Fiona Range

by Mary McGarry Morris

  “Then you need me, baby, that’s what it is. We need each other, and right now that’s okay.”

  “I just feel so sad,” she whispered.

  “Sad!” He stepped back and pulled off his shirt, then began to unbutton hers. “I’ll cheer you up,” he whispered as he slipped off her blouse.

  “How?” Oh God, she thought, just to be able to smile, to feel lighter inside.

  “You’ll see.” He was unsnapping her waistband.

  She had forgotten how sweet he could be, his touch as soft as his voice. She shivered as her skirt slid to her ankles.

  “God, you’re beautiful.” He reached back to unfasten her bra. “I forgot how perfect you are.” He dropped the bra onto their pile of clothes. She stood with her arms at her sides. He circled his finger around each breast. “Do you want me to stop?”

  She shook her head. No.

  He followed her into the bedroom, then stood over her talking as he removed the rest of his clothes. “I think about you all the time. I mean that. Even when I’m . . . even when I shouldn’t be.” He laughed as he lay next to her.

  “Oh yah? What am I, the other woman in your fantasies?” she asked, and as she began to move against him she understood the immediate comfort Elizabeth must have known with George. There was no self-consciousness, nothing wrong or alarming about being with Todd again. Their bodies eased together.

  “You are the woman.” He looked down at her. “You always were,” he said, lowering himself so that his smooth soft shoulders grazed hers.

  “Then what happened?” She groaned, her eyes closing heavily as he rose and fell above her. She wanted to be taken someplace far, far away so that she didn’t have to leave. So she could stay.

  “I was a stupid ass.” He almost sounded angry. His body began to pound against hers.

  “And you’re not anymore?” she gasped.

  He didn’t answer. His eyes were closed. Music was playing somewhere in the building. She could feel the deep thumping bass. His head arched back. His mouth gaped open. “Uh, uh, uh,” he cried, then fell with a ragged panting whimper.

  She stared at the diffusion of light on the windowshade. Beyond a distant affection she felt nothing. Nothing but complete self-disgust. She was a fool. Her days had been wasted in empty places, her energy spent on troubled people who could never love her. And to think that this may have been their greatest attraction sickened her.

  She asked if he wanted a ride home now. When he didn’t answer she realized he was asleep. He was snoring. She put on her robe and closed the bedroom door. In the kitchen she filled the kettle then put it on the stove for tea. There was a light tapping on her door. She turned, startled, afraid it might be Patrick, then assured herself he wouldn’t risk coming here and being seen by her neighbors. It was probably Mrs. Terrill trying to locate the source of the music, which seemed even louder now. When she opened the door Rudy hurried inside. He’d been trying to call, he said, but her phone must be off the hook. He was glad she was still up. He had to see her before he went to the hospital tonight.

  “But I told you not to,” she whispered, trying to keep him by the door. “And I meant it.”

  “But I have to tell you what happened after you left.”

  “I don’t want to hear it.” She didn’t need all the humiliating details.

  “No, listen! I finally got Elizabeth to sit down and—”

  “Shh,” she said, moving to position herself in front of the strewn clothes.

  “Oh. I’m sorry.” He looked around the darkened room. “I woke you up, didn’t I?” The softer he tried to speak the more agitated he became. His hands flew. “I’m sorry. I should have thought. You do, you look tired.”

  “Well I am. I’m tired. I’m too tired for anything right now.” She reached for the doorknob.

  He put his hand over hers. “But I might miss you in the morning. You’ll be at work.”

  “So? What does it matter?”

  “What do you mean, what does it matter? It’s the most important thing I have to do right now! The most important thing I’ve ever had to do!”

  “Shh!”

  “What do you mean, shh?” He glanced at the closed bedroom door, and she froze. “It’s all right,” he said, smiling. “No one can hear us.”

  “It’s late. Please,” she said. “I don’t feel very well. Will you please just go?”

  He kissed her forehead. “Alright, but listen—Elizabeth knows. I told her. I told her everything.” He tried to pull her close. “All we have to worry about now is each—” He looked stunned as she tugged back. She hit his arm and he let her go.

  “Why did you do that?” She felt panicky. “What about my uncle? He said you wouldn’t. He told you not to! Didn’t he tell you I’m leaving?”

  “No.”

  “Well I am! I’m going to Florida. I am. I’m leaving. I have to!”

  “You’re leaving? What do you mean? Why?” His chest seemed sunken, his cheeks hollow, as if all the air were being sucked from his body.

  “Because. Because I have to. I hate it here.” Because another man’s semen was leaking down the inside of her thighs. Because now her entire family despised her.

  “What you hate is in here,” he said, tapping his temple with his forefinger. “And that goes with you.”

  “Oh Jesus!”

  “You know it’s true.” He reached for her hand, but she folded her arms and shrank back.

  “Rudy, please go. Please! I’m really tired.”

  “What is it? What’s wrong? Everything’s going to be all right. Really!” He bent to kiss her, and she moved away. “All right.” He nodded and tried to smile. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow then.” He opened the door, then turned quickly and came back in. He closed the door and stood looking down at her. “Look, whatever it is, I love you, Fiona,” he said softly. “You know that, right? I’m so much in—” He glanced past her with a startled look as the bedroom door squealed open.

  “Shit!” Todd said, standing there in his red silk bikini briefs. He stepped back and closed the door.

  She shook her head. There was nothing to say, nothing at all.

  “I’m sorry. I guess I misread all the signs,” he said with a more discerning glance at the pooled clothing. “I didn’t mean to. I’m sorry.” He sighed.

  “It’s Todd,” she said.

  “Oh. Sure. Todd,” he said, remembering and touching his forehead. “The butterfly bandage. The accident. The old boyfriend. The one that Patrick . . .”

  She nodded.

  “Looks like he’s healed pretty well.” He bit his bottom lip and glanced past her as if he expected Todd to return and verify this. “So is he the reason you’re going to Florida?”

  She shook her head.

  “He’s not going with you?”

  “No. As a matter of fact, he’s getting married too.”

  “I’m not getting married. You know I’m not.”

  “That’s too bad. Husbands, those’re the ones I like best.”

  “You think I believe that?”

  “Well if you don’t, you should,” she said, opening the door.

  “I love you, Fiona.” He swallowed hard. “As pitiful as that may sound.”

  As soon as he was gone, Todd darted out of the bedroom. She sat on the arm of the chair, watching him dress. He stuffed his socks into his pocket and slipped his feet into his loafers, then with a muttered curse sat on the sofa and put on his socks, then his shoes.

  “So I take it you’re not spending the night,” she said as he grabbed his jacket from the back of the chair. “Apparently no great flame has been rekindled here. Or at least, so it would appear.”

  “I better leave,” he said with a sheepish wince.

  “You don’t have to.”

  “I gotta get back.” He zipped his jacket.

  “Get back where?” She wanted him to say it.

  “Sandy,” he said with a quick, guilty shrug. “She hates being alone, especially now.
”

  “What do you mean, now? What’s now?”

  “Now that she’s pregnant.”

  “Oh that’s right. You’re going to have a baby!”

  “You knew that,” he said warily.

  “Yah!” she said with a bitter laugh and threw up her hands. “So what the hell was this all about?” she asked in an attempt at anger, indignation, censure, anything but this emptiness.

  “I guess we just needed the same thing,” he said, watching her.

  “What?” she asked, fists clenched at her sides.

  “To see if we’re still as bad as we think we are.”

  “And are we?”

  He shook his head sadly. “Tell you the truth, Fee, I think we’ve lost the touch.”

  Chapter 21

  The day after Thanksgiving was the start of the Christmas shopping season and also the coffee shop’s busiest day of the year. Breakfast had been crazy. There was a large coffee stain down the side of Fiona’s uniform, her pockets sagged with tips, and she was exhausted. Rudy’s words last night coursed through her mind, while everything about Todd seemed fuzzy and distant. But then, wasn’t that how it always went the next day? What was done was done. No sense in beating herself up over what she couldn’t change. Next time she’d . . . next time she’d what? Not bring him back to her apartment? Just take him in the car? No. There’d be no more next times because she was going to get the hell out of here and Dearborn as soon as she could. The hardest part would be telling Chester. She glanced up at the clock, hoping for at least a lull before the noon rush. At the moment, she only had one party, a family of eight. Good-natured and boisterous, they were on their way back to New York City after spending the holiday with their parents. One of the women had been in high school with Ginny and Jack. She remembered their younger sister, Elizabeth, but seemed confused as to who Fiona was.

  “I know! I remember!” the dimple-cheeked woman said. “You’re the . . . the . . .”

  Slut. The bastard, Fiona was almost whispering.

  “. . . the cousin! The little cousin!”

  Her acknowledgment was a weary nod. At the ring of the order bell she dragged into the kitchen. Chester was slicing white meat from one of the turkeys he had roasted early this morning. A huge pot of soup simmered on the stove.

  “What the hell’re you doing?” he demanded as she lifted the lid and took a deep breath of the fragrant steam.

  “It’s my turkey facial,” she called back.

  “You can’t be doing that!” he said, gesturing her away with his knife. “Jesus Christ! One hair, that’s all it takes, and the next thing you know I got the Board of Health in here trying to shut me down.”

  “One hair, huh?” she said, pretending to pluck a strand and dangle it over the broth. “Just give me the word, Chester, and I will set you free.”

  “Only if you can turn it into a pot of gold while you’re at it.”

  “What about this?” She took the deposit slip from her pocket and showed it to him.

  He whistled, then after a closer look whistled again. “What’s that?”

  “A payoff. It’s what my family’s paying to get rid of me.”

  He looked confused. “No, really. What’s it for?”

  “Really. That’s what it’s really for!” She stared dully at the slip. Twice this morning she’d come in here to the phone to call Rudy, but then couldn’t be sure whether she’d be calling to say goodbye or to beg him to come with her. No matter how long or far she ran, she would always be trying to outdistance one person and one person only—Fiona Range. Rudy was right. What she hated most was her own weakness, her inability to see anything through to the end. And now, just when Patrick needed her most, here she was, only too ready to quit on him as well. If she left now she would end up like her mother, always running, never confronting her devils. “Twenty-five thousand.” She sighed, crumpling the slip into her pocket. “I suppose I should be flattered. I mean, that’s how valuable a pain in the ass they think I am.”

  “Hey, it’s not bad work if you can get it.”

  She watched the wide, glinting blade cut thin, deft slices from the breast until he hit bone. “Well, for an adequate fee, you could be rid of me too!”

  “You mean I been paying you every week now for how long to make my life miserable, when for the same money I could’ve just said, ‘Go!’” He laughed.

  “Exactly!”

  The door swung open and Donna stuck her head through. “Fiona, your big party must want you. I keep hearing your name.”

  She gathered her orders and started for the door.

  “Wait!” Chester hollered with a wave of the knife. “What do you mean, the money’s to get rid of you? You’re not gonna quit on me, are you?” he called, his face screwed up as if he might cry.

  “I’ll be right back.” She backed into the noisy dining room balancing plates, two in her hands and one on each arm. She knew at once by the angled heads at the silent table, and the women’s keen eyes, that the tale of Fiona Range had just been told in all its titillating detail. The husband in the maroon U. Mass. sweatshirt, who had been kidding her only moments ago, now asked sheepishly for more coffee. She went to the hotplate by the register where Maxine had just brewed two fresh pots. She glanced out the window as a faded blue station wagon went by. She stepped closer to see if it was Patrick, but the car had already turned the corner. She waited, staring out at the gray, sunless street. Two men hurried by in long dark coats, their conversation vapor in the air. Patrick’s car should be coming by any minute now. If he stopped she would run out before he came in and caused a scene. She looked up at the clock. Two minutes passed. He had warned her himself to stay away. Uncle Charles had begged her to leave him alone, but how could she abandon Patrick now? They were so much alike; father and daughter, each fouling themselves so badly, so irreparably that they couldn’t be loved. Because if they couldn’t be loved, then they could never be hurt. Three minutes. It must not have been him, she decided, with a deep sigh of relief.

  There was a blast of cold, damp air as the front door opened and two women entered carrying shopping bags. Maxine and Donna leaned over a booth, visiting with Scotty from the gift shop across the street, so Fiona grabbed menus and started to lead the women to a table in back. Maxine looked up and gestured to the table by the window. That’s where she wanted the ladies in their glistening fur coats to sit, right up front where everyone could see them. The door began to open and close on a steady stream of customers until every seat was taken. Three parties waited by the register.

  Fiona was pouring the coffee at the long table when she heard a noise in the kitchen. It was a sound of such strange urgency that she stared at the kitchen door.

  “Hey!” one of the men cried, jerking back in his chair. “Look what you’re doing!”

  “I’m sorry,” she mumbled, righting the pot as the brown puddle dripped over the saucer, streaming to the edge of the table. “I’ll be right back.” She hurried into the kitchen.

  A man in dark clothes darted behind the pantry shelves.

  “Patrick!” she gasped as he lunged from the end of the workbench. He grabbed her wrist. His fingers dug into her flesh. There was blood on her arm. She thought his nails had punctured her skin, until she saw the gash down his arm. He was bleeding. There was a knife in his other hand. The long wide blade was streaked with blood. He kept grunting the same sounds, over and over.

  “What is it?” she asked, thinking he’d been hurt. “What do you want?”

  His face met hers, answering not in a voice but a low, dark rendering of such pain and outrage that not a single syllable was discernible. He’s speaking another language, she thought, as the knife fell so close to her foot that a cold spatter hit her ankle. All she could do was say his name as he pulled her toward the back door, yanking her arm to force each step. Her mind fixed on peculiar details, though none seemed connected. The workbench was covered with gleaned bones, dark meat and white not just mixed but bloo
died. There was a turkey carcass on the floor. A tray lay against the door of the walk-in cooler. The floor was wet and slippery. Slimy, brittle shells cracked underfoot. The bowl of eggs from the workbench was upside down on the floor. There were smashed eggs everywhere. Some of the yolks were still whole and shimmering.

  “Where’s Chester? What did you do? Oh my God!” she cried, looking down.

  He sat slumped on the floor against the oven door, his chin deep in a bib of scarlet stain with his head dangling so far forward she understood at once the horror of Patrick’s deed. He shoved her out the back door, then into his car through the driver’s side. Holding on to her, he climbed in and started the engine. She pleaded with him to let her go, but even as he backed out of the alley and turned on squealing tires he still gripped her wrist. The old station wagon rattled and creaked as he sped up Chestnut Street. Blood glistened on his whiskered cheek.

  “What happened, Patrick? What did you do? Tell me, please tell me,” she begged.

  “I said I had to see you, but he kept saying, ‘Get out! Get out! Just get out!’ He had a knife, but I just kept going. I never said a word,” he panted. “I never laid a hand on him. But he went and jumped me.”

  “He jumped you?” she said, trying to grasp hold of the words floating through this nightmare as randomly as all the other debris, street signs, tree trunks, and house clapboards now flashing past the window.

  “He jumped me from behind and he shouldn’t have done that. He never should have done that,” he insisted in a high, wheezy, tear-torn voice. “I tried not to lose it. I tried not to, God damn him! I tried. I really tried, but he went and jumped me!”

  “He shouldn’t have jumped you,” she said, watching the young woman ahead with two beagles on red leashes. The woman had long black hair. It was a day like any other. It was all so ordinary. An elderly man and woman were rolling trash barrels down their driveway. Nothing bad could possibly happen. “He shouldn’t have done that,” she said.

  “No, I know,” he agreed as he turned onto Ridge Street. He was speeding down the rutted, winding road. The entire car vibrated. He let go of her to drive with both hands on the wheel. “I just wanted to talk to you. I kept calling, but it was always busy, so finally I called him. I called Hollis, that no-good son of a bitch thinks he can run my life forever. ‘Let her go,’ he kept saying. ‘Let her go, Patrick. I beg you.’ But I told him, I told him straight out. ‘No way,’ I said. Not anymore. Uh-uh. From now on it’s me! I’m calling the shots!” He looked at her. “From now on I say how it’s gonna be, not him! Me!” he said, thumping his breast.