by Nathan Field
CHARLOTTE: But I told you. I’m on the phone.
BILL: Oh really? Because from the way your voice is quivering, I’d say you were lying. In fact, I don’t remember you having a cousin in Montana.
CHARLOTTE: That’s really none of your business.
Charlotte moves to shut the door, but Bill sticks a foot in the doorway. Charlotte flinches, and then backs away unsteadily, trembling with fear. Bill follows her into the kitchen, kicking the door shut behind him. He pulls a long hunting knife from his jacket and runs a calloused fingertip over the serrated blade.
BILL: You’re just like that cock-teasing bitch. She never gave a damn about the people who loved her.
CHARLOTTE: (backing up against the wall) What are you talking about?
BILL: You know exactly what I’m talking about, Charlotte. You can’t sweep aside the past like it never happened. Hiding behind blackout curtains won’t save you now.
Charlotte’s eyes are wide with panic, but then a wave of recognition passes over her. She seems to understand her fate, the horror in store for her. She screams in agony as the jagged blade tears into her chest, splattering the white walls with blood. Bill plunges the knife into Charlotte again and again, laughing manically as her soft flesh yields. Her insides spill onto the linoleum floor.
After an unrelenting attack, Charlotte’s limp body collapses in a bloody heap. Bill wipes his dripping blade clean, breathless but visibly exhilarated. He turns to look pointedly at the camera, grinning sadistically. We slowly zoom in until his gleeful face fills the screen.
BILL: Did you enjoy that, Johnny?
“Jesus,” I said aloud, seeking the comfort of my own voice. I’d been playing out the scene in my head, and Bill’s final remark seemed chillingly real, like the sick fucker was with me in the office.
Scrolling forward, the remaining scenes had been deleted. The story ended on page three with the murder of the main character. The reality of the situation hit me.
Someone had logged into my computer and doctored the script.
The intention wasn’t to damage Eleanor’s work – she was still in possession of the master version. The edits were solely for my benefit. Not only the reference to Johnny, but also the knowing taunts about past sins and hiding behind blackout curtains. The writer was sending me a message. And just like the doomed version of the widow Charlotte, I understood.
4. “You know I’m a married woman”
My chili cook-off story was pulled from the Tribune’s Sunday edition without explanation. I marched straight into my editor’s office on Monday morning, full of indignant bluster, but he was unrepentant, claiming the piece was too light for publication. He’d decided to run with an archived restaurant review instead.
“What did you expect from a school fundraiser?” I said. “A political scandal? Race riots?”
“Don’t be such a crybaby,” he shot back. “We all get stories spiked. Take it like a man.”
He was right, of course, and normally I wouldn’t have cared about having a fluff piece killed. But I’d promised Lucy Piper she’d get her picture in the paper, and now she’d assume I was a lowly cadet whose stories didn’t even make it to print.
Returning to my desk, I re-opened Lucy’s photo on my computer. Her ironic, apple-pie smile had barely left my screen since I’d uploaded the JPEG. Every time I looked away and then back again, I experienced a fresh adrenaline rush – a sensation so intense and thrilling that I was tempted to call it love, even though I realized the idea was absurd. We’d only spoken for five minutes. But reason and logic went out the window when I gazed at Lucy’s image. It wasn’t just an emotional response: I was physically affected by her, whether on screen or etched in my mind’s eye. Just the thought of her dark blue eyes was enough to quicken my pulse and speed my blood.
I’d even taken to recounting her lines from our brief conversation, closing my eyes to conjure up her teasing accent. I was sure they were going to pop up on Jerry Springer…..Who’s going to try my chili now?....or my absolute favorite….I think Johnny suits you much better. I must’ve replayed that one a hundred times.
“Wow, who is she?” came a voice from over my shoulder, yanking me back into the present.
Izzy was a fellow reporter and my best friend in the newsroom. At twenty-seven, he already had two kids, a house in the suburbs, and a wife who subscribed to Martha Stewart Living. Despite being a responsible family man, Izzy still looked like a student – wiry frame, unkempt black hair, and whirls of zits on his cheeks that he could never quite shake. He was also obsessed with my love life, convinced I was having a lot more fun than I was letting on.
“She’s no one you know,” I replied, snatching my mouse to close the image.
“No shit, Sherlock. If I knew a woman like that she’d have to take out a restraining order.”
I swiveled in my chair to face him. “She’s something else, isn’t she?”
Izzy’s head jerked back, like he’d been flicked on the nose. “Woah, what’s up with the gooey eyes?”
I grinned stupidly, unable to resurrect my guard.
Izzy looked horrified. “Pistol Pete, my freewheeling single buddy, I know that look. Don’t tell me you’re about to abandon the charmed life of a bachelor. You know how I look forward to your Monday morning stories.”
“Oh yeah? When was the last time you heard one of those?”
Izzy thought for a moment. “That’s beside the point. The point is – you shouldn’t be putting all your eggs in one basket. Trust me, it can only lead to a lifetime of misery.”
“You’re hardly miserable,” I laughed.
“Okay, maybe not miserable. I wouldn’t go that far, out of respect for my wife, who’s probably listening right now. But hear me when I say – don’t be in a rush to settle down. Not until you’ve spent at least ten years playing the field.”
“Don’t worry, I’m not planning a wedding just yet.”
Izzy shook his head with an old man’s weariness. “I know that look,” he repeated. “Hell is right around the corner.”
I spent the next twenty-four hours contemplating my next move. The original plan had been to wait a few days before contacting her, at which time I’d ostensibly ask for her opinion of the article. Now, with the humiliation of having my story pulled, the road ahead was unclear. I didn’t want to come across as an overeager beaver, but I no longer had the luxury of playing it cool. Lucy probably had the same bewitching effect on every guy she came across, and if I didn’t strike while the iron was hot, I’d be quickly forgotten.
Ever since college, when I noticed how often I was called man or bud, or sometimes the wrong name altogether, I’d been self-conscious of my ordinariness. There was no denying I’d grown up to resemble every other white dude in America: a fraction under six feet tall, semi-athletic build, light brown hair and medium brown eyes – presentable enough to get a girl’s number, but from there I’d have to be funny, or at least a good listener. There must’ve been hundreds of us walking around the Sacramento State campus: small town guys with names like David (Dave) or Michael (Mike) or Peter (Pete), who sported patchy facial hair and slopped around in cargo shorts and Foo Fighters t-shirts. In hindsight, it was little wonder people got our names mixed up. And now we’d ditched the shorts and keg parties for cheap suits and average wages in the city, making us even more forgettable. So I was under no illusions that a drop dead gorgeous woman like Lucy was lying awake at night, fantasizing about the okay looking young man she’d spoken to for five minutes at a school fundraiser. In fact, I’d be lucky if she remembered me at all.
Finding a number for Lucy Piper in Granite Bay was easy, and after spending a few minutes questioning my morality – the listing was for Lucy and Sterling Piper – I made the call.
“You’re a reporter?” she asked after I’d announced himself. “I’m sorry, what’s this about?”
“I was at the chili cook-off on Saturday. I took your picture.”
A long pause. “Johnny?”
<
br /> “Yes!” I said, thrilled that she’d remembered me by my infinitely cooler pet name.
“Oh, Johnny. I almost went cross-eyed trying to find your story in the paper. You’re not some sicko with a camera who hangs out at schools, are you?”
“No, Christ no. My editor pulled the story at the last minute. That’s why I’m calling, to apologize.”
She sighed. “Well I guess it’s not your fault. I’m sure it happens all the time in your line of work. Thanks for letting me know.”
“There’s one more thing,” I blurted. “I’d like to give you the photo – it came out really well, and it’d be a shame to waste it.”
“Oh. Do you want my e-mail address?”
“No – I took the liberty of making a hard copy. It’s a beautiful shot, and the print really does it justice. I thought we could meet for coffee.”
I listened to her breathing, heavy and impatient. But she was still on the line. I kept my mouth shut, giving her time to think.
“You know I’m a married woman,” she finally said.
I noticed she hadn’t said happily married – wasn’t that the usual phrase? “Of course. I mean, I just presumed. But it’s only a coffee.”
Lucy sighed again. “Okay, I’m heading into town tomorrow. I suppose I could meet you then.”
“Perfect, what time do you–”
“–I’ll call you at the Tribune. I want to make sure you actually work there.”
I went and bought a new suit that afternoon – six hundred bucks at the Brooks Brothers outlet store – and spent the evening agonizing over what shirt and shoes to wear. I felt like a teenage virgin on the night before prom. I kept reminding myself that it was only a coffee date, and Lucy was a married woman, but my body wasn’t responding to reason. Just the thought of sitting opposite her made me queasy with excitement.
Lucy called the next morning to confirm our coffee date. She named a cafe at the far end of town, but I wasn’t about to protest. I made sure I arrived early, and after taking stock of the busy café, secured a prime spot by the window. I wanted to give myself every advantage.
Lucy breezed in twenty minutes later, wearing a white blouse and a long floral skirt that licked her ankles. She probably thought the demure outfit sent a more appropriate message than the tight dress she’d worn at the chili cook-off, but her clothes couldn’t hide the way her hips moved, or her statuesque figure.
I stood up to greet her, hoping my broad smile didn’t appear too rabid. After thinking of little else for the past thirty-six hours, I was near bursting with excitement.
She allowed me to take her hand, briefly, before settling into a chair.
“So, what brings you into town?” I asked cheerily.
“Shopping. Fall fashion.”
“Man, how can you think about fall fashion in this heat? I’d be in shorts and a t-shirt if I didn’t have to work.”
She studied me apprehensively, her blue eyes narrowing. I was already bombing, coming across like a dorky, socially awkward teenager.
“I’ve only got a few minutes,” she said, glancing towards the exit. “Do you have the photo?”
I nodded down at the satchel resting against my chair. “I’ll give it to you, like I promised. But you have to stay for coffee, first.”
“Oh, didn’t I mention? I don’t drink coffee. Or tea.”
“Then have a muffin. I checked online, and apparently they do a great lemon-strawberry here. After tasting your chicken and white bean chili, I know you appreciate good food.”
A hint of a smile, which she quickly pulled in. “Okay, I suppose I did keep you waiting.”
Before she could change her mind, I went up to the counter and ordered a lemon strawberry muffin for Lucy, and an extra-large latte for myself, planning to sip very, very slowly. I thought the coffee and food would buy me time, but when I returned to our table, Lucy was perched on the edge of her seat, like she was ready to leave.
“Have you been in Granite Bay long?” I asked quickly, before she could make her excuses.
Lucy pursed her lips. “Only two years, since I met Sterling. He’s lived there all his life, almost sixty-one years if you can believe that.” She paused, leaning back in her chair. “It’d take a forklift to get him out now.”
“Does he still work?”
She nodded. “He’s a property developer. His daddy started the business after the war, and Sterling took over the reins when he passed on. Piper & Son, building dreams since 1949.” She laughed cruelly. “No surprises what his boys are going to do after college.” Lucy picked up on my inquiring look. She said, “Sterling had four kids with his first wife, Margaret. She lives in Granite Bay, too. We get the youngest ones every other weekend.”
“Ah-ha,” I said, secretly relieved she wasn’t a mother.
“I don’t usually get involved with school activities, but Margaret canceled at the last minute. She’s always pulling stuff like that.”
“Your husband couldn’t have helped?”
“Nah, he was buttering up some politicians at his fishing lodge. He thinks cooking’s a woman’s job, anyway. So of course it was up to me to save the kids from embarrassment. Not that they showed any gratitude. In their eyes, Margaret can do no wrong, and I’m just the evil stepmother. ”
I paused to sip my coffee, slowing things down. Talking about Sterling and his first wife was only making her agitated. “So where are you from originally?”
“Austin. But I moved to LA when I was eighteen.”
“LA,” I repeated reverently, although I wasn’t sure why. “I’m from Chico myself, but I don’t think of it as home. My mom died when I was young, and I never got on with the old man, so there’s nothing pulling me back. I went to Sac State after high school and now everyone I know is here.” I rapped the table thoughtfully. “This place feels like home to me.”
Lucy’s stony expression said it all. Why exactly did she need to know this? She was one more pointless anecdote away from leaving.
I changed the subject. “What did you do in LA?”
“I was a model,” she said, somewhat defensively.
“Oh yeah? Would I have seen you in anything?”
“I doubt it. Not unless you were in the market for lipstick and eye-liner.”
“Nah, I went through that phase in tenth grade. It barely lasted a week.” Another hint of a smile, encouraging me to press on. “So, you were a print model?”
“Most of the time. I did some high fashion work when I was younger, but I was always too dumpy for the catwalk.”
I started to laugh, and then realized she wasn’t joking. “But you’re tall and slim!”
“I’m five-eight and a size ten. That might be tall and slim if you’re a housewife in Granite Bay, but for a model in LA, it’s dumpy.”
“Well, I always knew people in LA were crazy.”
She smiled, her lips parting this time. “Crazy is in the eye of the beholder. I think most of the people round here are crazy.”
“Sounds like you miss LA.”
“Sometimes,” she said wistfully, her gaze drifting out the window. A gray parade of businessmen and bureaucrats were filing along the sidewalk, tightened for room on the café’s shaded side of the street.
She turned back to me suddenly. “What do you think is going to happen here?”
I held her gaze, sensing my opportunity. “I want to see you again.”
“Are you serious? I told you I’m married.”
“I know, and to a very rich man by the sounds of it. But do you love him?”
Lucy stiffened in her seat. “You’ve no right to ask me that.”
“Maybe not, but I’ve asked anyway. Tell me you love him and I’ll walk away, I swear. I don’t want to break-up a happy marriage.”
“Jesus! Talk about getting ahead of yourself.”
“Sorry, you’re right. I’m coming on too strong. I just…I just want to see you again. I can’t stop thinking about you.”
“Thi
s is crazy. You don’t even know me.”
“You’re right, it is crazy. But there’s a spark between us, I can feel right now as I’m talking to you. It’s like we’re the only two people in the room.” I cringed, hearing my words in playback. “Shit, I’m sorry. I don’t usually sound this corny.”
Lucy stared at me. The creases softened in the corners of her eyes, and my legs started jiggling under the table, anticipating a hint of interest, a whisper of encouragement.
Then all of a sudden she stood up, clutching her purse. She raised her free hand, pinning me to my chair.
“Don’t make this weirder than it already is. I’m a flirtatious person by nature, but that’s where it ends. I’m not about to cheat on my husband.”
“But you came here,” I protested, my heart sagging. “You must feel something.”
“Pity,” she said simply.
I looked down at the froth evaporating in my mug, unable to speak.
“I’m sorry, Johnny,” she said, her heels clattering over the tiled floor before she vanished into the white glare of the afternoon.
5. “Is it to do with your scars?”
CC rang my apartment buzzer at 6am, a few minutes after I’d walked in the door. I was in no mood for her professional services, but I let her up anyway, grateful for the company.
I’d developed a pretty thick skin over the years, but the gruesome plot twist in Sensible Shoes had seriously rattled my nerves. My tormentor was aware of my darkest secrets, things I’d managed to keep buried for years. And he could be fearless – knowing I’d never call the police. It wouldn’t be long before his menacing games turned violent.
CC was looking worse for wear when I opened the door. Her stage make-up had rubbed off, and tangled strands of blonde hair hung over her face.
“You look how I feel,” I said, shielding my eyes from the hallway light.
“Yeah yeah, don’t worry. This isn’t a business call. I just came to crash.”
She pushed past me and headed for the kitchen, dropping her trench coat to reveal a red tank top and short pencil skirt underneath. She was dressed no differently than the girls who queued outside the clubs downtown, the G-rated clubs, but there was something inherently sexual about the way CC wore a skirt. Like she wouldn’t be in it for long.
