by Joy Fielding
“Now this is my idea of a good time,” Brad said, pressing the blade into the boy’s skin, drawing blood.
“Hey, mister,” Troy began, drawing back and tugging anxiously on his low-slung jeans. “Take it easy. We were just kidding around.”
“Didn’t sound like you were kidding to me.”
“Please,” Curtis whimpered.
“Way I figure it,” Brad was saying, clearly enjoying himself. “You got about three seconds to apologize to my girl here before I slit your friend’s throat.”
“Brad …,” Jamie said. “No …”
“It’s okay, Jamie. Well, boys? What’s it gonna be?”
“We’re sorry,” Wayne said quickly.
“We’re really sorry,” echoed Troy.
“How about you, big shot?” Brad took a tiny nick out of Curtis’s flesh. “You gonna apologize to the lady?”
“I’m sorry,” Curtis managed to croak out.
“Good boys. Now I’m gonna suggest you get the hell away from here as fast as possible.” He released his grip on Curtis’s neck, simultaneously twisting the boy’s ponytail around his fingers, then slicing it off with one quick flick of his wrist, as easily as if it were sliding through butter. Instantly the boys took off. Brad watched them until they disappeared, then helped Jamie to her feet. He tossed the severed clump of hair into the air, watched it fall to the ground and scatter in the breeze, like flecks of ash from a fire. “I think his mama’s gonna like that look a whole lot better, don’t you?”
“I still can’t believe what happened,” Jamie was saying later. She was curled up in Brad’s arms, their naked bodies glistening with the sweat of their recent lovemaking, in the middle of the motel room’s king-size bed while the Late Show with David Letterman played silently on the small TV attached to the dark, imitation-wood dresser on the opposite wall.
“It was fun, wasn’t it?”
She sat up. “No, it wasn’t fun. Are you crazy?”
“Crazy about you,” he said, dragging her back down.
Jamie couldn’t help but smile, although she was still trembling and hadn’t stopped trembling since they’d checked in. “What if they go to the police?”
“They won’t.”
“How do you know?”
“ ’Cause I do.”
Jamie pulled the dark floral bedspread up around her breasts. In the corner of the generically decorated room, an air-conditioning unit rumbled loudly at irregular intervals, switching on and off without notice. Beside her, a remote control unit lay glued to the end table, probably to prevent theft. In retaliation, some enterprising soul had absconded with its batteries, rendering it useless. Which meant they’d have to get out of bed to turn off the television. Which meant it would probably be on all night. “Can I ask you something?”
“You want to know where I got the knife,” he stated, as if he’d been expecting this question all night.
“I thought switchblades were against the law.”
Brad gently brushed some hairs away from her forehead. “Did I tell you that before I got into the computer business, I spent some time working with underprivileged kids?”
“What? No.”
“There was this one kid everybody said was … what’s that word your mother used in describing you?”
“Incorrigible?”
“That’s the one. I preferred ‘free spirit.’ Like you,” he said, kissing the tip of her nose.
Jamie felt herself melting. She wasn’t incorrigible. She was a free spirit.
“Anyway, kid claimed I turned his life around, that if it hadn’t been for me …” Brad stared absently at the television screen. “And as a parting gift, he gave me the knife. Said he wouldn’t be needing it anymore. That I should always carry it—for good luck.”
Jamie shook her head. The man was one surprise after another. “Well, it was certainly lucky we had it tonight.”
“Sometimes you have to protect yourself,” he said. “And the people you love.”
Jamie held her breath. Was he saying he loved her? “No man’s ever looked out for me the way you do,” she whispered, huddling in against his side, silently thanking God for bringing this man into her life. A kindred spirit who saw into her soul, who understood who she really was. A man who looked after her, protected her, took care of her. She could have been raped tonight, she realized. Or worse. She closed her eyes, choosing not to think about the awful things that could have happened had Brad not been there to rescue her. I’m so lucky, she thought, sighing deeply and giving in to sleep.
TEN
“Hi. Come on in,” Lily said, grabbing Emma’s hand and ushering her inside.
“I can’t stay very long,” Emma said, thinking, I shouldn’t have come, I must be out of my mind to leave Dylan alone, even for a few minutes.
“I was afraid you’d changed your mind.”
I only came to tell you I can’t stay. “I had to make sure Dylan was asleep,” she said instead, allowing Lily to lead her toward the living room. Her house is so cheery, Emma was thinking, marveling at the pale pink wallpaper with its endlessly repeating pattern of delicate little flowers, and wondering idly how much it had cost. I should do something like that with my hall, she was thinking.
The living room was painted a deeper shade of pink than the hall, and the furniture, while clearly not new, was warm and comfortable-looking. At least the four women occupying the two pink-floral love seats facing each other in the middle of the small room looked comfortable enough. As did the wild-haired, leopard-clad amazon she’d seen exiting the old Cadillac parked across the street, and who was now twisted into a pretzel-like position on the beige carpet in front of the fireplace. Emma wondered how anyone achieved that kind of flexibility. She wondered if the fireplace actually worked. She wondered what she was doing with these women when she should be home with her son.
“Ladies, this is Emma Frost,” Lily began, leading Emma into the center of the room. “If she looks familiar, it’s because hers were the eyes on the Maybelline mascara packages a few years back.”
“You’re a model?” one of the women asked.
“Not so much anymore.”
“I use Maybelline mascara,” someone chirped. “It’s the best.”
“Well, well, you must have made a bundle from that. What are you doing on Mad River Road?” This from the leopard-clad diva on the floor.
“It’s a long story,” Emma told her.
“We’re a book club,” the woman said. “We love stories.”
The other women laughed.
“You do have lovely eyes,” someone offered.
“Let me introduce you to your neighbors,” Lily continued proudly. “Emma, this is Cecily Wahlberg. She lives in the lilac-colored house.”
“Number 123,” Cecily elaborated, as if there was more than one. She crossed one skinny leg over the other and weaved bony fingers through her fine, blond pageboy.
“… Anne Steffoff …”
“Number 115,” Anne stated, her voice a deep baritone that went well with her short, geometrically cut hair. “I wanted to paint it purple.”
“I wouldn’t let her,” said the woman beside her. “Carole McGowan,” she said, offering Emma a strong handshake and a toothy grin. “Anne’s significant other.”
Emma recognized the three women, all of whom were casually dressed in jeans and pastel-colored T-shirts, and felt a pang of guilt for having so actively avoided them in the past. Of the three, Cecily was closest to her own age, and if memory served, she had a daughter slightly older than Dylan, while Anne and Carole were approximately a decade her senior. She pictured the women as they regularly walked their two overweight schnauzers up and down Mad River Road.
“And this is Pat Langer, who used to work at Scully’s, but left to have a baby.”
“Traitor,” the amazon sneered from her position on the floor.
“Hi.” Pat waved shyly before sinking back in her seat.
“How old’s your baby?�
�� Emma asked her.
“Two months.” Pat smiled proudly. “His name’s Joseph.”
She’s not much more than a baby herself, Emma thought, wondering who was at home looking after Joseph right now.
“What am I—chopped liver?” Jan demanded, uncrossing her leopard leotards and extending her hand. “Jan Scully,” she announced. “Owner of Scully’s. Lily tells me you’re thinking about taking out a membership.”
“Well, I …”
“Now would be a good time to do it.”
“We’re offering a free T-shirt and a mug,” the other women chimed in unison. Once again, easy laughter filled the room.
Such a seductive sound, Emma thought, longing to curl up inside it, then vanish with it into the air. Or maybe she could bottle it and take it home with her, open it whenever she was feeling sad and lost, which was most of the time these days. How long had it been since she’d been with people who laughed out loud? She should tell them that her sitter canceled, that she can’t stay. They’d understand. They’d also insist she leave, and she so desperately wanted to stay. If only for a few minutes more.
“Okay, so forgive me for trying to drum up a little business,” Jan was saying, a pout playing with her enormous lips. “I was at the bank today. Bastards turned down my loan application.”
“No!” Carole said.
“They didn’t,” Anne joined in.
“Did they say why?” Lily asked.
Jan shrugged. “Didn’t have to. I’m a woman, and this is a man’s world.”
“It sure is,” Cecily agreed.
“You want to know what really pisses me off?” Jan asked.
“What really pisses you off?” Anne and Carole asked together.
“If I don’t sign up some new members soon, I’ll have to close up shop, which is exactly what my ex-husband is counting on. I can just hear him saying, ‘I told you Scully’s was my baby. I told you you couldn’t make it without me. Should’ve let me buy you out when you had the chance.’ May he rot in hell. You married?” she asked Emma in the same breath.
“Divorced.”
“So you agree—men are jerks.” It was a statement, not a question.
“Absolutely,” Emma said.
“You said it,” chimed in Cecily.
“We’re probably not the best ones to ask about men,” Anne said with a sly nod at her partner. Carole smiled her toothy grin and patted Anne’s substantial thigh.
“I’m sorry, ladies, but I just can’t agree,” Lily demurred.
“That’s because you were married to the perfect man,” Cecily told her.
“I know a lot of wonderful men,” Lily protested. “My father was one, my brother …”
“Then you cornered the market,” Jan pronounced. “Why’d you get a divorce?” she asked Emma.
“Take it easy, Jan,” Cecily cautioned. “Emma just got here. You’ll scare her away.”
“Oh, she’s not scared away that easily, are you, sweetheart?” Jan asked.
This is my cue, Emma thought. My chance to hightail it out of here. Instead she heard herself say, “My ex-husband, or the pervert, as I like to refer to him, was a compulsive liar who slept with anything that had a pulse. Although frankly, I’m not even sure that was a requirement, since there was many a night when I just lay there like a dishrag, and he didn’t seem to notice or mind. I left him when I discovered a huge stash of child pornography hidden among a bunch of golf magazines at the back of his closet.” She stopped. She could elaborate, she thought, but judging from the slightly stunned looks on all their faces, that was probably enough for one night.
“What about Heathcliff?” Lily ventured.
“Who?” Pat asked.
“The hero of the book we’re supposed to be discussing?” Lily pointed out.
“Oh. Him.”
“Yes, him.”
“Isn’t she cute?” Jan said, unraveling her body with remarkable ease and getting up from the floor to give Lily a hug. “She still thinks we meet every month to discuss books.”
“Isn’t that what book clubs are supposed to do?”
“Isn’t she cute?” Jan said again.
“I think Lily’s right,” Pat said meekly, her voice soft and tremulous. “I don’t think men are so bad.”
“How can you say that?” Jan demanded. “After all the times you’ve cried on my shoulder because of that imbecile you married!” She continued before Pat had a chance to answer. “How many times did he tell you he wasn’t ready for a commitment, even after you told him you were pregnant? What about the time he took off in the middle of the night, didn’t call for a week?”
“He came back,” Pat said proudly. “We got married.”
“Call me when you live happily ever after,” Jan advised bitterly.
“Can we get back to Wuthering Heights?” Lily tried again.
“I just don’t see how we can be so disparaging of men,” Pat continued. “Some of us are raising sons of our own.”
I should be home with Dylan, Emma thought, a fresh wave of guilt washing over her.
“Daughters are worse,” Cecily chimed in. “At least according to my mother, who had two of each. She said all you had to do was get a boy interested in sports, and you’d be okay. Unless of course, you had one who was artistic. Then you were doomed.”
“And speaking of doomed,” Lily ventured, waving her copy of Wuthering Heights in the air. “Is Cathy’s relationship with Heathcliff doomed because their love is so intense? Or is it so intense precisely because it’s doomed?”
The women looked at her as if they had no idea who she was.
“I think it’s a bit of both,” Emma said, sensing Lily’s growing frustration with the direction of the conversation and amazed at how authoritative she could sound when she had absolutely no idea what she was talking about. “I think one thing plays off the other, so that it’s almost impossible to say where one leaves off and the other begins.”
“It is a great love story,” Anne said.
“Only because it ends badly,” Carole said.
“You’re saying there’s no such thing as romantic love?” Pat asked.
“There’s no such thing as romantic love that lasts,” Jan corrected.
“You really can’t imagine Heathcliff and Cathy sharing toothless kisses in some old-age home, now can you?” Anne said.
“You wouldn’t want to,” Carole said.
“No. You want them haunting the moors as these forever-gorgeous, young ghosts,” Cecily agreed.
“What do all the great love stories have in common?” Emma asked, emboldened. “Romeo and Juliet? Tristan and Isolde? Hamlet and Ophelia?”
Jan smiled triumphantly. “Everybody dies,” she said.
“Well, that was an interesting evening,” Lily said as she and Emma sat sipping coffee on the outside steps of Lily’s home.
It was almost ten o’clock. The other women had departed en masse five minutes earlier. Emma had fully intended to leave with them, but instead she’d found herself lingering, allowing herself to be coaxed into one more cup of coffee, even though she had enough caffeine in her body to keep her awake for a week. She was feeling better, having run home to check on Dylan during an earlier cigarette break, and finding him sleeping soundly. Besides, her house was easily visible from where she and Lily were sitting. She had nothing to worry about. “It was fun,” Emma agreed.
“Took a while to get to the book.” Lily laughed. “I guess that happens a lot whenever a bunch of women get together.”
“I wouldn’t know.”
“You don’t have a lot of girlfriends?”
“Don’t have a lot of friends, period.”
“You’re more of a loner,” Lily observed.
“Well, we’ve moved around a lot this past year, and it’s hard, you know.”
“I think friends are so important. I love my women friends.”
“No men friends?”
Lily shrugged delicate shoulders. “Not la
tely.”
“What about Detective Dawson?” Emma asked.
Again Lily shrugged. “Seems like a nice man.”
“So, have you changed your mind?”
“About what?”
“About whatever the two of you were discussing when I walked into the gym this morning. I’m assuming he asked you out.”
“For tomorrow night. Dinner at Joso’s.”
“And you turned him down? Are you crazy?”
“I thought you didn’t like cops.”
“I don’t. But I can appreciate a good dinner as much as the next girl. Why’d you say no? I mean, I know it’s none of my business, but you seemed to have a certain chemistry.…”
“I don’t know why I said no,” Lily said. “I’ve been asking myself that question all day.”
“Have you dated at all since your husband died?”
“A few times. Nothing serious.”
“But you sense this could be different, that with this guy, it could get serious?”
“What? No. Who said anything about serious?”
“You did,” Emma reminded her.
“I hardly know the man.”
“But you think maybe you’d like to.”
Lily exhaled, looked toward the star-filled sky. “I don’t know what I think.”
“Well, I think you should call him. You owe it to the rest of us.”
Lily laughed. “How do you figure that?”
“Give us something to talk about at our next meeting. Along with the Steinbeck.”
Lily laughed again, a clear, bell-like sound. “So, you’ll join our little group?”
“Can I think about it?”
“Absolutely. Your comments tonight were really insightful. What you said about Romeo and Juliet, and Tristan and Isolde, really got the discussion going.”
Emma smiled, recalling her mother’s enormous collection of opera recordings. While she herself had no patience for opera and had no idea who Tristan and Isolde were, or what exactly their story was, she’d just assumed it ended badly. Operas usually did. Funny how seemingly insignificant memories could sometimes come in really handy, she thought, taking another sip of her coffee and wishing she could stay here, right here on this front step, sipping coffee all night and feeling wonderfully, gloriously free. From care. From responsibility. From the past.
