Scream Queen

by K T Morrison

Neve wore a black hoody sweatshirt with a cartoon logo, bikini panties, and comfy looking socks pulled up to her thin tanned knees. Chelsea relaxed in panties and a men’s flannel shirt, a white tank underneath.

  “Hey, Ben,” Neve said, waving her fingers at him, “come sit with us...”

  He walked near them, intending—no matter what—not to stay. Chelsea rubbed his knee with her bare toes. When he looked down, she said, “You get our smell off?”

  He nodded, his face tightening to grim.

  Chelsea returned her attention to the movie. He asked, “What are you watching?”

  Chelsea said, “Keys to the City.”

  Neve added: “1950.”

  He watched a good-looking older man struggle a large wooden box down from a ramp, flipping it over with a longshoreman’s hook. There was a crowd gathered, applauding this public spectacle. Ben said, “Is that Charlton Heston?”

  The look he received from both of them was pure scorn. They said in unison: “Clark Gable.”

  “Sorry,” he said, “that’s who I meant, anyway, I just mixed up his name.”

  “The female lead is Loretta Young. Mr. Gable there is about fifty and she’s in her early thirties. This is sweet romantic fluff, but there’s a dirty bathwater grime flowing in its veins...”

  Neve turned up her nose like she was disgusted, knowing where this story was going.

  Chelsea said, “They were in Call of the Wild together fifteen years before this, 1935, and let’s just say Loretta Young has a fifteen-year-old daughter...”

  Neve clutched her hands to her chest, and gasped, “Scandaloso...”

  Chelsea said, “Clark was married back in ’35 and Loretta was a squeaky clean pup of twenty, and if you believe her later accounts—”

  “Hashtag me-too,” Neve interjected.

  Chelsea agreed, “Hashtag me-too, Loretta claimed sex with that handsome devil,” she leveled a pointed finger at the actor on the screen, “wasn’t consensual...”

  “Oh,” Neve proclaimed again, “scandaloso...”

  “Why are you watching it then?”

  She frowned like it was the stupidest question ever, said, “We’re watching their faces. Like, did C.G. know Loretta’s kid was his? Did L.Y. grit her teeth through every scene with the man who took advantage of her and knocked her up? Did she maybe, gasp, have feelings for the man? Good ones, bad ones...? Did she ever want to hurt him? Like, we’re studying their faces, seeing what’s betrayed in their eyes...”

  He watched for a minute with his arms crossed. “Creepy,” he said.

  Chelsea said, “Creepy. But there she is, Ms. Young, my fine female warrior doing her job in a man’s world.”

  “Hard core, bro,” Neve said.

  They tried bumping their knuckles together sleepily and without looking but missed three times and then couldn’t stop giggling.

  Chelsea said, “Or who knows...? Maybe there was still something about Clark. A woman’s mind...”

  Neve turned her face up so she could see Ben’s. She said, “We can be dark.”

  Both girls laughed and then watched a minute of action on the screen.

  Chelsea tapped his knee again with her toes and when he looked she said, “Finn told me he thinks your wife has a little crush on him.”

  Ben laughed. “No, she doesn’t. She doesn’t get crushes...”

  Both girls turned their heads awkwardly, practically looking at each other upside down in their pillows, cheeks dimpling with smirks. Chelsea said, “Sure, she’s just a dry husk of a woman who’s only turned on by Ben Todd.”

  He groaned. “Finn’s not her type.”

  “What, cause he doesn’t read?”

  “Yeah, no offense.”

  Chelsea smiled. “You only interested in girls that buy and sell luxury craft?—”

  “—and cheat on their spouses...” Neve added.

  The two girls howled with laughter.

  “Libby’s timid, and she’s so good. She’d never cheat—”

  “I think she would,” Chelsea interjected dourly.

  “She wouldn’t. And Finn isn’t her type.”

  “I can’t help you, Ben,” Chelsea said, shrugging her shoulders, laying there and showing him her palms. “It’s on the table. I’m offering salvation, it’s up to you if you want to advance your marriage, let Lib loosen up a bit, or if you want to curl up and bear the burden of what you’ve done, let it crush your time with your wife ‘cause it’s all you can think of. Shit, Ben, what we did tonight was a blast. You were a lot of fun—”

  Neve said, “You were,” agreeing but not taking her eyes from the movie.

  “Not a big deal,” Chels continued, “and I’m telling you what Finn told me: just the other day he said Libby gives him lovey eyes.”

  “No, she doesn’t.” He blurted a raspberry, scoffing at the ridiculous idea.

  “Come to the dark side, Ben,” Neve said in a horror movie voice, still watching the screen then laughing. Chelsea joined in.

  “Libby would never...”

  Chelsea sighed, told Neve to pause the movie and then sat up and stretched. “Bring it in, Benjamin,” she sighed and put her arms out to him. He dipped and hugged her and she rubbed his back. “Great night, dude,” she said.

  When she broke the embrace, she straightened her shirt, said, “Now say bye to your Auntie Neve, she goes back to B.C. tomorrow.”

  He shuffled past Chels and got close to Neve who reached out and gave him a hug too. “Bye, Ben,” she said near his ear. “Maybe I’ll see you later in the summer.”

  Now he stood up, adjusted his pants, tried to act as chill as he could, said, “I’ll let myself out.”

  The two girls gave him another soft bye and went back to their movie, lounging with the tops of their heads almost together. He left the room, walking backward and studying them. Their long bare legs, their casual coolness and confidence. They talked and laughed, Neve wagged a finger at Clark Gable. They were happy and content and satisfied. And Finn knew what his wife did tonight...

  As he slipped his shoes back on, he resisted the urge to say good night again because he didn’t figure that’s what a cool guy did. He was having to feel his way out here, but he was a quick learner...

  24

  It was a short stroll down Chelsea’s Street to Boardwalk Drive, over one block, then up their street. He made his way solemnly, his head dipped in funereal melancholy. His canines worked over the inside of his cheek as he worried the thoughts of the evening. All those things he’d done. Why did he do them?

  You know why. You wanted to since you got your first hair on your scrotum...

  Chelsea Cunningham had been in his sexual thoughts from the moment he’d become a young man. How could he resist her when she wanted it so bad? That didn’t make it okay, but at least it could stop the awful lamentation of the Why, why, why, oh, why, did I do it?

  You know why you did it. Just like Chelsea said, You’re just a man. A man who thought he was better than he was. Chelsea provoked something within him, fired up his masculine engines and drove him remotely like a gleeful young girl with the remote control to her big brother’s RC monster truck. Making him turn left, making him turn right, making him do things he wouldn’t normally do...

  Three houses down from his he stopped short.

  He’d walked because he told Libby he was going to take the subway into the city—didn’t want her to find out his truck was parked just one street over. That was a surefire way to get caught. Parked behind his truck was a familiar red VW Beetle.

  Now his head dipped lower, and he crossed over to the opposite side of the street and continued on until he was directly across from his house. It was dark now, and he was under the shade of a maple tree’s canopy, shielding him from the overhead streetlight. He leaned in the shadows against the trunk and watched the lit up windows of his house.

  Coming into the front hallway now—seen through the square window set in the front door, like watching this on TV—he sa
w the cast members of this sad show: his beautiful and innocent wife, smiling, looking up at her dad, and her mom was there too, coming along now behind, looking like she was slipping feet into loafers. Their visit was over, they were leaving. It was perfect timing because the last thing he needed right now was coming face-to-face with them. How would he look in their eyes?

  “Ah, fuck,” he groaned, rubbing at his forehead.

  Libby was hugging her parents, they all patted each other’s arms, now cheeks were being kissed. Libby opened the front door, and her father stepped down onto the stoop.

  Before he knew what he was doing, Ben was strolling out from under the protection of the tree and into the light. Each step brought him closer to his front door, his heart wrenching, his insides twisting, guilt and shame and regret gaining the weight of an anvil inside him. But physically he resisted, and with great effort produced the opposite reaction in his body, standing straighter, raising his eyebrows, brightening his face. Manufacturing the look of a guy who was out at work tonight, just getting home to see his in-laws and was happy about it. The alternative was to sink into the shadows below that tree, curl and fester, let his badness suppurate.

  “Hey, there,” he shouted out and gave a wave as he stepped onto the driveway, walking past Rich and Bev’s vintage Volkswagen.

  “Hey, there he is, there’s the champ,” Libby’s dad said.

  “Hi, Ben,” Libby’s mother said, beaming past Lib’s shoulder, truly happy to see him.

  “Hey, baby,” Libby said. “You’re late.”

  “Sorry, sorry,” he said, “I didn’t think I would be...”

  “Leave the man alone, sunshine,” Rich said, “the guy’s busy out there working, making a living.” He put out a hand. “Come here, kid...”

  Ben’s hand went out to shake, and he felt an instant stiffness inside him. Rich clasped hands, pulled him into a hug and slapped his back. “Good to see you, Ben boy...”

  “Hey, Rich, good to see you...”

  The short time they embraced came with the thrill of awful discovery. Rich would step back and smell his hand that had just held Ben’s....he would say I smell pussy....no, two pussies... Bev would gasp and clutch her poor daughter, console her, they would cry that they’d thought Ben Todd was one of the good ones...

  But after they shook and hugged, they came apart and his father-in-law met his eye and winked. “Lib says you just bought a yacht.”

  “Bought and sold already,” he said, acting confident.

  “Good work, kid,” Rich said.

  “What are you guys doing here?”

  Bev said, “We came in to the city to go for dinner, we were on our way home and thought we’d bring you guys some dessert.”

  “Out for dinner why?”

  Rich nudged him. “Man doesn’t need a reason to surprise his wife, does he?”

  “No, he doesn’t,” Ben said, and Rich clapped him on the arm. “Sorry I missed you guys. Lib should’ve called...”

  Libby said, “Dad wouldn’t let me.”

  “Like I said, you’re out working, and these days it doesn’t cut it to be nine-to-five, you gotta go wherever or whenever the action is, am I right, Ben?”

  “You’re right,” he said.

  “All right, listen, we gotta go,” Rich said, clapped his hands for Bev to hurry along and join him. She gave Libby another kiss on the cheek, they embraced, then she came down the stairs and Ben met her for his own turn. He gripped Libby’s mom’s arms, kissed both cheeks, got the pats on his back she’d always give him. He’d known the Sanders since he was seven. Had seen them together as a couple when they weren’t much older than he and Libby were now. Been to their house so many times, for so many functions, had always been the good kid that hung around and did the dishes and talked to Bev, was the one who’d sworn to do right by their daughter... The effort to look in their eyes was killing him.

  He stepped up onto the stoop and slunk his arm around Libby’s waist and held her to him. He drew in a deep breath and held it, waiting for the explosive question: Why do you smell like another woman? And then, lit up in her parents’ Beetle’s headlights, Lib would turn and beat her fists on him and he would fall and crumple and cry and die.

  Instead, Libby said, “Mm, you smell good,” and rested her head on his shoulder as her parents backed out of the driveway.

  25

  In bed with Libby he was content to sleep with her in his arms. The two of them curled against each other like spoons, his Libby folded against his stomach, his arm around her, both her hands clutched to his. She slept peacefully. His heart beat slow and steady in his ears. Not fast but way too strong.

  What if you just told her?

  Yeah, right, how do you see that going?

  Pretty much just like he’d pictured it on the stoop: Lib would bleat and cry, wail, pack her things and flee to her parents’ house.

  Kick you out more likely.

  Maybe both. Kick him out, then go stay with her parents. He wouldn’t blame her. Libby didn’t deserve to be hurt.

  So what else could he do? Would time heal the wounds? A week from now would he be able to breathe fully again? Right now it was like his rib cage had locked into place, his lungs had to function under the reduced accommodation. Shallow breaths. Almost like he didn’t deserve them. And he didn’t. He deserved to suffocate and die for what he’d done.

  As much as he hated himself, if Libby found out what he’d done, she would hate him too, and even more.

  So what then? Go for a dinner party to the Slade’s house, maybe everybody gets in the hot tub after? Next thing, swim suits are off, or maybe car keys are plopped in a dish... Why would we do that, Ben? Isn’t there only the four of us here? Fifty-fifty chance, Libby. It’s either me or Finn, but you’ll be sleeping with one of us. Sleeping, Ben? Uh-huh, oh, look at this, Lib, those are Finn’s keys you picked...

  He tightened his thighs. Is that how it worked? Was that how it was when Neve and her boyfriend came over for a summertime barbecue at the Slade’s? Was it eat and then fuck? Did Finn watch as Neve’s boyfriend fucked Chelsea? Then what, it was their turn? Chelsea and Neve’s boyfriend watching as Finn fucked Neve? Or did they all just go at the same time?

  We crawled around on the bed like newborn pups...

  It got him shaking his head again to clear away that thought, squeezing his grip on one of Libby’s little sleeping hands.

  “Oh, Libby,” he sighed. “What did I do?”

  Now he tried a new image.

  They’re at a party, it’s summertime, but it’s nighttime. They’ve all had succotash and barbecued chicken, he’s had a few beers, and Libby... Libby’s had a few more glasses of wine than she’s used to. Somebody says Hey, let’s get in the hot tub.

  Chelsea says, “All right, but no swimsuits.”

  Libby squeals, “Oh, no way...” Her cheeks blush harder.

  Chelsea says, “No peeking, everybody turn around...” Chelsea’s not overplaying it, and not acting too forward, she’s playing it just right.

  Somehow, the wine has worked its magic, and his demure wife is getting a little frisky. She’s hiding in the bushes and stripping down, demanding everybody turn away as she climbs into the hot tub with her hands over those precious boobs.

  Maybe now the talk gets a little frisky. Chelsea confides, Hey, this one time Finn and I had sex in the bushes at a resort in Mexico...

  Lib can’t believe it. “Oh, no, you didn’t...”

  “Oh, we did, it was crazy... Where’s the craziest you’ve done it, Libby?...”

  “In a hotel...”

  “In a hotel...? Was it in the hotel’s bushes?...”

  “No, it was in a... hotel room...”

  “You’ve never done it somewhere crazy, Libby?”

  “No, never!”

  Chelsea purrs, “Like, never in a... hot tub?”

  Now he could picture Finn sidling up to his wife, both of them naked under the water. Libby is smiling expectantly, wai
ting for the joke to be over, but Finn’s not backing away, instead he’s leaning in to kiss her, and she’s smiling, darting her eyes sideways to her husband, waiting for Ben to jump in and stop Finn. Only Ben doesn’t stop him. Ben is getting saved. Ben is going to let Libby experiment. And when it’s done, what then?

  Now it’s the morning after, and Libby’s embarrassed. “I can’t believe I did that, Ben.”

  He says, “It’s okay, sweetheart. It’s totally okay.”

  “It’s not okay, Ben, that was crazy!”

  “I love you more than ever, Libby. You didn’t do a thing wrong...”

  And that’s that. You had sex with Finn, I had sex with Chelsea. Whatever it is, everything’s okay...

  What if she wants that lifestyle?

  There’s no way she would want that lifestyle, Ben, get real. It’s a onetime thing. Finn sleeps with her, Even-Steven. Ben gets his life back.

  He had to dip his hips backward now, because for some reason the bizarre but erotic movie he’d just conjured in his head brought hardness between his legs again. And here he was thinking he’d been depleted. He should take a picture right now, send it to Chelsea, say See? I went home for my wife, you’re lucky, because I could’ve gone all night, I’m a lot more than you can handle.

  Now he was slipping out from the bed, gathering his phone from the night table and creeping into the bathroom. He opened up his messenger and finger-hovered, trying to determine if this was the right thing or not. He gripped his erection through his pants. Squeezed it hard.

  He texted.

  Ben: how would this work?

  Part 4

  Rocket Fuel

  Tuesday, July 2

  26

  The breakfast date was with Chelsea but it was Finn who showed up. Ten o’clock in the morning, and Ben was sitting in a quiet booth near the rear of the agreed-upon café, Rocket Fuel in Queen West, a place where a married man could meet a married woman and have privacy, one far from where Libby and her friends worked and lived. It was the Tuesday after the long weekend and the neighborhood was quiet. He’d parked out front, and from where he sat inside the cafe he could see his truck. Now there was a motorcycle sandwiching behind his bumper, and he could tell the rider was Chelsea’s husband.