by Lauren Rowe
“I’d be delighted to sign it for you, sir,” I say. “Thank you for your kind words.” I sign the magazine and smile for a picture with him, too, and then I go right ahead and say hello and “how do you do” to the man’s shaggy coworker who sprinted out of the back room when the first guy started hollering to him.
“Well, I’ve got to be going now,” I say. “I’ve got to get myself to an important audition.”
“Oh, well, good luck. I’m sure you’ll do great.”
“Thank you kindly.” I turn toward the front door but then wheel back around on a sudden impulse. “Hey, do y’all happen to have anything on Bettie Page? A book or whatnot?”
“Oh yeah, we’ve got a whole Bettie Page section.”
The man leads me to a corner of the store that’s covered to bursting with Bettie Page calendars, posters, mugs and more.
I stare at everything, flabbergasted. No matter Bettie Page’s pose or outfit in any given picture, or the angle or lighting of the particular photo, one fact is undeniable. Bettie Page is the smaller-boobed and prettier twin of Bettie Big Boobs. Holy shit on a stick, she’s her gosh-dang spitting image.
“She was a goddess,” the man says, ogling a Bettie Page calendar. “One of a kind.”
I try to smile, but I can’t make the edges of my mouth curl up. Seeing these pictures of the real Bettie Page suddenly makes me bone-certain that Kurtis’ scribble about the “Bettie Page True Story” has something to do with Bettie Big Boobs. And, surely, that’s a very, very bad thing.
Chapter 29
19 Years 1 Week Old
373 Days Before Killing Kurtis
“Who is he?” Kurtis booms at me.
I was just now fast asleep in our bed when the sound of Kurtis hollering at me has jolted me wide awake. I sit up in bed, my heart thumping out of my chest. What the hell?
My eyes adjust to the dark. Kurtis is drunker than Cooter Brown on a Saturday night. He’s staggering around like he’s been shot—or, more accurately, like he’s been shot (multiple times) by Jack Daniels.
“Who is he?” Kurtis bellows again, his eyes bulging out of his sloppy face.
I have no idea what Kurtis is talking about. I’ve never once told him about my recent trips to see Daddy. How does he know? “Kurtis, hold your horses.” I try to keep my voice calm and reassuring, but my heart is racing.
Kurtis lunges onto the bed and grasps my upper arms with his strong fingers. “Tell me!” he shouts, shaking me ’til my teeth rattle. “Who is he?”
My arms burn under Kurtis’ fierce grip and my neck is whipping back and forth. “You’re hurting me,” I shriek.
“Well, you’re fucking killing me.” He lets out a mangled cry and tightens his grip on my arms. “Tell me!”
His vise-like grip is excruciating. I struggle to free myself from his grasp, kicking and thrashing. “Let go of me, Kurtis! I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Does he know about my visits to see Daddy? Since my first reunion with Daddy a month ago, I’ve gone back to the prison twice. How much does Kurtis know?
“Who is he?” Kurtis screams.
“Kurtis, let go of me.” My thrashing intensifies, but I’m no physical match for Kurtis. If he wanted to, he could snap me in two as easily as breaking a Saltine cracker. “What are you talking about?” I shriek.
“Johnny saw you with him today,” Kurtis screams.
Now I’m confused. “Johnny?” I sputter. “Johnny from the club? I wasn’t with Johnny today.”
Out of nowhere, Kurtis releases his fierce grip on me—but only so he can whack me across the side of the face. The impact knocks me flat onto the bed and takes my breath away. I instinctively cover my head with my arms. I’ve never been hit before. I’m stunned.
“Don’t play games with me. Who is he?”
I stammer for a brief moment and finally gather myself enough to reply coherently. “I don’t know what you’re talking about!” This has to be some kind of big misunderstanding. This has to be a bad dream. I begin to sob.
Kurtis leaps up from the bed and staggers around the room, pacing. “Johnny saw you with a man at the Roosevelt Hotel today. What the fuck were you doing at the Roosevelt Hotel today with another man?”
Good lord, everything’s crystal clear to me now. “Kurtis!” I shriek. “I went to an audition today—a real audition—and I got a cup of coffee afterwards with the director at the hotel just across the street—in the hotel lobby, Kurtis—just in the lobby—so we could sit and talk about the movie.” My voice is quavering. The side of my face is throbbing and so are my arms where Kurtis grabbed me so hard. “I got the part, Kurtis—my first audition and I got the part! I was gonna tell you about it when you got home tonight, but I fell asleep before you got home.”
Damn it all to hell, I left that audition today feeling finer than a frog’s hair split four ways, just bursting to tell my husband about my good fortune. I wasn’t thinking about Bettie Big Boobs or any stupid Bettie Page True Story; I didn’t have a care in the world except to squeal to my husband, “Those investors are gonna be lining up now!” I waited up for Kurtis until well after midnight to share my good news with him, certain he was gonna be so happy he’d throw his hat over the windmill—but I fell asleep before he ever got home. And now here he is, hollering at me and smacking me around? Why the hell didn’t he just ask me about my day instead of walloping me across the face? How did I go from shooting out the lights to getting the snot smacked out of me in a matter of hours?
Kurtis crawls onto the bed and reaches for me. I recoil. “Don’t touch me,” I hiss.
“I’m sorry, Buttercup—I’m drunk, baby. Oh God, I’m so drunk.” He flops down onto the bed on his back. “What have you done to me, baby? You’re driving me crazy. I’ve never been crazy like this before.”
Is he saying it’s my fault he hit me?
“I’m sorry, baby,” he says. “Forgive me—it won’t happen again.”
“Fuck you, Kurtis!” I scream. I’m shaking with my rage.
Kurtis is suddenly all over me like white on rice, kissing the side of my face where he hit me. His lips are slimy and he reeks, just like Mother always did. I try to pull away from him.
“Shh, baby, I’m sorry.”
I push him off me. “It was an audition, Kurtis—I’m an actress.”
“Okay, baby, you’re an actress.” He laughs.
Why is he laughing? That director sure thought I was an actress today. When I showed up at that audition and gave that director a signed copy of Casanova with my picture on the cover, he said, “Thank you so much—I’m a huge fan.” And then, without even making me read lines from a script, he said, “You’re the ultimate Dream Girl for my movie,” and I thought I’d died and gone straight to heaven. Mind you, it’s not actually a speaking part—I’ll mainly be washing a car in a bikini and then changing clothes in a bedroom while some nerdy college boys peep at me through a window—but the whole movie’s this comedy about these horny college boys plotting and scheming about me, their Dream Girl—in fact, the whole dang movie is called Dream Girl—so I reckon you could accurately say I’m the star of the whole picture.
Suddenly, a thought pings my brain like a pebble against a window. “The Roosevelt Hotel isn’t anywhere near the Casanova Club. What the hell was Johnny doing at the Roosevelt Hotel today?”
“Watching you,” Kurtis slurs.
Kurtis sent Johnny to spy on me? The hairs on the back of my neck stand up. Oh my God—what did Johnny see? I try to remember how much I flirted with that director as we sat there drinking our fancy cappuccinos. Did I reach over and touch his hand? Did I throw my head back and laugh at anything he said that was even remotely humorous? Did I bat my eyelashes and bite the tip of my finger? Holy crap. Yep. I did all of the above. What the hell did Johnny see? And how many other days has Johnny been watching me? Has Johnny seen me with Daddy? My mind is reeling.
“What do you mean, he was watching me?” I ask, trembling like a leaf.
<
br /> “I like to know what my wife is up to while I’m at work.”
I leap off the bed. “You don’t trust me.”
His anger flashes again. “I don’t trust all the assholes slobbering all over my wife every fucking day, that’s who I don’t trust. You’re my wife—you’re mine. I can see how they look at you, baby, drooling all over you, staring at every inch of your body... They’re all out there right now, sitting on the toilet with your photo, ogling your tits, jacking off and fantasizing about fucking you. It makes me crazy.” He runs his fingers through his hair.
Well, this is some fucked up logic right here. I throw up my hands. “All those slobbering men out there have only seen me naked because you yourself put my nudie pictures in your gosh-dang magazine—in a special double-edition featuring me!”
“Yeah, tell me something I don’t know. That’s what’s making me so crazy.” He lets out a long exhale. “I’ve never been married before, Buttercup. I’ve never loved someone before. I didn’t know how it’d feel to have men gawking at my wife’s tits and ass and writing fan mail saying how much they want to fuck her.” He grabs fistfuls of his hair. “I can’t stand it.”
Well, shut my mouth, I’m speechless. This man’s lost his vertical hold.
Kurtis rubs his face and sighs.
Damn, I’m freezing standing here in the dark in nothing but my skimpy nightgown, but I’m afraid to move. A few minutes pass in silence.
“What’s that director’s name?” Kurtis finally asks. He seems to have calmed down.
“It was just an audition,” I say. “A legitimate audition.” I cross my arms over my chest, trying to warm myself. I’d been so cozy and peaceful in my sleep before Kurtis busted in and gave me a heart attack and a fucking black eye. I think I was even having a nice dream about Kurtis.
He sighs. “I believe you.”
Well, isn’t that sweet. He believes me.
“I believe you, baby,” he persists. He pats the bed next to him, inviting me to join him. “Come on. Just tell me the director’s name. I’m proud of you. I just want to make sure you’re in good hands.”
I’m skeptical and I’m sure my face shows it. Maybe Kurtis already knows the director’s name and he’s just testing me. Maybe this is a trap. But maybe, on the other hand, he’s telling me the truth—and if I tell him who the director-guy is, Kurtis will understand how legitimate this movie really is. I don’t see a downside to telling him the truth, so I tell Kurtis the director’s name. “He’s a real director, Kurtis,” I add. “He went to film school and everything. He’s never made a porno in his life.” That last comment ought to sting. “Maybe you should talk to this director-guy about directing our Marilyn movie?”
Kurtis grunts. “Oh yeah, I’ll talk to him, all right, you can bet on that.” He pats the bed again. “Now get over here. I wanna show you how sorry I am.”
My stomach turns over like a crank-engine. There’s no doubt now that whatever happily ever after Kurtis and I had together these past six months of marriage just vanished into thin air. Poof. Gone. Like smoke from one of Kurtis’ stinky cigars.
“Come on,” Kurtis slurs. “Get into bed and let me show you how much I love you, baby.”
I don’t want Kurtis to touch me. If he’s feeling lonely right now, then he can go fuck himself. Or Bettie Big Boobs, for all I care. “Like hell I will,” I spit at him.
Without waiting for his reply, I march out of the room and down the hall to one of the guest bedrooms, my heart racing the whole time. I’m shaking. He could beat me senseless right now and there’s nothing I could do about it. Without a weapon or some advanced planning, I’d never be able to defend myself against an enraged Kurtis—tonight made that fact abundantly clear.
My heart’s clanging and banging right out of my chest as I sit on the edge of the guest bed. I’m quaking and quivering, listening for any sound in the hallway. The house is quiet as a stone—it doesn’t sound like Kurtis is coming after me. Of course, it’s possible he’s creeping down the hall on his tiptoes right this very second, but I’m not sure Kurtis is capable of creeping on his tiptoes, or doing anything whatsoever requiring any form of subtlety.
I look around the room for something I could use as a weapon against Kurtis if he were to come into the bedroom. There’s a lamp on the side table, but it’s too big for me to handle. Why’d I pick this room to run into? I’m a dumbass. There’s hardly anything in here. I’m a sitting duck. I listen intently again. My blood is pulsing in my ears, but, other than that, I hear nothing. I search the closet. There’s nothing usable in there, either. Damn. I sit back down on the edge of the bed, trembling with shock and adrenaline. I can barely breathe.
Motherfucking-fuckity-fuck-fuck! How could that bastard hit me? Nobody hauls off and punches Charlie Wilber’s Daughter! Nobody. I ought to leave this house right now and never look back. I don’t need Kurtis Jackman anymore—I’ve got a starring role in a legitimate Hollywood movie with a director who went to film school and everything.
And yet... Before I let my pistol go off half-cocked, I need to think this through. After Kurtis’ drunken outburst tonight, it’s clear he’s not going to let me waltz right out the front door of his mansion after six months of marriage with nothing but a gosh-it-was-nice-knowing-you pat on my back. Hell no, he won’t. That man’s gonna let me leave over my dead body.
And there’s also the matter of the fancy “prenuptial agreement” Kurtis made me sign the day before our wedding. Thanks to that snappy little piece of paper, I won’t have a pot to piss in if I leave Kurtis before our first wedding anniversary. And that’s six long months away. If I leave now, I’ll be leaving with nothing but my bouncy boobs and the clothes on my back. And that’d be a crying shame because this city ain’t cheap and I already spent every last dime of my baseball card money on boobs and dresses before Kurtis started footing my bills.
And even though I don’t give two squirts about Kurtis’ stupid porno-money, I sure do love living in this fancy house and floating on a raft in the pool—and Daddy sure looked awfully excited about getting to live with me in a Hollywood mansion. One day I’m gonna buy my own mansion, of course, but I’m not sure exactly when I’m gonna be able to pull that off—all that director said about the Dream Girl movie was that he was gonna call me “really soon.”
I grasp fistfuls of the bedspread underneath me, trying to contain my rage and hurt. Damn it all to hell, I’ve been a downright fool, imagining I’d found a happily ever after with some kind of knight in shining armor. For months now, I’ve been swooning over my husband like a pie-eyed ninny, and the whole time, it turns out I was sleeping with a gosh-dang monster. While I’ve been playing Happy Wife all these months, I’ve forgotten who I am and where I’m going—I’ve lost sight of my sacred destiny. I’ve just been sitting here, sweet as pie, smiling like a simpleton, letting Kurtis’ lying and cheating ways roll right off me like water off a duck’s back. Yes, indeed, I’ve been a goddamned duck—a googly-eyed, swooning, blushing, sexed-up, panties-on-fire duck.
Well, guess what, Kurtis Jackman? Fuck a duck. All bets are off. I’m me again. My arms burn where you squashed me with your fingers. My neck and jaw ache from how you shook me like a rag doll. The swelling on the side of my face is starting to budge up into my right eye. I’m all stove up, just about everywhere—I’m gonna need four gosh-dang Tylenols just to get a wink of sleep.
Holy hell. Nobody whacks the crap out of Charlie Wilber’s Daughter. Nobody. Now that I know for sure my happily ever after with Kurtis has been blown to Kingdom Come, I’ve got no choice but to do the right thing here, even if it’s not the easy thing to do. I’ve got to teach my husband some much needed manners. Yes, indeed, the time to kill a snake is when he raises his head.
I tiptoe back down the hall to the master bedroom.
Kurtis is passed out on our bed, flat on his back, sawing logs. I stand over him in the dark. I’ve got a thumping gizzard for a heart. Ice water in my veins. I could sneak dow
n to the kitchen right now and grab the big butcher knife, the one Kurtis used to carve that big, fat turkey last month, and ram it right into the middle of my husband’s heaving chest.
I can feel the side of my face swelling up where Kurtis walloped me. My head is throbbing without mercy. My neck is already stiffening. Yes, indeed, my husband most certainly has earned himself a knife in the chest tonight.
And yet...
I know better than anyone how the police react to a dead husband: “The wife did it.” And when they see that the wife’s got a battered and bruised face, and finger marks on her arms, and add to the mix the fact that the dead husband’s filthy rich and there’s a pre-nup, too—not to mention the husband’s probably had a whore on the side all along—well, you’ve got an open-and-shut case against the wife.
Of course, I’d cry big soggy tears on the witness stand and say I was defending myself. But the prosecution’s expert would get up in front of the jury and say, “The angle of the entry wounds and the pooling of the blood suggest that the knife penetrated the victim’s sternum while he was lying down.” And then the prosecuting attorney would point her accusatory finger at me and say, “She expects us to believe she was defending herself with a butcher knife against a husband who was lying flat on his back in bed?” And that’d be it for me. They’d lock me up and throw away the key. I’d never get the chance to fulfill my destiny to carry Lana and Marilyn’s torch because I’d be too busy whittling sticks into wooden bears and fishes in my ten-by-ten prison cell.
I stand over Kurtis for a good long while, wringing my hands, trying to figure out how to kill him tonight without getting caught.
Kurtis continues snoring, blissfully unaware that his life hangs in the balance.
A loud snore catches in Kurtis’ nose. He coughs and rolls over onto his side. I instinctively hold my breath. When his breathing and snoring become rhythmic again, my body relaxes.
Yes, Kurtis needs killing. And badly. But even if I could figure out what to do with his body and clean up every last drop of blood tonight, I wouldn’t get away with it. Not tonight, I wouldn’t. Not when I’m covered in bruises. Not after only six months of marriage and a pre-nuptial agreement that makes it so I’m better off killing him than leaving him.
