Bottom Feeder

by Matt Cole

  In Marsden’s case the garage was a ramshackle building with a definite starboard list, a fragile-looking structure that had almost nearly been destroyed by the fire and still displayed badly damaged and weathered board topped with a row of barbed wire to keep looters, busy bodies, and trespassers from climbing over from the alley that ran beside the house. After Marsden had rebuilt the house, he purposely did not attach the old garage to it. It was his and not for rent.

  He had also lined the inside of the creaky floors with metal after a group of neighborhood punks fired several bottle rockets and other fireworks at the building the previous summer. Had that been the first attempt to burn down his house? One of the fireworks had damaged a classic Mustang that Marsden had been intending to rebuild. He had vowed it would never happen again.

  As he led Rosemary toward the house, anxious to get out of the rising wind, Marsden pulled a ring from his pocket and twirled it until he came to a stumpy piece of metal with an unevenly serrated edge. Rosemary eyed it curiously.

  “What the fuck is that?” she asked.

  “A key,” he grunted.

  “Well, why does it look like that? I ain’t never seen no key like that before.”

  “Because I made it,” Marsden said. “You see the front half stays in the lock permanently; I put the regular key halfway in then I sawed it off.”

  “What the fuck for?” she inquired.

  “So nobody can get in. Only my key will work,” he replied, swinging open the door and stepping down the stairs into the basement, then making sure he was in front of his guest. The walls of the basement were covered with all different coins of various origins and denominations which had been glued meticulously into place.

  “What’s up with the coins?”

  “Just goes back to all those who said I had no sense.”

  It was a bad joke and she did not laugh. He shrugged and urged her in.

  “C’mon, this way,” he said, leading her further into the basement’s confines.

  On one wall, under a heavily obscured and barred window, was a battered green couch, stained and swaybacked. Opposite the couch was a stand holding a stereo CD player and a clock, a TV and a DVD player. Next to the stand was a cabinet jammed with dozens of videotapes and DVDs, each with a handwritten label.

  “What? You want to watch something?” he asked.

  Rosemary glanced at the titles; she could see that they all appeared to be either pornos or horror movies. Disinterested, she made a show of looking at her watch.

  “We gonna get down to business?” she asked. “I’ve got more fish to fry, if you know what I mean.”

  Catching the quick flash of anger that jumped across Marsden’s face, she hastily added, “I have two kids at home, and my babysitter ain’t cheap.”

  It was a lie, but Marsden already knew this. He thoroughly checked out his victims before bringing them to his lair. But it was obvious to him that this one was beginning to feel uncomfortable, and all she wanted was to do her job, sucking and fucking, and get the hell out of there. He couldn’t blame her, if the roles had been reversed, and he had to be making a beeline for the door.

  “All right.” Marsden shrugged, acting the part of the un-offended john. Turning his heel, he led the way to the southwest corner of the basement. Rosemary or as she was pretending to be, Rachel, did a double take. The wall there, instead of being covered in coins, had been partially covered with what appeared to be strips of skin.

  “In there,” he ordered, opening the door into a room containing a waterbed, a dresser, and two chairs.

  “Where’s the money,” she asked. “I mean for all the time you have been wasting I should get double.”

  He dug into his pants pocket and extracted two twenties, which he handed to her. Without another word, he peeled off his clothes and jumped into bed.

  Rosemary put the bill on the top of the dresser, slipped out of her shirt and jeans, and climbed in with Marsden.

  * * * *

  The sex was active but emotionless, and after Marsden stood and walked across the room toward his pile of clothes, Rosemary got up, too, and reached for her shirt. She had it on and was about to step into her jeans when she felt a pair of strong hands clamp securely around her throat. Twisting, she looked up into Marsden’s eyes, which seemed lifeless now. Without expression, he tightened his grip, slowly squeezing her life away. Just before she passed out, she squeaked surrender.

  “Enough,” she croaked. “I’ll do anything you want, just don’t hurt me.”

  When Marsden relaxed his pressure, she sagged to the floor. As she fell, she realized he had slipped a handcuff onto her left wrist.

  “Stand up and do as you are told,” Marsden began. “Understand? Put your hands behind your back,” he ordered.

  When she complied, he slipped the twin cuff on her other wrist. Dragging her over to the dresser, he scooped up the bills he had given her earlier and returned them to his pocket. Then he pushed her out the door, down another flight of stairs, and through a room. He opened another door and she saw yet another set of stairs, these narrower than the first and unprotected by a banister. Pushing her again, he forced her down into a cold, damp, poorly lit room that smelled strongly of mildew, dirt, and dust. The chill air reminded Rosemary that she was wearing nothing but a shirt. As her feet hit the icy concrete floor, she jumped in surprise. Then she started to shiver.

  “Over there,” he said, maneuvering her toward a lumpy, stained, bare mattress pushed into one corner of the small room.

  “I can’t see out of my left eye,” she complained.

  “Shut your fucking mouth!” he snapped at her.

  “My vision is blurred,” she insisted.

  He grabbed a piece of lumber that was lying among bits of debris on the dirty floor. “If you don’t shut your fucking mouth, I’ll hit you with this.”

  She shut up.

  Walking across the floor, Marsden picked up a small cardboard box and extracted from it a metal rod that had been bent in the middle to form a skinny U. Looking closely, Rosemary saw that each end of the rod was threaded. Actually, the device was a commercially-made product called a muffler clamp. Mechanics attach them to the underside of cars to cradle and support a vehicle’s exhaust pipe.

  Marsden ran one end of the clamp through a heavy chain, which he pulled from another box, and then forced the clamp over Rosemary’s ankle. A small metal bar fit between the two prongs to seal off the open end of the U. He dug in the box again and came up with two nuts, which he screwed onto the threads after first wetting them down with super glue. From out of nowhere, it seemed, he pulled a hair dryer and aimed it at the glue to make it dry faster. Then he repeated the procedure with the second clamp.

  While Rosemary stood frozen with fear, Marsden flipped the loose end of the chain over a five-inch-thick pipe that came out of the ceiling and ran across the room into the opposite wall.

  Standing back to survey his work, Marsden nodded in satisfaction. “Sit down,” he told her, pointing to the mattress.

  “How long are you going to keep me here?”

  “Until I get what I want,” he replied coolly.

  “What do you want?” she demanded.

  “In time,” he said. “You have nothing but time.”

  * * * *

  Willard and Maggie cleaned the table, and Deena trailed them into the kitchen. The Italian carriage clock out on the hall table bonged eleven. Deena started to pour more coffee for her guests.

  “Deena, please, if we have more coffee now we’ll never get to sleep,” Maggie said, surprisingly loud.

  Deena looked abased, then the door bell rang.

  “Arlene!” She slammed the pot of coffee down and raced out, the pot teetered, and Willard grabbed it, burning himself. “God-damned thing!” He yanked a handkerchief out of his pocket and wound it around his hand. Maggie jumped up. “I’ll get something for that hand.”

  Spilled coffee soaked into Deena’s good washcloth. Willard said,
“Better get something before the stain sets in that too,” and he got up. They must have looked like jack-in-the-boxes, he thought.

  Maggie was at the sink when she heard Deena’s voice in the hall…then Arlene’s. She wanted to rush out there being the busy body that she was, but made herself open the refrigerator and look for the club soda. She didn’t see any and wet a dish towel with cold water.

  Last time Steve fell off the wagon he’d given Arlene a near concussion and the doctor over at Strafford Regional wanted to call the cops, but Arlene wouldn’t let him. Time before that, Steve broke one of her teeth, then assaulted her in the bedroom. Isn’t that rape, Maggie wondered, married or not?

  “I know what everyone’s going to say,” Arlene said. “But he’s my husband; what am I supposed to do?”

  Then Deena and Arlene appeared, with Deena a blotchy red, and Arlene sporting the over-sized aviator-style sunglasses at eleven o’clock at night.

  Willard made a strangled noise; Maggie sank down hard onto the stool so it squeaked slightly under her, then she groaned.

  “Holy Christ!”

  “Yes, if it wasn’t for my Lord and savior I’d believe my marriage may be lost,” Arlene said softly, and took off the glasses.

  She didn’t whip them off—there was nothing remotely dramatic about the gesture. She simply removed them because they were large and heavy and she’d be more comfortable without them.

  They knew what they’d see, but Maggie gasped anyway, and Willard just looked away, staring down at the towel wrapped around his hand. Too late to do anything about the wash cloth now; the stain had set in.

  You expected a black eye to be…well, black, not so swollen, red, and shiny, like a scald or burn about to blister. The swelling and discoloration reached up into Arlene’s temple and down to her cheekbone, and Maggie noticed that her lip was also split, probably the result of one wicked backhand delivered by Steve Balleza.

  Maggie wondered if there were more marks, too, hidden under her clothes.

  The silence was long and terrible, then Willard said gently, “Why did this happen, this time?”

  “Does it matter?” Arlene said through tears. “That Steve has a problem when he drinks? Or that I cannot live up to his expectations?”

  “That isn’t true,” Maggie threw out. “What more could a man want?”

  “Someone who is prettier, younger, or makes more money than I do, I suppose,” cried Arlene.

  She sat the sunglasses down on the table in front of her. Deena went to the cabinet and returned with a bottle of whiskey and four glasses.

  “Now that will help us all sleep,” Willard noted, then clammed up after getting a look of daggers from Maggie.

  “None for me, please,” Arlene said.

  “Nonsense, you need it more than any of us,” Deena stated, pouring a glass and sliding it toward Arlene.

  “I shouldn’t,” Arlene protested.

  “Come on, a sip won’t kill you,” urged Deena.

  Arlene took a sip, and then jerked her hand up to her lip.

  “That’s horrible! It burns.”

  Willard said, “Drink it anyway. One big gulp, down the hatch. It will help relax you, I promise.”

  She nodded, picked up the glass, and tossed down the whiskey. She shivered; her good eye watered. The other had been slowly leaking fluid and she quickly dabbed it with a tissue she’d been holding.

  “So this has happened how many times now, Arlene?” Deena asked.

  A dog began to bark outside the house.

  “I didn’t sell enough this month and my check was lowered than Steve expected,” Arlene replied.

  “How can you keep blaming yourself?” Maggie asked.

  “But I should have sold more.” She bowed her head over the table. “You know Steve has been planning our vacation, which he says we only have enough money for him to go now. And I was really looking forward to that vacation.”

  “He has hurt you, Arlene,” Deena gasped. “This cannot continue. Let me get you some help.”

  “Oh, no, that is not necessary. Really. Just give him some time and he’ll come around apologizing and the whole mess will be behind us,” Arlene explained.

  “Bullshit!” Deena shouted. Maggie and Arlene were crimson faced and Willard nodded his agreement. “Excuse my language, but that is total bullshit. Take it from one abused wife to another…it will not end unless you, Arlene, do something about it.”

  The other three stared back at Deena. They did not know that Deena had been abused by her husband whom she had recently divorced.

  “You mean?” Arlene asked.

  “Yes, Strafford’s golden boy, Joseph Hopping, is not what everyone here thinks he is. He is an asshole who beat me when I discovered he was cheating. The only difference between you and me, Arlene, is that I didn’t allow it to happen again. Once was enough for me. By God, I called the cops and filed a restraining order the very next day. You don’t have to put up with this. It is not the 1950s anymore; women have the right to be equals in marriage.”

  “It was an accident, really…don’t give me that look…yes he struck me but not with the intent to harm me. I then lost my balance, fell against the table, and hit the gun rack. Guns flew all over with this clatter…and he got madder. First time he ever called me a ‘whore’, and I must admit that it scared the living beJesus out of me. He’s not typically a violent man; surprising that he got so mad over me causing his guns to fall out of their places.”

  “How was that your fault?” Maggie wanted to know. “I mean if he hadn’t hit you in the first place, then you wouldn’t have fallen into the rack.”

  “Steve didn’t see it that way,” Arlene explained. “Besides, what’s done is done and I cannot change it now.”

  “But you can prevent it from ever happening again. Here, let me get you some ice for your face,” Deena said.

  “Perhaps we should call for an ambulance?” Maggie suggested.

  “No, no. You all are making far too much of this,” Arlene protested. “I’ll be fine by tomorrow, you wait and see.”

  “I don’t know,” Maggie muttered.

  Silence, then Deena mumbled, “Let’s get you something to eat or have you rest at the least.”

  “Not hungry, thanks,” Arlene replied. “But more of the whiskey couldn’t hurt.”

  Tears brimmed in Arlene’s eyes, and Deena put her hand over Arlene’s, which was resting on the table. “If there is anything I can do…”

  “I know, thanks,” Arlene said.

  Silence again.

  “Well, we should be going now,” Willard said, nudging Maggie.

  “You sure you don’t want to stay any longer?” Deena asked politely.

  “Heaven’s no; you two get some rest, we’re right down the street if you need us,” Maggie said, eyeing Deena to make sure she got her meaning.

  “Thanks, and good night,” Deena said as the older couple departed.

  “Tonight was the big unveiling of the house. I am so sorry to have missed it,” Arlene stated.

  “You’ve seen it already; besides, the veil has already fallen and they loved it,” Deena offered.

  “It is a show house,” Arlene said, nodding her head. “It is amazing.”

  “Thank you,” Deena said. “Now, how about you stay in my guest room tonight? You’d be my first house guest.”

  Arlene looked troubled momentarily, then simply dropped her head. “I suppose it would be best to give Thomas some space tonight after all that has happened.”

  “Is that a yes?”

  “Of course, if it isn’t too much trouble for you,” Arlene replied. “The last thing I want to do is create more trouble tonight.”

  Deena hugged Arlene and said, “It is no trouble at all. Glad to have you.”

  * * * *

  In the living room Arlene sank into the new plush sofa without even looking around. Deena crouched on her heels in front of her.

  “Arlene...”

  “Don�
�t, Deena.” Arlene looked at her. The eye was swollen to a slit; the flesh around it looked ready to bust open at any second. She looked good for her age and hurt; Deena felt a lump in her throat. But crying over Arlene wouldn’t help. She didn’t know what to do.

  “I can’t just pretend nothing happened,” Deena said.

  “It is my business, just let it be. I already know what you will say... I’ve heard others say the same things to me hundreds of times...leave him...toss him out...call the police...get help,” Arlene babbled on.

  “Exactly,” Deena whispered in defeat.

  “Thank you for caring,” Arlene offered.

  “But why not try one of those things, Arlene?”

  “Because any one of those will just lead to another beating, and if I told him I wanted a divorce—well, he might just go ahead and give it to me. What would I do then? Look at me. I’m no spring chicken anymore. I’m an old woman who should be lucky for what she has,” Arlene explained.

  “Arlene, that’s horrible! How can you think like that? There are plenty of men out there younger or older than you, looking for someone just like you,” Deena shoot back.

  Arlene looked past Deena at the newly painted walls. “I don’t believe that for one second,” she said quietly. “He’s got me and my money; he’s got my house, and our cats, and the fun of getting drunk whenever he likes around me. Thomas Balleza is a happy man.”

  Deena wanted to believe that. But what could she do?

  “Arlene...”

  “Please, Deena. Be my friend tonight, not my psychologist. Listen as you always have. Don’t patronize me, as you never have before, and just leave it alone. I just want to forget about it for now.”

  Deena didn’t know what she’d do. Kill the bastard before he killed Arlene, maybe, and more power to anyone who beat her to the punch, she thought. It was happening far too much these days; even she, herself, had been a victim for a beating at the hands of the man she’d vowed to love.