by D. K. Greene
“Hey, if he lets go from four feet off the ground, he might sprain an ankle,” Peter jokes.
Oliver breaks into a full-on laugh. He snorts, and that gets Peter going, too. They snicker together for the duration of Skinny Jeans’ rescue. Through watering eyes, Peter watches a muscular paramedic with a firmly set jaw wave at the crowd. The people go wild around him. People pat his back and pinch his cheeks while he speaks to the reporter who’s shoved a microphone under his chiseled chin.
The guy they rescued sits on a gurney in the background, ignored by the fans. Only the other first responders pay attention to him, and they appear to be working hard to not burst into laughter.
“So, are you coming down, or what?” Ollie ekes the question out between the hiccups that follow his amused crowing.
“That depends. If a hipster hangs himself on a giant pink balloon, and thirty thousand people don’t care enough to do anything other than pants him on live TV, and he dies, does that count as murder?” Peter gets up and carries his ruined dinner to the trash.
His father only ponders the question a half second. “Thirty thousand times, yes.”
“Save some prison turkey for me, then. I’ll be down in a couple hours.” Peter hardly utters the words before there’s a knock at the door.
“That should be Inspector Douglas,” Ollie announces.
Peter squints, peering through the peephole. He’s surprised to see the inspector really is standing on the other side. “What’s he doing here?”
“I asked him to bring you down so we can talk about another body. I told him it was a onetime offer. If he didn’t bring you down today, I wouldn’t talk again.” Ollie sounds supremely satisfied with himself.
Peter wants to be irritated with his father, but if he’s honest, it’s a relief to not have to spend another holiday alone. “How did you know I’d cancel my plans?”
“Hen, do you remember when we took you to Mount Hood? You were eight. Fell down the training slope and fractured your arm in three places before we even got skis on you. I’m fairly sure you enjoy hanging out on the mountain about as much as I enjoyed my last root canal.”
Nodding silently, Peter hangs up the phone. He’s halfway into his coat when he swings the front door open. The pissed-off inspector glowers at him. The way his anger puffs up his face, he looks like a bulldog poked with a cattle prod.
Peter hides his smirk by turning to lock the door. He can’t tell if he’s happy because his dad wants to see him, or because he’s pulled the inspector out of a tryptophan coma to play chauffeur. His voice cracks when he greets the inspector. “Happy Thanksgiving, Dougy.”
“This had better be worth missing my mother’s Boston Cream pie!” Dougy stomps in his boots, making his way to the car. He pumps his fists in the air, railing against the world. “Every year! The second she announces dessert is ready, Oliver Roberts has some urgent breakthrough.”
“Oh?” Peter tilts his head curiously as he touches the passenger door handle.
“I haven’t had a slice of Boston Cream in fifteen goddamn years.” Inspector Douglas scowls at Peter over the roof of the car. “She bakes it, I get a call from your dad about some urgent issue, and the pie’s gone by the time I get home. Getting through a family holiday without our dear leader calling with an emergency will be the best part of being retired.”
Peter laughs so hard, he cries.
Twenty-Three
The sweat on Valorie’s body glistens in the dim light trickling through the slats of the mini-blinds. She’s beautiful in the twilight. Her curves are full and smooth, the way Peter wishes women in magazines could look. Voluptuous, delicate, with dips and turns soft enough to enjoy no matter which angle he approaches.
His attention breaks from her panting perfection, glancing at his dresser.
“You okay? It’s like you’re a million miles away.” Valorie’s voice is as sultry as the night is long. She touches his back. “What are you thinking about?”
He looks over his shoulder and is greeted by her nakedness. He knows he should want to turn around and worship her through the night, to hear her moan as she presses against him for another round. But he lowers his shoulders in apology. “It’s dumb. I was thinking about my to-do list.”
She props herself on her elbow and smiles. Her teeth glow, causing her to take on the appearance of the Cheshire Cat. “Do you have some urgent matter that you have to take care of right now?”
His gaze shifts away from her. He’s avoided this room for days, trying to forget about his pretend murder prep list. When he’d whispered about the idea on Thanksgiving, his father had been so proud. He’d called over to a friend, a man named Sanders, who was also in the visitor room. Ollie had announced Peter was the best son a man could ever have.
Now, sitting on the edge of the bed, the list calls to him. It whispers that it can revive the lost parental bond. If he only follows the steps written, his father will cherish him again. Every time he thinks about Oliver’s delight that day... the glory of a father’s bragging which Peter has craved since childhood... his stomach sours.
Still, he can’t seem to block the thoughts in his head out. “Yeah, I’m sorry. I’ve got to get out of here.”
Both Peter’s confidence and sex drive go limp as she crawls around him on the twin bed, picking her clothes off the floor, piece by piece. She pulls each article over her skin as she finds it, never needing to get off the bed. He thinks he should pull his pants on, too, but he’s not as practiced at getting dressed in the dark as she is.
When he flicks the switch, flooding the room with light, he’s presented with a fully clothed banker without a hair out of place. Valorie’s rosy cheeks are the only sign she’s exerted herself. She sees his pants before he does. They sit just a few inches from where the sagging mattress still has an imprint of his ass. She picks the jeans up and tosses them to him.
“If they’d been a snake, they’d have bitten you,” she says playfully.
Peter almost falls over when he tries pulling the pants on while standing. Valorie giggles and smacks him on the backside as she lets herself out of the room. By the time he zips up, she’s already got her coat and knee-high boots on.
“Maybe we can do this again.” The hitch in his voice nullifies any casual inflection he’d intended.
She doesn’t appear bothered by his nervousness and winks. “I want to do it on the money next time.”
Peter smiles at her stupidly.
She approaches for a hug. He shifts to the side so his wood, hanging at half mast, doesn’t brush against her. All he can think to say is, “I’ll call you soon.”
As soon as he has ushered Valorie out of the apartment, he locks the door. He trots back down the hallway to his bedroom. When he reaches the dresser, he holds his breath and pulls the top drawer open. His hands dive into the drawer, groping through rolled up socks the way he should move between Valorie’s thighs. His fingers brush the list and he rips it from the drawer.
It’s become wrinkled in his excitement. He smooths the paper on the dresser’s pressboard top and reads the next item on the page.
Buy prizes worth winning.
Peter’s been picking up a few hundred dollars’ worth of gift cards every time he stops by the store for something. The checkers always comment about how lucky his family is to be getting all that money for Christmas. But the stack of gift cards doesn’t look impressive against the backdrop of an empty table. He needs something bigger. Tangible gifts children will covet.
He retreats to the bed, reclining with his hands tucked behind his head. He fantasizes about all the things he will buy. Video games and skateboards. Puzzles. Bikes. And something for adults, too. He stares at the ceiling light until the glowing bulb burns spots in his vision.
What if an attractive woman wins the contest? Maybe he should get some lingerie. He imagines the strange, faceless woman, so excited to win the sexy garments. She’d want to try it on before she took it home, just to make sure it
fits. She could be any woman. Her features shift in his mind until she looks like Valorie.
The fantasy fades, and his stomach roils with disgust. She’d be here right now if he hadn’t made her leave. They could enjoy one another instead of him fantasizing alone. If he bought Valorie lingerie, he’s sure she’d wear it. She’s the sort of woman to prance around in it for a while, teasing her lover before giving him permission to rip it off her.
He feels like an idiot. Why is he doing this to himself? He doesn’t understand what’s wrong with him. He doesn’t think anybody can unravel his lunacy.
Except Jeanne.
Peter’s gaze turns back to the edge of paper protruding over the corner of the dresser. The excitement of his fantasy returns. What if Jeanne wins his contest? He wouldn’t want some lame gift card to disappoint her. No, he’d have her walk away with a fresh pair of stockings and a set of old-fashioned garters. A tight black thong and corset to accentuate her hourglass figure.
He turns over, resting face down on the bed. His breath is ragged. He imagines Jeanne in front of him, his fingers entwined in the corset laces. Her body falls against him as she begs to be set free from the satin fabric. He lets go of the lingerie and the scant clothing falls between them.
Her body is warm when he pulls her close. Her naked form lowers to his lap. He’s reclining in her office chair. She’s whispering in his ear all the things he wants her to say. Their limbs weave together, the way he dreams they will each time they’re alone.
The fantasy holds a moment longer as he smells Valorie’s scent on his sheets. He could be with Jeanne. She could love him. She’s more caring than Valorie. More invested in helping him.
Peter’s eyes snap open. He leaps from the bed, rushing across the apartment to his phone. He opens his calendar and groans with frustration. Between the thrill of Valorie’s visit and the disturbing wandering of his thoughts, he’s missed his therapy appointment.
Trembling, he stares at Jeanne’s name on the screen. He’s coming unhinged in a way that makes the entire world feel out of control. His next appointment isn’t for another week. Seven days without her is too long.
Haunting whispers call his name from the back bedroom. The list. It’s making him crazy. He knows it’s make believe, but the counterfeit murder is messing with his head.
Jeanne has to see him. He can’t wait. If she doesn’t, he’s not sure what he’ll do.
Twenty-Four
The morning light is dim as Peter sits out front of Jeanne’s office. It’s seven forty-five, and he knows the receptionist won’t unlock the front door until eight. There’s a smattering of cars in the lot and he entertains himself by trying to guess which one is Jeanne’s.
He settles on a flashy Mini Cooper that has splashes of bright paint up the sides and a giant set of pink fuzzy dice hanging from the rearview mirror. A spoiler stands above the rear hatch and the fenders flare to emphasize the compact car’s curves.
It would be just like Jeanne to have a showy car that’s sensible on the budget.
The analog clock on Peter’s dashboard ticks away until the minute hand passes the top of the hour. It’s three minutes past when the mousey receptionist finally turns the lock in the glass double doors. She pushes the handle to make sure the door swings freely.
Despite his normal penchant for names, he has to concentrate to remember hers. He thinks it’s Cheryl. Or Sherry. Or Carrie. Or Carlie.
He taps on his steering wheel as he waits for her to settle at her desk before he gets out of the car. She’s busy typing by the time Peter reaches the lobby. She’s pretty in a generic office worker kind of way.
Her monitor is tilted sideways. He steals a look at her social media post before she notices him. She’s putting up a picture of a beautiful casserole, obviously cooked by someone else. The colors are too bright, and the dish glistens unnaturally, as studio props do. He’s never understood women’s desire to share such ordinary fantasies with one another. Whenever he gets the urge to check on a lady’s profile online, he finds recipes she’ll never make, projects she’ll never start, and dream homes she’ll never live in.
The receptionist tabs over to her scheduling program and looks up. “Hello, Mister Wilson. Can I help you?”
“Hey, Cher.” Peter waits for her to tell him that isn’t her name, but she just stares at him. “I had an appointment yesterday with Doctor Richards and I spaced it.”
“Mmm hmm. Are you wanting to reschedule?” She tabs back to the social media page and reaches for the enter key. She can’t seem to help finishing her post.
“If it wouldn’t be too much trouble. I know she keeps a strict schedule. I feel terrible for messing it up.”
The unexceptional receptionist drops her head as she pulls up Jeanne’s schedule. Her hazel eyes glaze over as the muscle memory of the program takes over. Peter rambles a long and detailed apology, overflowing with excuses for why he missed the appointment. The young woman tightens her lips, and he hears a muted yawn fighting to escape her throat. Peter shuts up.
He suddenly doesn’t care that he’s forgotten her name.
“She has a slot open at four o’clock today, if you’re available.” She looks at Peter with a disinterested smile. “We keep that time open for delinquents and wackos like you.”
Peter’s glad he’s coherent enough to understand she’s joking. Her delivery is so dry, he wonders what would happen if he were a little crazier. He’s pretty sure it’s a joke that shouldn’t be told around mentally deficient people.
“That’s fine,” Peter answers.
She hands him an appointment card and goes back to her computer, instantly oblivious to him. He heads to the car. He gets in and turns the engine over. There’s nearly eight hours to fill before he can see Jeanne. He may as well make the time productive. He pulls out of the lot and drives toward the river, doing his best to not get pissed off at the congestion piled along Sandy Boulevard.
Despite the assholes who can’t figure out how to drive in the foggy drizzle, Peter finds himself at an office supply store on Martin Luther King Boulevard in just a few minutes.
Peter grabs a stack of five-dollar bills from his glove compartment and pulls on a baseball cap. He slaps himself in the face to shock his nerves, and reminds himself he’s not doing anything wrong. Just picking up supplies so he knows what it feels like to have them. Peter pulls the hat’s brim lower over his face and shoves the cash in his pocket.
A beefy guy approaches as he wanders down the cell phone aisle in the center of the store. “Hey there, friend. Can I help you?”
Peter casts a sideways glance at the clerk and shrugs. He moves closer, exuding more confidence in a few steps than Peter’s had his entire life. His khaki pants and polo shirt are topped off with a crooked nametag that has most of its letters worn off. His uniform is so generic he could work at any of the big box stores. Peter wonders if he stops off at Target on his way home from work, if people assume he works there, too.
“I need a phone.” The words come out emotionless, though Peter’s ears ring and his stomach twists itself in a knot.
He thinks the sales guy smiles, but it’s hard to tell under his sculpted mustache. Peter is distracted by the side-show facial hair, and can almost smell the testosterone pouring off the carefully coiffed bristles.
“Well, you’ve got a lot of options. What kind of setup you looking for?” Sales guy leans casually against the shelf and drags his fingers over the keys of a sleek, silver model.
“I’m not sure. Something I can pay cash for, I guess.” Peter shoves his hand in his pocket, unconsciously handling the bundle of fives.
“We’ve got lots of prepaid options these days. Carriers have finally taken notice of people who don’t want the hassle of a contract. You can get phones with texting, Wi-Fi, mobile data, all the stuff you’re used to with a standard smartphone. Here, look at this guy.” He hands Peter the phone he’s been molesting. Peter doesn’t take it.
“I don’t rea
lly need all that. I just want to have a phone number someone can call.”
The mustache quivers and a twinkle gleams in the salesman’s eye. “Ah, something discreet.”
Peter nods, unsure of what to say.
“Hey, man, I’ve been there. It’s hard keeping a little someone on the side when they keep calling you. You’ve got to explain to your wife who this new number belongs to when it pops up on the bill. It’s only a matter of time before she figures out Stan from work is really Stacy from Hooters and everything goes tits up.” The mustache falls momentarily, and he rests his hand on Peter’s shoulder in a show of solidarity.
“Bitches,” Peter mumbles.
The mustache rolls along the clerk’s cheeks as he laughs. “I know, right? Let’s get you set up. What you want is something you can carry and drop. Look at this guy, here.” He moves to the far end of the aisle and tosses Peter a little black phone the size of a deck of cards. “It’s got a slide-out keyboard in case you decide you want to text. Plus, a decent track pad for getting into the menu to clear your history in a hurry. Best of all, you can come into any of our stores and buy one of these minute cards to load when you need to. No statements popping up in your mailbox.”
“When I’m done with it, I can just throw it away?” The phone is light, made of a cheap plastic that Peter worries will crack if he squeezes too tight.
Sober eyes contemplate Peter. Mustache Man was lighthearted when talking about adultery, but now he looks like he might hit something. “It’s plastic and metal, man. Recycle.”
Peter fixes an unblinking gaze on the clerk to keep his eyes from rolling to the ceiling. “Sure, I’ll recycle it.” When the employee’s shoulders relax, he asks, “Will the phone number stay the same while I’m using it?”
“As long as it’s loaded with minutes, the number’s yours.”
“I’ll take it.” Peter hands the demo back to the salesman.
