SAMSON’S BABY

by Evelyn Glass

  Dad’s presence angers me, and if it wasn’t for the fixed rictus smile on my face, I would bite down so hard my teeth would vibrate. What the hell does he think he’s doing? He hired Samson, he interfered with my life, and as I look at him my mind is once again filled with memories. So many memories, but they all boil down to the same thing, really. He’s never believed in me, not once.

  I push down the emotions and wave my pom-poms like a good cheerleader, holding within me more pain than any member of the crowd would ever guess at.

  ###

  When the dance is over, all the cheerleaders move to the side of the court so the game can begin again. The announcer starts screaming about the third quarter and the crowd erupts into a fresh wave of madness, clapping, cheering, spilling their drinks and roaring like animals. Elle nudges me playfully in the arm, and I turn and smile at her, still keeping my fake smile plastered on my face, still pretending that everything is okay. The players begin jogging from the changing rooms, and a steady boom-boom comes from the crowd as thousands of people stamp their feet. Elle says something, but the arena is too loud and I don’t hear her.

  And then something in the announcer’s voice changes, calling me out of my fake smile and pretend happiness, and making me turn toward where Dad is sitting—no, was sitting.

  “It looks like we have a particularly devout fan of the cheerleaders here, Michael,” the announcer says, his voice full of excitement.

  “Oh, yes,” the other announcer replies. “It looks to me like he’s drunk on his devotion, if you ask me!”

  It takes me a second to realize what they’re talking about. And then my gaze moves from Dad’s empty seat lower down onto the court itself. Dad stumbles toward the group of cheerleaders, saying from side to side. He makes it almost directly to us when a thick-built security guard charges out. He is mean-looking, and despite everything when I imagine him clubbing Dad over the head, a cold chill runs up my spine. I rush forward and touch the security guard on the shoulder. “That’s my dad,” I sigh.

  “Oh,” he mutters. “Well, keep it off the court.”

  He retreats and I meet Dad halfway between his seat and the cheerleaders. “Dad,” I hiss. I take him by the elbow and lead him to the side of the court, out of the way of the players who are now running into the middle of the arena. “What the hell are you doing?”

  “I have to tell you something,” he says, voice thick with whisky. I’m used to his voice being thick with whisky, of course, but this is worse than I’ve ever heard it. It’s like his voice comes from far down in his belly, pushed with a great effort up his throat and out of his mouth. As he speaks, his hands tremble, and when he looks down at me, it’s with bloodshot eyes. “I—have to.”

  “What?” I demand. “Tell me!”

  I know what he’s going to tell me, anyway. He’s going to tell me that he hired Samson. But I want him to say it, to admit to it. I want him to, for once, admit that he did something wrong. Never before has he admitted anything even close to him being in the wrong. It’s always been his tirades, his excuses, his anger and his resentment. I just wish—for once—for him to stop playing the holier-than-thou man and just say sorry.

  He swallows, an oddly loud noise in the ruckus of the arena. Over his shoulder, I see Samson, who glances over at us routinely, but only in between glancing at another half-dozen places. He’s busy, I know, too busy to watch us like a hawk. I guess that was what he was speaking to Dad beforehand, I guess he knows what Dad’s about to tell me, and he’s deemed it safe enough.

  “I was the one who hired Samson,” he says quietly.

  “I know that!” I scream. I’m glad that the game has started; the ball has been chucked up and now, on the court a few feet from where we stand, the players charge up and down the court. The announcer has forgotten about us. “Samson told me that already, Dad.”

  “I’m sorry,” he mutters.

  “Sorry?” I laugh, sounding mad and not caring. “Sorry, Dad? Do you think that cuts it? Do you think that’s all it takes? You can’t just say sorry and wipe away all the pain. All my life, you’ve tried to control me. All my life, you’ve put me down and made me feel small, worthless.” I was wrong, I think. Admitting it isn’t enough. But it’s a start, I suppose.

  I see a flicker in his eyes, his old flicker, and for a moment I think he’s about to launch into one of his old tirades. It’s there, in his face, dormant, waiting, the desire to roar at me. But for the first time I remember, he forces it down. He reaches out and tries to touch my shoulder, but I step away, out of his reach, and he withdraws his hand, trembling.

  “But that’s not all,” he says. “That’s not all. God help me, Anna, there’s something else.”

  “Something . . . else?” I pause between words, my mind trying and failing to figure out what this something else might be. What else could there be? What else could be worse than this?

  “Yes,” he sighs. “I . . .”

  He pauses, bites his lip, and for a second I think he’s going to cry. And then he lets out a long breath, the air around his filling with the pungent odor of whisky, and he launches into his speech quickly, his words running together, and I know he’s talking fast so that I don’t interrupt him.

  “It was me who hired River, too, to move the body. Wait, wait, I need to tell you why. I have to tell you why.”

  He goes on, but I’m reeling. A pounding starts up in my head, a pounding like a thousand elephants stamping against the surface of my skull. I reach up and grab my head and try to steady myself, try to bring some semblance of calm to myself, but I can’t. I try to speak, to scream, but for the moment I’m too stunned. I can only stand there, watching, listening, waiting.

  “I was angry with you for marrying him without my blessing, Anna. Don’t you see? I was so, so angry. And then I heard through some of my contacts that Samson’s ex-girlfriend was in town. I only chose her because I knew she was a good worker, good at what she does. I only chose her because I knew she would complete the job without messing it up. But I made a mistake, Anna. I heard that she was going beyond that; she was going rogue. And I didn’t want that. You have to believe me . . .”

  The worst part about this confession is not what he did, but that he’s only making it, only allowing himself to reveal this much pain and emotion, because he’s blackout drunk. In the morning when he wakes up with little to no memory of this, he’ll probably regret what he’s done tonight on the court. I can tell that just by looking at him, like the rare instances growing up when he would get extremely drunk and tell me that he loved me, everything was alright, it wasn’t my fault, only to wake up the following morning and rant at length at me.

  All of this, I think, mind spinning. All of this is his fault. The running and the fear and the gash in Samson’s side and disruption to both our lives and the derailment of my veterinary training. All of it, Dad’s fault, and why?

  “Because you wanted to prove a point?” I growl. “Is that what this is all about, Dad? You wanted to prove a point and you thought the best way would be to completely fuck up my life?”

  He stumbles forward, stands over me, glaring down at me. His face is still soft, almost caved-in with his drunkenness, but beneath the softness is the old anger, the old rage, the old indignation.

  “You married him without my permission!” he snaps. “You just went ahead and married a man who wasn’t right for you, and just look where you ended up! I told you, didn’t I? I told you not to do it, to think, but you went right ahead and did it anyway! So I had to show you the mistake you made, I had to make you realize just how bad it was. I thought that when you saw him in the trunk of the car, it would come as closure for you. I thought it would enable you to move on. And he was going to kill you. Let’s not forget that.”

  “I know,” I say. “I know that, but don’t you see? River is a wild dog and you let her off the leash. You set her on us.”

  He waves a hand, and the transformation is almost impressive. One mom
ent he’s sniveling, apologizing, the next he’s dismissing the entire thing with a cool wave of the hand. I know he’s still sorry, but I think now that he’s offloaded, he expects me to accept the apology and immediately move on. It’s characteristic of him, I know, to expect everybody else to get over anything he does quickly. If I ever brought up one of his rants in childhood, if he didn’t shout at me again he’d snap, “Are you still going on about that?” As though my feelings were secondary to his peace of mind, as though it was of no concern of his if I was still annoyed.

  “I did it for you,” he says flatly. Perhaps the alcohol is losing its effect. He stands straighter and his words sound clearer. “If you can’t understand that, then you’re still the stupid little whore you were when you were a girl—”

  I don’t think. My hand swings in a wide arc and smacks him right across the jaw, a loud slap sounding. He stumbles back, almost falls, but I don’t stay to watch.

  I turn and march back to my place amongst the other cheerleaders, ignoring Elle’s questioning look. It’s only when I’m standing with them that I realize the crowd is cheering and clapping. I look up and see myself on the Jumbotron, the huge screen showing my angry face, and then moving over and tracking Dad as he paces down the aisle toward the exit. The camera returns to me, and I do what a good cheerleader should do under these circumstances I give them a smile.

  The clapping of the crowd grows louder, and the announcer says in a cheery voice. “Maybe that old man got a bit too friendly with this particularly feisty cheerleader, Michael?”

  Elle leans in and whispers in my ear. “What the hell was that about? That was your dad, wasn’t it?”

  “Unfortunately,” I say, voice still shaking. The Jumbotron moves away from me, back to the game, and I let the smile slip from my face. “Don’t worry about it,” I go on. “It’s just family business.”

  It’s then that my gaze turns to the opposite side of the court, the side I didn’t spot before because I was dancing. And there she is, sitting in a ridiculous wig and an even more ridiculous dress. My gaze rests on her coldly. I only know what she looks like from a photograph Samson showed me before we arrived here, so that I could spot her. But it’s unmistakably her, beneath the façade of an attractive young woman just here to enjoy an NBA game.

  She must feel my gaze on her. She turns, faces me, and then a smile spreads across her face which would look more appropriate plastered to the face of a jackal. After a moment, I return the smile. This catches her off-guard—maybe she expected me to flinch—and she shakes her head.

  I smile, thinking, don’t get too comfortable, bitch. You think you have us right where you want us? Big mistake.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Samson

  The third quarter is well underway but still nothing has happened. I watch River, The Gent, The Pistol, The Butcher and The Bear. I only half-watched when Anna slapped her father on the face. I wish the circumstances were different and I could go down there and give her a hug. Strange, but the prospect of giving her a hug fills me with warmth, whereas before it would’ve filled me with nothing. But I can’t go down there and give her what comfort I can offer. I have to stay here, waiting. I don’t know what I’m waiting for, not exactly, but I will when it happens.

  River constantly leers at me. A twisted leer, the kind of leer I imagine her sadistic torturer turned on her daily. Perhaps she’s taken some aspects of him into her own personality. Perhaps she’s become changed, warped, by what he did to her. Perhaps, I think, and almost chuckle to myself. There’s no perhaps about it. The River I knew is long dead. I should’ve killed her when you had the chance.

  The thought that I should’ve killed her returns to me again as I sit here, waiting for the drama to start. And yet I know that if the chance were presented to me again, I wouldn’t be able to take it. I know it’s a surefire way to end things, but I can’t. I just can’t. I’m surprised by this weakness. Not for the first time, I find myself wishing that River was a man.

  Every chance I get, I glance over at Anna and the other cheerleaders. They stand in a huddle just beside the court. Anna looks up at me and offers up a small smile. I return the smile and then go on with my watching of River and her cronies.

  None of them make any movement that tells me they’re going to do anything. I find myself wishing that they would just act, act now, to end this tortuous waiting. Use her as bait, draw them out, and then end it. But that was when I’d assumed River would come alone, maybe with one other person, not a four-person army of some of the deadliest men in New York City. The worst part is, I don’t even have a gun, just this dart-shooter I picked up before coming to the game.

  I’ve never questioned myself like this before on a job. Everything is usually planned and planned again in advance. I’m in new territory. All I can hope is that when the time comes, I act decisively. I have to keep Anna safe. That’s the main thing. Keep Anna safe. I wonder, if it came to it, if I’d be able to kill River to save Anna’s life. I’m shocked when I realize that I don’t know. I’m unsure.

  If there’s one thing I hate, it’s being unsure.

  ###

  I know that something is up by the way the player goes for the loose ball. He doesn’t jump for it, reaching, as any other player would. This player—and my suspicious is raised because I don’t know his name—throws himself through the air as though diving, right toward the cheerleaders. And as he dives, he reaches into his sock. The knife glints in the light, winking at me, and I can see what’s going to happen as clearly as if it already has. I see the man pull the knife from his sock, lurch into Anna, and stab her brutally in the neck. There will be screams, outrage, the man will be apprehended by security. But not before Anna dies.

  The man flies through the air like a torpedo, whooshing toward Anna, hand already closed around the grip of the knife. I don’t have time to think.

  I grip the edge of the railing and launch myself over, knocking a coach and a substitute player to the floor. People shout at me, jeering, and the Jumbotron is immediately filled with my image. I barely see it, sprinting through the fray toward the cheerleaders. All of them, except for Anna, flinch away from me, screeching. Anna watches me with a confused expression on her face. And then the player whips the knife from his shoe and thrusts at me.

  “Duck!” I roar.

  The only thing that saves her life is that she does what I say straightaway, without questioning me. She ducks and the knife slices through the air above her head. The player is tall, reed-thin, with wispy stubble around his jaw. I guess he must be under twenty, a kid. They sent a kid to kill her.

  I’m aware of the security rushing the player. And rushing me, too, because to them it must look like I’m part of the attack. But I ignore them all and charge at him. He jumps at Anna. Anna lurches back, all the way into the side of the rails hands covering her face. I run and for a long moment it’s like I’m in a nightmare where, no matter how fast I run, I’m destined to remain in the same spot. I imagine that I run and run and then Anna is killed in front of me anyway. Her blood pools out over the court and I collapse beside her, defeated. It’s now, in the madness of the fray, that I realize without a doubt that I love Anna, have loved her since the night I showed up at her door. Only she can distract me during a job, only she can make me lose my killer’s center.

  Then the nightmare passes and I’m on him. I grab his wrist as he lifts it to take another swipe at her, and squeeze with every shred of strength I have. I squeeze until I feel the bone crunch in my hand, until he yelps and drops the knife on the court. He turns to me with an expression I had not expected. Not anger, or rage, but bemusement. It’s like he can hardly believe what he’s doing. He’s just a boy, I think, wondering how River managed to get him to do something so drastic. But the answer is plain, isn’t it? He’s just a boy, and River is skilled at capturing men with her body.

  I tilt my head back, aim, and butt him hard in the nose. Blood gushes out and sprays over my face and
he slides to the floor, collapsing onto his side, curled up in a ball and holding his hands to his nose.

  I turn to Anna, my chest heaving. Not from tiredness, I know, but from fear: fear for Anna. “I made a mistake,” I say. “We should never have come here. We need to—”

  A solid bodybuilder’s arm wraps around my neck and drags me backward. I crane my neck up, my legs kicking, and see one of the security guard’s tough faces glowering down at me. I grab him by the forearm and wrench at it, trying to yank him free. He grunts, but holds onto me, his grip solid.

  “You don’t fucking understand,” I growl.

  He just shakes his head and keeps dragging me backward. Now that the knife-wielding basketball player is no longer a threat, my focus expands and I see that the entire arena has erupted into madness. The crowd is jostling with each other, shoving and fighting, as though it only takes one small thing to make turn them into rioters. The announcer is screaming above the mayhem, but his voice is lost deep within the din. Everyone is screaming and shouting. I watch as Anna is gripped by the shoulder by her ginger friend and tugged toward the tunnel that leads to the cheerleaders’ changing room.