by Titus, Rose
She smiled sadly, almost laughed weakly. It had been a long time since she felt herself smile.
“And! Don’t forget the fabric softener. Okay?”
“Maybe I shouldn’t even be here.”
“Hey, the place is a dump but it’s better than six feet under, right?”
She sighed, “I don’t know where I should be right now. I don’t even know if I should even be talking with you, I mean. I mean, you’re a...”
“So?” he hissed, almost sounding suddenly irritated.
“Well, I did come here to…. Here I am, telling you my life story, I don’t even know your name, or if you have a name.”
“We have names,” he growled. “We do our own laundry. And it’s Rick, by the way.”
“Yes. All right, I’ve taken up enough of your time. I’m sorry I came here like this. I just can’t face it anymore. I cannot. My life is all wrong. I don’t know, maybe I’m cursed. I just decided that the only way to deal with this is to end it all. I just don’t feel like I belong anywhere. I didn’t ever feel like I could fit in, like I belong nowhere. I don’t even think I know who I am,” a tear glided down her face. She quickly brushed it away. “I mean, I know two things about myself, my name, and that I’m not really good at anything.”
“You’re damn good at sketching,” he said absently, as if he weren’t really listening very seriously to much of her monologue.
“What?”
“Because I found your sketch pad. Look,” and he came closer; his words sounded cold. “Kids these days are really just rotten. Period. Outside on the streets they are all just shooting up dope into their arms, shooting each other dead. I see it all night long. They cannot appreciate art. Today, they don’t even read. They don’t even know how, and they don’t care. That’s all.”
“B-but they’re just ten years old.”
“Yeah, sure. And at eleven they’re gonna be in the lineup at the police station.”
She laughed suddenly, sarcastically. “I’m supposed to awaken their young minds, build their future,” echoing the words of the college professor who lectured on child psychology.
“No! Look. You don’t get it, do you? Kids today, they do not want to create anything, or exert themselves. The world is different now. They want to sink into television oblivion, sell and use drugs, play with big grown up weapons, wear gang colors, let their little useless brains go to waste. That’s all they really want. I see it on the streets all night long, every night. They even scare the shit out of people like us! No kidding.”
“B-but it’s little kids. Why can’t I handle them?” she repeated, as if she hadn’t been listening. She continued to stare down at the dusty pine wooden floor below her feet. “You know, I just believe a normal person would be able to handle them better. A normal person would just be able to do things right, just be capable of doing normal things.”
“Look, you are new at this! It sounds as if you are new at everything. Laundry, cooking, dealing with life, everything. Here’s a tip. Go through the motions, and your head will eventually catch up.”
Suddenly she looked up, eyes wide, and wet. “I still can’t believe I am having this conversation with...”
“Yeah. Don’t worry. We have conversations. And we also do laundry. Now, honey, why don’t you stay here a while? So I can watch you and—”
“Aren’t you going to set up bars on the windows first?” her voice was tired. And sad.
“No. I’ll just run out and catch you when you jump, okay?”
She talked for hours and he listened with patience until she finally slept on the couch. He put a blanket over her and she startled and looked up. “You need your rest.” He turned out the light and whispered softly, “and sometimes it’s okay to forget the fabric softener.”
“W-what?”
“Go to sleep.”
When she was finally quiet he let himself out the door and went to his car.
“Well, if that’s all it was about. Okay, I’ll tell him,” Lina sighed. It was nearly dawn and Alex was already asleep and so she would have to wait until evening to tell him everything was once again under control. “Rick, it’s getting bright out. Want to stay here?” Lina bent to pick up her poodle; she turned to gaze warily out the window.
“No. I should go back. Make sure she’s okay. The kid’s in one piece, so far. Hope I don’t get back to find her hanging from my ceiling fan, or to see that she’s just torched my dump of a place.”
“Who is that?” She stared out the window.
“What’s out there that’s so interesting all of a sudden?” Rick went to the window to look.
It was Sky. And she was followed by a tall, deeply tanned muscular young man with long, flowing golden hair. He wore pale blue tights, which were extremely close to his body, and belted at the waist, no shirt. Around his neck hung a strange gold medallion on a thick golden chain, and also there was a large pointed quartz crystal on a long black leather cord hanging below the medallion. On his feet were blue boots of a spandex like material with thin soles. He walked behind her as she went to get her morning paper; he gazed curiously around the neighborhood, and smiled.
“What? Circus coming to town, Lina? Hey, like, where’s the elephant?”
“I don’t know, but there’s the two clowns right now. No, Rick. Sky just has a new hobby. That’s what she has on her list of things to do this week, that’s all.”
“Cripes, I’m lucky all I got is a suicidal maniac in my place.”
They watched as Sky and her comic book super hero went back into the small home that she could never manage to pay the rent for.
“So, that’s the nut Alex keeps whining about. She’s up this early?”
“Oh, don’t even ask me about her, Rick. Just don’t. Don’t get me started.”
“Look, I’d better go.” The sun was coming up, nearly all the way into the sky. He reached into the pocket of his jacket for his sunglasses.
“You can stay.”
“Nope. Should never leave a child unattended. The old car has a big engine. I’ll just floor it, and hope I don’t go blind or get fried.”
Night came again quickly, and the day passed by almost unnoticed by those who slept through it.
“Alex, feed Sasha for me, all right? Keisha is sick of me being late. Even though she knows why, and she says she doesn’t mind, I know she is sick of it.”
“Lina,” he sounded exasperated. “You own the store.”
“Yes, but it’s not fair to her.” She headed for the door. “Love you.”
“Love you too. And I still do not believe it! Are you serious, Lina?”
“About the suicidal girl?”
“No. About what the new fool in Sky’s life was wearing.”
Lina said, “It’s all true. He looked like he was from a circus.” And she left.
Sasha leapt up on the couch beside Alex as he changed channels with the remote. She whimpered, demanding immediate attention. “Alright. I’ll feed you. Come on, you pest.”
Slowly he drifted out to the kitchen and opened a can. “Why couldn’t she have a gold fish? But no, she brings home a spoiled animal that needs to be fed every four hours,” he put the bowl on the floor. “And I suppose I should walk you so you don’t crap on the rug. Oh well, if I can get out and get some air maybe I won’t think about that deadbeat anymore.”
He wandered slowly by Sky’s unit and heard some chanting; he saw the interior was lit completely by candles. He moved more quickly and Sasha strained to keep up. “Come on.” He tugged at the leash slightly. “Let’s get away from here.”
Headlights approached; he looked away. The light assaulted his eyes. Then high beams flashed. “Damn, some drunken loser is going to run me over.”
But the dark blue sedan pulled up alongside. “Get in the car.”
It was Martin.
“What? Was I speeding, officer?”
“Never mind the crap. Just get the hell in.”
Alex picked up the s
mall white dog and got in. “You need to see the dog’s registration?”
“Oh for crissakes.” He put the car in gear and started to drive. “Cut the shit. Why do you need to be so sarcastic with me all the time?”
“Because it amuses me.”
“I figured. Right now, I’m just beginning to wonder what else amuses you people, Alex.”
“Let’s see, a few of us get together and play cards once a week. Besides that, there is television, listening to useless neighborhood gossip, walking our wives’ dogs.”
“There’s been a murder, and I want to know who, or what, did it.”
“Well I have absolutely no idea, Martin.”
“Yeah? You seem to know everything that goes on around here after dark.”
“And how do we know this person was killed after dark in the first place?”
“Because his damned neck was torn to pieces, that’s why. So who the hell else would do that?”
“Look, if you’re accusing me, then just say it. If not, why even ask?”
“No. I am not accusing you, personally. Okay?” He pulled the car over to a quiet, lifeless part of the street. “Look. Can’t you just tell me what you know? Any of you people out of control, maybe? Just tell me. We don’t want to see this happen again if one a you guys has got some kind of habit.”
“No, Martin. No one kills for sport. You should know that, especially you. Tell me what happened.”
It was an ugly story; it made Alex cringe inside. A young homeless man was found in an alley, beaten to death, deep wounds to the throat, blood all over the alley, a large red letter “V” painted in blood on the stone wall above the body. “And in all the years I worked this drug and whore filled tourist dump, I never saw anything as sick. We’re trying to keep the details quiet, to keep the tourists coming to the polluted beaches and junk shops. Hell, it was a bad scene. So don’t tell me you don’t know something, because somebody out there sure does.”
“Well I don’t,” he answered quietly.
“Oh come on.”
“Martin, don’t be an ass. Look at us, damn it. One of us is an artist, my wife is a shop keeper, my sister is an accountant, how more dull and common can you get?”
“Yeah, right. Get bored, rip a guy apart, and have a little fun.”
“And why leave that written on the wall? Some people besides just you know we’re here. It’s a good cover, isn’t it?”
Martin punched the dashboard. “Damn it, don’t mess around with me!”
“I am not. And unless you’ve got a warrant with my name on it, I’m getting out. I don’t need this crap right now.” He opened the door and tugged at the dog’s leash.
Martin cursed and put the car in gear, and sped away.
God damn it all, Martin thought to himself as he floored the accelerator, he knows something. He has to. It could even be him, any one of those people. And it will happen again. It will happen again and again and again.
Sure. Alex saved his life once. But he and all the rest of them were nothing but predators deep down. That’s how he found him in the first place. He smelled the blood on the wind. Martin shivered thinking about it. They’re all predators deep down.
He wondered if there had been deaths before that he did not know about, hidden bodies in the sewers, dumped in the ocean. Maybe once, just this time, one of them forgot to clean up the mess.
How long had it been going on, he wondered.
They had been here since the start of the Russian Revolution, he had once been told. That’s where they all originally came from.
Laura awakened once again into the darkness. It hid her, shrouded her face from the glaring world. She did not want the world to see her. She did not fit, or belong, anywhere. And so she wanted to hide her face, her existence, from everything, every breathing being. She was wrong, nature’s mistake, or perhaps God’s. But how could she correct it? There were no erasers big enough to make her go away.
He almost made her feel wanted, because he wouldn’t let her destroy herself, throw herself away like garbage—the way she wanted to. And now he was gone, vanished, or could he be sleeping, like he was when she found him? She did not get up to switch on a light or move aside the curtains, she felt safer in the dark. And safer where she was, on an old, almost worn out couch with a woolen Navajo blanket tossed over her. She did not want to leave, she didn’t want to go back to her world. It was too much for her to bear. She descended back into the darkness of sleep.
Martin hated paper work, he would sit and sip his coffee for as long as he could, put it off, just a little longer. His mind drifted and he looked out the window. He was on his third coffee now, he did not sleep well last night. He had not slept well for quite some time, though he did not know exactly why.
It was a bright morning, a nice warm and pleasant morning, the kind that the happy vacation people loved for a beach day. Cloudy days were shopping days—the kind of days when housewives wandered through the shops, dragging along grumbling husbands and bored kids. But today was a beach day. Or a whale watch day.
He thought about last night. Alex had saved his life once. But for what? Why didn’t he leave him there, bleeding on the ground?
Because the smell of blood brought him, lured him in. Then what? He could have consumed what little was left and dumped his carcass to the sharks. And no one would know.
He sipped his coffee, finishing it before it became cold, watched out the window as the people walked by, some carrying surf boards, beach bags. It would be a nice day. They didn’t know what would come out at night.
Then he heard the scream.
He turned to look. It was McMurphy. Again. Another one of his days. McMurphy was having another one of his moods, shouting out a string of obscenities, loud enough to shake the building. Martin swore he was the only man on earth with PMS.
“All a bunch a fuckin’ losers!” and with that he kicked the wastebasket out from under his desk. It flew across the room. McMurphy was built like a football player. He swore he stopped taking steroids years ago, but he got bigger and bigger still, it seemed, and crazier and crazier.
“Mutha fuckin’ sons a bitches again forgot to empty my wastebasket. Fuckin’ scum bags,” and his thick muscled arm swept across the desk, tossing everything off the surface of his desk and onto the floor.
Everyone in the office fell silent and looked away.
McMurphy stood up and kicked the paper weight, the stapler, his coffee mug—it shattered on impact. He howled one last obscenity, then kicked his chair and stalked out of his office, slamming the door.
Martin stared at the devastation around McMurphy’s desk, the puddle of three day old coffee around the shattered cup, the wet papers, the overturned chair.
“Well, the janitors remembered to empty mine!” Detective Joe Stephanopoulos held up his empty basket and laughed.
“When will he ever finally get help, you know, for his problem, whatever his problem is?” Martin began his work and tried to forget it. It was just another day at the Department.
But he kept thinking about the homeless man with his throat torn out. Forensics confirmed it was done with teeth.
Not a lot of blood loss. That was strange. Cause of death was internal injuries from the severe and brutal beating. It was a sport killing.
She yawned, struggled to lift her head; she sat up, pulling the Navajo blanket close to her, close to her neck. For a quick fleeting moment, she wondered if she had been used during the night, if he had fed from her useless body while she slept. She saw that in a black and white movie once. It didn’t really matter if he did. At least it would make her useful, in some way. But no. He said he wouldn’t. She reached up to feel her throat. Nothing. She almost felt disappointed. But now she was not so sure she really wanted to die.
Laura looked around the room. The shades were pulled down, but it was day. Her watch read 11:21.
Why was he nice to her? She did not understand it. She had no friends at all, people knew she w
as useless—they must. That’s what her father used to tell her, that she was useless. A pretty useless little thing.
But why was he different? If he had no real use for her, why didn’t he simply throw her out last night?
She didn’t want to leave but she knew she had to. If she stayed she would only be making a nuisance of herself.
And she needed to see him before going. She only wanted to look at him again, just look at him. He slept peacefully, not a motion, not a sound. He was dangerously handsome, even when silent and still. He lay there in the same jeans and T-shirt, no socks, barefoot, on top of the covers. He had tossed the pillow on the floor. She drew closer, just to look at him.
His face was cool ivory. She reached to see if he was cold but swiftly drew her hand back, afraid of waking him, afraid of what he would think.
She hastily shut off the light and left.
McMurphy returned late in the afternoon. As he usually did after one of his rages, he came back with a sunny bright smile. He was calm, relaxed, happy. Martin had the impulse to say what he wanted to say, but he suppressed it. Why don’t you talk to someone, Murph?
No. No good. It would earn him a slashed tire, maybe.
He was smiling, joking around, laughing and flirting with the new blonde rookie policewoman who had not yet seen his darker side.
It always went this way.
Martin remembered several years ago. A black kid took an old lady’s purse. McMurphy caught him, picked him up, threw him into a brick wall, kicked in his ribs and cracked them, kicked the kid in the face. McMurphy laughed when they put the kid on a stretcher and took him away. Martin kept out of his way ever since. Some days, Martin wanted to go see the Chief and talk about it. But he had his own kid to take care of, so he kept his mouth shut.
She was standing at his door when he opened it to go out that evening; he was surprised to see her again.
“Hello,” she said, nervously.
