by Jason Beymer
He stammered, out of breath, “But—but—”
“A ‘thank you’ might be appropriate, don’t you think?”
“But—”
She shot the intern the iciest look she could muster. “Thank me.”
He cleared his throat. “Thank you, Madame Senator.”
Kamilla etched an imaginary notch in her head. She’d accumulated many so-called notches, including half the intern pool at campaign headquarters. That didn’t include the janitorial staff, which she perceived as sacrificing her vaginal elasticity for the good of the undocumented worker. College students made the best partners due to their impressionability. They worshiped at the folds of her vagina, whether they found her attractive or not. Eventually these boys came to anticipate her tastes—what the curling of her upper lip meant, her no touching policy on breasts, and her most glaring requirement: the multiple orgasm six times an hour, separated by five minute cigarette breaks.
Kamilla abhorred the term “cougar.” Such a demeaning word, its definition even more so. She considered herself an older woman who enjoyed sex above most material things. If this vice made her Puma concolor cougar, then she represented the finest of the breed.
Kamilla’s cellphone vibrated along the nightstand. It banged into a glass of gin, playing God Bless America. The LCD glowed a dingy blue.
“Three forty-five in the morning?” she said with a glance at the bedside clock. “Who would call me this early? Is it one of your posse, intern? Did you tell them to call so you could brag?”
“No, Madame Senator.”
Kamilla put the phone to her ear with a threatening look. “This is Senator McPhee. Before you say a word, this had better be important. Nobody disturbs me on—”
“Madame Senator, this is Garrick.”
“You?” she said. “You can’t … Why are you calling me? You swore you’d never call me.”
“My dear, necessity dictated a break from my years of abstinence.”
“Stop.” She cupped the receiver and turned to the intern. “Why are you still here?”
“I need my pants.”
“Out.”
The intern grabbed his trousers.
“Get out,” she said again.
The intern doubled his pace. He slipped one leg into his pants while searching for the remainder of his clothing. “I’m trying.”
“Now.”
The shirtless man opened the door, jumping on one leg. “But my clothes—”
“Out!”
Kamilla crossed the room and slammed the door shut in his face. She turned her attention back to the cellphone. “All right, old man. I haven’t spoken to you in over seventeen years. Barring a major catastrophe, you swore you would never contact me.”
“Yes. You remembered my exact words.”
Kamilla sat on the corner of the bed and crossed her bare legs.
“This is a preemptive phone call,” Garrick said. “I have one request, then I shall leave you to your slumber.”
“I’m listening.”
“I need to know where Max is.”
“Why?”
“Because for the first time in seventeen years, I can’t get a fix on him.”
“I’m in Napa,” she said. “He’s probably at the house in Mariner City. That’s seventy miles away. I can’t just walk over there and knock on the door.”
“I don’t think he’s there, Madame Senator.”
“Fix this. I have a debate tomorrow morning and I can’t let Max ruin it for me.”
“Then determine your son’s location. Find him, set up a meeting someplace, and call me back.”
“Why don’t you call him? I’ll give you his phone number.”
“You have far more influence than I. Beyond threatening, I’m terrible with persuasion.”
Kamilla killed the call and dropped the cellphone to the carpet. She grabbed the glass of gin from the bedside table. No more than a swallow’s worth left.
Oh, why hadn’t she aborted Max when she’d had the chance?
Kamilla dropped her head against the pillow. She could call for a limo and have someone drive her to Mariner City. She could make it there in less than an hour if the driver moved fast enough.
“So close to the election,” she said with a long sigh.
No way could she drive to Mariner City now, not with her debate coming in the morning. What if she walked in on Max during one of his murders? Or worse, what if some amateur cameraman with a political blog caught her?
She punched the pillow.
Garrick.
Kamilla had first met the old man in front of an abortion clinic in a strip mall. She’d been slumped in the driver’s seat, wearing a pair of sunglasses, a bonnet, and a scarf to keep from being recognized. She’d had no clue of the father’s identity, and giving birth to a bastard could harm her political aspirations. Even in California.
Kamilla had given up hope, prepared to beg some strip-mall hack to carve the little monster out of her. Then a strong, sure hand had fallen on her shoulder through the open window. “Don’t get the abortion,” Garrick had said. His melodic voice soothed her. “I have powerful allies. Proceed with the birth and all your political dreams will come true.”
Garrick had helped her into his car and driven her away from the clinic, his charisma impossible to resist. He’d taken her to some crappy diner called Hoppy’s and confined her to a soundproof room. At her worst, when she’d thrashed about, screaming for help, the cravings too much to bear, he’d refused to leave her side and guided her through every stage of the pregnancy.
She had birthed Max like a stubborn gallstone. With an uneasy smile, Garrick had promised to keep the child safe, promised to keep the child from harm. He’d departed the diner in a rush, saying, “I can’t be around him. You may leave Hoppy’s with your son whenever you’re ready. But I must take my leave now, lest my grace period end and I drop dead.”
Before she could ask what he meant by “grace period,” Garrick left, leaving her holding the newborn.
The newborn. Kamilla had never wanted children, and feared the public’s reaction to the loud, messy baby. She’d hidden it with Spanish-speaking nannies and gardeners, promising deportation to anyone who “opened their big, fat, illegal mouth.”
The truth came out during an election cycle. To her surprise, her constituency ate it up. Toddler Max had given single mother Kamilla a twelve percent upswing in votes. The child had come in handy after all.
But that was before Max picked up his “habits.”
Now, in the silence of her palatial suite, Kamilla drank the last of the gin. With Garrick calling after all these years …
“No,” she said. “He’ll find Max himself. Garrick will fix everything.”
She needed sleep. She couldn’t think about her son right now. Staying awake would increase her agitation, deepen those age lines, and screw up tomorrow’s debate. Kamilla closed her eyes. She heard everything: the click of the heater, the reverberating hum of the refrigerator.
Stop thinking, she told herself. Turn off your brain and go to sleep.
The clock advanced another minute and she grunted. 4:00 AM.
“Don’t pick up the phone,” she mumbled under her breath, already reaching for the cell. “Don’t do it.”
She grabbed the phone and turned on the light. “Damn.” First she dialed her home in Mariner City. The call went straight to voice mail, and Kamilla hung up. She dialed Max’s cell next.
The monster answered on the third ring. “What do you want?”
With excruciating effort, the senator made herself sound matronly. “Darling,” she said.
No reply.
“Maxie, how are you?” Her words came out clumsy. She rarely called him, and never at this hour. He would be suspicious.
“Are you at the—um—hospital or somethin’?” he asked.
“Can’t a mother call her son once in a while? I’m nervous about the election, and—and I wanted someone to talk to. You
know, to say hello, and tell you … I, you know …”
“Love me?”
“Yes. That. So, are you doing well? Eating enough, drinking your milk, taking your vitamins, all those healthy things?”
“What do you want?” he repeated.
“Sugar, is everything okay?”
“Meaning what?”
Meaning how many people have you fucking killed tonight, you little bastard?
“Baby,” she said. “Can you tell Mommy where you are?”
“Um … out?”
“Can you meet with somebody?”
“Now?”
“Yes. It has to do with my campaign. We’re working on the family angle, and I have a person who wants to interview you. It won’t take long. And it would mean so much to me.”
“How much?” he asked.
“Lots, honey.” She didn’t like where this was going.
“Uh-huh. I found a debit card in your bedroom.”
She bit her bottom lip. Shit.
He coughed, then, “I’d sure like to help your election thing, Mom. But …”
Kamilla took a deep breath, eyes on the ceiling. Then she gave him the pin number.
“Sweet,” he said with that dumb laugh. “So what did you want again?”
“Go home and—”
“Home? Uh …” He coughed.
“What is it?”
“Uh …”
Jesus. “Okay, sweetheart, what about the diner on the other side of the freeway? Hoppy’s?”
“Oh, yeah. Uh-huh.”
“I want you to meet this person there in an hour. At five o’clock.”
“Who am I meeting?”
“Don’t worry about it. Sit in a booth, order something to drink and wait there. Okay, sweetheart?”
“Okay, as long as the ATM pin works.”
He laughed as she ended the call.
Kamilla sat up in bed and threw off the sheets, then walked to the reverberating mini-fridge. She pulled a small bottle of gin from inside, broke off the seal and drained it.
“All right,” she said. “One more call, then you can stop worrying and go to sleep.”
She clicked on Received Calls and found Garrick’s number.
The old man answered on the first ring.
Chapter 10
Freudian Nightmares
The Eiffel lumbered toward the freeway. Burklin tried to keep the engine going, but it sputtered every time he dropped below ten miles per hour. A burnt oil smell filled the cabin. He wondered if the entire country of France smelled like this in the 1980s—everybody driving around in Eiffels with their windows rolled down.
“Stop thinking about her,” Pearl said.
Burklin looked in the rearview mirror. The Asian woman sat in the backseat like a broken mannequin, belted in. The Max, Inc. t-shirt had soaked against her skin and turned a rusty orange. Wanda’s body flopped to one side with her face adhered to the window. One eye dragged along the glass, widening each time Burklin pumped the brakes.
“Not her,” Pearl said, yawning. “Your ex.”
He couldn’t. This night had reopened old scars.
Pearl scratched at the passenger seat. The excitement of riding in the car without a crate had worn off. “Why didn’t you put her in the trunk?” she asked.
“Wanda’s not dead. It would be rude.”
“She’s dead. Look at her. Maybe she’s having residual reflex activity. The body does that. It’s because those synaptic thingies fire off after brain death.”
“Did you see that on TV?”
“A forensic symposium.”
“When did you attend a—oh, never mind. Dead people go in the trunk. I can’t put her back there like this.”
Pearl huffed. “Then I hope you’ve got a convincing story ready for when the police pull you over. You can tell them you won her in a game of poker. Old Burklin would have thrown her in the trunk.”
“I’m aware of that. Old Burklin would have removed your larynx, too. Try to remember, I need to keep you alive, not pampered.”
Still, the dog had a point. Why hadn’t he thrown Wanda in the trunk? Was he getting attached to her?
“Gross,” Pearl said.
“Stop reading my thoughts, dog. Besides, you’re the one who wants to eat her.”
“Eat. Not … that. Gross. So where are we going, anyway?”
Burklin had no idea.
“We can’t keep driving around,” Pearl said. “Turn up the heater.”
“No.”
Was there anyone else he could turn to? Anyone he could trust?
“Me,” Pearl said, a spark of hope in her voice.
“Like that counts for anything.”
He couldn’t trust Garrick or Lorraine. Who did that leave?
Only one person.
“No,” Pearl said. She scratched his arm and balanced herself on the center console. “I can’t believe you’re even considering that.”
“Where else can I go?”
The dachshund curled up on the passenger seat. “Hotel? Dog park, maybe. Oooh, dog park. Park, park, park. I can run around and sniff things.”
“We’re not going to the park. And a hotel? Come on.”
“Throw the Asian in the trunk and abandon the car someplace. Drive it into the bay.” She tilted her nose. “Or you can lock me in the trunk with her. I’ll take good care of our guest.”
“I’ll bet you would. You’re not getting anywhere near Wanda unsupervised.”
He took the on-ramp to the freeway and built up speed.
Pearl shifted around on the seat. She rotated twice, then plopped down. “I’m trying to talk you out of this. It doesn’t help that you won’t listen. Garrick wouldn’t want you to screw up the sweepstakes.”
Burklin kept his eyes on the road. Yes, at one time, the sweepstakes had sounded sweet, but that was before he’d lost everything. Now he wanted to bring it all down. He wanted to crush Garrick’s dream, make the old man regret ever ripping out his soul. He wanted Lorraine to—
“Ah,” Pearl said with a condescending tilt of her head. “Such romantic thoughts floating around in your noggin.” She tried to imitate Burklin. “‘I’d give up world domination for one more night with fat Lorraine in my arms.’“
“I didn’t think that,” Burklin said. “Not the fat part, anyway. I just want freedom from all of this. From both of them. The house is twenty minutes away. We’ll be fine as long as we don’t get pulled over.”
“Does she know you’re coming?”
“Have you seen me pick up my invisible cellphone and call her? No.”
Burklin clutched the steering wheel tighter, hands slick with sweat. His mother might shoot him dead the second he walked through her door.
But he had to take the chance.
Part Two
Matriarchal Nightmares
“Behold, I was shapen in iniquity; and in sin did my mother conceive me.”
— Psalms 51:5
Chapter 11
Donner
Burklin made a left onto his mother’s street.
Pearl pawed at his arm. “There’s still time to drive to the dog park,” she said. “I can dig a hole and bury her. I’m good at digging. It’s what those krauts bred me for.”
Burklin drove past an old shopping center he used to frequent as a child. He remembered sitting in the shade of the grocery store, reading the same comic books over and over again, afraid to go home and face the woman who gave birth to him.
As he approached the house, he killed the headlights.
“Four houses away,” Pearl said. “Three … two … You still have a chance to turn around. One house …”
He stopped short of the driveway. His mother’s voicemails danced through his head: “I have cancer,” “I have arthritis” and the ever-popular “My uterus hates you.”
“Why are you stopping the car here?” Pearl asked. “Either pull into that crazy woman’s driveway or take me to the doggy park.”
&nbs
p; “Give me a minute. I haven’t seen my mother since the—the—”
“Ill-advised nuptials to a shapeshifting Sasquatch?”
“Wedding.” He ran his hand through his hair. “The thing is, she’s the only one I can …” He rolled his eyes. “I’m not sure what she’s going to say when I knock on the door.”
“Based on the message she left last week, she’s on a dialysis machine inside a plastic bubble. So she probably won’t say anything.”
Burklin planted his forehead against the steering wheel with a groan. “I have to trust someone, Pearl.”
He took a deep breath and drove into his mother’s empty driveway, stopping short of the garage door. The brakes squealed like a hundred drowning mice. The narrow garage accommodated no more than one compact car. The rest of the house ran the length of the driveway on his right, forming the long part of a capital L.
As Burklin set the parking brake, Wanda’s cheek tore loose from the window. The body rotated counter-clockwise and dangled, taut against the seatbelt. Her mouth opened and closed with a sound like crackling cellophane.
Burklin killed the engine and removed the key. He gave Pearl the sternest look he could muster.
“What?” Pearl said. “Why are you giving me the ‘drop the meatloaf’ look?”
“Because this is my mother’s house.”
Pearl tilted her head innocently.
Burklin sighed. “You know how my mother is. I don’t want her to find out about your, you know …”
“My leaking condition?”
“Mom doesn’t know my soul is trapped inside you. She doesn’t know you can say anything beyond ‘arf arf’ and I want to keep it that way. You’re a dog. Got it?”
“Whatever.”
“I mean it. You’re an adorable miniature dachshund, and nothing else.”
“That would be lying. I’m not adorable. I’m a repressed sex machine with two souls. I should have my own reality TV show.”
“If you blow this, I swear—”
“What? No more spa treatments and caviar at Chez Burklin? It’s not like you have anything substantial to threaten me with.”
