t say another word. He got in his truck. Margaret didn’t see him go; he was in the black edges of the cartoon circle closing around her. That’s all, folks. She went inside, finished her shift, then drove home and didn’t talk to anybody for two whole days. Julie called. Robbie called. She didn’t pick up. She was worried if she opened her mouth she would howl or wail or speak in tongues like a backcountry preacher and wouldn’t be able to stop until she screamed so hard her throat bled and she was cut open from the inside, so she just took sick leave and stayed home, mute and motionless.

  * * *

  At the end of the second day, Margaret emailed Robbie and told him she’d do whatever he wanted. In bed. She wouldn’t tell Trina. He could pick her up after work, and they could go out to the cabin, if he still wanted. Nobody had ever asked her to do those sex things before. She was thirty-three and didn’t know how to be anybody’s partner, but she figured if she was going to give this a whirl, Robbie made the most sense to try it with. And she could type, not speak, which made it easier. She clicked and swiped and imagined the words traveling on wires Robbie had hung with his own hands between the county’s spindly, pocked telephone poles. She said yes. To the butt stuff, to everything in his list. If he still wanted.

  * * *

  Robbie replied and said he’d pick her up after work, and they could talk, just talk. He said he’d only been with a handful of women, one before marrying and a couple after, so Margaret didn’t have to feel awkward about not being experienced. He wasn’t either, not really.

  “How come you want me to do that thing with my finger?” she asked him the next day. They were sitting in his truck at the Sonic.

  Robbie’s cheeks pinked above his beard. He had the beginnings of crow’s feet, but his eyes were still pale and boyish. He shrugged. “Guess it just seems like it would feel good.”

  “Can’t you ask Trina?”

  “I’ve never been good at asking her for things. You don’t have to do it if you don’t want to.” His phone buzzed on the seat next to him. He snatched it up and stilled it, then tucked it under his leg and drummed his fingers on the steering wheel.

  Margaret sucked on her straw while Robbie hid his phone. The wife, she figured.

  “I still will. It’s not that freaky.”

  “Can we not do this at the cabin, though?” he asked. “Or your place? It’s a little—it makes me nervous, is all. If it goes wrong … if I screw it up, I don’t want there to
be any awkwardness, like, left over, in your bedroom. Or mine.”

  Margaret looked around. “Well, I don’t know if I’ll feel very sexy squished up here in your truck.”

  “What about a hotel? We could meet there. I’ve, uh, I’ve done that before,” he said. “Then we’ve both got a way out if we need one.”

  Margaret said she thought that sounded like a fine idea, and they settled on the following Thursday to meet at the Holiday Inn three miles from GameStop.

  * * *

  Early the next week, Margaret called her sister and asked if she could borrow her snakeskin stilettos. Julie’s voice fizzed and echoed in Margaret’s ear.

  “Are you going to a costume party?” she asked, laughing.

  “Sort of.” She wasn’t going to say anything about Robbie. Not a word. “Can I get them Thursday?”

  “I guess. Don’t scuff them, though. They cost a lot.”

  “I’m not even going to wear them outside. I might not need them.”

  “OK, um, but come by before six.”

  Margaret and Robbie spent the next few days practicing kissing each other on their lunch breaks. Their first time he parked behind the GameStop, facing into the scraggly bank of trees behind the strip mall, where nobody could see.

  “I want to get used to you,” Margaret said.

  She leaned forward and nuzzled him. She skritched her fingers in his beard and smelled him. His hair reeked of pine. Robbie leaned back against the driver’s door. She pecked him on the lips, a soft flash of wetness. Then she put her knees on his seat and gripped the headrest to steady herself. Her head was above his, and she looked down at him. She felt large and electric. She kissed Robbie with tongue and found he tasted like cloves, with a mossy, metallic aftertaste that reminded her of river rocks.

  Margaret let go of the headrest and gripped his shoulders, rubbed his thigh. No fear rose in her, nor did her body fill with lead. Instead she felt tingly and lithe, and the backs of her knees got sweaty. Robbie grabbed her elbow and eased her back for a breather. He put a cool hand under her shirt, resting it on her belly. She could tell he was surprised at how adept she was at making out.

  “I’ve dated,” she said. “Not a lot. But still.” She wiped her mouth and sat back in her seat. “I’m not a nun.”

  Robbie exhaled and tucked his chin. “OK then!” he said, beaming.

  Margaret gathered up her purse and climbed out of the truck. She glanced back and said, “I like kissing,” and they both cracked up laughing.

  * * *

  On Thursday, Margaret tried to act extra normal at work. She left around five and drove to Julie’s house for the stilettos. She still wasn’t sure she would wear them, but she had amassed a small bag of accessories, and she wanted to be prepared.

  Gathering a sex bag was furtive business. She couldn’t bring herself to buy condoms in Bentley, so she had driven to a Walgreen’s almost all the way in Lexington. She also had massage oil, three bras, a bottle of wine, and almost all her toiletries. She put everything in her navy gym duffel and kept checking the back office to make sure nobody snooped inside it.

  The whole of Richland Skyway popped raw colors at her as she pulled out of work and drove to her sister’s house. Bright burger joints, stark blue gas station lettering. She caught every light, and at each one she eyed the red bulbs inside their yellow metal housings. She stared at telephone poles and followed their wires into the distance. Her whole field of vision was cut up with lines. People forgot to see them; they were so common they disappeared.

  When she pulled up to Julie’s house, a strange, hulking SUV with chrome wheels was sitting out front. Maybe one of the lawyers from work, or maybe Uncle Jack had traded in his sports coupe. Instead of marching in as usual, she rang the doorbell.

  Julie answered the front door with Parker Hackett’s hand under her tit.

  “Hey, come on in,” her sister said, giggling at Parker.

  “Hey, Peg,” said Parker from behind Julie. His face was blank.

  “Uh,” Margaret said. The small of her back iced over.

  “Ssshh!” Julie said, and slapped his chest. “You know she hates that.”

  Parker’s eyes were dark and small. His hair was a plain, solid shield of chestnut. He wore khakis and a button-down. He looked healthy and scrubbed. Standardized. They hadn’t seen each other since a tense family Christmas at her parents’ place in Florida three years ago. Margaret glared at him until his jaw muscles thickened into cords and he slid his thin hands off her sister.

  “I’m gonna get a beer, babe.” His voice was taut, higher pitched than she remembered.

  Margaret didn’t move.

  Julie said, “Are you coming in?”

  “Julie,” she said. “What the fuck.”

  Her sister raised a hand. She touched her face, and her bracelet caught the light like it always did. “Oh. I’ve been meaning to tell you. I don’t know, Margaret. It just happened.”

  “When?”

  “Last month? Jack and I aren’t working out. The age difference … And the girls love having Parker here.” She tilted her head, touched her chest. “He’s their dad.”

  “Julie.” She shut her eyes tight. “Just please shut the fuck up.”

  “All right,” said Julie. She backed away and reached for a long pink shoebox on the carpeted stairs behind her. “God.”

  Margaret clenched her fists, but she couldn’t hold them tight. Parker standing there in the door with his hands all over Julie. The image weakened Margaret’s triceps, and her arms flopped to her sides. She wished everyone would understand: you can’t throw punches at people like Parker Hackett. It’s not even worth trying. Your body slackens, and it stays that way.

  “I know you don’t like him,” said Julie, “but at least be happy for me.” She held the shoebox out, then pulled it back slightly. “Or maybe you do like Parker. Still. Is that it?” Her tone was low and sweet. She spoke the same way she talked about the poor kids in her daughters’ class, the ones who ate free lunches and rode the rural route bus. The same tender pity.

  Margaret’s temples throbbed. Her skin felt grimy and slick.

  “So you’re a little jealous. So what, honey? You’ll find somebody. Just, you know, don’t make things our fault.”

  Julie shifted her hips, and Margaret clenched her teeth.

  “Hey, why don’t you call whatshisface when you get home from your shoe thing?” She reached out to stroke Margaret’s hair. “From the reunion? Robbie. I bet he likes you.”

  Margaret batted away her sister’s hand.

  “OK,” Julie said, “God. Never mind.”

  Lots of people in high school had thought Peg had a crush on Parker. Peg, Margaret, had not. But there was no way to protest, to say no without sounding hollow and weak. Nobody would believe her. Not even her sister. On the front step in her high shoes, Julie towered a foot above her.

  “How can you let a man like that around your daughters?” she asked.

  Julie’s face tensed. Her smile went hard. Her pupils flickered with a quick, tiny light, but then the light went away, and she was still. Her teeth looked like dull plastic.

  “I don’t know what you mean,” she said.

  “Julie,” said Margaret. “How.”

  “Enough.” Julie held up a finger. “You don’t have anything to say.” She huffed and shook her head. “Did somebody tell you something at the reunion? You don’t know.” Julie looked down at Margaret’s chest. “You’ve never.”

  The girls giggled inside the house, and the sound lilted toward them.

  Parker leaned into the hallway and called, “Hey, get in here, momma. Bring ol’ Peg with you.”

  Both women’s bodies tightened, as if they were a pair of maids snapping sheets under a clothesline, as if they were facing each other and folding them, together.

  Julie was still holding the box. “Do you want the shoes or not?”

  Margaret threw up her hands and marched back to her car. She flung op
en the driver’s door and faced the house. Hot metal rose up from her gut. This was the part that scared her—when the hidden thing inside tried to get out but couldn’t take form. Her lungs burned, and she couldn’t latch onto words.

  Then, with all her might, Margaret tipped up onto her toes and bellowed the first thing that came to her.

  “Goddamn it,” she thundered. “You need to talk to TRINA BAGSHOT!”

  Then she flopped into the car and spun out of the driveway, white-knuckling the wheel.

  * * *

  On the way to the Holiday Inn Express, Margaret thought about throwing every last pair of her sister’s heels into the road and driving over them a billion times. She thought about checking into a different hotel and scrubbing every inch of her skin under a hot, white-tiled shower over and over to get herself clean. She thought about fucking Robbie Barnwell in a thousand different positions and showing everybody what she was made of. She thought about going back to Knoxville and sending Trina a handwritten letter in the mail. As far as she could tell, Trina was the only human being in all of this mess.

  Everything felt ruined. She needed another two days of silence to crush things back down inside herself again, but nobody was going to give her that kind of time. She had a date. She was supposed to do things with Robbie, who had kept silent with her. And she still wanted him, kind of, even now.

  “Can I just lay down?” she asked. Robbie had texted her the room number, and somehow she had got herself to the door.

  He stepped back for her to enter. His movements were smooth, as if his center of gravity had shifted downward since she’d last seen him. “You look pale,” he said. “Are you sick?”

  Margaret walked inside. The room was decorated in modern colors, spare and spotless. The silver bedspread had a grid of thin black stripes crisscrossing it.

  “Julie’s been seeing Parker,” she said.

  “Oh,” said Robbie. “Shit.”