by Diana Wagman
“Like washing clothes?”
“Yes.” She was almost whispering. “I am good at laundry.”
“How can you be good at that?”
“My grandmother taught me. I do small loads,” she said. “I use less detergent than the box says. I take the clothes out of the washer right away, the instant it’s done spinning. Same with the dryer. A lot of things I only dry halfway, just to get the wrinkles out, then I hang them up for the rest. I have really big fat hangers so the shirts or even the sweaters don’t get lines or bumps in the shoulders. I don’t use those dryer things—you know, those little papery things you buy and throw in? No. Every fifth load I wipe out the dryer with a cloth and lavender oil. The odor is barely there, but good and clean. Lacy says she loves the way her clothes smell. All the kids at school tell her how good she smells.”
Oren smiled. He liked thinking about the way Lacy smelled. He knew from her picture she smelled good.
“Good,” Oren said to Winnie, “Always remember what you’re good at. It’s who you are.” Her face had relaxed and he was proud of himself. “What else?” he asked.
“I don’t mind cleaning the filter in the dryer. In fact, I like it. I know it’s supposed to be old skin and bacteria and germs and stuff, but cleaning that lint screen is so satisfying, like starting fresh with a clean slate.” She actually laughed. “And I am a champion folder. I fold clothes like nobody’s business. No one ever taught me, I just figured it out. I love the way clean clothes feel. I run my hands over a T-shirt right out of the dryer and the warm cotton is as soft and comforting as my own bed at night. I have a special table where I do the folding. I smooth out every wrinkle and I tuck in the sleeves just so. It’s a pleasure to open a drawer of properly folded clothing. To pull something out and put it on without worrying about it being wrinkled or stained. I am good at stains. I know all the tricks.”
He tugged self-consciously at his not so white undershirt. She noticed and shook her head.
“Look at me,” she said. “This tennis outfit wasn’t exactly spotless when I put it on this morning. I’ve been falling down on the job lately.” She paused. “The past few months it just hasn’t seemed to matter much.”
Winnie thought of the hamper at home full of dirty clothes. Things that should have been washed long ago. Lacy had been doing her own laundry for a while. Winnie took her work clothes to the cleaners. She washed a load of underwear when she needed it and threw it jumbled into her drawer. What was the matter with her? Dear God, she prayed, if I ever get home I will do the laundry perfectly again. I will never stop. But God would not save her for her laundry expertise. She wondered who would do those final loads for her after she was dead. Not Lacy, please, not Lacy. She wondered if the Salvation Army accepted dirty clothes, or if her laundry would just be thrown away. And what about the rest? At the back of her closet someone would find the shirt she had been wearing when she met Jonathan, out of date but preserved. They would wonder why the hell she had kept this shirt with this piece of paper pinned to it—a corner of the parking ticket she had gotten that day. The housekeeper would do Lacy’s laundry at her father’s house. Winnie hoped Lacy would miss the lavender. At a new school, on her father’s side of town, no one would ever know that she had smelled so good, of love and special care. At her new school she would smell of Tide or however everybody else smelled.
“What about you?” she asked. “What are you good at?”
He shook his head.
“I know you’re good at taking care of Cookie.”
He shrugged.
“What else? What are your dreams? Your goals? Maybe you could have a store for iguanas. Right? Or a zoo. There must be things you want.”
Suddenly she wanted so much it flooded her. It made her muscles tense and her hands strain against the ties. A sniff of Lacy’s vanilla scent. A morning to make coffee. A future.
“You’re so young,” she said. “Let’s stop this and start over. You can let me out here and I’ll shake your hand and we’ll call it a day. Oren? Let’s just start over.”
For a moment, his face cleared. He wanted it too. She could see it.
“We can do that,” she said, “We really—”
His cell phone rang.
“I better take this,” Oren said. “It’s probably work.”
He started to answer his phone, but then looked at her. “I can’t,” he said. “I can’t talk to anyone without you screaming.” He sighed. “This is hard. I didn’t think it would be like this.”
His phone stopped ringing. Whoever it was did not leave a message.
“Look,” he said. “We’re almost home.”
He was exiting the freeway. She bowed her head. They were almost there.
23.
Mary Krueger was annoyed. Oren had been rude to her on the phone—and worse than that, he was lying. He had some girl over there. Obviously. The second time she called he didn’t even answer. She didn’t believe his story. Ha. If he was sick at home, then she was a fairy princess. Then she smiled. She might be—she just might be a fairy trapped in human form. She patted the plastic fairy figurine hanging from her mirror. The tiny bell jingled. The glitter-covered wings sparkled in the sunlight. The rainbow ribbon was fading.
“Time for a new ribbon, Miss Twinkle.”
She zipped through a yellow light and around a corner. The tires of her little red car squealed. The white paper deli bag tipped toward her on the passenger seat.
“Shit!” She caught it just in time. Spill the soup and she would have no excuse for dropping by Oren’s. As if she needed an excuse. They had been out on actual dates twice. Slept together three times. Well, made love. They had not done any sleeping, but that was coming. Twice he had gotten up and dressed and crept away; Cookie needed him. Once had been in the afternoon at his house. She liked his house although it could really use a woman’s touch. Some pictures on the wall. A cactus in a pot. Some pink quartz crystals in a glass bowl on the coffee table to attract love and harmony. A blue glass mobile outside near the front door to ward off negative energy. She could do a lot with that place.
But first she had to nip this other woman in the bud. He was home with another woman and that was definitely not okay.
She bounced the fairy on her palm three times. Jingle, jingle, jingle.
“Three miracles a day,” she chanted. “Three miracles a day. Thank you, Miss Twinkle.”
The first miracle was that her favorite pink blouse was not too dirty this morning. She had worn it once before and hung it up. Sometimes when she pulled things out of her closet, they were dirtier than she remembered, but her pink blouse had been almost perfect. A small spot from something she had eaten, but the ruffle mostly hid it.
The second miracle had been the boss taking the afternoon off. That meant she could leave and take an extra long lunch, maybe not come back at all. Things were slow at Carpet Barn. People were holding on to their old floor coverings. Didn’t they know that something fresh and clean would brighten their entire lives? “And relatively inexpensively.” She said that out loud. It sounded so official and correct.
Jingle, jingle, jingle. “Three miracles a day.”
At the next light, she checked her face in the rearview mirror. Eye shadow, check. Mascara, check. Eyebrows, check. Mary had to paint her eyebrows on. She was practically hairless. The khaki colored hair on her head was wispy and fine. She looked bald after a shower. She had no hair on her arms to speak of and only needed to shave her legs every couple of weeks in the summer time. Her bush—more like a couple of twigs—was a source of great consternation to her. She envied those women who could shave their boyfriend’s initials in their pubic hair. She would never manage even a lower case “o”. But fashions had changed and now she shaved what little she had as if she wanted it that way. At least she had her “D-lightful, D-licious double D’s” even if the bra straps cut into her shoulders and her back ached if she had to walk more than a couple of blocks. She sighed. Then she shook h
er head.
“Every day, in every way, I am better and better, happier and happier. Right, Miss Twinkle?”
But damnit, she was on the wrong street. They were all alike. It was right down here, wasn’t it? She remembered the front door, solid wood with no window in it. Like the top of a coffin, Oren had said. And the garage door—just like every other.
“C’mon. Where is it?”
She should have looked up his address before she left the office. The personnel files were right behind her desk. She should have remembered from last time, but then she had been in the pre-sex haze, worrying too much about her breath, her deodorant, and when to tell him she loved him.
Was there a tree out front? He had pulled them into the garage. Maybe she would see his sexy black car. He kept it so clean; she had seen him wince at how dirty her car was. She stopped at a stop sign. A jogger with a long California blonde ponytail crossed in front of her. She wore tight yellow leggings with “juicy” written across her butt. Mary’s plump hands squeezed the wheel. The soup smelled good. She was hungry. She had waited and waited for Pete to leave so she could duck out unnoticed. She had not ordered anything for herself. Maybe she would just go back to the office and eat the soup at her desk. If Oren really had a woman there, she would be the last person he’d want to see. She could really blow it if she showed up.
“I am likeable and capable and Miss Twinkle knows it. I know it. Oren likes me and I am just bringing him some soup.”
Her stomach rumbled and whined. When this was all over she would reward herself with a package of her favorite cookies. Her fuzzy sweatpants and her old sweatshirt, her couch and the TV beckoned her. She had that to look forward to.
“I am likeable and capable. Better and better, happier and happier.”
She still had one miracle left. She did not want to waste it on finding his house. She would just systematically drive up and down every street in the neighborhood until she recognized it. It might take a while, but she would find it. She hoped he had a microwave for the soup.
24.
The garage door closed behind them.
Winnie did not want to be here. While she was out in the world, rescue had seemed possible, freedom only one thin car door away. She should have done more; she should have leapt from the car, grabbed the steering wheel and pulled them into a tree or a truck. And the gun wasn’t even real. It was plastic.
Oren was a puzzle. He wanted something, not money and not sex, not torture with a tool box or dismemberment. Something else. She wasn’t sure why, but he had chosen her—some article he had read or something he had seen somewhere online from long ago when she was with Jonathan.
He turned the car off. She glanced at the switch for the garage door.
He exhaled. “I’m so tired.” And rubbed his eyes.
“Don’t make me go back in there,” she said. “Tell me whatever you need to say right here. I’ll listen. I’ll be quiet. It’s too hot inside.”
He dropped his hands and turned to her. “Really?”
“We can talk right here.” She held out her hands for him to cut the rope. “I’ll listen to every word.”
He cut her free and put the knife back in his pocket. He seemed honestly pleased. “Great. This is great.”
He relaxed back in his seat. She opened her door and leapt out of the car. Her feet were free. She could run. She hit the switch on the wall and the door began to open. She ran to it, fell to her knees and began to crawl out underneath. He grabbed her legs. She kicked herself loose. She wiggled away, got to her feet and started to run. She was out in the driveway when he grabbed her. She fought him. She screamed. Where was everybody? Not a door opened, not a single curtain moved. People had to be in these houses, a woman watching her afternoon talk shows, a man painting a bird house. Normal, suburban people.
“Help!” she shouted. “Help me!”
She kept screaming as Oren dragged her back to the garage. He pushed her against the wall and hit the switch with one hand. Someone must have heard her. Someone was calling the police right now.
She couldn’t help it, she grinned. “Somebody heard me. I know it!”
Oren’s face went that awful empty again. She watched it happen like a TV going black and silent in the middle of a program. His eyes filled with tears.
He reached out his hands. He’s a child, she thought, he wants a hug. He realizes the game is over. She stepped forward, opened her arms, but he circled her neck with his hands. His hands were cool and for one brief second refreshing. She almost said thank you and then he began to squeeze. Tight. Tighter. As he squeezed he danced and jittered. She was pulled to her tiptoes—and then she could not breathe. She struggled. She clutched his hands and tried to pry them away. She needed air. Air! Her head would implode without air. She tried to catch his eye, to make him see it was her, but he kept his face to one side as if to listen to her die.
And then, abruptly, he let her go. She collapsed, gasping, clutching at her neck, mouth open wide, gulping air.
He took her arms and yanked her to her feet.
“Come with me.”
“Oren, please,” her voice like a rusty hinge.
She tried to pull her arm from his grasp. He took the knife from his pocket and cut her forearm. Calmly, without a word, he left a two-inch stripe of red. Winnie froze. She stared at the blood bubbling up into a stinging mountain range, then up into his face. His eyes were small and dead, his face slack, but his body rigid. He took her upper arm and pulled her up the steps, into the hot, terribly hot house.
“Please!” She couldn’t help it. Back in the oven, this time she would fry.
He flicked the knife and gave her another tiny cut. She started to exclaim, but stopped herself. Cookie was scratching. Oren led Winnie away from the kitchen, down the hallway. He stopped in front of the only closed door, the last room in the house. He opened it and pushed her inside. She stumbled against a pile of cardboard boxes. The room was full of stuff, old fashioned footlockers and decorated trunks, bolts of fabric rolled and stacked in the corner. But what Winnie noticed first were the bars on the two corner windows.
She turned to Oren, afraid to speak, but pleading just the same. He came toward her with the knife. She retreated, backed up against a stack of boxes and could go no further. She turned her face away and gritted her teeth, ready for pain and blood, but he gave her a push and she tripped and grabbed a box to keep from falling. On the top of the box there were two big jars filled with amber liquid. She looked closer and saw eyes, arms, too many tiny feet. Pickled Siamese twins, their tiny faces turned to her, eyes open and sadly staring. She quickly looked at the other jar: a single baby with four legs and a tiny head protruding from its stomach. She spun. The rest of the room was just as bad. More jars and containers. A poster leaning up against the wall advertised “O’Keith’s Carnival of Wonders” and “Lobster Boy and the Two-Headed Cow” with a drawing of a skinny boy draping a lobster claw arm around the cow’s two necks. A collection of sideshow oddities.
She turned to him. Blood spilled off her arm onto the carpet. She saw him look at her cuts and frown. “Don’t leave me in here.”
“Don’t touch anything,” he went on. “It’s my uncle’s collection. It’s very valuable.”
“It’s scary in here. Please, Oren?”
“I have things to do.”
He left and locked her in. Locked. The door locked from the outside. The windows had bars. It was as if he was expecting a captive. Her. He had been expecting her.
“Oren,” she called. “Please. I’ll be good. I won’t go anywhere. Let me out of here. Come on. I’m sorry.”
She did not know if he was right outside or if he had walked away. Her hands were shaking. The vertebrae in her neck ached. She kicked the door once, but then she stopped. She did not want him to come back and cut her. She climbed over boxes to the windows. The small diamond shaped panes had been so popular once. There was no way to open the sliding panels, they were nailed shut
and the bars outside were permanent. She looked at the boxes. Maybe one of them would have a weapon or something she could use, a souvenir baseball bat, or an ornamental sword. She moved a stack of folded canvas off a narrow leather case and opened it. She gasped. Inside was a withered leg and foot, the skin like jerky over the bones, the toenails long and yellow, cushioned on faded purple velvet. A handwritten card read, “The leg of Prince Orloff.” She hoped she would never meet Uncle Nolan. Or maybe he was coming later, with his bag of tools, to add her to his freak show. Stop it, she told herself again. Please stop it.
Some of the boxes were too large and heavy to move. She crouched down behind a stack, thinking she could hide behind it and when he came in she could jump him, stick her fingers in his eyes, kick him again and again in the balls. She could do that, she knew how.
After Jonathan left her, Winnie had enrolled in a self-defense class. She needed to take care of herself and little Lacy. She needed the confidence. Plus punching and pounding and yelling and kicking sounded so good. It was a morning class of five women and one younger man, taught by Master Yamada, an older Japanese man with many degrees of black belt in karate. They listened carefully as he described in his thick accent the wounds and destruction they were inflicting on their invisible enemies.
“Two fingers out. Dig in eyes. Pull down and leave him blind.”
Winnie had been going for seven months when she had a question. “Master Yamada?”
“Yes, Mrs. Parker?”
“What if my attacker has a gun?”
The others looked at her. No one had ever asked about guns.
“What if he shoots at us? What do we do?”
Master Yamada nodded sagely. “Spread legs,” he instructed.
Winnie did as she was told.
“Bend over. More. Farther.”
She bent over as far as she could.
“Now. Kiss your ass goodbye.”
He laughed so hard his nose whistled. The rest of the class laughed with him. Winnie tried to laugh too, but instead she saw how stupid the class really was. Seventy-five dollars a month—for nothing. She made the motions and got through the rest of class, but she knew she would never be back.
