Dirty Law

by Mary Catherine Gebhard

  Sometimes.

  Bingo! I found my keys under the rug, because that makes perfect sense. Why wouldn’t I keep my keys under the rug? I snatched them up like they were gold.

  “If you could lock up when you leave, I’d appreciate it.” I ran out, closing the door behind me quickly. Fuck, he loved me? How could he love me when I didn’t even know who “me” was any more?

  Sixteen

  The sun was up, letting me know I’d lost another night to my fretful, frenzied thoughts. The night had been spent wearing holes in the floor as I’d paced back and forth. Avoiding mirrors and reflective surfaces. Trying (and failing) to avoid my own thoughts.

  I’d arrived home at three in the morning and Law was gone. He’d locked up and even cleaned up. It was almost as if he had never been there—except I knew he had been; his presence was more than physical now.

  He loved me?

  He loved me.

  It was impossible, but he’d said it. He’d said he loved me.

  Taking another lap around the apartment, I bypassed the couch. It was tainted…tainted by Law. Marked with sweat and sex and emotion. I could still picture how he’d held me. I could see the way he drove me to oblivion and brought me back, made me feel safe. I could still see the image of us, absorbed by each other. I saw us unmistakably, the moment he told me he loved me.

  I couldn’t use the couch and the bed was still off limits. Slowly my world was being destroyed by a plague I couldn’t fight: memory. Plunking down on the armchair in my apartment, I flipped the card Law had given me in my hand. The embossed “Matthew Jameson” caught glimpses of light, refracting the silver letters as I turned it through my fingers. I’d promised Law I would call him, but that was before he’d said he loved me. Did the fact that he loved me negate my promise, or did it bind me further?

  Sighing, I got up to make myself some stale toast, but Matthew Jameson, Pulitzer Prize-winning journalist, rubbed roughly against my finger. I looked into my dingy, lonesome kitchen and then back down at the business card demanding my attention. The printed ink said he was currently working at The Salt Lake Times. I nearly set the card down, my hand hovering right above the table, but instead I picked up my keys and left.

  The receptionist perked up when she saw me walk through the doors. She might have said hello, but I ignored her and went directly to the elevators. If things didn’t work out with Jameson, I didn’t want there to be a record or a witness to my visit.

  I scanned the board on the wall that listed the names and departments in the building. Floor eleven, Salt Lake Times. After searching for Jameson on the internet, I had seen plenty of pictures of him. He had the same all-American looks Morris did. I was trying not to let that bother me.

  Floor eleven was nothing like you saw in the movies. No one was running around looking for some big lead, reporters weren’t talking fast and furiously. In fact, it was rather boring. Cubicles filled the room and offices dotted the walls. I walked down the rows, looking inside the cubicles and offices, hoping to spot Jameson. I was about to give up when I reached the last office of the floor. Nestled between the bathroom and the water cooler was a small office. The plaque read Matthew Jameson. Without knocking, I entered.

  Jameson sat behind a medium-sized black desk. Behind him a window showed the Salt Lake City skyline. It would have been a nice view, if not for the smog.

  “Who are you?” Jameson asked, sitting up slightly from his desk.

  “I have a story for you,” I replied, getting right to the point. “Law said you could help me.”

  Jameson shut his laptop and quirked a brow. “Law? Nick Law?”

  “Nick? Who’s—oh, Law. Yes, Nick sent me.” I’d honestly forgotten that Law had a first name. From the moment I’d met Law—or Nick—he was never anything but Law. The unyielding ridges of his face combined with his tacit yet forceful nature meant he was, and would never be anything but, Law.

  Jameson beckoned for me to sit in the lone chair of his office. I folded my arms in response.

  “Suit yourself,” he said. “What kind of story?” I eyed Jameson. He was dressed simply. Wearing a blue button-up shirt and a single silver band on his left ring finger, he looked harmless. But then so had Morris. His hair was cut short, shorter than Law’s. It was possible that his hairline was receding, but it was hard to tell at the length he wore it.

  “I need to know I can trust you first,” I explained, my voice a tad saltier than it should have been. Jameson laughed lightly, shuffling papers around on his desk like it was any other day and I was just some person bringing a story about nothing.

  “You came to me,” Jameson pointed out. “I can’t write a story I don’t know.”

  I exhaled and unfolded my arms. “It’s about Mitch Morris.”

  All humor drained from Jameson’s face. “As in Senator Mitch Morris?”

  I shrugged. “The one and only.”

  Jameson leaned forward on his desk, face scrutinizing. “What about him?”

  I laughed, the motion hurting my chest. “It’s not good.”

  “I assumed as much,” Jameson said soberly. “What’s the story?”

  “That’s all I’m going to tell you until I’m sure you’ll write the story.”

  Jameson ran his hand over his skull-trimmed hair, regarding me with pained curiosity. “I can’t promise to write a story I don’t know. No one will.”

  I tapped my foot on the carpet. It was so thin it was like tapping concrete. The entire floor was cheap. The carpet was thin and blue, the walls were painted a poor eggshell, and the windows were unclean. Jameson stood out, his face sincere. I wanted to tell him my story, but I’d been burned so many times I basically had my own bed at the burn ward.

  “Don’t you recognize me?” I asked him.

  Jameson shook his head. “Should I?”

  “Where have you been this past year?” I snapped.

  “Gaza,” Jameson replied bluntly. “Covering the civil unrest and election.”

  “Oh…” I wasn’t used to being unknown. “Well, maybe you should search Nami DeGrace and then get back to me.”

  “Look, I don’t play games, Miss DeGrace, is it?” Jameson tapped a finger, his turn to be annoyed. “Either tell me what you’ve got or leave.” I’m sure I seemed like a fool, a bumbling mess to Jameson. He had no idea that my actions weren’t foolish, but learned caution. I’d discovered months ago that no one wanted to tell my story. Instead they would spin their own. My real story was contagion.

  “I don’t play games either, Jameson. This isn’t just any story to me. It’s my life. So I’m not going to give it away to just anyone.” I paused and reached for a pen and paper from his desk. “This is my number. Text me if you decide you want to take this on.”

  Feeling somewhat empowered after talking to Jameson, I decided to get my hair cut. I hadn’t had a cut in months, not since the rape. Morris had used scissors to cut off my clothes, so I’d been understandably wary of scissors, but now I was going to face my fear.

  I pulled open the tall glass door decorated with vinyl appliqués and made my way to the check-in desk. I had an appointment for 2 pm and was a solid fifteen minutes early. There were three people ahead of me to check in. As I waited, I took in the salon.

  Workers were easily noticeable because they had to dress in black from head to toe. I figured it was meant to look chic, but in reality they looked like they were going to a funeral. My eyes traveled the length of the spa before landing back at the check-in desk. I did a double-take when I saw Effie.

  Effie, who I’d known since third grade. Effie, who’d done my makeup for our high school prom. Effie who had let me borrow her dresses and even her underwear. Effie whose parents were like surrogates.

  Effie, who had completely stopped answering my calls when the media reported my rape, was working at the check-in desk.

  I felt frozen to my spot. There were two women working the check-in, Effie and another, older-looking woman. I had seen Effie, so
Effie must have seen me. What would we say to each other? It had been months. Maybe it was all a misunderstanding. Maybe her phone had gotten disconnected. Maybe she had fallen down a well and had to live off of rats.

  I kept trying to get her to look at me. I stared, willing her to look my way. It was as if some magical force was keeping her eyes from mine. There wasn’t a magical force, of course, it was just Effie. Effie refusing to look at me.

  As the minutes ticked on, it appeared to me like Effie was putting on a play. Her smile was exaggerated. Her laugh was just a little too loud, and the way she touched her coworkers wasn’t out of affection, but to make a point. The point she was making was that she didn’t need me. That she was happy without me.

  The woman beside her called me up. I walked forward like a zombie, still watching Effie.

  “What’s your name?” the woman asked.

  “It’s Nami. I have a two o’clock appointment.” I watched Effie, expecting her to look up at my name. She stared at a stack of papers, either entranced or willingly oblivious. I frowned, turning back to the woman. “What was that?”

  “I said you can go have a seat and we’ll call you when we’re ready,” the woman said, smiling.

  “Thanks…” I trailed off, walking toward the waiting area. Effie still didn’t look at me. Back when the media was tearing me apart, I had wished for invisibility. Now, as I made my way back without so much as a glance from my (former) best friend, I realized I had wished for the wrong thing.

  Leaving the salon gave me new perspective. Seeing Effie made me realize the torch I’d been carrying for our friendship needed to burn out. I didn’t know if I would ever get over the way she’d abandoned me, or if I would ever stop wishing she would call me and say she was sorry and wanted to be friends again. We were sisters, and you didn’t simply stop thinking about your sister. Seeing Effie did make me realize, though, that I had a person in my life who kept trying to be a part of it. Who even said he loved me.

  Law.

  I kept knocking him away. Out of fear. I realized if I kept pushing maybe a day would come when he wouldn’t push back. So I summoned my newfound clarity, and a little bit of courage I got from my new haircut, and drove to his hotel. I rode the elevator up, trying to keep the new courage on the forefront.

  It was the middle of the afternoon and the hallway was empty. Nerves wracked my body like electric shocks. Maybe he wasn’t there. What did Law do, anyway? Besides follow me, that is. He said he worked for GEM and did shady stuff with politics. Before that he had worked for the FBI. There was a good chance he wasn’t home. It was the middle of the day, after all, and guys like Law didn’t sit at home doing nothing. That thought nearly had me spinning around on my heels, but I powered through. I reached his room and knocked on his door, willing my body to stay put. Law said he loved me, and there was a chance that I loved him back.

  Sounds were amplified through my anxiety. The sound of footsteps. The sound of the door unlocking. I heard them all through a megaphone. Still, I stayed. It had taken seeing my “best friend” to realize how good Law had been to me. It was time to confront my fears.

  When the door opened, I was going to sit down and talk to him. I was going to have a real talk. I was prepared to apologize for kicking him out. I was prepared to tell him I wanted to work on whatever was happening between us, because it was the best thing that had happened to me in a long time.

  Then the door opened.

  And I died.

  Okay, I didn’t die, but it sure felt like it, because the person on the other side of the door was death incarnate. Wearing a scythe, a black hooded cape, and Louboutins, Becca Riley was the last person I expected to see. Quickly, I double-checked the room number. Did I have the right room? Yes, I did. Riley looked almost as surprised to see me as I did her. I was about to say something when I heard Law’s voice.

  “Who’s at the door?” Who’s at the door? I’m at the door, the woman you supposedly loved! I couldn’t stop staring at Riley. I had knocked on Law’s door expecting him, expecting the man I might love. Instead I got the Devil’s girl Friday. My brain was short-circuiting. The wires were fraying.

  It all happened so quickly I couldn’t control it. I felt nauseated and then the bile rose up, stinging my throat. Then the bile exited my mouth, landing all over Becca Riley’s thousand-dollar pantsuit. I couldn’t even appreciate what had happened, because I was too hurt. Too betrayed.

  “What the fuck?” Riley screamed, looking at her now soiled suit.

  How had I let this happen? I had known from the beginning he was working for Morris, but I had let him convince me otherwise. I had been swayed by his pretty words, and maybe a little by his pretty face. Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me. Fool me three and four and five times? Well fuck.

  “What’s going on—Nami?” Law came up behind Riley, looking like a deer caught in headlights. I could see the cogs turning in his head as he prepared some kind of explanation for me. I didn’t want to hear it. I put my hand up, signaling him to stop.

  “She fucking threw up on me!” Riley bellowed, making obnoxious hand gestures at her suit.

  My brain told me to run away, to sprint from this horrible revelation and get as far away as possible. I was done running, though. I turned and walked away from them, refusing to go any faster than normal. I was through running away from bad people. They were the bad ones, not me. I had done nothing save exist.

  “Nami, wait!” Law called after me. I nearly stopped, turned around, and ran back to him. His arms offered the only comfort I’d known in months and I wanted to feel that. Lifting my foot to continue on my way was one of the hardest things I’d ever done. It felt like gravity was conspiring against me.

  When I reached the stairway, I pushed the heavy metal door open and let it clang shut behind me. Then I fell to the floor and cried.

  Tears hadn’t stained many pillows since my rape. I kept them locked tight inside of me. It had been the same way after my parents died. It was as if crying acknowledged their death. To me, crying was acknowledging the pain and giving credence to the event.

  Now I lay on the couch, not even giving a fuck that it reminded me of Law. Everything reminded me of Law. Everything reminded me of Morris. There was no running from reminders when the people who had planted the memories walked around in broad daylight, proud of their ruination.

  Staring at the ceiling, tears flowed freely from my lids. I was broken. Congratulations, Mitch Morris, you broke me. Congratulations, Nick Law, you stomped on the broken pieces. Sara Bareilles and Ingrid Michaelson’s “Winter Song” played quietly in the background, the melancholy tune and lyrics a match to my soul.

  Some days I wished I believed in God. I figured if I believed in God then I could ascribe some kind of purpose to the pain. I could believe that there was some person out there watching me and thinking “Yep, this is all for a reason.” Without God, I didn’t have that safety. I didn’t have that security. I had to navigate the waters on my own.

  And it totally sucked.

  I imagined the people who had faith could relinquish some of the pain. On days when it became too unbearable, they could say “God has a plan for me” and the pain would lessen. I couldn’t do that. I had to lie on my couch and stare at the ceiling, knowing that beyond the chipped plaster there was nothing watching me.

  And that totally sucked.

  I had tried to believe in God, I really, really did. When Christianity didn’t work out, I tried to be Jewish. I went through all the Judeo-Christian religions: Catholicism, Protestantism, Judaism, and even Islam. When none of them felt right, I read the Bible. Because maybe the Bible held all the secrets that the pastors and priests and imams just couldn’t grasp.

  Did you know there’s a section of the Bible where a rape victim gets cut up into twelve pieces and sent to the twelve tribes of Jerusalem? That was the punishment for the rapist, to cut up the victim. Yeah, well, suffice it to say, after that story I couldn’t keep
reading the Bible.

  After the Bible failed, I tried other religions. Wicca, Buddhism, and the like. Nothing stuck. I just didn’t feel that moment that people feel. That “a ha” moment where they know someone is out there. When you talk to a person of faith there’s a resolute and unwavering dedication that can only come from some kind of certainty. I never got that. Not with Christianity and not with Satanism.

  So now I lay on my bed and stared at the uneven grooves in my ceiling, wondering what could possibly be the purpose for a person like me.

  Seventeen

  I drove home from my weekly trip to Tony’s feeling queasy. The tears had stopped but I still tasted them on my lips, a salty reminder of how far I’d sunk. Law had been texting me non-stop. On more than one occasion I readied my finger to block him, but then stopped. So my phone sat in a cup holder, buzzing like a wasp.

  Now, I stared at a green light, knowing I needed to drive. Cars were honking and I was causing a traffic jam. I couldn’t bear to go home, though. It was so empty. Raskol wasn’t there to greet me. I couldn’t afford heat so it almost felt colder inside than it did outside. I hadn’t gone to work in weeks. Paychecks had stopped coming because they don’t pay you if you don’t work; go figure. My house was not a home, it was a prison. I was locked inside with my thoughts. I was trapped with my demons. I was jailed with my memories.

  “What the fuck are you doing?” someone yelled out their window as they zoomed past me. I was still stopped at the light.

  “Bitch!” another yelled, their middle finger jutting out. Just as the light was about to turn red, I zoomed through. I quickly pulled into the parking lot of a yogurt shop, about to hyperventilate. Even though I was parked, my car was still on. I knew it was bad for the environment, but I couldn’t focus on anything.

  My phone was buzzing, a reminder of the betrayal that was still fresh like a knife in my side. I had always suspected Law…but I would have been lying if I’d said I hadn’t started developing feelings despite that. My head fell on the steering wheel as the weight of everything became too much to bear.