by Lauren Rowe
Other times in my dreams, though not very often, I’m stabbing Daddy in the heart with a large, pointed butcher knife, and his blood is gushing all over my cot and all over the floor and onto my bare toes, and Daddy’s eyes are bugging out in shock and pain and regret and apology as my knife burrows deeper and deeper into his chest cavity, and I lift the blade out of his chest and thrust it back in again and again. He’s screaming as I shove the blade back inside him with all my might—so deep I can feel the warmth of his ragged and bloody flesh around my clenched fist—and then I rotate the handle of the blade back and forth like I’m hollowing out a big hole in Daddy’s chest for some cornbread stuffing.
But no matter which Daddy-dream I had the prior night, no matter which book I might have read during the daytime to educate myself while Mother was sleeping or working at the diner, no matter how much I’ve imagined I’m a fancy lady living in a big ol’ mansion in Hollywood with a fountain with naked ladies and cherubs and a little cupid with wings, no matter how many times I’ve walked to the 7-Eleven for a Slurpee or a hot dog or gone climbing on the big rocks, one thing always stays the same. I miss my daddy. So bad, it hurts. If Daddy doesn’t come get me soon, then I’m going to get myself to Hollywood, come hell or high water, and I’m going to find him myself.
This whole year, I’ve had to live with Mother, all alone, and it’s been hell. That woman could start an argument in an empty house. She barely speaks to me unless it’s to scream at me for one thing or another—usually for something as stupid as leaving the closet door open in the back room. “When you leave the damned door open,” she always screams, “I bang my head going to the bathroom in the middle of the night!” I hate how much Mother screams at me about that dang closet door—it’s not like I’m trying to give her a big ol’ bump on her forehead. Jeez. Everybody makes mistakes now and again.
“Hey there, Charlene,” Mother says one day, out of nowhere, like she’s trying to start a casual conversation about the weather.
I hate it when she calls me Charlene. I’m reminded that Daddy’s not here when she says my name. Daddy and I are like salt and pepper. Peanut butter and jelly. Charlie and Charlene. Without Daddy here to be Charlie Wilber, there’s no point in me being Charlene Wilber, is there? God, I hate it when Mother calls me Charlene. All it does is remind me that I’m missing my other half. And, anyway, no one but Mother calls me by that name. Even Daddy himself calls me Buttercup or Charlie Wilber’s Daughter.
“Charlene,” Mother says again when I don’t respond the first time. But I don’t look up from my book. The Stranger Beside Me. It’s about Ted Bundy. Man, oh man, did he fool everyone—just because he had a pretty face.
When I don’t look up from my book, Mother finally gives up and stomps out of the trailer. The front door creaks and slams behind her. I look up at the clock. Six o’clock. She’s probably headed to work at the diner. Good riddance, Momma. When Daddy finally comes back to get me, I won’t mind if I never see her again.
Chapter 10
15 Years Old
2,015 through 1,922 Days Before Killing Kurtis
I’m sitting at the little table in our trailer, reading a book. It’s called A Separate Peace, one of the “classics” Mrs. Monaghan’s always recommending to me, bless her heart. In the book, Gene shakes a tree branch when his best friend, Finny, is standing on it so that Finny falls off and shatters his leg. Gene shakes that tree branch on purpose—Gene actually wants Finny to fall—just because he’s jealous of Finny for being so good lookin’. Well, all that’s just fine and dandy, but the whole rest of book is about how Gene feels so gosh-dang guilty about shaking that tree branch, he can’t find any peace and blah, blah, blah. Jeez, I wish Gene would stop whining about it. What’s done is done, Gene.
The screen door slams. I look up.
“Hey there, Charlene,” Mother says, clearing her throat. “This here’s Jeb.”
Mother’s standing next to a mountain of a man in a flannel shirt. I’m guessing this guy’s dark, curly hair hasn’t encountered a pair of scissors in over a year and his belly threatens to pop open the last button of his shirt.
“Hey there, Charlene,” the guy says. “I’m Jeb.” His voice is softer than I’d have guessed, considering his size. He takes a step toward me and extends his hand.
I stare at his hand, but I don’t take it.
Jeb nods and retracts his hand. “Nice to meet you,” he says quietly.
Mother’s smiling really, really big, like she just won a lifetime supply of biscuits and gravy. “Jeb’s gonna be staying here with us for a while,” she says, bubbling with enthusiasm. “Whenever he’s in town, that is. Jeb’s a trucker, so he’s in and out, but whenever he’s in town, he’ll be here with us, helping us pay the bills and whatnot. Taking care of us.” Mother and Jeb exchange googly-eyed smiles. “Being the man of the house.”
I don’t say a word. Daddy’s gonna blow a gasket when he finds out about Jeb. The wooden table feels hot under my palms. I clench my hands into fists in my lap. This is not going to end well.
“Well, okay,” Mother says, “why don’t you come on back here with me, Jeb. I’ll give you a fourteen-second tour of the palace.” She giggles, and it occurs to me I’ve never heard Mother giggle before this very moment.
“It was nice to meet you, Charlene,” Jeb says again. He tips his imaginary hat and turns to follow Mother into the back room.
That night, as I lie on my cot, I can hear Mother and Jeb giggling together—and groaning and flopping around on the mattress, too. I cover my ears with my pillow, my stomach turning over. When the sounds from the back room finally dissipate, when it’s been a good thirty minutes since I’ve heard a peep from back there, I creep into the room with my flashlight and stand over Mother and Jeb’s motionless bodies on the mattress. Jeb’s arm is flopped over Mother’s shoulder. His mouth hangs open.
I can hear Daddy’s voice in my ear: “Oh hell no.”
I tiptoe out of the room, flinging open the closet door as I go. Might as well give Mother a nice big howdy-do on her forehead to make her think twice about giggling and flopping around with anyone other than her husband ever again.
I’m sitting at the little table, eating a bowl of Cheerios and drinking my sweet tea. Jeb comes out of the back room and sits at the table with me. He’s so big, he’s gotta sit down in shifts. His hair’s a rat’s nest on top of his head. His belly hangs over the top of his pajama pants and peeks out the bottom of his Lynyrd Skynyrd T-shirt. Without even asking, Jeb pours himself a bowl of Cheerios and goes right ahead and pours himself a glass of sweet tea, too.
“So, Charlene,” Jeb begins, munching on his Cheerios. “What do you like to do?”
I don’t say anything.
“Do you like to fish?”
I remain silent.
“I really like fishing. I could take you fishing sometime, if that’s something you’d like to do.”
I say nothing.
“Or do you like ice cream? Because I was thinking of getting an ice cream cone later today, if you’d like to join me.”
I continue staring, not saying a word, even though I love ice cream.
“My favorite flavor is strawberry. I know most people like chocolate, but I like the fruity flavors best. How about you?”
I decide to throw the dog a bone and say something. “Jeb, I’m fifteen. Not five.”
Jeb smiles, apparently excited I’ve finally said something to him. “Well, you can still like ice cream at any age, can’t you? I’m a whole lot older than fifteen, and I still love ice cream.”
“I don’t like ice cream.” It’s not true, of course. I adore it. But I’ll be damned if I’m going to betray my daddy and get ice cream with another man.
“Okay, well, we don’t have to get ice cream, then,” Jeb says. “We can do whatever you want to do.”
I don’t reply.
Jeb clears his throat. “So, your mother says you love to read?”
I don’t react in
any way whatsoever to this question; though, if I were going to respond, I’d tell Jeb I don’t “love to read.” Does a bird love to fly? Does a spider love to make a web? Does a fish love to take in oxygen through its gills? If I were going to speak, which I’m not, I’d say, “I’m educating myself so I can fulfill my sacred destiny.” But, of course, I don’t say any such thing. I just stare at Jeb and let him hold up the conversation from his end.
“What are you reading lately?” Jeb asks.
I relent. I can’t resist talking about my books, even to Jeb. “A biography of Jayne Mansfield,” I say.
“Oh, wow. Hubba-hubba. She was a real looker, huh?”
It’s funny the way Jeb’s eyes have lit up at the mention of Jayne. I’m sure right now he’s picturing her enormous boobs and tiny waist and platinum-blonde hair. I reckon he’s not smiling like a wolf because he’s thinking about her sharp mind and sense of humor. If I were going to speak right now, which I’m not, I’d say, “Actually, Jeb, Jayne Mansfield was Twentieth Century Fox’s alternative to Marilyn Monroe, a knock-off, if you will, who came to be known as the ‘Working Man’s Monroe.’” But I don’t say that. In fact, I don’t say a thing.
“It didn’t end well for poor Jayne Mansfield,” Jeb observes.
“It never ends well, Jeb.”
There’s a short silence while Jeb regroups. “You like movies?” Jeb finally asks.
“I don’t know. I read.”
“Well then, maybe that’s what we can do sometime. We can go to the movies.”
I don’t respond. I’m not going anywhere with Jeb. Unlike Mother, who apparently doesn’t care that she still has a husband who’s coming back any day now, I would never betray Daddy.
When I don’t respond to Jeb’s movie invitation, he focuses his gaze on his bowl of Cheerios, inhales every last “O,” and quietly pours himself a second bowl.
For a solid three months after our first breakfast together, Jeb is a fixture in our trailer. Practically every day, he’s there, just hanging around, even when Mother’s sleeping or at work. Occasionally, Mother and Jeb go out bowling or to attend an AA meeting, which is something brand new for Mother—and occasionally they go in the back room to do exercises with the dumbbells Jeb bought her to help her “get her mind and body right.” But mostly, there’s just a lot of talking and giggling and playing dominoes and, of course, muffled sounds from the back room. And just about every day, whether Mother’s there or not, Jeb tries to engage me in conversation or invite me to go bowling or fishing or to a movie or to play dominoes or toss a baseball or some other father-daughter-type-bonding activity he must have read about in Parents Magazine.
For the first two months, I ignore Jeb when he speaks to me, not even looking up from my book. With each and every rejection, Jeb snaps his fingers and says “Aw!” with a darn-it-I-thought-I-had-her-this-time-expression on his face, like, gosh, he almost cracked the code this time but missed victory by a hair.
Each time Jeb snaps his fingers and smiles, I find it harder and harder to turn him down, though I always manage to do it by the skin of my teeth. About a week ago, Jeb snapped his fingers and flashed me a wide smile, and I almost forgot to scowl at him. A couple days after that, I actually smiled back at Jeb when he snapped his fingers; and, yesterday, I not only smiled back at Jeb, I laughed out loud at the silly expression on his face. And when I laughed, Jeb joined me, and we both giggled for a solid two minutes. That’s when a strange kind of happiness flooded me—the same kind of feeling I get from reading one of my favorite books, only maybe even better. But then I quickly looked down and that weird happy feeling went away.
“Your momma’s been sober a full month now,” Jeb says one day when Mother’s at work. We’re sitting at the table in the kitchenette, eating the tomato soup and grilled cheese sandwiches he’s made for us. “I’m thinking I’m gonna bake her a cake to celebrate.”
Holy heck. I hadn’t really thought about it, but come to think of it, Mother hasn’t been passed out on her mattress in the back room in a coon’s age. And what the hell? She hasn’t slurred her words or reeked of whiskey in forever and a day, either. In fact, I can’t remember the last time I even saw Mother taking a sip of anything other than a coke or water. And about a month or so ago—or was it longer?—she even started working days at the diner so she could flop around on the mattress at night with Jeb.
My stomach flips over. I put my spoon down on the table. I feel ill. When Daddy comes home and sees how Jeb’s taken over his wife and daughter—fixing me tomato soup and grilled cheese sandwiches and turning Mother into Suzy Bright Eyes—Daddy’s gonna fly off the handle. Good lord, he’s gonna think I’ve replaced him with Jeb.
My heart is racing.
I can’t let Daddy see how I’ve been smiling and laughing with Jeb. If he sees that, he’s gonna figure out just how much I’ve started enjoying having Jeb around.
“Your momma’s gonna be home in a couple hours,” Jeb says. “I’d better go get the ingredients for the cake. You wanna come to the store with me?”
I shake my head. “I’ve gotta get myself to the library to see if Mrs. Monaghan’s got a new book for me.”
“Oh, well, I’ll give you a lift, then.”
“Thanks, Jeb,” I say. “That would be lovely.”
Jeb grins. “Lovely.” He laughs.
Usually, I’d laugh with Jeb right now, seeing as how he just did that silly thing with his face that makes me giggle. But I can’t laugh. My heart is pounding in my ears and my stomach’s in my toes. “But, hey, Jeb, I could bake that cake with you after the library—maybe you could teach me how.” My stomach twists like it’s in a vise.
A wide smile spreads across Jeb’s face. “I’ll go get my keys.” He practically skips to the back room, happy as a puppy with two tails.
Oh lord, my chest feels tight.
Mrs. Monaghan greets me warmly at the library, as usual. “Well, hello, honey,” she says. “What can I help you find today? Another movie star biography?”
I wring my hands and shift my weight anxiously. I look to the left and right, like I’m worried someone might overhear what I’m about to say. Mrs. Monaghan looks at me expectantly and then glances from side to side, clearly sensing I’m about to disclose a juicy secret. A shadow of concern crosses her face as I continue to fidget and fret, but she waits patiently.
“I... I don’t know if I should say...” I begin.
“Say what, dear? Is there something wrong?”
“Oh no,” I reply, a little too quickly. “No, there’s nothing wrong. It’s just... I... um... I have to do a... report on something.”
Mrs. Monaghan knows I’m homeschooled. I’m sure she’s wondering what report I’m doing and for whom. “A report?” she asks.
“Yes, ma’am, a report. On...um...”
“On what, dear?” Mrs. Monaghan looks worried.
I exhale loudly. “Battered Woman Syndrome?” I say meekly.
Mrs. Monaghan’s face darkens. “Oh,” she says. She knits her brows.
Tears spring to my eyes. “I never should have said anything. I... Mrs. Monaghan, please don’t tell anyone I told you. Please don’t tell Jeb what I just said, especially.” I throw my hands over my face. “Please, forget I was ever here!”
I sprint out the front door of the library and streak down the block and around the corner to the side of Herb’s Laundromat. When I’m safely out of sight, I lean my back against the brick wall and burst into tears.
It’s clear Jeb’s enjoying teaching me how to make a congratulations-you’re-not-a-drunkard-anymore cake for Mother. I wish we were making a congratulations-you’re-not-a-whore-anymore cake for her, but no such luck.
“And that’s all there is to it,” Jeb says, putting the cake pans into the oven and closing the door. “Now, we just wait for the buzzer to beep.” He winks at me. “This is gonna be a good one—made with extra love.”
My stomach is flip-flopping. My chest is clanging. I try to reply,
but my voice doesn’t work.
Apparently, Jeb’s used to me not talking—because he doesn’t seem to notice I’ve gone speechless. He hands me a batter-covered spoon to lick. “Go ahead, Charlene—this is the best part.”
I take the spoon from Jeb and take a tiny lick of the chocolate batter. “Thank you,” I say, my voice wobbling.
He flashes me a smile that could melt the polar ice caps. “It’s my pleasure, honey. The way I feel about you, it’s like you’re my daughter, Charlene. My very own.”
I want to burst into tears like I did earlier today outside the library, but I hold myself at bay. “I...” I start to reply, and quickly close my mouth. Good lord, I was about to blurt, “I love you, Jeb!” What the hell is wrong with me? If Daddy ever found out the mushy feelings I’ve got for Jeb, he’d never forgive me. In fact, I reckon he’d even go so far as to refuse to let me live with him in Hollywood. Oh good lord, this is not a good situation. In fact, it’s very, very bad.
Jeb, Mother and I are sitting around the little table in the kitchenette, all three of our bellies stuffed with Jeb’s chocolate cake—which, I must say, was the best dang cake I’ve ever tasted. Momma’s crying her eyes out because Jeb has just broken the sad news that, tomorrow, he’s gotta leave for a job.
“It’s just for four or five days,” Jeb assures Mother. “Don’t worry—I’ll leave y’all with some emergency cash to tide you over while I’m gone.”
Mother wipes her eyes and takes a deep breath.
