“Aw, y’all are no fun,” the guy says.
Dad’s jaw is clenched. He starts grinding his teeth. I can hear the bone on bone, even over the music and the reporter recounting the most recent Mannequin Man murder.
“Really,” I say. “Let’s just go.”
Dad’s eyes soften when he looks at me. He digs into his back pocket and takes out his wallet. He lays a twenty on the counter and pushes it toward Christa. She’s tensed, worried there’ll be some violence on a day she didn’t expect any. “Keep it,” Dad tells her. He turns his back on the guy and lets me guide him outside.
It’s dark out. I take his keys. He’s in no condition to drive right now, even though it’s about a two-minute ride.
In the car, he apologizes to me. I wave it away. “It’s okay. People don’t know how to be polite. I’m used to that.”
Right after that fateful night, there was press camped out on my front lawn for about a week. Countless reporters calling the house phone for interviews. I was even offered a spot on a local daytime talk show. I denied all of them, not wanting to bring any extra attention to myself in this world of Facebook and Twitter and serial killer forums chock-full of people spewing conspiracy theories and saying their neighbor or their second-cousin-twice-removed is the real killer. Don’t get me wrong, the money offered my way was good, but it was never about the money. Besides, Klonowski, being the lead on the investigation, told me not to.
“It’ll be okay, Mel,” Dad says.
He’s drunk. The alcohol is hitting him pretty hard, a tsunami wave of vodka.
I pull into the driveway, lights painting the garage door. Chester’s in the window. I doubt he’s moved since we’ve left, but now he stretches in that weird way cats stretch, and then he meows. I can’t hear it, of course, I just see his mouth open and close.
Dad’s not so drunk that he can’t make it to the door, but once inside, he makes his way toward the living room and sits on the couch. The TV’s turned on to a college basketball game.
I go upstairs, take a shower, get dressed, ready for bed. When I come back down, Dad’s sleeping. He snores like a chainsaw when he drinks, his mouth hanging wide open. Chester’s snuggled up next to him.
I turn the TV off and grab the throw blanket from the armchair in the corner. I cover him up with it.
“Thanks for sticking up for me tonight,” I tell him. I lean down and kiss him on the cheek. “Night, Poppa.”
Thirteen
A few weeks pass by in an excruciating blur.
The weather outside is looking up. I’ve heard nothing on the Mannequin Man front besides Klonowski periodically calling me and telling me to stay calm.
“I told you, Mel,” he would say every conversation. “Don’t worry.”
But I am worrying. I haven’t gone back to my apartment yet. Barely worked. I’ve gone from full-time at the office to part-time, and they were perfectly okay with that. If I’m being honest, I don’t think they really need me there all that much. I think they hired me out of pity.
Pity. I got a lot of pity after what I’d seen at Cocoa’s. I still do from those that remember me, but society has a short attention span.
Mom has been doing much better. She’s still in hospice, but by some miracle, I don’t think she will be much longer. The cancer is still there, but it’s not as aggressive. The doctor advised us to keep her there while she needed caring for, but she said it with a bewildered smile on her face.
God has been listening to our prayers.
Speaking of the hospice center, I ran into Lola again. Just passing greetings the first few times after our shared honeybun, but the third time I’d seen her, we talked much longer than a greeting, and she invited me out for coffee.
I’m sitting in the coffee shop now, the place not too far from the hospice. The barista who took my order spelled my name wrong. According to my cup, I’m Nellie. Nel, I could understand, but Nellie?
I’ve torn the paper sleeve from the cup into little shreds. Can you tell I’m nervous?
Last night I read an article about letting a woman know you’re interested when you yourself are also a woman. I can’t believe I’ve stooped that low.
Wait, yes, I can.
I’m going over the advice in my head, too afraid to pull it up on my iPhone in case Lola comes over my shoulder without me knowing. That’s just paranoia, I know. The way I’m sitting, I have my sights on the door. I took a table in the middle, between the counter and the bar behind me full of hipsters on their laptops with over-the-ear headphones. Still, I’m nervous. Better safe than sorry, right?
She walks in about three minutes later. I see her park and get out of her Chevy Malibu. She’s wearing black-and-white pinstriped pants with a matching shoulder-padded blazer. Beneath the blazer, she wears a white turtleneck. It’s tight across her chest, accentuating her breasts. I’m practically drooling. She’s already tall, but the heels on her feet make her taller. In the back of my mind: More intimidating. Her hair is done up in a bun. Her fingers loosen it, and I think I hear Warrant’s “Cherry Pie” in the background as she shakes her silky locks free. On her face are Gucci sunglasses. She removes them, sets them on top of her head, a makeshift headband.
I stand up, nearly knocking my chair down in the process. Before I stick my hand out, I swipe the nervous sweat off my palms on the thighs of my jeans.
Lola’s beaming as she rejects my handshake and wraps me in a tight hug.
“Mel!” she says in a giddy voice. “It’s so good to see you! I heard about your mom. That she’s doing so much better. She won’t be there much longer, will she?”
We part, but I don’t want to.
“Yeah, my mom’s doing much better.” I rap on the tabletop. “Knock on wood, right?”
Lola laughs and does the same.
“How are you?” I ask. “Can I get you a coffee or something? They’ve got bomb cake pops here.”
Bomb? Jesus Christ, Melanie.
“Oooh, I could go for a flat white. Do they have that here?”
“I think so.” I get up. “Be right back.”
I order the flat white for Lola and a couple of cake pops. The barista asks if I want a refill on my coffee. I say it’s okay. I’m jittery enough. I pay with a crumpled twenty from my pocket that takes a good amount of time to dig out. Why are our jean pockets always so small?
With the goods in hand, I go back to the table. Lola grabs her coffee and inhales deeply, a look of bliss on her face. She takes a sip.
“God, I needed this. Thank you so much, Mel. I’ll get the next round or the next time.”
“Don’t worry about it,” I say.
“You come here often?”
I shrug. “Not as much as I used to. Back in high school, this was the spot.”
One of the pieces of advice from the article I’d read mentioned to get the fact that I’m gay out in the open, as quickly as possible. Considering I’ve known Lola for a few weeks and I’ve talked to her on more than one occasion, this isn’t really getting it out there as quickly as possible, but I was nervous—still am. I think she’s into me, though. I don’t know why. I could just be delusional, and that’s very possible. Delusions are my thing, for sure.
I go for it.
“My ex-girlfriend and I used to do our homework here.” I make sure to stress the syllables on ‘ex-girlfriend’ because one, I want her to know I’m gay, and two, I want her to realize I’m talking about an ex.
I don’t know what I expect—maybe for Lola to shoot up from the table and dump her flat white on my head, which would really suck balls because the steam rises from it in waves; her screaming, calling me sick or…delusional to ever think she’d be interested in another woman. Yada-yada-yada.
That doesn’t happen. In fact, it seems she doesn’t notice. It’s as normal as if I’d said it was an ex-boyfriend instead of ex-girlfriend.
“Right,” she says, “you’re so young. How long ago was high school for you?”
I have to think about it. “Like seven years ago. I graduated at seventeen, enrolled when I was younger than the rest of the class. My mom thought I wasn’t ready, but Dad thought otherwise.”
Oh lord, I’m babbling.
“How was that, being the youngest in your grade?”
“Eh.” I shrug. “Only downside was I couldn’t buy cigarettes like the rest of my friends during senior year. Not that I smoked or anything, but it was kind of a rite of passage where I went.”
Lola leans forward, laughing. “Geez, it hasn’t been so long for me that I don’t remember high school and rites of passages. I’m thirty-two; I know you’re wondering.”
I was.
“Did you go to high school in the Falls?” I ask.
“Tallmadge. Class of ’05. I don’t miss it.”
“Right, anyone who misses high school is a psychopath.”
She raises her cup. “Amen to that.”
Our cups tap, and we say cheers and laugh.
Then a lull falls over our conversation. The Counting Crows are playing “Mr. Jones” over the speakers. Behind me, at the bar, some hipster’s rap blasts from a pair of Beats headphones. Lola and I avert our eyes from each other.
Jesus, it’s like I’m learning how to talk to someone I’m attracted to all over again.
“I gotta ask…” I finally say, “are you okay with me being a lesbian?”
Here comes the thrown coffee, the outburst. She must not have heard me when I said I used to come here with my ex-girlfriend.
“Are you okay with me being bisexual?” Lola says.
My face lights up. A sigh of relief escapes my lungs in a rush. Lola laughs, leans forward, grabs my hand.
“Oh, thank God,” I say.
“What, you thought I was straight? Has it not been blatantly obvious that I’m into you?”
“I—um, I don’t know. I’m just…geez.” I shake my head, strands of blonde hair hanging in my face. “I’ve never been this…flustered when it comes to—you know.”
“I know,” Lola nods. She’s still holding onto my hand. She flips it over and strokes her fingers down my palm. Goosebumps erupt all over my skin, my body tingling.
“So, bisexual?” I ask.
She nods. “I haven’t been with a guy in a long time, but I’ve been with a few before. You?”
I chuckle. “Not since the eighth grade when I went to Formal with Steve Keen.”
“You’re not missing anything, trust me. Nothing but pigs.”
“But you’d go back…to men?”
“Man, woman. Doesn’t matter if the right person comes along, sure.” She looks into my eyes. “But I’m hoping that person already has.”
Fourteen
I say, “I know this sounds crazy, but I’ve never felt this way about anyone before. This early on. I mean, we hardly know each other.”
“Romance by definition is crazy.”
Lola’s ordered us both coffees. We share the last cake pop, passing it back and forth and taking bites out of it. I only nibble and sip. I want this night to last forever.
“Let’s get to know each other,” she says.
The coffee shop is now playing Alanis Morrisette over the speakers. We’ve been here so long that I’ve seen two different baristas come in and slip their green apron over their heads.
“Okay,” I say. “Like Twenty-One Questions?”
“Yeah,” she replies. “I’ll go first. What’s your middle name?”
“Anne. Melanie Anne Padgett.”
“Get out! That’s my middle name, too. Lola Ann Palmer.”
“With an ‘e’ at the end?”
Lola shakes her head. “Nope, just plain old A-N-N.”
“Damn, so close,” I say. “When’s your birthday?”
“September—” she begins.
“Stop it. My birthday’s in September, too,” I say. I’m only slightly aware of how much I sound like a gossiping schoolgirl at a sleepover.
Lola’s looking at me with an arched eyebrow. She doesn’t believe me. “If you say the thirteenth, I’m leaving.”
“Thir…” I begin, really drawing out the suspense. “…tieth.”
She rolls her eyes. “You’re cute. My turn: Have you ever been with someone older?”
“You mean sexually?”
“No, in line at the grocery store. Duh, I mean sexually.”
My cheeks burn, but I know this is good. We can get all the awkward stuff out of the way on the first date, and the rest will be smooth sailing.
“No,” I answer. “Not an eight year difference.” I think of making a wisecrack about her age, decide not to.
Still, somehow she reads me, and she says, “I’m not that old. Trust me, Mel, when you’re twenty-four, your thirties are right around the corner. And you know it, too, but they still somehow manage to sneak up on you.”
“I hope not.”
“Your turn.”
For the sake of awkwardness prevention and nipping things that may bother her in the bud, my next question is not as fun as the others. In fact, it lodges in my throat like a lump of phlegm.
Lola senses the trepidation. Hand on mine again, so soft, so warm. Fingernails painted a metallic purple, perfectly manicured. “Fun time’s over, huh?” she asks.
I look up from her nails, shiny enough for me to see my reflection in, and meet her eyes.
I ask, “Do you know who I am?”
She sits back and straightens up. Her forehead wrinkles. “That’s the question? You made it seem like you were going to tell me you’re a wanted fugitive or something.” She laughs, high and sweet. “You’re Melanie Anne, Anne with an ‘e’, Padgett.”
“Well, yes, but there’s something else about me,” I say.
Her laugh cuts off as quick as it came. “What do you mean?”
“Well…”
I tell her about that night at Cocoa’s five years ago. She listens attentively, her eyes never leaving mine, though mine leave hers on more than one occasion. This is hard for me, talking about it. It’s a large black mark in my twenty-four years on this earth. It forced me to have night terrors, to go to therapy, to potentially become the target of a serial killer.
After I’m done telling the story, there’s a silence between us that hangs for a moment. The bustle of the coffee shop and the music playing over the speakers is all a blur.
Then Lola stands up, chair scooting behind her, and comes over to my side of the table. She wraps me in a hug. Tight. I take a deep breath, inhaling her perfume. Chanel No. 5. My mom used to wear the same kind whenever her and Dad had a date night.
“I’m so sorry,” she tells me. “I’m so sorry.”
Lola, of course, knows about the Mannequin Man. He has gotten national attention. Not much as, say, Bundy or Dahmer, but he’s certainly gotten some. The problem with our society now is how desensitized we all are. Serial killers aren’t the hot topic they once were. There are many devotees, sure, especially in the age of the internet, but most people would rather follow the Kardashians and Kanye Wests of the world than worry about a killer creeping around small communities, abducting young women, slicing their faces off and stapling them to mannequins. Of course, most of the details of his crimes have been kept from the media. The grislier things. I don’t think that matters much.
“You poor thing,” Lola continues. She runs her fingers through my hair, pushes strands behind my right ear. I feel her breath hot on my neck. Then a gentle finger touches my cheek. She swipes a tear away. I hadn’t noticed I’m crying. “You’re safe with me. It was five years ago; he doesn’t care about you.”
“But I saw—I saw his face,” I mumble.
“So what? He wouldn’t come after you. Not when he knows you have the entire police force and the FBI on your side. The community, too.” She’s stroking my back. Running her nails up and down in slow, hair-raising lines.
I look at her. Grateful. I’ve barely known this woman a month, and she’s there for me more than most pe
ople have ever been.
This is when it happens.
I can’t help myself.
As I lean forward, butterflies flap their beautiful wings in my stomach, making me feel lighter. Carefree. Giving me courage.
Lola’s lips are slightly open. Gloss glistening, reflecting the overhead lights. She swipes her tongue across the bottom lip, tilts her head. I place my right hand around her waist and pull her to me.
Our lips touch.
Her tongue enters my mouth, brushes mine.
The world around us continues on as normal.
Music plays. People give their orders to the baristas. Coffee machines whir, whip cream sprays from cans. Groups of friends chat and laugh at their tables.
But, I think, for Lola and me, our world pauses.
And our lives change.
Fifteen
We stay until the coffee shop closes, just talking. We’re the last people inside. The barista keeps giving us dirty looks as she sweeps the floor to the left of our table.
I want nothing more than to go home with Lola, but she doesn’t invite me and I’m not going to invite myself. I know, I know, it’s too early, but that kiss…Jesus, that kiss has taken me places I didn’t think I’d ever be able to go back to.
Sure, I’ve had sex in the five years since I’d seen the Mannequin Man, but it was always joyless, performed as a sense of duty, I guess, a way to take my mind off the horrors permanently scarring my brain.
With Lola, I know it’ll be something completely different than that. It’ll be the closest I’ve ever come to…gulp…“smaking love.”
We leave the coffee shop, much to the barista’s pleasure. As soon as we’re on the sidewalk, the lights inside the store go off. But I don’t care. Nothing can bring me down right now.
Lola walks me to my car, opens the door. We kiss again. It’s no less magical than the first time. She nibbles on my bottom lip, and I’m giggling.
“I want to see you again,” I blurt.
“When?”
“Always.”
Lola grins. “I wish. But I have to go to work in the morning.” She’s a graphic designer at a place in downtown Akron. I can’t remember the name. It has something with Environment in the title. She told me inside, but it’s hard to pay attention to the words that are coming out of her mouth when all I want to do is kiss her lips. “This weekend? Saturday. We can have an official first date.”
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