by Diana Wagman
Two steps down the hallway she stopped again.
He exhaled, exasperated. “What now?”
“What’s your name?”
“Why?”
Winnie was sure it was a good thing to exchange names with a kidnapper. She had read it somewhere. He had to see her as a person then. “My name’s Winnie,” she said. “Short for Winifred. Isn’t that awful? What’s yours?”
“Bob.”
“Really?”
“No. It’s Rob.”
“Are you Irish?”
“Bingo. My name is Patrick.”
“Do they call you Pat? Or Rick?”
“Right. Do I sound Irish?”
“So what is it?”
“Bill. Jim. No, John.”
“Why don’t you want me to know?” Winnie was exasperated.
“Call me whatever the fuck you want.”
“How about Shithead?”
His eyes widened, then he frowned. “You will learn to appreciate me.”
Winnie’s stomach churned. Would she be here that long? He jerked her down the hallway.
“Can I use the bathroom?”
“Now?”
“I have to use the bathroom. Whenever I get nervous.”
He looked surprised. He had obviously not thought of this eventuality. Winnie gave him a shy little smile.
“I’m so embarrassed. I’m going to—you know—I had a big breakfast,” she lied, “and lots of coffee. It’ll be awful. Actually, I feel kind of sick.”
He didn’t like mess, and she worried she had made herself sound so disgusting he would kill her just so she wouldn’t use his bathroom. He grimaced, but he backed her up and opened the first door. The bathroom was as clean as the rest of the house. One threadbare towel was folded neatly over the rack. His toiletries were put away out of sight. And there was a small frosted glass window behind the toilet.
“Thank you.” She smiled gratefully. “Thank you for being so understanding.”
“For a shithead, right?”
He stepped back against the wall. “I’ll be waiting, if you need anything.”
“You might want to check on Cookie.” She pretended to duck her face and blush. “This could take a while.” She rubbed her stomach and tried to look queasy.
The image of her distressed bodily functions had the desired effect. He fled down the hallway back to Cookie.
Winnie went into the bathroom, closed the door and discovered she could even lock it. It was not much of a lock, but it would deter him. She could be out the window and running across the backyard before he broke the door open. For the first time, she felt a twinge of hope. She would get out of this. She gave a couple of groans for his benefit as she unlocked the window. The cheap pre-fab metal frame was tight and hard to move. She reached across the toilet and lifted, but it was the wrong angle. Finally, she stood on the toilet seat, bent her knees and pushed with all her strength. The window lifted slowly, but silently. She flushed the toilet and turned on the faucet all the way. She climbed up onto the toilet seat and punched the screen with both hands. It popped the track and flew into the grass six feet way.
Winnie hoped he was too busy with his lizard to look out the kitchen window and notice a flying screen. The window was small; she would have to go out headfirst. She pulled herself up onto her stomach on the ledge. The metal was sharp and dug into her stomach, but the air was cool and fresh. She wiggled forward. She braced herself with her hands against the stucco wall. She would fall on her face in the scratchy cactus beneath the window, but she would be free.
The door broke open. He grabbed her legs. She screamed. He dragged her back into the bathroom. The window frame gouged and scraped her stomach. He fell backwards and her chin hit the toilet as she fell on top of him.
“Fucking bitch!”
Her jaw throbbed. She scrambled to her feet and saw streaks of blood soaking through her shirt. He had his knife out. He swiped at her.
“I hate you!” he cried.
“I hate you too!” she screamed back.
She pulled the roll of toilet paper from its holder and threw it in his face. She kicked him, connecting with his shin, his knee, whatever was there. He yelled and lunged at her with his knife. She jumped out of the way and tripped over the edge of the bathtub and fell. She grabbed the shower curtain to stop her descent and pulled it down with her. Her head hit the porcelain hard and for one instant she knew she was going. Then she was gone.
5.
Storm clouds filled his head. Rain collected under his eyelids. He had the flat, small features of a Midwestern farm boy, and he could feel them swelling, growing heavy with the coming thunder.
“Why me?” he thought. His refrain throughout his life. “Why me?”
Her fucking husband game show host. Her stupid famous mother. Her easy easy life. The people who had it all never appreciated it. This was going to be harder than he thought. He had planned everything, but he had not expected her to fight. He looked down at her passed out. She was half in the bathtub and half out. He gnawed at his fingernail. He sucked and pulled at the tiny crescent, finally ripping it off. His cuticle bled, his finger pulsed. He started on the next nail—what was left of it. He was going to stop this habit. He was. He tucked his fingers into a fist and slammed it into his thigh.
He forced himself to grab her and pick her up, slick with sweat, smelly and half-dressed, but she weighed less than a rolled up 5 x 7 rug. He carried her into the back bedroom he had prepared and put her on the single bed. He got the rope and tied her down. He was prepared to do it, but he had not believed he would have to. She would not listen to him and then she fell in the bathroom. It was not his fault. He shifted her to tie the rope and her head flopped to one side and made her neck all wrinkled and pulled. The skin was almost purple under her eyes. Her mouth hung open and her teeth were not very white. Be done with her, he told himself. Three Rorschach tests of blood striped her shirt. There was a dark bruise on her chin. He knew she had bumped her head hard. Now would be the time to load her into the backseat, take her somewhere and dump her and forget the whole thing. But she had seen him; she would know him and he could not have that. He would have to make this work, or he would have to kill her.
He hoped she appreciated the bed and the clean sheets. He could have left her lying in the bathtub. That was what anyone else would have done. He stared down at her. She looked dead. It would be better if she were. If she were dead already, no one could say it was his fault. She fell in the bathroom. And if she were dead, she would never recognize him. Then she moaned. Damn it.
Why me, he thought again. It was a song in his head. Why me? Why did she do this to me?
His cell phone vibrated. He recognized the number. It was Jamie from work. He ran out into the hall and shut the door.
“This is Oren,” he answered softly.
“Where are you?”
“I’m sick.”
“You better call in or you’re gonna get fired. Pete was screaming for you.”
It was so damn nice of Jamie to call. Jamie was cool, everybody liked Jamie, and Jamie had called him. Tears came suddenly. Oren brushed them away with his bleeding finger. The saltwater stung his open cut and he gritted his teeth. “I will. Okay? I will.”
“Jesus, man, I’m just trying to help.”
“Sorry, sorry. I just—I feel like shit.”
“Yeah. Well.”
“I’ll call right now.”
“Yeah. Good. So.” Jamie paused. “Like, feel better.”
“Thanks. Thanks so much.”
Oren gulped down a sob. He hoped Jamie had not heard it as he hung up. He dialed the boss.
“Pete? It’s Oren. I’m sick, really sick.”
“Huh. What do you have?”
Oren could hear the doubt, thick and slimy as mayonnaise. He closed his eyes. He saw Pete standing behind his desk in his office. His good ol’ boy gut hung over his pants. His buttons strained, threatened to erupt every time he took a d
eep breath. His hand made a damp spot on the phone.
“I guess I’ve got food poisoning. Something I ate.” It wasn’t hard to sound weak. “Or the stomach flu. I hope I’m back tomorrow.”
“Maybe you got some kind of jungle rot from that lizard—‘scuse me—iguana.”
They all liked to give him shit about Cookie. He was used to it.
Pete sighed and continued, “Just call me later and let me know about tomorrow. We’re busy. We need you.”
“Okay.”
“My mom always gave me Coca-Cola and saltines for an upset stomach. Try it.”
“Okay.”
“Take care of yourself. Feel better.”
“Thanks. Bye.”
Oren put his fists in his eyes to block the tears. Pete wanted him back at work, that was all, he wasn’t being nice. Jamie was just overworked and needed him to help out. No goddamn crying. No crying. He looked at his watch. 10:18. He had to make the first phone call at 3:45. There was a lot to do between now and then and he had no idea how long it took to wake up from a thump on the head. He looked back into the room. She was tied up tight, not going anywhere.
He pushed open the kitchen door. Cookie looked at him—accusingly he thought.
“Stop it. This’ll be good for both of us.”
He sat down on the floor. Cookie’s nails scraped the linoleum as he turned away from Oren. Like a child sulking.
“Don’t worry,” Oren said. “It’ll work out. It will.”
Cookie bumped his snout into the cabinet. Again. And again.
“Aw, don’t do that. Don’t. Cookie.”
Cookie lifted his head to look at the ceiling. His nose was bleeding. Oren knew he was going into mating season; his beautiful green skin had turned a dark burnt orange. He was more aggressive and antsy. His legs pumped. He bobbed his head up and down. His tongue flicked out and in, looking for love. Oren was waiting for the call from his supplier, he’d picked out a sweet little lady iguana to keep Cookie company.
“Come here.”
The iguana backed up one step toward Oren. His tail swished back and forth against the floor. Oren chewed on what was left of his nail and cuticle. He ran his other hand down the spiked ridge on Cookie’s tail. Cookie stood tall, puffed out his chest, let his beautiful Asian fan of a dewlap swell. Cookie was anxious.
“Me too.”
Oren was proud to call Cookie his best friend. It was obvious Cookie loved him. He woke up when Oren got home and scrambled to the door. He knew his name, and Oren could swear Cookie knew the difference between cabbage and kale, carrots and zucchini, just by the word. Do you want carrots? Oren would ask, or zuchs? And Cookie would bob his head up and down for whichever one he preferred. And he was sweet and gentle, even though he was the biggest iguana anybody had seen. Oren took him once to the Iguana Keepers Club meeting. Even the seasoned lizard lovers had stayed back and then watched in awe as Oren let Cookie climb all over him. No wonder everyone called him the Iguana Man.
“Come here,” he said again.
Cookie dropped his head, but did not turn, so Oren crawled over to him. He stroked the sides his head and scratched the scales under his chin. Cookie nuzzled into his hand. The scales weren’t rough or dry, but smooth like a waxed floor. Cookie relaxed, bent his knees and sunk lower to the floor.
“That’s it. That’s what you like, isn’t it?”
Oren stretched out beside his friend and continued petting and rubbing, massaging the muscles underneath the slick hide. He breathed deeply the reptile odor, dry and tangy like the kale that was Cookie’s favorite food. He was not a fuck-up. His mother was dead and his dad had taken off, he had lost track of his older sister, but he had a house and a car and a job and Cookie. He had a woman he loved. And he had made a plan and achieved it, at least the first step. Damn it, he had done it. Now for step number two.
“That’s enough.”
He stood. He got a glass and filled it with water. He opened a cupboard and found the aspirin bottle. He carried both out of the kitchen and down the hallway to her room.
He pushed open her door. She had not moved. He set the glass and pills on a box he had arranged beside the bed as a little table. Would she notice the bedside table? The blanket he had hung as a curtain over the window? She should. The bitch should notice all the good he had done for her, the care he was taking. He had tied her to the bed frame with a thick, nylon rope around her ankles. He was good at knots and he felt proud again at the good job he had done, tight but not cutting off her circulation and fastening it beneath the bed where she could not possibly reach it. He had bought the rope especially for this, and paid for the more expensive nylon so the fibers wouldn’t scratch her. The skin on her legs had been prickly, in need of a shave. He was surprised she was so uncared for. Her skirt was tucked up under her, exposing her thighs and her strange underwear with the pockets. Nothing seemed very clean. Her shirt was covered in blood, but at least it was dry. He did not think she had bled on the sheets. He had not expected her to try to escape. She was not supposed to be such a fighter. He had been led to believe she was a Beverly Hills pampered type who would surrender right away. This was not his fault. Really not his fault.
He had a blanket in the closet. He shook it out. He covered her completely, but then she looked dead and that was more terrifying than her slack sweaty face. As if the single mattress had become a burial plot; at any moment her hand would shoot up through the ground and grab his wrist. He bumped the bed as he backed away from it. She moaned and moved a little, the blanket trembling over her. It was just a blanket. She was still alive. He folded the blanket off her face gingerly, unwilling to touch her. He left the room and shut the door.
He paced in the hallway. He could smell her sweat on his hands, metallic and thick with blood. Women were so bloody. She smelled like the trashcan did in the bathroom at home every month.
He decided to search head injuries and fainting online. Then he had to check in with the chat room. It was 10:30 in the morning. He had been away from his computer for too long. Three hours without putting a word into cyberspace was definitely not normal for him. His reptile buddies would be wondering where he was. He was waiting to hear about a female with a clutch of eggs that was possibly available. Plus, he needed to see his girlfriend’s picture again. He needed to revel again in what she looked like. She could always calm him down. She made this all worthwhile.
He hurried to his bedroom and got his laptop. He carried it back to the floor outside her door. If she woke, if she even moved, he would hear her. He opened his computer and smiled at the picture of the most beautiful woman in the world. The woman he loved. He had downloaded her photo as his screen-saver.
“Hey babe,” he hummed. “See you soon.”
Before he went to the reptile forums, he searched head injuries. He clicked on the first website that came up. Fracture. Paralysis. Trouble breathing. His heart was shrinking in his chest. “If the victim is unconscious, do not move them in case of severe neck or spine injury. Immediately call 911.” Too late, he thought. Too late. He should never have let her go to the bathroom. He should have made her shit her pants. He slammed his fist into his thigh. He punched himself in the face. He was an idiot, stupid, a buttwipe!
“Gimme a hot dog, buttwipe.”
It was raining. The canvas roof of the hot dog stand billowed in the wind collecting the water and then releasing it. The intermittent stream drenched ten-year-old Oren’s left shoulder as he fished in the cooker. He had forgotten his jacket. His T-shirt was already half soaked. He handed over the hot dog and bun on a flimsy red and white paper tray. The meat had been rolling in the hot water since three o’clock that afternoon. The skin was blistered and glistening with fat.
“That’ll be two seventy-five,” he said, but the teenager just laughed.
“In the fucking rain? Are you kidding?”
“Two seventy-five,” Oren said again, his young voice getting softer. “Please?” His dad would kill him if he
gave anything away for free.
“Fuck you,” the boy said. He was long and skinny with a mountain range of white-capped pimples across his forehead. He took a big bite and stuck out his food-covered tongue at Oren as his friends walked up.
“Hey,” he said to them, “This kid is giving away free hot dogs.”
“No,” Oren declared. “No, I’m not.”
The teenagers swarmed the booth, like monkeys, climbing on the wheels, swinging from the corner struts. One of them opened the door and came inside. Oren waved his hot dog fork.
“Are you trying to poke me?” The boy was indignant. “Me? The customer?”
“Get away!” Oren wailed.
“Hot dogs!” the boy cried. He grabbed the fork from Oren and began spearing dogs and tossing them to the others. Some of them landed in the wet dirt. The boys laughed.
“Stop it,” Oren tried. He wondered where all the carnies had gone. The midway was empty. The cotton candy girl had gone back to her trailer an hour ago. The Tilt-A-Whirl was closed. Even the Haunted House was shuttered for the night, but Oren couldn’t leave until his father said so. He tried to push the boy who was throwing the hot dogs. The boy just snickered, high and mean, his derision as sharp as a stick.
“Oren!”
His father was coming. Marcus strode through the rain, his boots kicking up the mud. He wasn’t tall, but he was pumped, more pit bull than man. The boys scattered. Oren slid out of the stand and began frantically picking up the hot dogs.
“Oren!”
“I’m sorry, daddy,” he said. He stood up to face him. “I couldn’t stop—”
Before he could finish his father’s hand swung and knocked him down into the mud. Oren scrambled to his feet and his father belted him again. He stumbled, but he did not fall. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m sorry.”
“Pick up those dogs and wash ‘em off good. That’s your breakfast, lunch, and dinner for tomorrow.”
“I tried to stop them. It’s not my fault.”
Marcus lifted his hand. “Do you want another one?”
Oren bent to get the dirty hot dogs. His father spread his legs, disgust washing his face, dripping with the rain on his broad shoulders, his muscular arms, those dangerous hands. Oren recognized his own freckled skin, the burnish of red hair in the dim light. He didn’t want to share anything with his father.
