by L. B. Dunbar
“Isn’t it a little early for that?” Kaye chastised. He had remained silent through everyone’s entrance and greeting.
“Never too early,” Tristan smirked and he took another swig.
I wasn’t much of a drinker, but the slow burn of that whiskey might warm my suddenly chilled insides. I was suffocating under the sadness of Guinie, the awkwardness of Lansing, and the defeat of Kaye. They knew nothing, and nothing at the moment, seemed worse than assuming Arturo was dead.
“Give me that,” I reached over the couch for the bottle. I took a deep gulp of the amber liquid and swallowed hard. I stifled the cough threatening my throat as the burn slid down my esophagus. I handed the bottle back to Tristan.
“That’s my boy.” Tristan smiled and winked at me.
I wanted out of the room after an hour of silence, whispered conversations, and the low hum of the television, which became our only hope of an update on the disappearance of Arturo King. I stood on shaky legs, as I’d had a few more pulls of the bottle I shared with Tristan. I stumbled past the bar and placed my phone amongst the other belongings lined up. Cell phones. Car keys. Lose change. It was a hopeless collection for a hopeless group.
I followed the long hall to the right, wandering past Arturo’s office to the second room: the music room.
When Arturo first designed the room, he stood in it full of pride as the platinum plaques were hung and the Grammy Award was placed on the bookshelf. His prized possessions included his 1954 Les Paul Gibson guitar and a guitar once owned by Eric Clapton. Amongst the other paraphernalia and memorabilia of the band’s accomplishments were souvenirs of our various tour stops: a wooden Native American statue from Red Rock, Colorado, a miniature wire Eiffel Tower from Paris, a soccer ball with our name on it from Brazil. It was a travel guide of our experiences. I sighed heavily as I stood alone in the room. Arturo would be disappointed to know that I had the same awards piled in a corner of the closet at my warehouse home. I didn’t need the physical reminders of our success. I didn’t have anyone to my home except family, the band, and now, Hollister.
My thoughts drifted to her. Her lush body under mine as I scanned her skin, inhaling her floral scent. She smelled feminine, despite the dark clothing she wore under the oversized army jacket. It was surprising and refreshing. I was well aware she was all female, but she was tough. A high barrier was built around her exterior and her words haunted me. She wasn’t going to open up to me. She didn’t share herself.
Her boldness in admitting she knew I whacked off in the shower also surprised me. She was edgy, almost offering herself to me, but not really wanting to give her body to me. I was perfectly happy to wait her out. I’d been waiting for over ten years. If I was honest with myself, she was so close to me; I was beginning to fear if I didn’t have her, I would lose her again before I had the chance.
I was also greatly disturbed by the bruise on her abdomen. I didn’t want to believe she was a lady of the night, but I couldn’t be certain. She lived in the shelter. She hadn’t admitted to having a job. I didn’t like her living arrangement. I really didn’t like the idea that sex might be her occupation. I wanted to protect her, but she didn’t trust me. She didn’t remember me. It hurt as much as I imagined that bruise on her stomach did.
I walked back to the living room, realizing I might have had more to drink than I thought. Someone’s cell phone was buzzing on the bar and the room stood still, listening.
“It’s not mine,” Tristan said. “Not my ringtone.”
“It’s not mine or Guinie’s,” Lansing motioned to the two phones on the coffee table in front of the couch.
Kaye wiggled his phone in the air before him to signify it wasn’t his.
The phone on the bar pinged again.
In a move I was surprised Tristan could maneuver in his drunken state; he leapt over the back of the couch and reached for the phone on the bar.
His smiled turned evil as he cocked his head and read:
“How are you? From Hollister?”
I lunged for Tristan, who was immediately typing a text response. Tristan twisted and turned as he typed, laughing as he used his back to block me, who was bigger than him. When I finally yanked the phone out of Tristan’s grasp, I studied the message Tristan returned.
Rarely drink. Had 2 much. Cant drive.
“You ass,” I blurted. “I sound like an idiot.”
Tristan raised an eyebrow and opened his mouth as if to speak, but closed it on a smile.
“She’ll come to your rescue. Feel sorry for you in your time of need.”
“You’re an asshole,” Lansing said. Both men looked in my direction as I dramatically dipped my eyes at Guinevere.
“Sorry, Guinie,” Tristan mumbled, as he approached the couch and placed his hands on her shoulders, massaging them gently. She tilted her head backward on the couch cushion and closed her eyes as she faced Tristan.
I quickly typed back.
Sorry. I did not write that. Tristan did.
The phone pinged immediately in my hand.
Tristan Lyons?
Shit.
“What’d she say?” Tristan’s voice traveled to me as he continued to work Guinie’s shoulders.
“She’s fangirling over you,” I said in disgust.
“Let me see.”
“No.”
The phone pinged again.
How’s everyone today? Any news?
I typed the word ‘nothing’ in response. A moment passed and the phone pinged one more time.
TOY.
I looked up at Tristan.
“What’s it say?” Tristan asked, in response to my questioning face.
“She called me a toy?”
“Oh. She wants to play,” Tristan laughed, as he wiggled one then the other eyebrow.
“Thinking of you,” Guinie said softly, without opening her eyes.
I opened my eyes wide in surprise.
“I like my meaning better,” Tristan laughed and kissed Guinie’s forehead with a brief brush of his lips. She smiled falsely without opening her eyes.
“I like mine better,” she sighed.
I felt my heart drop in my chest. I could only imagine what Guinie was going through. I wouldn’t know exactly. I’d never lost anyone that I loved like Guinie and Arturo loved each other. On the other hand, I had lost Hollister, all those years ago. I’d been searching for her ever since.
I responded to her text.
Thinking of you, too.
The shelter…
[Hollister]
It was another busy day at the shelter. Each one was as unpredictable as the day before, and I was in the kitchen with Marie. Knowing me well, despite our short time together, Marie questioned me about my whereabouts from the night before.
“I had to see…a friend.”
Marie gave me the stare. The same one I had used on Martha after her return to her ex-boyfriend, the drug dealer and abuser, she had to see one more time. I felt addicted myself. I should have stayed away. The emptiness of letting him go, when I climbed off his bike this morning, wasn’t sitting well with me. I didn’t like the weakness of wanting to stay with him through the day.
“It’s not like that,” I tried to assure the other woman, who was working on the day’s concoction for dinner.
“That’s what we’ve all said,” Marie admonished.
“No. Really,” I laughed, but I couldn’t be so sure myself.
When a news report came on the radio with graphic detail about the amount of blood and the damage to Arturo King’s motorcycle, I couldn’t take the building tension of concern in myself, and I texted Perkins. The exchange was hard to follow: comments about drinking, followed by an apology that it wasn’t him. When a resident walked by me in the kitchen, she nosily looked over my shoulder.
“Boyfriend?”
“No,” I grunted and Marie snorted.
“Got something going with him,” Marie pointed her finger at the phone in a circular motion.
“Must be thinking of you.”
“I sent him a text first,” I admitted, not sure why she was engaging in this conversation.
“Oh. So you toy him?”
“I’m not toying with him,” I said defensively.
“Not toying. You T.O.Y. him. Thinking of you.”
Oh. I admitted to myself I wasn’t familiar with the lingo of cell phones. How could I be? I often forgot to have it charged, but not today. I had his number and I swore I would only use it for emergencies, even though he said it was so I could check up on him. I didn’t want to feel like I was checking up on him, but he did say he loved it that I stopped by.
I had to stop thinking. My head was spinning with thoughts of him.
“Here,” the resident said, as she grabbed my phone. She typed quickly. Quicker than I could reach for the phone and it was being handed back to me.
“Oh God,” I sighed in embarrassment. The woman had typed: TOY.
The non-response silence was deafening. I held the phone tightly, like trying to hold the pin in a grenade, so it wouldn’t detonate in my hand. When the phone pinged in response, I jumped and laughed out loud at my own ridiculousness.
“What’s it say?” the other woman asked, and I felt Marie’s eyes on me, as well.
I smiled as I silently read: Thinking of you too.
I didn’t respond to the women in the room, but the concern on Marie’s face gave away her recognition that I was suddenly blushing.
An hour later I was worried that Perk’s text might have been true about drinking. After playing scenarios back and forth in my head, I finally gave in and text him again.
Me: Really drinking midday?
P: Yes. Don’t judge?
Me: Not judging. Concerned.
When there was no response, I added:
Me: Need ride? I don’t have car.
P: It was Tristan. It’s okay. Staying here tonight.
Oh. I hated the disappointment I felt that I wouldn’t be sleeping with him again tonight. The thought was sudden and it surprised me. I did want to sleep with him again. I felt safe with him. It kept the demons at bay to be encircled in his embrace at night.
Me: Okay. See you around.
A pause.
P: I hate texting. I don’t know what you mean.
I had to smile to myself. He was awkward, as well, at times.
Me: I mean I’ll see you when you can.
P: I want to see you tonight.
I wanted that too, but I had left the shelter last night, and I needed to make up my shift, even if I did want to sleep with him again.
Me: Can’t. Have to work. Stay with your friends. They need you.
I secretly hoped he would respond that he needed me, but that was too much to ask.
The night was as busy as the day had been. The shelter closed at seven for the night, and we were full to capacity again. Most women were regulars. Their place was assured, as long as they followed the rules, which included staying away from the abuser, working a job, and participating in a shift to help the community. Marie had covered for me, but I couldn’t ask her to cover a second night.
It was during the nightly clean up that a woman came to the door. She was covered in a cloak of some type, looking strangely similar to a nun’s habit or an ancient tunic. Either way, the front was covered in a bloody stain, and Marie and I quickly brought her inside. The woman looked stone faced while I tried to assess if she was injured and where. Finding no physical signs of abuse, I questioned the woman.
“What happened, honey?” I used my best soothing voice to encourage the woman to speak honestly.
“I killed him.”
Marie gasped and I looked at her, willing her to censor her opinion. Some women could be overly dramatic, and rightfully so, at times.
“Continue, honey. We don’t judge here.” I glared at Marie.
“He came at me again. And I stabbed him with a knife from the drawer.”
“Who, honey?”
I took in the woman’s attire again. Was she part of a religious sect?
“Father Mike.”
I held in my own gasp. It couldn’t be the same man. The Father Mike I had known was no longer in the priesthood. My uncle Roy took care of that.
“Father Mike?” I gently prodded.
“He isn’t really a priest. We just call him that because he takes care of us.”
“Us?” I continued.
“We run a group home in Lower Manhattan. He’s flirtatious with all the women, but he told me I was special.”
I shivered. It sounded all too familiar, as the woman looked up at me with doe-eyes of sadness. I noticed that she actually looked like a girl in her teens.
“How old are you, honey?” I asked softly.
“Sixteen.”
Visions flashed before my eyes: a priest, persuading words, you are special, a gentle touch promising absolution.
I shivered again. Marie noticed and stepped between the girl and me.
“We have to take you to the hospital, honey. Check that everything is okay with you, first. Okay, sweetie?” Marie already had her hands on the girl and was guiding her to stand. She slipped an arm around the young thing and they exited the shelter for a cab. I had to call the police and report the stabbing. The girl could claim self-defense. I had never been that lucky. I hadn’t been that smart. When I was sixteen, I thought his words were true. I shook my head at the memory and returned to the kitchen to finish the nightly clean up and prep work for the next day.
Quest Two: The girl in the tent ten years ago…
[Perkins]
I’d had too much to drink, when I normally didn’t care for alcohol. I was so distraught over the disappearance of Arturo, it seemed like a good idea to join Tristan’s pity party and take a couple hits of the bottle. I also needed to numb my mind.
“It’s not your fault,” she’d said to me.
Those were almost the same words she used when I found her the second time.
“It’s not your battle,” she claimed.
I was weak, because I should have made it my battle. I should have fought for her back then.
I was sixteen and wandering the woods again. Children had been warned not to wander alone because there had been a recent kidnapping. It was making national news, but I didn’t watch television. I didn’t know much about the story, other than the fictitious tales told by other kids at the high school. The rumor was a girl was taken from her own home, while her cousin slept in the other bed. I had heard the cousin went to my school, but I didn’t know her. Yet.
I wasn’t afraid of the woods. I walked them daily as a release from the tension of being in high school, being bullied by the other kids for my size and my lack of intelligence. I walked through the woods in search of someone and some place that I was certain I had seen years ago. A place I was determined to rediscover. So I wandered aimlessly, as I always did, when I came upon a tent in the woods. It wasn’t unusual to find a random camper, a person travelling on foot cross-country, resting for an evening, but this site looked slightly different than a momentary stop. This campsite looked a bit more permanent.
I approached it slowly, hoping not to make too much noise and startle the person within. I didn’t need someone stepping out with a shotgun, but on the other hand, I didn’t want to disturb someone’s slumber if they needed the rest. I should have turned back. I should have walked away, but something compelled me forward to the edge of the small clearing.
My presence was given away immediately as a twig snapped under my big foot. The minor crack sounded like the burst of a cannon in the quiet peacefulness of a late afternoon.
“Jordan?” The voice sounded weak, almost timid, and I held perfectly still.
“Jordan? Is that you?” Again the voice sounded meek, but as if it was attempting to be strong.
“No,” I responded without thinking. “No, I’m not Jordan, but I mean you no harm.”
I heard the sound of rustling within the
tent, but no further response.
I decided to investigate as my curiosity got the best of me, like it often did. I partially opened the flap to find a young girl huddled inside. Her gray eyes glared at me with both strength and fear. She held a sleeping bag in front of her body.
“Don’t be afraid,” I began. “I don’t mean you any harm. I live in the woods and I stumbled upon your site.”
At the sound of my voice, she began to lower the sleeping bag she used as a shield and continued to focus on my mouth. Her eyes looked glassy and her black hair hung lank.
“Are you okay in here? Is this Jordan coming back for you soon?” My fear for her was growing as her eyes grew wild at the mention of this Jordan’s name. I began to think of the stories of the kidnapped girl, and how this girl should not be alone.
“You…you need to leave. You need to go before he returns,” her voice was frantic, as she dropped the blanket completely and crawled on her knees toward the tent entrance. I noticed she was dressed in an unusual dress that seemed very old fashion for a modern girl. By then I had squatted before the opening, not wanting to frighten her further by entering the small two person space.
“Why?” I questioned.
“He…Jordan wouldn’t like it if he found you here.”
