Countdown to Killing Kurtis

by Lauren Rowe

  “Only you,” I repeat. “I’ve only told you.” He squeezes me even tighter.

  It feels like jetpack-flying and rainbow-sliding and unicorn-riding all rolled into one to be in Wesley’s arms, telling him my deepest, darkest secret, even if that particular secret doesn’t happen to be remotely true this time. The whole situation makes me ache to tell Wesley my real deep, dark secret, just to see if maybe, when he hears it, he’ll still want to kiss me and hold me and tell me his stories and touch my boob. I know I shouldn’t give in to this temptation that’s overtaking me right now, but I just can’t resist.

  “Wesley, there’s something else I need to tell you,” I whisper. I pull away from his embrace, sniffling. I look him square in the face, my jaw clenching. “There’s something you need to know about me. Something bad.”

  He sits back, readying himself.

  “Well, you know, Jeb hurt my momma and me... A lot.” Wesley leans in, as if he’s fixin’ to comfort me yet again, but I put my hand up to stop him. “Until, finally, one day, my momma just snapped, and she said to me, ‘That motherfucker’s never gonna hurt us again.’ And that’s when she up and baked Jeb a rat-poison cake.”

  Wesley nods. Apparently, he’s heard all the major plot points of this story before, probably from Mrs. Clements.

  I pause. I shouldn’t do this, but I’m going to, anyway. I just can’t resist the opportunity to purge my soul and come clean, especially to someone as sweet and understanding as Wesley. “And the thing you need to know about me, Wesley,... is that... when my momma baked that cake filled with rat poison for Jeb, bless her heart...” Wesley nods, encouraging me. My skin is on fire. “When she baked that cake...” Electricity is coursing through my veins. This is it. I’m going to finally tell someone who I really am—and not just someone. Wesley.

  Wesley nods, his eyes blazing.

  “When my momma baked that cake that killed Jeb, I helped her do it.”

  There, I said it. Well, partially, anyway—but that’s good enough. I killed Jeb. I baked the cake. It was me. That’s what I just said, isn’t it? Because whether I helped Mother or did it all by myself, it’s all the same thing, isn’t it? I did it. Holy hell, what a weight off my shoulders to finally tell someone the semi-truth.

  I let out a shaky breath and look into Wesley’s eyes, searching for his acceptance—or rejection. And there’s no doubt what’s waiting for me there—acceptance without reservation.

  Wesley brushes the hair out of my eyes and then kisses me with a whole new kind of fervor that takes my breath away. Hot damn, this kiss lights a whole new kind of fire inside me.

  “I’m glad you did it,” he proclaims after our kiss. His eyes are ablaze like nothing I’ve seen in them before. “That motherfucker deserved everything he got for what he did to you,” he says. He puts his index finger under my chin. “And if anyone ever lays a finger on you again, the fucker’s gonna have to answer to me.”

  Chapter 18

  17 Years, 11 Months and 26 Days Old

  745 Days Before Killing Kurtis

  I sit straight up in my cot, suddenly jolting awake from a dream, and blurt, “Consistency.” It’s the wee hours of the morning and, once again, I’ve been dreaming about opening Mr. Clements’ safe. For months now, I’ve been obsessed with figuring out the puzzle of that damned combination lock. Every chance I get, whenever I’m sure everyone else has left the house and isn’t coming back for at least an hour, I sneak into Mr. and Mrs. Clements’ room with kitchen gloves on my hands, and I try yet another set of numbers on that gosh-dang lock.

  Last week, I thought I had it for sure: 05-04-03, the jersey numbers of Joe DiMaggio, Lou Gehrig, and Babe Ruth, respectively. When I first had the idea about the jersey numbers being the answer, it near about killed me to have to wait a whole two days for a foolproof time when everyone would be gone from the house so I could run up there and try the numbers. But, gosh dang it, much to my shock and dismay, those jersey numbers didn’t work. I tried every combination and order I could think of for those three digits, and they still didn’t work. Damn, damn, damn. And I’d been so sure, too.

  But now, out of nowhere, I just figured out the answer in my sleep. And now that I know the answer to the puzzle, I can’t believe it took me this long to figure it out. Just now, Daddy came to me in my dream and, after laughing his big ol’ whooping laugh, he chided me, “Buttercup, use your noggin. What’s the answer to Mr. Clements’ question?” When I looked at him dumbfounded, he rolled his eyes and added, “What’s always the answer to Mr. Clements’ question?”

  Just like that, I knew the answer, after all these months of noodling the problem—consistency. Of course. What a big ol’ duh. And, jeez, good thing I finally figured it out now—just in the nick of time—because my eighteenth birthday is in four little days.

  When the sun finally comes up, I’m already dressed and ready for school an hour earlier than usual. Unlike other days, I’m dying to get my butt to school today so I can look up something in the school library. I just need to research one little piece of information, and then I’ll have everything I need to open that safe door and hold that “priceless” Joe DiMaggio card in my un-pristine hand.

  At school, right before history class, I bolt straight to the library and pull the “F-G” encyclopedia off the shelf. I only need to flip around for a minute to find the exact page I’m looking for: “Henry Louis ‘Lou’ Gehrig, American baseball player for the New York Yankees.” I scan the entry, and, right quick, I see it, the answer that’s been eluding me for months: 2,130. Of course! Lou Gehrig set the record for most consecutive games by playing in 2,130 straight games. Duh. How did it take me this long to solve the puzzle?

  When I get home from school, it’s my lucky day. Nobody else is in the house—although I’m not entirely sure if someone might waltz through the front door any minute. Normally, unless I’m sure no one’s gonna come home for a while, I wouldn’t risk it, but, dang it, I just can’t hold my horses. And, anyway, time is running out if I’m gonna get this damned card before I’m state-mandated to get the hell out of Dodge in four days. It’s now or never.

  I quietly pull the rubber gloves on my hands in the kitchen and then tiptoe up to Mr. and Mrs. Clements’ room, holding my breath. I creep into the room without making a sound and float silently to the safe in the closet.

  I crouch down in Mr. Clements’ closet, remove the quilt from the top of the safe, and with shaking hands, turn the lock, first in tribute to Mr. Joseph Paul DiMaggio’s hitting streak—and then in honor of Mr. Henry Louis Gehrig’s consecutive games: fifty-six to the right; twenty-one to the left; and then thirty to the right. And even though I’m one hundred percent sure I’ve figured out the answer to the riddle, I nonetheless exhale in relief when the door springs right open, as easy as if I’d said, “Open sesame.” I can’t help but giggle with glee.

  I’m about to peek inside the safe, but something makes me pause for a minute.

  It’s funny. After all these months of fixating on this conundrum, I almost don’t want to know what’s inside. How could the actual contents of the safe live up to the wondrous marvel it’s become in my mind? But I reckon that’s just the romantic in me talking. Of course, come hell or high water, I’m gonna look inside the safe. Maybe I’m just savoring the promise of the dream one last time, just in case the reality of it falls short somehow, as is so often the case in life.

  I take a deep breath and reach inside.

  There’s a stack of papers.

  Birth certificates. One for Mr. Clements. Oh, his name’s Eugene. I don’t think I knew that. And one for Mrs. Clements. Martha. I knew that. There’s another birth certificate—and a death certificate right behind it from just two days later—for a baby, William Eugene Clements. Then there’s yet another birth/death certificate combo for baby Martin Phillip Clements, but this time, the birth and death certificates are dated the same day. I reckon Mr. and Mrs. Clements didn’t have a whole lot of luck in the baby departme
nt. Well, that’s awfully sad—but I don’t have time to think about it. I put all that crap back into the safe.

  There’s a deed of trust for the house and I put it back into the safe, too. Mr. and Mrs. Clements can keep their paper-deed to this hellhole, as far as I’m concerned. Good riddance.

  A key. I turn it over in the palm of my hand. I can’t tell what it’s for, and I don’t have time to figure it out. Too bad. That might have been an interesting mystery to solve. I put it back into the safe along with the papers.

  And then, there it is, sitting in the palm of my hand—a baseball card for the one and only Joe DiMaggio, the Yankee Clipper himself, carefully wrapped in a clear, plastic sleeve. Honestly, it looks just like all the other baseball cards Mr. Clements has already shown us a million times, so I don’t know why this one’s so dang special. But, okay, I’ll take his word for it. But, jeez, the way Mr. Clements talked about this Joe DiMaggio card all this time, I thought it’d be gold-plated or something.

  I look at Joe’s picture carefully. What the hell? He wasn’t even good-looking! How the hell did that guy marry Marilyn Monroe? I shake my head in disbelief—wonders never cease. That’s near-about as crazy as me marrying Wesley—except, of course, that Wesley’s not and never will be a legendary baseball player, so I reckon comparing Wesley to Joe DiMaggio, and especially picturing myself marrying him one day is a felony-stupid thought.

  I look at the remainder of the items in my hands. Well, I’ll be damned. There’s also a Lou Gehrig baseball card and a Babe Ruth, too.

  I study the Lou Gehrig card. Holy heck, he sure was a looker—just about as handsome as my daddy. My chest tightens for just a minute. Thanks to these cards, I’m finally gonna find my daddy and fulfill my destiny to carry the torch lit by Lana and carried by Marilyn. A wave of emotion wells up inside me like a high tide lurching toward a full moon, but I stuff it down. Now’s not the time to lose my head and get emotional and sloppy, not when my entire happiness hangs in the balance.

  I quickly browse through the remaining stack of papers in my hand, just to be sure I’m not missing anything important, and, yep, sure enough, there are two more baseball cards for players named Mickey Mantle and Yogi Berra. These last two cards don’t look to be in such good shape compared to the others, and I’ve never heard Mr. Clements mention either of these two guys, so they must not have been all that famous, but, wow, that Mickey Mantle sure was a handsome devil—woo-wee! Like a movie star, that one. Why didn’t Marilyn cozy up to that golden boy? Now that would have been a pairing I could wrap my head around.

  I look at the remaining stack of stuff. Looks like a bunch of receipts or something—nothing important. But there’s an envelope, too—and when I open it, holy hell, there’s a whole bunch of cash in there. Five hundred big ones. I’m shaking as I count out the bills.

  I sit and think for a minute, crouching in Mr. Clements’ closet with the small stack of cards and the cash in my hand. For the past few months, I’ve been so consumed with figuring out the combination to Mr. Clements’ lock, I haven’t put much thought into my exit strategy. Now that I know the combination and can open the safe any time I want, what’s the rush? Throwing your rope out before making a loop ain’t gonna catch the cow. Better to come up with a plan that will allow me to leave here with the Joe DiMaggio card and the money in my pocket and no one the wiser that it was little ol’ me who swiped them. I certainly don’t want the police coming after me—and I reckon I also don’t want Mr. and Mrs. Clements to think ill of me after I’m gone.

  It’s settled, then. There’s a time and a place for everything. And right now’s just not the time. As quiet as the morgue, I put every last baseball card plus the envelope full of bills back into the safe and close the door. I rotate the lock a few times to the right, just to reset it, and cover the safe with the quilt.

  Chapter 19

  18 Years 7 Months Old

  524 Days Before Killing Kurtis

  “Oh, Kurtis,” I say, laughing. He’s standing behind me, covering my eyes with his hands. “You’re so silly, baby.”

  “No peeking,” Kurtis warns playfully. “Keep your eyes closed.” He sounds like a little kid.

  We’re standing in Kurtis’ enormous backyard in the warm, late-morning sunshine. He led me out here to give me yet another present. That man sure does love giving me gifts.

  “Okay, okay, I’m not peeking,” I say. I can hear the sound of trickling water nearby. What is that?

  “Are you ready?” Kurtis shouts, his voice bursting with excitement.

  “I’m ready, sugar.”

  “Open your eyes.”

  I do as I’m told.

  Standing before me is a gigantic fountain with naked ladies and cherubs and even a little cupid with wings. I gasp. I can’t believe my eyes. It was months ago that I told Kurtis “This house has everything ’cept a big fountain with naked ladies and cherubs and a little cupid with wings,” and now, just look at what this man has gone and done.

  “Well, what do you think?” Kurtis asks, smiling from ear to ear.

  I open my mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. I shake my head, overwhelmed, and Kurtis laughs.

  “Did you see?” Kurtis asks, pointing toward the base of the fountain.

  I look where he’s indicating—and, oh my goodness—there’s a ring of buttercups encircling the base of the fountain. My heart zigs and zags inside my chest like a butterfly on a string. “Kurtis...” is all I manage to say as tears spring into my eyes. I fling myself into his arms. “This is the best gift I’ve ever gotten in my whole life,” I choke out, resting my cheek on his broad shoulder.

  Kurtis leans down and kisses me with such fervor my knees wobble underneath me—and then, much to my absolute shock, he gets down on his knee.

  I gasp.

  “Marry me, baby,” Kurtis says, holding up a humongous diamond ring.

  I’ve never seen anything so big and sparkly in all my life. And I’ve never seen Kurtis look so strikingly good-looking before, either.

  “Will you marry me?” he asks, a huge, toothy grin lighting up his handsome face. “Come on, honey, be my queen.”

  Even through my tears, I can’t help but smile at Kurtis’ choice of words right there.

  My brain feels like scrambled eggs right now. I never thought I’d marry Kurtis. I reckon I always pictured myself marrying Wesley, as silly as that sounds. All I ever intended with Kurtis was that he’d discover me like Lana Turner in the malt shop and put me in his Marilyn movie—I never imagined I’d find my happily ever after with the man.

  But now, after all these months with no movie in sight and Kurtis’ appetite for me reaching a breaking point—and after all the nice gifts he’s given me, and how patient and gentle he’s been with me, and how he tells me he loves me each and every day—I suddenly realize marrying Kurtis is the unavoidable ending to this story.

  I shouldn’t be surprised. Kurtis is a man, not a boy; of course, he’s claiming what he wants. He’s a man who loves me—a rich and powerful and handsome man who treats me like a queen and wants to make me a huge star. Holy hell, when I think of it like that, I suddenly realize Kurtis must be my Joe DiMaggio. He must be!

  Sure, my heart always went pitter-pat when I kissed Wesley or listened to him talk about God-knows-what, it’s true; and, sure, Wesley was always as sweet as can be to me, sweet as anyone has ever been to me my whole life long. But dreaming about winding up with Wesley’s just plain stupid is what it is. He’s a boy, not a man—a boy who couldn’t rub two nickels together, even if he wanted to. How could I ever fulfill my sacred destiny with a boy like that?

  And, anyway, I’d bet dollars to daffodils Wesley’s forgotten all about me by now. Yes, sir, I’d bet the farm Wesley’s already fallen head over heels with some girl back home (who’s not nearly as pretty as me)—in which case I’d be a no-count fool to sit around dreaming about one day getting to lie naked in a real bed with Wesley and feel him sliding deep inside me as he whispers in
to my ear, “You’re my princess bride.”

  I bite my lip, considering the situation, the fountain with naked ladies and cherubs and even a little cupid with wings trickling pleasantly in my ear. The thing I’ve got to ask myself is this: Do I want to make that legitimate Marilyn-movie starring me or not? Because, clearly, that’s not gonna happen until I give myself to Kurtis in the most sacred of ways. And I can’t do that unless I’ve pledged myself to him under God—because that’s what I’ve been telling him for months now. Gosh dang it, I’ve got a chicken-and-egg situation here, and I’m the chicken who laid the gosh darned egg.

  The huge grin on Kurtis’ face is starting to wane. He’s growing anxious.

  Hot damn, Kurtis really is a handsome man, actually. I don’t know why I didn’t see it before. He’s like a movie star, really. And he’s been awfully good to me, he really has—and patient as the day is long. I really couldn’t find a better husband than Kurtis, even if I tried.

  Kurtis lowers the ring, his face darkening.

  “Yes,” I shout enthusiastically, pulling him up to a stand. Kurtis’ face instantly lights up. “Silly man, of course I’ll marry you. I was just in shock for a second there, marveling that a girl could ever get this lucky. Yes, baby, yes!”

  He throws his head back and guffaws. “You had me sweating there for a second, baby!” He puts the rock on my finger and swings me around, laughing like a kid on Christmas morning. “Let’s do it as soon as possible,” he mumbles into my lips, kissing me over and over—and I know the “it” he’s referring to isn’t the marriage ceremony.

  “Oh, sugar,” I whisper. I return Kurtis’ kiss and nuzzle my face into the crook of his neck.

  Kurtis kisses the top of my head and laughs again, obviously overcome with glee. I smile at him, fully intending to join him in laughing—but I unexpectedly burst into big, soggy tears, instead.