We Are Always Watching

by Hunter Shea

  “This here is nothing new. It’s been going on for longer than even I’ve been on this side of the dirt. Out here in the country, you get some strange folks who carry grudges all down family lines. This fool likes to call himself the Guardian, but I call him Fuckhead Faulkner. Whoever it is hasn’t learned his words don’t mean shit. Including this shit. I can’t say I’m not upset with this mess, though.”

  He turned back to his work.

  West said, “But do you know who it is?”

  “I have my suspicions. I beat a fella up over it when I was younger. Spent a week in the county jail for it. Turned out I was wrong. I’ve kept my temper since then. Won’t give that jackhole the satisfaction of seeing me brought down again.”

  “But what does it mean by ‘you may not have my blood’?”

  He shrugged. “How the hell should I know? None of it ever made any sense.”

  “Shouldn’t we call the police or something? If they’re writing notes on the mirror and putting them in drawers, that’s breaking and entering.”

  Grandpa Abraham slammed the hose down, his chest puffing up like an angry gorilla. “I told you it’s nothing to get your panties in a twist about! Now quit pissing in my ear and get lost! I have work to do and I don’t need you bawling like a baby over some nonsense words.”

  West’s stomach trembled, the shiver reaching down to his knees. Grandpa Abraham wiped a smear of shit across his upper lip, spat, and went back to hosing down the house.

  You fucking asshole!

  He didn’t have the courage to say what he felt. Not to this strange man whose house they now shared; a house that was under the watchful eye of some lunatics who called themselves the Guardians.

  Instead, he ran into the house, slamming the shower door. He stripped off his filthy clothes and let the hot water nearly scald his flesh. After he changed and grabbed a book, he headed for the front door. Pausing with his hand on the knob, he considered going in to his father and venting.

  If this had been going on for as long as Grandpa Abraham said, his father had to know about it.

  So why didn’t he say anything when they found the other notes?

  Was he hiding something, too?

  Was he so wrapped up in his pity party that he couldn’t see past it enough to fully grasp the potential danger of the situation? This wasn’t normal, no matter what Grandpa Abraham said. This was psycho-stalker shit.

  West slammed the door, circling around the other side of the house, relieved to see no bizarre messages scrawled in blood, puke, or piss.

  With the field in his sights, he walked into the wild brush, wanting to get as far away from the house of secrets as he could.

  ***

  West found a clearing after walking in what felt like circles for the better part of an hour. He just wasn’t sure it was the clearing. There was no sign of Faith anywhere.

  You gotta have faith.

  Boy was that the truth right now. He wanted to go back in time and make sure his father never got in the car that day. Then they wouldn’t be living with that bastard in a house watched by another crazy bastard – or bastards. Who knew?

  I’ll bet Dad knows. Probably better to wait for Mom to come home so we can both ask him to spill the beans.

  He liked the odds of two against one, especially when his mom was angry. Then it would be more like five against one.

  Good. He was pissed off, and had every right to be. Shouldn’t this have been something his father warned them about before they came here?

  West’s ruminations stopped cold.

  What if Mom knew all along?

  “Hey you.”

  He looked over to see Faith emerge from the corn like some kind of fairy tale wood nymph.

  “Bet you didn’t think I’d find my way back,” he said, sounding more confident than he felt. He was so wrapped up with anger and confusion that he simply didn’t have room for being nervous.

  She smiled, turning his insides to jelly.

  “Oh, I knew you would. Anyone named after a point on a compass couldn’t get lost.”

  There was a sliver of disappointment that she wasn’t wearing her bikini today. Instead, she wore shorts that were cut high on her shapely thighs, a sleeveless shirt with Tweety Bird’s head on her chest and old work boots.

  She looked down at his feet.

  “Ouch. Does that hurt?”

  He checked out his feet. He’d had to wear his flip-flops since his sneakers smelled like a baby’s diaper. Stomping his way here, he must have been too wrapped up in his own head to notice the beating his practically bare feet took. They were sliced with red lines, as if he’d been given twenty lashes.

  “I didn’t even notice it.”

  “City boys,” she said, giggling. “That’s rough terrain out here. You have to protect your feet. See?”

  She wiggled a booted foot at him.

  “We gotta get you cleaned up and find some socks.”

  He shuffled closer to Faith, feeling his heart beat in his throat. “I’ll be fine.”

  “Not out here you won’t. You can all kinds of infections walking through these fields with open wounds. Nope, you’re coming with me.”

  Faith grabbed his hand, tugging him into the corn.

  Holy crap! We’re holding hands!

  He willed his hand not to get cold and clammy, which only made his sweat glands open up even more. Her hand was so soft, yet strong. Trailing behind her, he could smell her floral perfume. It was the sweetest, most intoxicating scent he’d ever inhaled.

  The stalks and ears of corn crinkled as they weaved their way between the rows. She must be out here a lot to be able to find her way through the monotony. The tips of the stalks were well above their heads.

  “You want an ear?” she said, pausing for a moment.

  “I guess I could bring one home for later.”

  “Not later.” She plucked two green-sleeved ears, handing him one. “You do know how to shuck corn, right?”

  “Yes. We have corn in New York.” He chucked some silk at her. She tossed hers right back. “Don’t we need to cook it?”

  She shook her head. “Not fresh corn. You can eat it just like this.” Faith took a loud bite, kernels settling in the corners of her mouth. “Try it. I’ll bet you’ve never tasted corn this good.”

  West normally considered corn a perfect delivery vessel for butter and salt. Faith could have asked him to eat his flip-flop and he would have done it without question. He took a bite, then another. She was right. It was amazing. Tender and sweet. How could it be so perfect without being cooked, naked of all the necessary condiments?

  It was backwoods magic.

  “Come on, this is take-out food,” Faith said, intertwining her fingers with his. They ate while they walked. When she tossed her finished ear overhead, he did the same.

  They emerged from the cornfield, the air outside the neat rows markedly hotter. Ahead of them was a long, sloping yard with a pair of picnic tables and benches at the top of the rise. Her house was a three story bright yellow Colonial with an enormous front porch that wrapped around three quarters of the structure. Unlike Grandpa Abraham’s, it was clean and warm and inviting.

  “Nice place,” he said.

  “I’d rather live in an apartment in San Francisco or Chicago,” she said. “The grass is always greener.”

  As she opened the unlocked front door, West hesitated. “Is it okay that I’m here? Your parents won’t be mad with you bringing a boy in the house, will they? Even if it’s a wounded one?”

  Faith laughed. “No, they wouldn’t mind. I take in stray, hurt animals all the time.” She pulled at his arm. “Plus, they’re not even home. They went to Marshall’s Creek for lunch. And my brother and sister are in camp for the summer. They got passing grades.”

  Wow, this house could have come out of a magazine. All of the furniture was new and plush, the walls were painted bright colors, sun shone in streams through windows that had been shined until they w
ere as clear as the sky, and snug scents of vanilla and cinnamon lingered in every room.

  “Your house is amazing,” he said as she led him upstairs. A narrow carpet ran down the row of steps, muting their footsteps.

  “My mother is a clean freak addicted to all those home and garden mags. Sometimes it’s like living in one of those fake model homes. I’d love to just mess it all up some day, but I think my mom would have a stroke… after she killed me.”

  The bathroom had one of those claw foot tubs, the porcelain buffed to a blinding shine. Racks of expensive shampoos and body washes were lined up on the walls surrounding the tub. It smelled like one of those stores that sold scented candles. West normally hated those places, but he was willing to make an exception here.

  Faith opened the medicine cabinet and took out a bottle of peroxide and some bandages. “First, we gotta clean those busted feet.”

  He was about to protest when she giggled, removing his flip-flops. She let some water in the tub, sprinkling soap powder on the surface.

  “You don’t expect me to take a bath, do you?” West said, wondering if she did, would she join him? He was pretty sure he wouldn’t survive it if she did.

  That’s not something you need to worry about. You didn’t fall into a PornHub video.

  “It’s for your feet. You better not expect a sponge bath, mister.”

  Lord, can she see how red my face is? West thought. It felt like he was sitting close to a roaring fire.

  “No way!” he said a little too fast, a little too loud. She didn’t seem to notice.

  “Just soak those suckers for a minute or so,” she ordered, pointing at the tub.

  The water stung his cuts, but no more than the peroxide she poured on them next. After covering his wounds with several bandages, she got a pair of white socks from her father’s drawer. He put them on as ordered.

  “You wanna listen to some music before my parents get home?

  “Yeah, that sounds cool.”

  Maybe he should leave. What if her parents got home and found them in her room together. Would her father shoot him with a rifle he was sure all farmers had close at hand?

  “Welcome to my crib,” she said, nudging her bedroom door open with the toe of her boot.

  If the rest of the house was planned perfection, Faith’s room was barely controlled chaos. West loved it.

  “What do you think?”

  West took it all in. The walls were covered with posters and cut-outs from rock magazines, all of them tacked on at odd angles. Clothes were piled in corners, a dresser and desk littered with knick-knacks, books, jewelry, and perfume bottles. She had a king sized bed – a king sized bed! – that was unmade, the bikini he’d wanted her to be wearing lying atop the rumpled sheets. It was a glorious mess.

  But like the rest of the house, it smelled wonderful, like a riot of flowers.

  “I think I have room envy,” he said.

  She slapped his arm with the back of her hand. “Are you making fun of me?”

  “No way. It’s awesome.”

  “It’s a little bit messy,” Faith said, rummaging under a stack of jeans.

  That was an understatement.

  West said, “I like messy.”

  All of his favorite bands were on her walls. Pierce the Veil. Bring Me The Horizon. Lana Del Rey, Rob Zombie. And his favorite, New Year’s Day.

  “Here it is,” Faith said, a Bose iPod speaker in her hands. She plugged it in, and settled her iPod in the cradle. “What do you wanna listen to?”

  He stood in the center of the room, unsure what to do. Did he just sit on her bed? It looked like there was a chair under that mountain of shirts, shorts, and bras.

  Oh Jeez, don’t stare at her bras!

  “Anything’s good. You pick,” he said.

  The industrial metal edge of Marilyn Manson blasted from the Bose speaker. It practically made the walls quake.

  “Sorry!” Faith shouted, turning the volume down so they could listen without their ears bleeding. “You can sit, you know.”

  “Yeah, I know. Just taking in the sights.”

  West gazed at a poster of New Year’s Day hung over her bra pile. He felt it was safer staring at lead singer Ash Costello’s half red, half black hair and goth makeup.

  “You like her?” she asked.

  “She’s an awesome singer,” West said. “I saw them in the city once. They opened for some LA band at Irving Plaza.” He didn’t add that because he was thirteen at the time, his father had come along, standing at the rear of the venue by the bar, keeping a watchful eye on him, especially when the mosh pits started to break out.

  “I’m sure that’s all you like about her.” Faith smiled, laying across her bed, fishing for something on the floor. She reemerged holding a mini-poster of Ash. “For you.”

  “Thanks,” West said, hoping she didn’t think he was some kind of letch, leering at the singer. Better that than ogling her bras. She’d probably kick me out for that.

  Faith patted the bed. “Come on, get off those professionally treated feet and chill.”

  It felt wonderful and terrifying all at the same time as they lay back, listening to music together. West couldn’t remember ever feeling this happy and excited. Her arm was so close to his, he could feel her body heat.

  They lay there listening to music, not saying much, which was surprisingly comforting. It was like he’d known her for years, not minutes.

  At 2:00, Faith sat up and said, “My parents should be home soon.”

  West’s heart whaled in his chest, but he did his damnedest to stay calm. “Yeah, I should get going anyway.”

  She walked him to the edge of the cornfield. The cuts on his feet stung but he refused to let her see him limp.

  “It was nice seeing you again, West. Don’t worry about the socks. You can keep them. My father will never notice they’re missing.” She gave him a quick peck on the cheek. “I’ll see you around.”

  She turned to walk back to the house.

  “Um, I’m not sure I can make my way through there,” West said, knowing he absolutely couldn’t. He’d be lost for good. No doubt.

  Faith spun on her heels. She tried to hold a straight face but busted out laughing. “I was just kidding! Come on, I’ll take you to my spot.”

  Again, she took his hand and blazed a trail through the corn. When they got to the clearing, this time she really did smile, turn, and walk away.

  West somehow made it home despite tumbling into a daze. He didn’t even notice if his father or grandfather were around as he walked up to his room, his body lighter than air.

  Plopping down on the bed, he stared at the WE SEE YOU scrawled on the ceiling. He thought about the other things written around the house, his senses recalling the fecal smell from this morning.

  “Screw that!” he blurted.

  Propping a chair precariously on the bed, he taped the poster of Ash over the words.

  Now they couldn’t glare back at him, ruining the moment.

  It was very hot in the room, but he didn’t pay it any mind. He didn’t care about the weird notes or crazy words of shit that had been outside his window.

  He just stared at the poster, thinking of Faith.

  Chapter Nine

  “Please tell me you’re joking.”

  Matt sat on the bed with his head in his hands.

  “I wish I was.”

  Debi had spent the better part of her day avoiding her old boss who had come to the office on business. He was going to be there for the next week or more. Frank Daniels was a pig with outdated, misguided conceptions of proper workplace relationships. To him, women in the office were there to either do his bidding or to be ogled and groped.

  Monika Olson, Debi’s closest friend at the office, helped Debi by giving her a heads up whenever Daniels was in her vicinity. Monika was the office manager, possessing an almost prescient ability to know everything that went on between the four walls and three floors.

  “H
e just got out of a meeting, doll, and he’s headed your way,” she’d said on the phone at ten this morning. She’d been the little bird in Debi’s ear all day. She had to repay Monika with something really nice once the storm passed.

  “You’re a life saver,” she’d whispered.

  “Hurry, get off the phone. He’s almost there,” Monika said.

  It was the first of three warning calls. Monika had taken her out to lunch, her treat, at a little sushi place around the corner. She’d always regarded Debi as a daughter, even though she was only ten years older. Debi appreciated her more than she could express in words.

  “You know what?” Monika said when they were finished. “I think I’m going to expense this. Call it hazard pay.”

  Debi sagged in her seat. The sushi was excellent. The thought of going back to work wiped away all that goodness.

  “Can sushi make you invisible?” Debi joked.

  Monika reached out to hold her hand. “I’ve got your back.”

  “It’s my front I’m worried about.”

  The stress of the day had exhausted her. She didn’t have the strength to deal with this now. She turned away from Matt, motioning for him to be silent, if even for a minute.

  Frank Daniels was rich and so tied into the New York political scene, he was practically untouchable. Women who complained about his boorish advances just disappeared, either paid off or threatened. No one knew for sure.

  What he did to Debi six months ago still made her blood boil. She’d kept her mouth shut because they couldn’t afford for her to lose the job. They would literally be living in a shelter, waiting on lines at soup kitchens. At least that’s what Debi told herself. It made the sacrifice of her silence seem noble, rather than cowardly.

  She certainly hadn’t told Matt about it.

  Daniels had grabbed her from behind one day, pressing his hardness (probably aided by a dose of Viagra) against her ass.

  Debi was dumbfounded; shocked by his brazen and clumsy pass. She couldn’t recall exactly how she’d extricated herself from the situation. Her mind went on autopilot. Whatever she’d said, it wasn’t enough to send the message home loud and clear that she was not fair game.