by Sex, Nikki
Drugs can affect people in different ways. Some people just got stupid on oxy. They'd curl up and fall asleep—not Jonah, unfortunately. Oxy fired him up, made him act as if he was invincible and could take on everybody and anybody. It also made him mean.
Laura pressed herself back against the door, and she felt the knob dig in even deeper.
"That's not happening, Jonah. I’ve got nothin' to say to you. You'd better leave."
"I wasn't plannin' on talkin'." Jonah pressed closer, invading her personal space. "We don't have to do no talkin' if you don't want to."
Laura pushed her bags in front of her, using them as a shield of bargain basement vegetables. The stiff brown paper crackled as he pushed into her. She glanced down and saw her carton of milk—on sale that day only—warp under the pressure.
For a second, she was sure it was going to explode and squirt a white stream up into her face and all over her hair.
The waxed paper held.
Jonah's hot rancid breath was in her face and she tried not to breathe it in. His stench sickened her.
“Jonah, you're messed up. Back off."
"No Laura, I'm tired of backing off."
He brought his fist down hard into the bag of groceries that was in her arms. The brown paper gave way and everything went flying—like a fruit and vegetable shrapnel bomb. The dented milk carton fell down, and Laura could feel the cold liquid splash over her foot, as it finally ruptured.
A cacophony of dull thuds sang in her ears as her groceries bounced all over the wooden floor. Shit!
"I was tired of standing back and watching while you played with all of those little boys in their fancy uniforms. I was tired of standing back when you shacked up with that Navy pussy. What? You think he wouldn't figure out that you're nothing but a while trash whore? You think he'd take you away from here? From me?"
Laura was fully pressed back into the door. The knob was really beginning to hurt the small of her back. The pain was nothing. Right now, she was scared.
"Please, just leave," she said through frightened, angry tears.
"You think you're better than me? You think you gonna rise up and be better'n what you are?"
Without the bags to shield her, Laura was fully exposed. She felt so vulnerable, scared and helpless. Jonah reached up and grabbed her left breast. She winced as he squeezed it hard.
Her reaction was instinctive—using both hands, she pushed him off her. At the same time, she raised a knee as fast as she could, to nail him in the nuts.
Jonah just laughed and jumped back.
"Na-uh. Bad girl.” His face contorted into a vicious, cruel grin.
Panting with fear and effort, Laura squirmed, trying to get away as he pushed up against her. His hand returned to her breast.
“Now I'm gonna show you just what you're good for."
Chapter 11.
Laura closed her eyes, remembering that day long ago, when her mother tried to sell her to her dealer for a fix. That man's breath stunk, too—the familiar stench of an addict.
It was more than just rotten teeth.
It was as if they'd died and they didn't know it yet. The rot was taking them from the inside out.
Laura knew what she had to do now, just as she had then. This time she'd use her head. She'd plan it out and do it properly. She wound herself up like a spring, ready to shove her knee into his groin once more, as hard as she could.
This time, she had to take him by surprise.
Laura knew that she’d better be quick, and the blow had better knock him down long enough for her to get past him in the small corridor.
A blast of real fear rolled through her. If she hit him, but he got a hold of her before she got down the stairs and out the door, he'd tear into her.
I’d probably never be the same again.
Lots of bad things had happened to her over the years, but rape had never been one of them. Laura didn’t plan on breaking her track record.
One, she thought. Two—
"Is everything OK out here?"
Laura recognized the voice instantly. Ron Phillips, apartment 2C. He was a nice older man and lived alone. Laura opened her eyes wide, giving him a pleading look. A dandelion tuff of white hair framed a mocha face full of concern.
"Mind your own damned business, nigger!" Jonah shouted at the man.
Ron's look of concern turned into one of cold determination and he set his jaw. "Son, I think that it'd be best if you shut your mouth and move along now. Nobody need get hurt."
Keeping Laura's breast in his grip, Jonah faced Ron. "What are you going to do about it, old man?"
Ron lifted his shirttail; just enough to let Jonah and Laura see the butt of a revolver tucked in the waist of his pants.
"Let her go and leave. Now."
Jonah let Laura go, but he didn't leave. He took a step toward Ron, his fists clenched. Laura saw him glance up the hallway, as if measuring the distance between them.
"You think you can pull out that gun before I get to you?"
Ron shrugged. "You willing to bet your life on whether I can or not? I haven't killed a man since Vietnam. Don't matter none. Once you've killed your first, killing gets mighty easy—too easy. You want to find out; you just come on over here. If you're wrong, you'll be leaving in a bag."
Jonah took a step toward Ron and then hesitated.
Ron stared at him with a deep and penetrating look, as if he was taking the measure of the man. They sized each other up. Jonah’s body stiffened, bracing to attack.
Laura felt certain he was going to rush the old man.
She'd already decided to tackle Jonah around the knees if he went after Ron. Hopefully, that would give Ron the time he needed to take aim and blow his drug-addled brains out once and for all.
Jonah took another tentative step. Ron stood stock-still and stared into the younger man's eyes.
"Walk away, old man," said Jonah, a slight tremor in his voice. "Walk away and go back into your house like a good little coon."
Ron didn't move.
Laura wasn't sure if he was even breathing.
Jonah raised his foot, as if to take yet another step towards Ron. Laura tensed, ready to jump. Jonah slowly brought his foot down on one of her spilled apples, deliberately crushing it underfoot into a gooey mass of pulp and skin.
He turned suddenly, as if whatever courage he had, vanished like a thief into darkness. It was gone just as fast and as completely as an irresponsible, unwed father might disappear the moment his girlfriend got pregnant.
Jonah fled, running down the stairs, through the doorway and out into the night.
With a relieved sob, Laura slumped against the door. Legs weak, she slid down into a crouch.
Ron walked over and squatted down beside her. "My, my, my, what a mess."
"Thanks so much for your help, Mr. Phillips," She wiped her eyes with her trembling hand. Now that Jonah was gone, she could feel the adrenaline leave her body as she began to shake. "I'm so sorry."
"Sorry for what?"
She sighed deeply. "I dunno. Everything, I guess."
Ron picked up an un-smashed apple and put it into her hand. "Assholes will be assholes, sure as the sun comes up. You stand up to them and they scurry away. If they don't, you just shoot 'em in the face."
Laura gave a faint little laugh that was part relief, and partly the last little bit of fear in the pit of her stomach letting itself out into the world.
"You really would have shot him?"
"Damned straight I would. Why the Hell else would I have a gun? The assholes can be the Klan or Charlie or whatever the Hell that son of a bitch was. I've always found that a good gun in the right hands keeps them away."
Laura surprised herself and smiled
He smiled back. "The Bible says that a soft answer turns away wrath, but I say that a .357 runs it clear out of town. Why don't you come with me? I've got some whiskey. You can have some to calm your nerves while I call the police."
Laura shook her head. "No police."
"No police? Are you crazy?"
"I just...I just want to forget about it, OK?"
"A man like that, he's gonna come back for you," Ron put his hand on her shoulder. "He's that mean, he's not gonna forget and he's gonna find a way to pay you back. That's what's in the mind of folks like that—that it's your fault and you done him wrong. You call the police, and get him locked up, right now."
Laura fished out her keys. "No, no. Thanks for your help, but just forget it."
Ron gave her a sad look filled with worldly disappointment. "I can't forget it and neither should you. At least go down and make a report. Get a restraining order. It usually don't do any good at keeping him away, but at least it'll give the cops somewhere to go looking if you turn up missing."
"I'll be fine, Mr. Phillips. I just want to go in and sit down for a little bit."
Laura wouldn’t willingly put herself into the hands of the police again. She avoided them like the plague. Before she'd made her final get away from her mother's trailer, the police had been the ones to bring her back, time after time. She'd try to sneak out, to run, and she'd never get very far.
The sheriff had been mean to her. He was scary, inappropriately touching her and making sleazy remarks.
Laura often wondered if her mother had some sort of understanding with the sheriff and his deputies. Perhaps she supplied them with drugs or...other things.
Her mother would do anything to score, as far as Laura knew. If she could sell her only daughter, she sure as heck wouldn’t have a problem selling herself.
Regardless, to Laura, the cops were not there to help. They were there to keep her down and locked away, just as her mother had. There was no way she'd call the police. Even if they believed her, they'd likely exact some terrible price for their help.
She couldn’t trust them.
Chapter 12.
Feeling better, Laura stood up. Ron’s knees cracked loudly as he came out of his squatting position.
He grinned. “Not getting any younger, am I? You'll go to the police in the morning, at least?" Ron didn't look too sure that she would.
"Maybe."
Ron glanced up and down the corridor and then pulled the revolver from his waistband. "I don't think you will. Too many girls like you let bad men go, time and time again. I've seen it. You're afraid or you think he really loves you and you don't want him to go to jail. Whatever. It always ends badly.”
“He doesn’t love me—he once tried to sell me to his dealer for a fix!” Despite trying to maintain her calm, her voice was jagged, high-pitched and shrill. Strong emotion had affected her, but this time not from fear.
From rage.
There was a short silence as both Ron and Laura took a moment to absorb the implications of her proclamation.
Laura took a deep, steadying breath. “He wasn’t always like this—it’s the drugs.” Her tone, which began in forced composure, ended in a half-hysterical giggle. “They brought out his real personality, I guess—now he’s a selfish, dangerous asshole. I don’t trust him, but I don’t trust cops, either.”
Ron frowned and shook his grizzled head. “Well then. If you're not going to do anything about him, I guarantee he'll be back, with something even worse brewing in his twisted, tiny mind. You take this. When he comes back you're gonna need something more than a paper bag full of apples to put between you an' him."
Laura glanced down at the gun. Its frame was of shiny and cold stainless steel. Its grip was contrastingly made from warm looking polished hardwood. "I can't, I don't..."
"Sure you can. It's easy. You point it at him and pull the trigger. If he's close to you like he was tonight, you jam it into his belly and pull the trigger over and over again until it's empty. Put him down like the animal he is—right away. Don't think about it, 'cause then you won't be able to do it."
"I don't know if I could..."
"I didn't think I could either," Ron glanced up as if in search of a God that he wasn't sure was there. He looked back at Laura, his dark eyes locking with her blue ones. "When you've got somebody in close, ready to kill you—you kill him first. No hesitation."
Laura took the revolver. It was cold but she liked the weight of it. "Thanks, I guess." She tucked it into her jacket pocket. "But what about you?"
"Don't worry about me. If Charlie couldn't get me and the Klan couldn't get me, no piss-ant redneck who beats on little girls gonna touch me. Screw him. You just keep that piece close—as long as he's around town."
"Thank-you." Laura unlocked her door and stepped in. She turned back to see Ron, still in the hallway looking at her. "I'll be fine. Thanks for helping."
He nodded.
She closed and locked the door.
Laura slid to the hardwood floor of her apartment and put her head in her hands. This was too much to deal with right now. She didn't need yet another thing to worry about.
Thoughtfully, she slid her hands to her stomach. At least she didn't have to worry about having a baby anymore. As painful as it was, the miscarriage had actually been a relief—a relief she felt incredibly guilty to feel.
The cramps started within an hour of the Navy men coming to her door to tell her that Bob was never, ever coming back home. Did the news trigger it? Did Bob’s son or daughter instinctively know that its father was gone and didn't want to come into a world with a single, messed up mother to take care of it?
Was it just a coincidence?
Laura didn't know. What she did know is that shit happens. It doesn't excuse itself, it doesn't give any warning, it just happens. And it seemed to be happening to her an awful lot lately.
Maybe what her mother said was true—that she couldn't escape herself. Maybe she was and always would be trailer trash with trailer trash problems. Maybe there was no hope for Laura Wynn at all.
Laura shifted her leg and felt paper crinkle under her. She reached down and found that she was sitting on her mail. The letters were crumpled. Bill, bill, bill and one that made her heart jump, banging against her chest.
She recognized the envelope and the writing. Desperately seeking something to give her hope, she opened it immediately.
Dear Laura;
Thanks for your letter. It came to me at the end of a hard day. It took weeks to get here, of course, but it really cheered me up to hear from you.
It looks like you like the ocean, too. I don't know what the water is like where you are. I'm from a place not too far from LA. I always go to water when I'm stressed or worried. I find that I can let myself go when I'm out in the Pacific. Even when the water's cold, it's still comforting to me.
I think it's almost like going back to the womb. We spend the first nine months of our lives under water. It makes sense that it would be the place we feel safest, right? It does to me.
We came from the sea and we will go back to the sea.
Have you ever heard of the green flash? You can only see it in the Pacific Ocean at sunset—at just the right moment. So many times, I've gone out on my board and paddled out as far as I could. I sat with my legs dangling over the sides where I watched and waited.
The sun sets in the west. You watch it until it starts to dip below the horizon. If you keep watching, just as the top of the sun hits the edge of the sea, a brilliant, emerald green flash comes off the very tiptop of the sun. It's gone in an instant. If you blink at the wrong moment, you'll miss it.
Now scientists say it's caused by the atmosphere at the curve of the earth. It refracts the light rays of the green spectrum up and around while the rays in the yellow and red spectrums are absorbed, so you just see the green rays at that moment.
I think that sometimes if you try to explain a miracle with science, it ceases to be a miracle—it stops being a sight of wonder. I don't try to explain things like this. I don't ask how. I just accept them and appreciate them.
The flash is like magic. It recharges me. No matter how many explanations I read about it, it never ceases
to fill me with wonder. It reminds me of the beautiful and miraculous things that are still out there, in a world that can seem so crappy at times.
When I was sad, lonely, frustrated or angry, I'd go out there and watch for the flash. It would… I don't know. It's hard to put into words. It let me know that everything is going to be all right and a lot of the stuff that happens just doesn't matter.
The world still spins, the sun still rises and sets and you are still alive.
Laura, you need to find your green flash, whatever it is.
I guess, since we're becoming pen pals, you should call me Jack.
Respectfully;
Jack.
Laura gently put the letter down on the floor. She wiped her eyes and felt the weight of the revolver in her pocket.
Jack was right, of course. She needed to find a way to lift herself up, to stop being a doormat and stand up for herself. Hope is what she needed. Hope is what she needed to find for herself—nobody would just give it to her.
Nobody could give it to her.
She thought she’d found it in Bob but she didn't, not really. Laura admitted to herself that she hardly even knew him.
Her husband had been a symbol of escape to her. She'd hoped when she married him that he'd take her away from it all, when the Navy decided to send him somewhere else. Bob was a life ring to clutch at, as if she was drowning.
You can't drown if you know how to swim, she thought.
Laura decided to write Jack back that very night, but first she had a mess to clean up. She got to her feet, went to her small kitchen, found a dustpan, a garbage bag and a broom then went back to her front door.
Cautiously, she opened it and peered out into the hallway. It was empty—except for her food, which was neatly stacked in front of her door. The spilt milk had been neatly wiped up without a trace left behind.
"Thanks, Ron," she called out, as she scooped up her groceries and went back into her apartment where she started to write.
Chapter 13.
Jack frantically went through his duffle bag.
Where is it, where is it, where is it?
He decided to retrace his steps. He’d gone to the MWR tent (Moral Welfare Recreation) at three A.M. this morning to talk to his sister, so he strode off there to check. He pulled back the canvas flap and found that the tent was empty at this hour, which was good.
