Countdown to Killing Kurtis

by Lauren Rowe

  I look around the bus station for a long beat. Still no Wesley.

  The loneliest thing of all about living out here in Hollywood, though, the thing that makes me feel as lonely as a cloud, is living with Kurtis in that big house and finding Bettie’s long, black hairs everywhere I turn. In my shower drain. On my couch. On my pillow. Damn it all to hell, feeling like a third wheel in my own home is enough to make me feel lonelier than the man in the lighthouse—not to mention fit-to-be-tied, too.

  I look at my watch. 12:05. That boy’s slower than molasses running uphill in the winter—what’s taking him so long? If he moved any slower getting here, he’d have to walk backwards just to make any progress at all. Good lord, when I finally see that big-eared, scrawny-assed, puppy-faced boy, I’m gonna slap him silly for keeping me waiting—right after I give him a big ol’ kiss on those delicious lips of his. Wooh! My heart’s racing. Wesley’s gonna foam at the mouth when he sees how gorgeous I’ve become in a year—he’s gonna go so batshit-crazy at the sight of me, one of his marbles might just pop out his ear and roll across the floor.

  I look around again, slowly scanning the scattered people milling around the station. Good lord, people hanging around a bus station on a Tuesday afternoon sure aren’t what I’d call a bunch of lookers—I could hire half of ’em to haunt a house. I look at my watch again and tap my toe. Where the hell is that scrawny-ass boy?

  It’s not that I mind being alone. To the contrary, I’m happy as a clam at high tide when I’m floating all by myself in my pool, reading a good book and sucking on an Otter Pop. The problem is when Kurtis comes home and starts blabbering about some new scene from his latest porno or how he wants to open Casanova Clubs in New York and Tokyo—and all I can think about is whether he just came home from screwing Bettie. That’s when I start to think about my ever-faithful Wesley and how we used to lie under the big oak tree together and talk about Lord-knows-what and kiss ’til our lips were swollen and sore. Those are the times when I feel so lonely, it feels like my heart is wilting like a cut flower.

  By the time I boarded the bus for Hollywood, I’d told Wesley more about me than I’d ever told another living soul—a thousand times more than I’ve told Kurtis and more than I’d ever tell anyone else in a month of Sundays. Good lord, I even told Wesley about Jeb’s cake! And the best part is he still wanted me.

  My heart lurches with a sudden epiphany: Wesley loves me. He never said those exact words to me, but I suddenly know it’s true. He loves me and he’s going to take care of me forever and ever.

  Wesley and I just fit. We just make sense. And it’s always been that way. From the minute I walked through the front door of the group home, it seemed like I’d known Wesley my whole life, like we weren’t so much as meeting each other, but reuniting. There was never a time when I felt like I needed to explain anything to him—he always just understood. Wesley never needed me to be anyone or anything besides the real me, no matter what. For cryin’ out loud, that boy loved me even before I had my blonde hair and boobs! Before I wore a stitch of makeup! And even after he knew I served Jeb a big ol’ slice of rat-poison cake! Oh my goodness. My heart is clanging in my ears. Wesley loves me—all of me—even the bad parts.

  I touch the diamond cross around my neck and let my fingertips glide up to the diamond star at the top. I thought Kurtis loved me, but I was wrong. He only wants me because I’m so dang pretty—but Wesley wants me ’cause I’m so dang me. My eyes brim with sudden tears. I reach behind my neck, unclasp my necklace, and stuff it into my pocketbook.

  Wesley would never lie to me or cheat on me. And he’d certainly never wallop me upside the head. That boy wouldn’t harm a hair on my head—or anyone’s, for that matter. He might be sharp as a mashed potato, it’s true, but he’s also sweet as the day is long. And that’s why I love him.

  Damn it all to hell. I love Wesley! It’s true! I’m not gonna tell Wesley goodbye when I see him—I’m gonna tell him I love him and that I want to be with him forever and ever, starting today. I’m not gonna wait eleven whole months to start my new life with Wesley—hell no. Let the chips fall where they may, I’m gonna start my life with Wesley right this very minute.

  I’ll just walk right up to my husband and tell him we’re through, that I don’t love him and he can’t have me anymore. And then I’ll just walk away, my head held high, holding my darling Wesley’s hand.

  I reckon Kurtis will try to make me stay with promises of money and movies and cars and whatnot. But he can keep it all. I don’t care about Kurtis’ fancy mansion or anything else. Wesley and I could live in a mud hut and be happy, as long as we’re together. And I don’t need my Marilyn movie, either, even if Kurtis could get it off the ground after all this time, because I’ve got my Dream Girl movie now. When the world sees me as the Dream Girl, I’m gonna be a huge star—I’ll have to beat directors off with a stick! I’m gonna make myself into a respected actress, all by myself, no thanks to Kurtis the Porno King, thank you very much.

  Honestly, it’s a relief to be thinking this way. I don’t even want to kill Kurtis anymore. I really don’t. Yes, he walloped me, it’s true—which means he rightly deserves to get hacked into little tiny pieces and scattered throughout the bushes in the backyard. But all of a sudden, I wanna take the high road here and turn the page. All I want is to start a happy life with Wesley and that means washing the blood off my hands, once and for all. From here on out, I’m gonna be more like Wesley—good and pure and sweet.

  I look at my watch. 12:27. Where the fuckity-fuck-fuck is Wesley, for fuck’s sake? I’m bursting out of my skin to throw my arms around that scrawny boy’s neck and tell him I’ve loved him all along, since the first time we locked lips on my cot all those years ago.

  I let out a long sigh. I sure wish Wesley would show up already.

  I’m feeling relieved about calling off Killing Kurtis Day, I really am; but I’m a bit apprehensive about it, too. Kurtis isn’t the kind of man who’s gonna say, “It was darned nice to meet you, honey; now go ahead and have a great life with your boyfriend.” But I’ve just gotta have faith that Wesley and I can figure out a happily ever after that doesn’t involve carving my husband like a Thanksgiving Day turkey. Because Wesley and I love each other—bigger than a sky full of stars—and I just have to believe a love that big and pure and true, the kind of love I’ve read about in my books, can conquer any problem, big or small—even a problem as big and brawny, and jealous, as Kurtis Jackman.

  Chapter 34

  19 Years 3 Months Old

  285 Days Before Killing Kurtis

  Wesley not showing up at the bus station two months ago took the wind right out of my sails, to tell you the truth. I waited as long as I could on that bench at the station, as long as I dared, and when I couldn’t wait another minute, I hightailed it to my three o’clock acting class, even though I just wanted to crawl into bed for a thousand weeks. It was a good thing I made it to my class, too, because midway through, Johnny the Fink popped into the theater to check up on me and then proceeded to glare at me all class long like a duck watching for june bugs on a pond. Bastard. I wouldn’t spit up his ass if his guts were on fire. In that moment, gosh dang it, I hated Kurtis more than I ever thought my cold, dead heart could muster—but all I did anyway was wave and smile at Johnny, as usual, like I’m sweet as the powdered sugar on top of a jelly doughnut.

  For a solid week after Wesley didn’t come to the station, I was eating sorrow by the spoonful, every day, all day. I couldn’t even raise my head and pretend to smile, not even for the sake of playing Perfect Wife. For days and days, I felt like I’d been eaten by a wolf and shit over a cliff.

  Wouldn’t you know it, it was during that horrible, heart-wrenching week my acting instructor decided to teach the class something every serious actor needs to know: how to cry on cue. “You’ve got to put yourself into your character’s head and allow yourself to feel whatever they’re feeling,” he explained. “No holding back.”

 
; “But how can I feel what my character feels if I’ve never actually experienced the character’s situation?” another student asked.

  “Human emotion is universal, regardless of specific context,” my instructor explained, smiling. “You can discover your character’s emotional life by drawing on your own personal experiences. If your character has suffered a devastating loss, think about your own sorrow when you suffered a devastating loss in your own life. If your character feels abandoned, or betrayed, then think about how heartbroken you felt when someone abandoned or betrayed you.”

  And just like that, just sitting there in my seat listening to my instructor talk about sorrow and heartbreak, I burst into big, soggy tears. It wasn’t even my turn to come onstage and do an exercise or anything like that; I was just sitting there, listening closely to what my instructor was saying, and then bam!—the cheese slid right off my cracker.

  All of a sudden, all I could think about was Wesley’s big-eared, puppy-dog face, and I lost myself to noisy, wracking sobs. Sitting on that bus-station bench for hours and hours, bursting at the seams to finally tell Wesley I love him, all I could think was, “My Wesley wouldn’t let me down—no, sir, my Wesley loves me—he’ll come.” And then, by God, what did Wesley do? He let me down. Just like everyone always has. And that got me to thinking maybe Wesley never really loved me at all—and that thought just about did me in.

  And then, thinking that Wesley might not have loved me made me think about Daddy—about all the years I waited and waited for him to come get me and he never did, about all the birthdays that came and went without so much as a card or a call from him, and all the times I went to the mailbox and waited on the postman to come, just hoping against hope he’d finally bring me one teeny-tiny little note from Daddy, anything at all to make me feel like maybe there was one person in the whole world who gave two shits if I lived or died.

  And then, for no reason I can understand, I started thinking about how Jeb used to hug me and tell me he loved me like a daughter; how he taught me how to bake a cake, and even let me lick the spoon when we were done; how he was always trying to take me bowling or to the movies or to ice cream, but I always said no; and how, on that horrible night when I served poor Jeb that huge slice of cake, his eyes lit up and got kind of watery as he said, “Nobody’s ever baked me a cake before.”

  Just when I thought I was all out of tears, I started thinking about how Mother always used to yell at me; how she did nothing but lie around on her dirty mattress, stinking of whiskey (until Jeb came along, anyway). I thought about how my whole life Mother never so much as told me she loved me, not even one time—and, in fact, once told me that having a baby had ruined her entire life. And, finally, I thought about how Mother wouldn’t even look at me at trial after she figured out it was me who baked Jeb’s cake.

  Just when my tears started to dry up the tiniest bit, Kurtis’ face leaped into my mind like a scalded cat and wouldn’t leave, and I started thinking about how Kurtis was supposed to discover me like Lana Turner in the malt shop, but didn’t; and how he said he loved me but walloped me upside the head, anyway—and plowed Bettie Big Boobs in our bed, to boot. I thought about how I was stupid enough to want to give Kurtis my virgin-heart along with my virgin-body, but he only wanted the latter.

  And that’s when I suddenly understood the truth like I’d been whacked upside the head with it: I’m completely alone in this world, without a single person to love me except audiences in cineplexes around the world. And that’s when I realized being the Dream Girl in that legitimate director’s movie is the only thing I care about in this life.

  I felt a gentle arm wrap around my shoulder and squeeze me tight, and when I peeked through my wet fingers, I saw my silver-haired acting instructor smiling at me, his blue eyes twinkling. “It’s okay, Buttercup,” he said quietly in his deep, smooth voice. “Let it all out.”

  Later, when I’d calmed down a bit, my instructor said, “It seems like you’ve got a lot of life experience to draw from, huh?”

  I half-smiled at him and shrugged, not knowing what to say.

  “You’ve got a lot of talent,” he said. “You’re a true natural.”

  No one had ever said something nice like that to me before—and right then and there, I swear my insides started glowing like a firefly’s butt. Just like that, I actually felt like smiling again, for the first time in forever. And that’s why, when I walked past a pet store after class and spied the fuzziest little black-and-white ball of fur in the window, I didn’t hesitate about going inside and pulling out my wallet and making that little cutie patootie my very own.

  “What the hell is that?” Kurtis asked when I got home with my new purchase.

  “This here’s my new kitty,” I answered matter-of-factly. “Wilber.”

  “Wilber? You mean, like the pig in Charlotte’s Web?”

  “Yup,” I answered, since, obviously, I couldn’t tell Kurtis I’d actually named my little kitty on account of me being Charlie Wilber’s Daughter.

  Oh, how my darling Wilber turned out to be my salvation. Thanks to him, I was able to get my mind right again and realize that things with Wesley had happened according to fate, even if Wesley not coming to the bus station felt like my heart being ripped out of my chest at the time. With the Dream Girl movie about to start filming any day now, I’m sure, and my career about to take off into the stratosphere, I realized I couldn’t afford any distractions—even a distraction as sweet as Wesley.

  Plus, when Wesley didn’t come, I realized I’d been a fool for thinking I could ever just walk out on Kurtis. How the heck was I gonna do that, especially to start a new life with Wesley? Kurtis wasn’t gonna just let me walk out the door. And Wesley and Kurtis being together in the same city, both of them alive, both of them wanting me, wouldn’t have ended well. I reckon that situation would have been like lighting the fuse on a big ol’ stick of dynamite and then leaning in to watch the whole thing go boom.

  Nowadays, though, I’ve got my head on straight. I haven’t made it down to the prison to tell Daddy just yet (on account of me being extra busy with “advanced-intermediate” acting classes), but I’ve decided once and for all to suck it up and make a happily ever after with Kurtis. It’s what makes the most sense in the grand scheme of things. Killing a man is serious business and I’ve decided I’m done with it, once and for all. Lord knows I don’t need to be giving myself nightmares again like I used to have about Jeb; and I most certainly don’t wanna be looking over my shoulder for the police all the time, either.

  And, anyway, Kurtis has been a good husband lately. Not only has he recently started talking about our Marilyn movie in earnest again, he’s also been sweet as peaches about me getting to be the Dream Girl, too. In fact, I’d even go so far as to say he’s as happy as can be about it.

  Plus, Kurtis’ monster hasn’t come out again since that one horrible night, and the more I think about it, I reckon a man doing one bad thing doesn’t necessarily make him a bad person overall. At the end of the day, what I’ve come to realize is this: as long I’m the Dream Girl, and working toward my sacred destiny, I can be happy, come hell or high water, even being married to Kurtis. All I’ve got to do is keep myself from going off half-cocked, that’s all.

  To keep myself on the straight and narrow, I’ve been keeping myself busier than a moth in a mitten at all times, attending as many acting classes as possible. Why not? My husband doesn’t seem to mind paying for ’em, so I just keep on goin’. Because, as it turns out, even if you’re a “natural,” like me, there’s still a lot to learn about acting, once you aim to learn it all. It might not seem like it from the outside, but acting’s a lot more than just crying or laughing or looking pretty on cue—at least if you aim to do it right.

  In fact, now that I’ve graduated to taking “advanced-intermediate” classes, I can see why Marilyn Monroe herself took acting classes even when she was already the biggest movie star in the world. Just like Marilyn did, I’m gonna k
eep studying and learning and practicing my craft—because, one day, I intend to do a helluva lot more in a movie than standing around in a bikini and washing a gosh-dang car.

  For now, though, since washing a car in a bikini is what the Dream Girl role requires, I’m gonna give it my all. Yes, sir, I’m gonna learn as much as humanly possible in my acting classes so I can wash the heck out of that dang car in a manner authentically befitting my Dream Girl character. I’ve even come up with a whole back story for the Dream Girl, and I think doing all that hard work is really gonna help me authentically convey her emotions and motivations to a tee, even if I don’t say a word.

  Speaking of the Dream Girl movie, though, I must admit I’ve been wondering lately why that director-guy hasn’t called me yet. At first, I thought maybe our answering machine at the house had somehow erased his message, so I tried calling him a few times. When I wasn’t able to reach him, I left him Kurtis’ office number so that, when he called back, Mildred could take a message for me. But he never called back. In fact, I haven’t gotten a single phone call from a soul, not even that talent-agent guy who sent me to the Dream Girl audition in the first place, the one who said he could get me as much work in this town as I could ever want. And I can’t figure out why.

  Chapter 35

  19 Years 4 Months Old

  265 Days Before Killing Kurtis

  I’m bone tired of waiting around for that director to call me. I’ve been waiting for something or other to happen my whole life, and I don’t want to wait around anymore. Today, I’m taking matters into my own hands—I’m marching right into that director’s office and asking him, point blank, “When the heck are we gonna start shooting my Dream Girl movie, sir?”