by Diana Wagman
“Hey,” she said into the phone. “What’s the matter?”
“Where have you been?” The words were tight and small, each one said with an exhalation of breath.
“At school.”
“You usually check your phone at lunch.”
“I… I was busy.”
“You don’t sound right.”
“Listen, I—”
“No!” He shouted into her ear. “Not now! Now is not the time!”
“What’s going on?” Lacy asked. “Are you okay?”
His voice held no attraction for her anymore. He was twenty-five. He probably had wrinkles and a scratchy man face like her father’s. Just that morning she had craved his phone calls. She trembled, her skin crawling like ripples on a horse’s flank.
“I have to go to orchestra,” she said.
“It’s three-thirty,” he said. “Time for you to be done.”
“You know I have orchestra.”
“I don’t care.” He was angry and she did not know why.
“What is going on?”
“Tell me again how much you hate your mother. Tell me again how badly she treats you. Tell me.”
But Lacy did not want to hate anybody anymore. “Oh, c’mon, you know? I guess she’s not so bad.”
“WHAT?”
A kid walking past heard him screaming through the phone. Lacy was mortified.
“I have to go,” she said. “I’ll send you an email.”
“I thought you hated your mother.”
He was panting—his breaths short and loud like the woman in the birth film in health class.
“Are you okay?” she asked.
“You lied to me.”
His words came out in little explosions. It gave Lacy the creeps.
“I have your mother.”
“What?”
“I took your mother today. I have her.”
“My mother?” It didn’t make sense. He took a picture of her? He knew her?
“I’m going to teach her a lesson. Teach her to take better care of you.”
“Wait. Oren. What? Where is she? What are you talking about?”
Lacy was frozen in the hallway. She was in school and some guy she had never even met had taken her mother. But taken her where? What did he mean? Lacy had to lean against the wall. Her legs were shaking. She heard him taking deep breaths, breathing in and exhaling slowly.
“I did it for you,” he said to her. He was almost whispering now. “I thought she was hurting you. I wanted to help you.”
“Where are you? Where is she?” Maybe they were sitting at a coffee place somewhere. Maybe he had her in his car right outside the school. Maybe he was so angry because he had seen her with Buster.
“I’m at home. She’s here with me. I called in sick. And now I’m not sure what to do. She’s so mad at me. And I really wanted her to like me. She needs to realize I have your best interests at heart. I am just trying to take care of you.”
“Mom is supposed to pick me up at school.”
“She won’t do that now.”
“Is she okay?”
I’m sorry I’m bothering you. Go to orchestra. We’ll talk afterwards. I can wait that long.”
“No, Oren, please.”
“Go on. Don’t worry. When you’re done, we can all talk about this together. I think you haven’t been exactly honest with me. Actually, I know you’re a lying bitch—you all are.” He sighed. “If you call the police, I’ll kill her.” And he hung up.
Lacy remained where she was, with her phone at her ear, her locker door open, her flute in the other hand.
26.
For an instant, as he listened to Lacy’s scared little voice, Oren had seen reality. He had kidnapped a woman, hurt her and almost sold her, all to impress a girl who had lied to him. A girl he had never met. A girl who was still in high school. Just as quickly that vision was gone. He was back to his purpose and his plan. Lacy loved him. If she had lied, it was because she wanted him to love her more. As if that were possible. His love for Lacy filled him, elevated him, prepared him to be the man he knew he could be.
Poor Lacy, he thought. He had frightened her and she would go to orchestra and worry. She would not perform well, and he was sorry about that. He had been angry with her, but now he realized this was another challenge he had to meet. He would talk to her, she would come clean about everything, they would start fresh and she would never lie to him again. And he was beginning to like Winnie. A little. She was so strange and moody, but she would be an okay mother-in-law one day. He knew now she was not as mean as Lacy said. He should have figured that out—Lacy couldn’t be so sweet after being abused for eighteen years. It was just like Cookie. Discipline done with positive reinforcement, affection, a good diet. That’s why Cookie was so gentle.
“Doesn’t your iguana claw you or snap at you?” Rick at Reptile Land had asked.
“Never,” Oren said. “We’ve worked that out. He understands it hurts me, so he doesn’t do it. I give him a treat when he’s careful. I stop playing with him when he’s not.”
“Do you smack him on the nose or anything?”
“Hitting an animal only makes it mean. Cookie is really socialized and friendly.”
“You are the Iguana Man,” Rick said. “Very impressive.”
He was. He read books and websites about iguanas and watched videos. He was the longest sitting president the Iguana Keepers Club had ever had. Usually people did their one year term and were happy to give it up. Not him. At the monthly meetings he spent a lot of time answering questions. He was also the go-to guy for a lot of iguana caregivers through the club’s website. His inbox was always filled with requests for advice and problem solving. Yes sir, he was the Iguana Man. He knew how to take care of someone. He had taken care of Winnie, she was resting in the back room, he had protected her from Kidney. And he would take care of Lacy. He was the Iguana Man, but even better, he was the love of Lacy’s life.
He needed to finish discussing the problem with Winnie and make her promise to treat Lacy better. She did not seem like the type to hit her daughter, or lock her in her room, or not feed her, but she had to be cruel in other, less obvious ways. Lacy had told him she was a monster.
Oren sighed. In the beginning, it had all seemed so simple, so straightforward. He never meant to hurt her, but Winnie talked too much and she was so clumsy. She was always stumbling and knocking her head. The blood on her stomach made him sick. The bump on her head and the bruises on her legs and the scratches on her arms. He hadn’t done any of that. She had done it to herself. She had. It wasn’t his fault. No. No. No.
He punched the wall and dented the drywall. “Fuck!” Another thing to fix. Blood on the rug. Cookie scratching. Oren dropped his head and swung it back and forth. It was all Lacy’s fault. It really was. Lacy had done this to him. Lacy had made him do everything. He did it for her. That bitch. That lying bitch. He was panting. His heart was a freight train in his chest. The sweat poured. He put his head between his knees, but the pounding was worse. He ran to the bathroom and splashed cold water on his face. Water would clean it up. Water. More water. In some grimy corner of his brain he knew he had hurt Winnie, that a lot of her clumsiness was because of him, but he shook that thought away. Cookie scratched and scratched and scratched at the swinging door. Uncle Nolan had made it quite clear that anything Oren damaged would have to be repaired. The door was beyond repair. It would have to be replaced when he moved out. If he moved out. He dried his face. He breathed into the soft terry cloth. He was not going anywhere. This was home for him and Cookie. He hung the towel neatly. He stuck his left ring finger in his mouth. It was his least favorite, but he chewed at the nail, catching the tiny bit that was left and tugging on it with his teeth. There was a little spark of pain in the cuticle and he tasted blood. He kept nibbling and gnawing. Think, he told himself. He had to go to work the next day. If he missed work again he could be fired—sick or not. Every muscle tensed. He chom
ped down hard and tears started.
Stop it, he told himself. Oren, get a hold of yourself. He took ten, he took twenty deep breaths. His heart slowed; he felt better. It would be fine. Now that Lacy knew Winnie was with him, she would want them all to sit down together. Oren pictured himself the mediator, helping Winnie and Lacy get along. How grateful they would be.
He went down the hall to Winnie’s door. He hoped she was sleeping. If she took a nap, maybe she would not be so cranky. He leaned his head against the door. It was quiet in there. He was such a fuck up. He had believed every word that stupid lying high school bitch had said. He closed his eyes. He was counting to ten. And ten again. And again.
Winnie had heard Oren shouting, but not what he was saying. She had no idea whether he was speaking to an accomplice or a friend. It didn’t matter. She thought she heard the word “mother” and knew he used it as a curse word.
Maybe she was a terrible mother. Maybe Oren was right. Before the divorce, she was over protective, she hovered, never let Lacy out of her sight. After the divorce, she had been distracted. Once she forgot to pick Lacy up from a birthday party, more than once she had forgotten some important item at the grocery store. On the other hand, Winnie went on all the field trips in elementary school. She and Lacy baked cookies for every holiday and sewed elaborate Halloween costumes. They slept in a tent in the living room so Lacy could get used to it before the school campout. They went to the movies and drew pictures together and searched for fairies in the grass. Things had changed, it was true. Lately, all they did was fight. When was the last time she and Lacy had sat down to dinner together? Lacy took a plate of food, usually something reheated in the microwave, into her room while Winnie ate a bowl of cereal and read the newspaper. It hurt to admit it, but she knew the only legacy she would pass on to Lacy was an old-fashioned recipe for applesauce cake and some laundry tips. Lacy’s freshest memories would be of sullen drives to school and slamming doors. Maybe Lacy would be better off with her father. At least she still felt close to Jonathan. Even though he only saw her on the weekends, he was a good dad. He called her and they really talked. He had left Winnie, but he was with Lacy every week no matter what. The only visits he missed were the three weeks he was on his honeymoon in Bora Bora.
Was there really a place called Bora Bora or was it just a euphemism for ecstatic sex?
“Oren?” she called. “Oren?” His phone call had finished. She knew he was right outside her door. She could feel him out there. She put her forehead against the door and spoke to him. She kept her voice soft, urging him to come closer.
“Maybe you’re right about me. Maybe I’m not a good mother, but I wanted to be. All I ever wanted was a family, a real family. I wanted a house and a dog and a child who colored at the kitchen table while I cooked. I wanted to be different than my mother. She ignored me, sent me to my grandmother, left me with the housekeeper whenever she met a new guy. She was like your mom: she needed a man. She was—still is—more interested in men, any man, than me.” She paused. “Oren? Are you listening? Are you there?” He didn’t answer, but she continued anyway. “I’m not any different than you. I’m not. Yes, okay, I’ve always had plenty of money—but there are so many kinds of hunger.”
She put her hand against the door. She imagined his palm was pressed against hers with only the wood between.
“If I’ve done something to make you angry, I’m sorry. If I’m not who you want me to be, well—I’m not who I want to be either.”
“Who is?” Oren whispered.
She was startled by his voice only an inch away. “You’re there.”
“I’m here.”
“What happened after your dad went to jail? What happened to you?”
Oren rolled his forehead back and forth against the door. It felt good. The rumble of the wood drowned out the throb in his brain. “I told you, I lived with Uncle Nolan.”
“Was that okay? Didn’t you miss your sister?”
“I guess. A little.” He had cried at night, trying to be silent huddled under the pillow and all the blankets. His uncle had opened the door once, looked at him and gone away again. “I had Cookie. He was with me and I was lucky, I stayed with the carnival,” he told Winnie. “Uncle Nolan was the boss and I didn’t have to work at the hot dog stand anymore. I took tickets at the Haunted House.”
“Uncle Nolan sounds nice.”
“He took me to my first reptile convention. They were advertising a two-headed snake. My uncle wanted to buy it and have it stuffed for his collection of oddities and deformities. It had never been in a circus or carnival, but he didn’t seem to care. He said, ‘Its very existence is a goddamn circus.’”
“That’s funny,” Winnie said. “Did he buy it?”
“It’s in there somewhere.”
Uncle Nolan had bought the two-headed snake when it was very much alive in its glass terrarium. It was not deformed but a perfect “Y,” a long single snake body that branched into two perfect heads. Were there two hearts? Two stomachs? Oren had asked the snake man.
“How the fuck would I know?” Then the snake owner smiled. There were bits of red jelly in his teeth, crumbs of pastry in a Hansel and Gretel trail down his T-shirt. “Interesting question, kid. You’re pretty smart, huh? You should be a herpetologist.”
“What’s that?”
“Someone who studies reptiles.”
“Cool.” Oren nodded.
The snake man punched Uncle Nolan in the arm. “Kid wants to be a herper. You should be proud.”
Oren had wandered up and down the aisles in the Anaheim Convention Center while his uncle haggled with the snake owner. At fourteen, Oren’s face had erupted with pimple clusters and he was constantly flushed and sweaty, as if the Southern California sun was blistering him from the inside. He was aware of himself, of every joint and freckle, even the follicles on his head, and he felt wrong, stretched, and twisted. Some half-awake mornings he did not recognize his own feet: red hair had sprouted on his toes.
But the reptiles were oblivious and the reptile lovers were so strange looking themselves. They were all either shaved, pierced, and tattooed, or overweight and unwashed. Oren felt invisible among them. He felt like one of them. No one knew how he had ruined everything. No one cared.
“You idiot!” Oren’s sister’s face was bright red and swollen the last time she spoke to him. “Why didn’t you stop him?”
“I couldn’t,” Oren began. “I… you know what he’s like.”
“You knew she was in there.”
“I couldn’t stop him,” he insisted, but the truth was something different. He wanted his mother to get caught; he wanted his father to catch her.
“And now he’s dead. They’re both dead.”
“He’ll be back.”
“He’ll die in jail.”
She balled up her fist and nailed him one in the cheek. He knew it was coming and he stood still to take it. The pain was good. His father told him it would make him strong and he was weak. He waited for her to hit him again. Turn the other cheek. “It’s not my fault,” Oren whispered. He tapped on the wooden door. “Winnie. Before, when I told you about my father. I could have stopped him. I knew what she was doing.” It felt so good to confess, he could not stop. “I saw her go in there with that boy. I knew my father would find her. I hated her. I hated him. I hate myself.”
“Oh no,” Winnie whispered. “It’s not your fault, Oren. You were a child. They are responsible.”
He had not told Marcus what he knew, what he had seen his mother doing. He had not mentioned it the first time or the second, or the twenty-second. Only finally, when his mother seemed to be doing it every night, only then had he told Fiona what he knew and she had threatened to poke his eyes out if he said anything to Dad.
“I should have stopped him.” His lips fluttered against the door.
“You couldn’t stop him. You said yourself, he was a frightening man.”
“I killed her. I killed her myself
.”
Winnie could not bear the pain this boy was feeling. He was troubled, he was sick, but it wasn’t his fault. He started tapping on the door, a fast stutter with one finger. He was getting agitated, she could tell. She didn’t want that.
“It’s not too late for you,” Winnie said. “You can prove them wrong. All those teachers, your sister, anyone. They can see you do something amazing and wonderful.”
“Selling carpet.”
“I’m sure you’re good at it. You can fall in love, get married, have children you take care of. You’re so young. Look at all you’ve done already. Look at Cookie. Cookie is healthy, thriving. Cookie is an amazing accomplishment.”
The tapping slowed, and finally stopped. His fingers were right on the other side of hers.
She continued. “You can go back to school. You can open a pet shop or a reptile store. You can do so many things. I know you and I know you’re capable of so many things.”
“Do you talk to your daughter this way?”
“Not enough.” And she knew it was true. “She’s a remarkable, brave, sweet young woman and I almost never say that to her.”
“You should.” He whispered to her, but she heard him as clearly as if he was shouting.
“You’re right, Oren. You’re right. I promise, I promise if you let me go, I’ll do better. I will. I’ll be a better mother. I’ll listen to her and I’ll think before I yell and I’ll tell her all the time how wonderful she is.”
Oren put his hands on his cheeks. “Really?”
“I promise.” Her voice was strong through the door.
“Oh, Winnie,” he said. “Oh, oh, oh.”
He grinned. He had done it. His plan had worked. His stomach lifted into his chest as if he was going down the big hill on the roller coaster. Was this joy? Was this true happiness? It felt so much like fear; he couldn’t breathe, his eyes were dry and wide, his hands were shaking. This must be it, he thought, he was happy.
