The Rules of Burken

by Traci Finlay

  Ian and I shook our heads.

  “I can’t find her anywhere. I called all her friends, the neighbors … no one knows where she is. She left this in our bedroom.” He held up Fanny’s cell phone.

  My heart began pounding. “Oh, no. Where’s my mom? Where’s my mommy?” I cried, running through the house, looking for any sign of her. I ran in my room and called Chrissy. “Chris, have you heard from my mom?”

  “No,” Chrissy answered. “She’s probably out looking for you and your brother.”

  I shook my head. “No, she’s been gone all day. I haven’t seen her since this morning. And no one knows where she is! Her car’s gone and she left her cell phone!” I began crying.

  “Oh, Charlotte. Okay, listen to me. Everything’s going to be fine, okay? Let me know the minute you hear something. And I’ll call you if I hear anything,” Chrissy promised, and we hung up.

  I dragged myself out into the living room, where Dad and Ian sat on the couch, discussing the last conversation they each had with her.

  “Charlotte, do you remember anything out of the ordinary when you came home from school? Anything at all?” my father asked.

  I placed my fingers over my mouth and stared back and forth between my dad and my brother. Suddenly I rushed to the front door and snatched up the folded piece of paper I’d tossed on the console table. “This was in the door!”

  Both Tim and Ian catapulted off the couch as I opened it and read it aloud:

  Tim, Ian, and Charlotte,

  I’m sorry I didn’t have the courage to say this to your faces. The truth is, I have been unhappy for a long time. I don’t even know who I am, and I feel like I am living someone else’s life. I know saying that makes me a terrible mother and a terrible wife, but trust me, it would have been worse had I stayed.

  I stopped reading and covered my mouth. Ian slipped the letter from my hands and continued.

  I need to figure things out. I need to be alone. I know you hate me now, but I just had to do something for myself for once. Take care. - Fanny

  “Is this for real?” Ian shouted as he shook the paper at us and crumpled it, pitching it across the room and kicking the table.

  This couldn’t be happening. We just saw her that morning. She hadn’t even cleaned the breakfast dishes. She must’ve been planning this for a long time. “She didn’t say where she was going,” I whispered. “She didn’t even say goodbye.”

  Dad pulled both of us into him. “I’m so sorry, kids. So sorry. You don’t deserve this.” I clung to my father and drained my tears onto his sweater vest as Ian stood rigid, the horror registering on his face.

  And then there were three.

  “Charlotte, drop it. You don’t have to pay me back.” Nikka stares at the wad of cash like I just wiped my butt with it. “Get yourself together. You’ve only been working, like, three days. Go buy a cell phone or something.”

  I wipe a sweaty blond strand off my cheek with the back of my greasy hand and shake the money at Nikka. “Just take it, Red! I hate owing people money.”

  Nikka rolls her eyes, exhaling a balloon of smoke. She snatches the money and shoves it in my apron pocket. “Stop. You need that more than I do. That money was barely enough to cover the essentials. A couple shirts? A package of underwear? A toothbrush, for goodness’ sake? I don’t want you reimbursing me, why don’t you get it?”

  She’s getting worked up, so I decide to let it go. I pout as I resume wiping down a slimy table with a bleachy dishrag. Despite all the illegal ways Nikka prefers to collect a salary, she has a charitable heart. And there’s nothing I can do about it. I wonder if the money she so generously gifted me was from selling her body or selling cocaine.

  She watches me wipe down a sticky menu and toss a fork in a bucket of dishwater. “I’m thinking around Christmas you should be good, then you can reimburse me, if it means that much to you. And when I say reimburse, I mean get me a present.” She winks and shoots me with air guns she’s pulled from her pocket.

  I bite my lip and move to the next table. “Fine, Nikka. Christmas.” I’m not ready to tell her I won’t be around for Christmas; I’m already planning on hightailing it out of Bay City at the end of the week. I’ve no idea if Ian is close, or the extent of damage he’s planning to administer on me, and Nikka has no idea about Ian. She still thinks I’ve had a “falling-out” with my family.

  I have to duck my head to keep Nikka from seeing the tears in my eyes. She’s done more for me than I could’ve dreamed, and it’s breaking my heart that this is how I’ll be repaying her. Just up and leaving without warning. But if I could do it to Dana, and if my mom could do it to me, I’ll have to muster up the indecency and just do it. I was bred for this, right? Nikka won’t be the first angel I’ve lost.

  Jack drifts out from the back of the restaurant, his lanky frame silhouetted by the dim, empty room. I try suppressing a yawn as Nikka frantically stomps out her cigarette.

  “Hey,” he says to Nikka. “No smoking in my restaurant.”

  She crosses her arms. “This is the smoking section.”

  “Doesn’t matter. You, specifically, may not smoke in my restaurant.”

  Nikka laughs as he fake-punches her in the head. “How’s it going?” he asks.

  She tosses her head toward me. “Just talking with my roomie before clocking out and going to my night job.”

  I move to the next table with my dishrag and bucket. “I can’t believe you’re leaving here and going to another job. I’m exhausted. What is it, like, eleven o’clock?”

  “Yes, but it’s not like I’ll be working six hours like you did here. After one hour, I’ll already have made way more than you’ve made in three days. You should really reconsider, if you’re that concerned about money. I mean, I only work here a few hours a week to help Jack, and the pay is terrible. No offense, Jacky.”

  I shake my head. “Thanks, but no. I’ll stick to wiping down dirty tables.” I shake my rag at them. “But the minute one of these tables asks my going rate, I’m out of here.”

  Nikka laughs, and I’m surprised to see Jack crack a smile. I notice he’s actually been acknowledging me lately, looking at me when I talk and executing vague reactions. He still hasn’t talked to me, except for my interview at his pizza restaurant, which was like an interrogation. I sat in a booth across from him at the back of the restaurant, like a bully in the principal’s office while he scribbled away on a clipboard, taking his job entirely too seriously.

  “So your name is … Charlotte? Is that your real name or like … a stage name?” he had asked.

  “What? That’s my real name,” I answered.

  “Right. And why do you want to work here?” He mumbled so low, I had to squint to hear him.

  “Um, because I need money. I don’t know anyone here, and Nikka kinda hooked me up with this interview.” Because trust me, you’re the last person I want to work for, and it was either this or prostitution and you may be the lesser of two evils.

  “Previous work experience?”

  He couldn’t be serious. My application was right in front of him, I could see the answers to his questions. “I worked at Ashby’s when I was fifteen—”

  “Ashby’s?” he said, his thick Michigan accent cynically deliberating the name. “Gentlemen’s club?”

  Sweet Jesus. “No … If you were listening, or looking at the paper in front of you, you would’ve heard—and read—that I was fifteen. Ashby’s is an ice cream parlor, and I have never, nor will I ever, work in a gentlemen’s club, brothel, seedy massage parlor, or go by a name other than Charlotte, which is the name my mother chose after her favorite literary spider.” I sat back and crossed my legs.

  His eyes remained locked on his clipboard as he continued scribbling. If he was embarrassed at being put in his place during his own interview, he didn’t show it.

  I took advantage of his preoccupied state to study his face. I’d never seen eyes that color—a light, swirly gray with hovering specks of
spooky silver. His hair was so black. And thick. It hung in unmanaged waves. And his facial structure—sharp and austere. Just looking at him felt threatening; he looked like a thunderstorm. If he wasn’t such a jerk, he might be kind of handsome. In an avant-garde sort of way.

  He asked me a few more questions and stood. “Oliver’s out of town for a few more weeks. So I’ll run your application and a few others by him tonight and have Nikka get back to you.”

  “Have Nikka get back to me? What, she’s my agent now?”

  He glared at me. “You don’t have a phone number written. I can send out the Pony Express, if you’d prefer.”

  My face heated. “Oh, I—”

  “Why don’t you have a phone number?”

  Crap. “I … I lost my phone.” And I ran out of the restaurant.

  Oliver must be pretty desperate for servers, because here I am.

  “Okay, I have to go to work,” Nikka says as she punches her timecard and skips toward the door. “See you guys later.”

  “Bye,” I call, unscrewing a salt shaker and filling it. I’m getting used to the awkward silence between Jack and me. I was the last employee to be hired, and therefore, am stuck closing the restaurant with him every night—which means I do all the work while he stands behind the counter pretending to do financial management. I bet he writes more letters to Santa Claus back there than he does managing budgets.

  I’m on my last table, debating between Detroit and Grand Rapids as my next escape route, when his voice startles me so badly, I drop a shaker of Parmesan cheese and catch it between my knees. “What?”

  “Sorry. I asked how you like it here.” He perches on a table I’ve just finished cleaning. I hope his butt gets wet.

  I return the shaker to the table and scrub a little harder. “You mean in Bay City? Or this job?”

  He shrugs. “Both, I guess.”

  I square myself directly in front of him. “Um, it’s different…” I strain. I’m able to maintain eye contact for three excruciating seconds before my energy level is drained, and I drop my head, running my rag over the table again.

  “Well, you’re doing a great job here,” he says.

  I glance up as far as my depleted energy level will allow to see his feet dangling inches above the floor. “Well, thanks, boss. I had no idea how well I was doing, considering my employer and I haven’t established an effective form of communication.” I drop the rag in the bucket and march behind the counter, dumping the bucket in a steel utility sink. I’m a little shocked at my audacity; Ian would’ve lost his shit if I spoke to him like that, and Jack’s meaner than Ian. Well, up until the whole axe-swinging thing…

  He follows and hikes up on the counter next to me, watching me rinse out the bucket. “Yeah, about that. I’m an ass sometimes.”

  I look at him in mock surprise. “You don’t say!” Then I roll my eyes and turn back to the sink.

  He snorts. “Well, you’re not much better!”

  I jerk my eyes to his face.

  “Don’t look at me like that,” he says, the corner of his mouth twitching in either a grin, a snarl, or the onset of a stroke. I don’t know which, since he isn’t much on facial expressions.

  “Okay, Jack. I’m working.” I dry my hands on my apron and grab the broom, heading back into the dining area.

  He rotates toward the other side of the counter and scoots to the edge. I thought he was going to continue harassing me, but when I don’t hear his voice, I glance over to see him clicking on a calculator and scrawling marks in a binder. I’d bet the money in my apron he’s just multiplying his phone number by two.

  I finish the floor and put the broom away, pulling the cash out of my apron before ripping it off and tossing it on the counter next to him. “’Night,” I call over my shoulder as I stuff the cash in my pocket. I clock out and head toward the door.

  “Hey, wait,” he calls. “Come back here.”

  Damn. I slowly retrace my steps, thinking if he has something to say, he should approach me instead of making me come to him.

  “Listen, I didn’t mean to offend you. It’s just that my sister is a fucking prostitute.”

  I start. What does Nikka being a fucking prostitute have to do with him being a fucking dick?

  He continues. “And usually everyone she hangs out with is one, too. And I just … I try to stay away from … that crowd,” he stumbles, bouncing his fingers together like some holier-than-thou prick.

  I place my hand on my hips. “You thought I was a hooker? Is that why you kept saying those offensive things to me in my interview?”

  “Well? What did you want me to think? That wasn’t the first time I’d shown up at my sister’s house, and one of her hot ‘colleagues’ is sitting provocatively on the couch in my clothes.”

  My jaw drops, and I’m laughing. “Sitting provocatively? I was sitting in an oversized bowl like a balancing frog, trying not to tumble out like a fool. I didn’t even know you were coming. I’d just gotten out of the shower.” I’m about to spout off that I’d just finished running for my life and the last thing on my mind was seducing the pizza delivery boy when he interrupts.

  “Okay, well it’s nothing to get worked up about. Relax. I’m just apologizing for mistaking you for a hooker. That’s all,” he says.

  I don’t even know what to say. That phrase is more offensive than any of his other remarks, and I want to tell him off, but I don’t have the energy. I’m too tired from scrubbing his stupid restaurant. So I bite my tongue and walk out, leaving him in the dining area by himself.

  The next morning, I’m frying bacon and eggs when I hear Nikka’s bedroom door open and her feet scuff across the floor. I’m surprised she’s up so early; I kept hearing her and her, um, “client” until the early hours of the morning.

  “Morning, Sunshine,” I chirp. “You hungry?” I look up and drop my spatula when I see that it most certainly isn’t Nikka, but Spencer. It takes him a beat longer to recognize me, but when he does, his sluggish demeanor quickly revs up to what looks like hateful revenge.

  “The fuck you doin’ here?” he says.

  I stare at him.

  “Bitch, I asked you a question,” he growls as he storms toward me, backing me against the stove. The heat from the burner rushes up my spine, and if he backs me up any farther, I’ll land on the angry red coils.

  “I—I’m sorry,” I stutter. I am terrified.

  “You’re damn right, you’re sorry!” He knocks the pan of bacon to the floor, and I cry out as the grease sears into my shin. My vision goes white with pain as I stumble back, and I’m barely able to see his hand reach across his body and catapult—the back of his hand cracks against my cheekbone.

  I fall to the ground in tears, waiting for him to pounce, but I’m hearing his cries for mercy instead of mine.

  I look up to see Nikka’s wild eyes baring into his, a knife at the end of her little fist. I catch my breath—the blade is buried into his shoulder. Spencer is leaning, favoring the wounded shoulder, his breathes shallow and sporadic.

  “I will kill you, Spence,” Nikka says. “She is my friend. How dare you come into my house and hurt my guest?” She’s speaking like a disappointed mother would to her child.

  “This bitch—”

  His screams eradicate any predicate when Nikka twists the knife slightly, and his knees buckle and he’s on the floor next to me, but I think he’s forgotten I’m there. Nikka stands over him, and she’s wearing bunny slippers. She pulls the knife out of his shoulder and drops it into the sink.

  “Get out.”

  Spencer crawls away, leaving a trail of blood, and scampers out the door. Before I can say anything, Nikka rushes to me and crouches down. “Oh, god, Charlotte! I’m sorry! I’m so sorry!” And I’m feeling the urge to comfort her, even though I’m technically the one needing comforting. “Are you okay?” she asks as she helps me to my feet.

  I blink at her. “You … you stabbed him,” I finally squeak.

 
She cocks her head. “Of course I stabbed him. He was hurting you. This is my house, I acted in self-defense. I hope he tells the cops.” She reaches in the freezer, handing me an ice pack and looking at my cheek with concern.

  I detour the ice pack to the burns on my legs because those hurt worse, and Nikka gasps and squats down to study them.

  A fist pounds on the door. I drop the ice pack as my brain is bombarded with images of Spencer at the door, of Ian at the door, and I’m going to die today.

  Nikka opens it, and Jack’s standing in the doorway, raking his eyes across the crime scene that is the kitchen. “What the hell happened?” He steps over the puddle of blood and shuts the door, his arms thrust out to the sides as he continues surveying the kitchen, Nikka, and me.

  Nikka sighs. “Spence happened.” And she spoke as if she were confessing a murder.

  Jack shakes his head. “That Canadian pervert? What happened? Who’s bleeding? Is she okay?” He points to me, as if I’m a major kitchen appliance that needs servicing.

  Nikka wraps some ice cubes in a towel and gently places it against my cheek. Then she runs her hands through her hair. “He was a client of mine last night. He ended up staying over. Fuck!”

  “Charlotte!” Jack shouts, and I jump. “Can you please tell me what’s going on?”

  My lip trembles behind my ice towel. “I—I was making breakfast, and Spencer came out from the bedroom. He saw me. I guess he’s still mad at me. He attacked me. Then Nikka stabbed him.” And that’s Tuesday.

  Jack is squeezing his skull with the heels of his palms, and the way he’s glaring at Nikka and her sheepish reaction is making me feel like I’ve tattled on her. “How can you let this happen?” he screams at his sister.

  “I’m sorry!” she cries, and I’m confused. Nikka just saved my life, and he’s yelling at her and she’s apologizing.

  “Can you just not be a whore for one night? You have guests staying at your house, and you’re still letting these perverts in your bed? He could’ve killed her!” He throws his hand in my direction, the major kitchen appliance of which he speaks, and Nikka glances at me apologetically.