by Jason Conley
“Morning, daddy,” Carissa said, turning to him. “I scrambled some eggs, the bacon is almost done, and the biscuits have,” she looked at the timer, “two more minutes.”
“Thank you, sweetie,” he said, a little disappointed. He hugged Carissa, his stubble scratching her cheek. “I’m gonna brush my teeth.”
“Shave, too,” she said. Randy raised his arm, thumb pointing at the ceiling, as he walked to the bathroom. The tingles were almost gone.
Randy looked at his ragged face in the mirror. The dark circles under his eyes convinced him that he would be taking a nap that afternoon. He let the water rush over his fingers, turning the knobs with his other hand, until he had the right temperature to wash his face. He cupped his hands and let the warmth fill them. He splashed the water on his face and looked back at the mirror. He did not recognize the man he was seeing. Overnight, it seemed, he had gone from middle aged man to the wrinkled, disheveled end of a life. What was he going to do? Randy has lost his wife and one of his daughters in one flail swoop, but he still had one girl. He needed her. He would stay for her.
Randy brushed his teeth and shaved. He wiped the excess cream from his face. With his eyes closed, he grabbed for the towel that hung to the left of the sink. He dried his face and looked once more in the mirror. He was still old.
“Daddy, it’s ready,” Carissa shouted.
“Coming, babe,” Randy said as he turned off the light.
Randy walked through the doorway to the kitchen to see that Carissa was already eating. The smell of the fresh biscuits filled the room. Randy had not realized how hungry he had been but knew all well now. “This looks good, honey,” Randy said pulling a chair back from the table. He reached for the platter of butter as he sat down.
Carissa had made a bacon, egg, and biscuit sandwich. She took a bite and felt the bacon crunch between her teeth. The sound rattled her ears, her stomach began to turn. She took another bite and knew she was going to be sick. She stopped chewing.
“You feeling okay, Carissa,” Randy said as he buttered his biscuit. Carissa’s face began to turn pale. She put her sandwich back on her plate. She tried to hold the tidal wave that was building but her stomach did not help. She ran to the kitchen sink. Tastes better going down, she thought as her stomach refused to stop clenching.
“You need to go to the doctor,” Randy said walking to Carissa.
“No, Daddy. It’s probably just a stomach bug. I’m gonna go lay down. If I don’t feel better in a little while we’ll go.” Carissa knew the morning sickness was starting to set in. She was not going to the doctor, not yet.
“Alright, go lay down. I’ll clean up in here then I’ll go get you some Seven-Up.”
“Thanks, daddy,” Carissa said wiping the corner of her mouth.
Randy sat back down and started eating.
The day seemed to pass with ease as Carissa lay in her bed. The sunset had come and went, the darkness covered the earth, and Saturday Night Live had just begun. Carissa lay watching the sketch comedy and thinking about having a sandwich. Seven-up and crackers did not hold a candle to roast beef, horseradish, a little cheese, and two slices of rye bread, but the only item on the they had was the cheese. Carissa knew she was going to have to settle for a BLT, minus the L and the T.
Carissa walked into the kitchen. She opened the refrigerator door and pulled out some left over bacon. She grabbed the mustard from the door shelf and stepped to the counter, leaving the door open for light. She took two slices of bread from a bag, squirted some mustard on it, added a few bacon slices, and took a bite. She put the mustard back in the fridge, closed the door, and walked back to her room. A car commercial greeted her as she opened the door.
Carissa took the last bite of her sandwich as she heard Randy’s bedroom door give its gruesome warning. She took her shirt and panties off, lay down in her bed, and pulled the blankets over her. She stared at the ceiling. The fluorescent stars had no glow, their energy not being replenished by the television light. She had nothing to look at except the door swinging in, letting the crass man come for his grotesque fee.
The door opened. The light from the bathroom shone between his legs. Carissa could see Randy’s penis began to rise as he stepped through the threshold, this time leaving the door open. One step, two steps, only two more. He had left the door open. He wanted to see her. The stench of lust and betrayal would engulf her, three steps, and four. He was at her bed side. He wanted his caress to show in the fluorescent spotlight. He wanted to see the shadow of every thrust. He pulled the covers back. He wanted to see his beautiful Jen’s body. He wanted her. He licked his lips and took a deep breath, letting her fumes fill him. He touched her creamy flesh. She did not move. His rough finger tips ran the length of her, and then rested on her thigh. He leaned down and began to kiss her exposed breasts, caressing her nipples with his tongue. He squeezed one nipple as he brushed the other with his day old stubble. He threw one leg over her so he could be on top. He held his torso up with elbows so as not to hinder the movements he was going to perform. Carissa could feel his erection invading her thighs, not yet at the place where it wanted to be. He kissed between her breasts, pushing them close together to fill his face. He turned his head right and left in ecstasy, his beard scratching her with every movement.
He began to move slowly down her, kissing every available inch. He began to stroke her navel. Carissa sobbed. Randy did not stop. Carissa felt something begin to muster inside her. Her chest became tight. She stopped wanting to cry. She did not need to cry. Crying was not an option. Hate. It consumed her. “No,” she said, her voice cracking. Randy had not heard. “Stop,” still timid but louder. He spread her thighs and buried his rough face between her legs. “Daddy, stop!” she screamed so loud she heard the window rattle. He did not stop. She began to squirm. He held her tighter. She could not break free from his grip.
Randy rose to his knees. “It will only be a minute,” he said. He lunged forward and started sucking on her neck. He held her arms as he thrust forward but he did not enter. He let go of one her arms so he could aim himself into her. She flailed her arms, fist clenched, not sure if she had connected. He thrust forward again. She could feel the walls of her vagina tear. A pain shot through her like a bolt of lightning. He then pinned her arm again. She bit her lip and closed her eyes letting him finish. He let out a relieving breath. She felt him pull out of her, his semen spilling with him. He let go of her arms. She closed her fists and began hitting with all her might. He put his hands up trying to defend himself. He threw himself back to the foot of the bed. As he turned to look at her, a foot connected with face, he felt his nose shatter like glass on concrete. Another foot connected with his eye. He could not keep up with the landing strikes, his blocks fleeting at best. “You bastard,” she bawled as she knocked him off the bed and onto the floor. She stood and started to stomp whatever parts of his body she could contact.
“Carissa, stop!” Randy howled through a barrage of fists and feet. Randy grabbed a leg then lifted, sending her to the floor. Carissa stopped swinging. She just looked him breathing heavy, saliva and tears glowing in the crept in light. Randy looked at her for a moment not knowing if she was going to attack again. He rose slowly. Her eyes were glued on him as he walked backwards out of the room. He stepped into the light. Carissa smiled at the crimson sheen that covered his face. He deserved it.
22
The basket must have weighed five-hundred pounds; at least, that is what Mrs. Shelton thought. Four people were in line in front of her, all with baskets as full as hers. The checker knew he was getting paid by the hour and took complete advantage of it. Mrs. Shelton knew him from her fifth period English class. What a Lazy little cretin. He was clearly milking his procrastination for all it was worth.
“Thank you, sir. Your coins are in the dispenser,” he said handing the freshly printed receipt to the frail old man. Three people were left in front of Mrs. Shelton. It seemed to be at least two minutes before the c
hecker began ringing again.
Mrs. Shelton looked through magazines, candies, and final impulse buys decorating the checkout shelves. Motion sickness pills, fingernail clippers, and cigarette lighters, she decided, were an odd assortment of items to have bunched together. The popular tabloids with the usual stars gawked at her. “Their Breaking Up,” read one headline. The sensationalist book next to it read, “Their Trying to Have Baby.” Both magazines had the same people, in the same clothes, on the same street, different pictures.
“What a waste of paper!” she said, feeling as if the books were actually mocking her.
“Excuse me, ma’am,” the gentleman in front of her said.
“Oh…nothing. I was looking at the cover of these magazines. They are just so-“
“Ignorant!”
“Yes,” she said, smiling like a child. He brushed back his salt and pepper hair. She noticed. “I cannot believe people actually write for these magazines. Only an ingrate would care about these people’s lives.”
“Completely under understand,” the man said, waving his hands. “Whatever happened to real stories? Take the war for instance. We have men dying almost every day, yet the story is bumped to a small blurb when some star is arrested.”
“All you can say is why.” Mrs. Shelton smiled. This was a nice man that knew the world was going to hell in a hand basket. “So what, may I ask, do you read?”
“I read Time until it became a liberal, atheist platform for people who want to do anything to take God out of our lives. Mostly, I read the classics.”
“Those are the only ones worth anytime. I try to tell my students that writing use to be about change. It used to be about creating a world that made you feel and brought you back to God. Not drive you away.”
“You’re a teacher,” he said, raising his eyebrows.
“Guilty!” She let out a little chuckle. “I am a high school English teacher,” she smiled as she subconsciously straightened her blouse. “What was your name?”
“Colton White,” he said extending his hand. “Most people call me Cole or Dr. White.”
She grasped his hand with a gentle squeeze. “Bridget.” Cole stepped close to her. She could smell his cheap Stetson cologne. She loved the fragrance. She thought he smelt like a man should smell, rustic and God-fearing.
“Now, this is a great magazine,” he said pulling a copy of Newsweek from the impulse shopper’s rack. “This is probably the most unbiased publication in print. Here,” he said taking another copy, “I’ll buy you a copy, too.”
“Oh, you don’t need to do that.”
“But I insist.”
“I already have that issue,” she said with a smile.
Cole and Mrs. Shelton pushed their bagged grocery filled buggies out the automatic glass doors into the dim parking lot. Mrs. Shelton’s stride had acquired an arrogant swagger that had not shown itself since she had met David’s father on a night much like this one.
She had been attending the local Christian college while working nights in a bowling alley. She was literally a starving college student just making ends meet. She shared a one bedroom apartment with another literary major. Her mornings were spent in class, afternoons in the books, and nights at work handing out shoes and shelling out change, while her roommate was dating, skipping class, and taking any pill she could get her hands on.
The bowling alley was busy the night she met the man that would become David’s father. Mike had been going to Burton State University just a few blocks away. He and his friends were frequent visitors to the establishment. Every Thursday and Saturday they would play till nine. They liked to bowl but the low priced beer was the key ingredient to their love of the place. It was a good start to their evenings.
Mrs. Shelton and Mike had met in passing several times. Although Mrs. Shelton had noticed the good looking twenty-year-old man, she had never had any real interest in him. He was just one regular coming in for a few frames and a beer after the leaguer’s were done playing and before the niners (this is what the workers called the date bowlers) came in to try their hands at impressing some girl with their skill or some girl trying show her lack thereof. Mrs. Shelton was not sure how much but she knew there was plenty of premarital sex to be had at the end of many of the bowling/mating rituals.
Mrs. Shelton had been cleaning a well-used pair of shoes on a slow Wednesday evening when Mike had arrived. He was alone, slightly inebriated, and looking as if he had just taken his dog to the wood shed and pulled the trigger. “Ten and half, please,” he said dropping the seventy-five cent rental charge on the counter, one of the coins bouncing off then spinning to a stop on the floor.
Mrs. Shelton reached down below the counter and grabbed a clean pair of shoes setting them beside the fifty cents. “Can you grab the other quarter, please, sir?” she said. She gave him a stern look as if to let him know she was in charge. Mike found the look intriguing.
“Well,” he mumbled as he bent down. She could not hear him. “Thanks,” he said handing her the quarter and retrieving the shoes. Mike stumbled a few steps then completely lost balance. His head connected with a rack of balls, his vision whitened just before he felt the warmth of the trickling blood cover his cheek. He landed hard on the thin carpeted floor. Mrs. Shelton stared for a moment, almost laughing, then she noticed the blood pool beginning to creep from under his head.
“Oh, my God,” she said, lifting the counter exit. “Get a cold wash rag,” she said pointing at the bartender. She knelt down at Mike’s side wandering if he was alive. A noise crept out from under the lump of meat lying before her. It almost sounded like…pig breathing. Then Mike opened his mouth and let out a jackhammer snore. The bartender rushed in with the wash rag and handed it to her. Another jackhammer pecked through Mike’s nostrils. Mrs. Shelton and the bartender chuckles broke into a guffaw neither could control. She picked up Mike’s head dropping it once, not being able to control the clenching of her muscles. She rolled Mike onto his side and wiped his blood soaked face clean revealing the culprit of the massive blood stain on the floor, a small forehead gash.
Mike regained enough consciousness to be welcomed by the shoe girl and the bartender laughing and a small group of on lookers staring at his drunken self-inflicted trauma. What a damn day! He picked himself up from the floor. He stumbled to his feet almost falling again. Mrs. Shelton wrapped her comforting hand around his arm. She helped him to a nearby table and sat him down, still laughing as he began moaning.
“Can you get him a cup of coffee?” The bartender nodded through his own chuckles. Mike looked at the table hesitant to make eye contact with the shoe girl. Mrs. Shelton wiped the still flowing wound. A sting spread through his face, forcing his jaw to clinch. “Thanks,” she said as the bartender sat a steaming cup in front of Mike.
Mike took a small sip, his head thumping every beat of his heart. “That must have been pretty funny, huh?”
“That was one of the funniest things I have ever seen,” she laughed.
“Thank you. I am glad I could be of service.”
“I’m sorry,” she said still laughing.
“No, don’t. I wish I could have seen it. I would have probably laughed, too.”
“Oh, we have it on tape in the back.” They both laughed.
Mike wrapped his hand tight around the cup and took another sip. Mrs. Shelton wiped more blood from his forehead. He caught her hand as she was pulling it away. “Thank you,” he said. He kissed her palm then let it go.
“Well, you are welcome,” she said smiling. He looked back at her almost penetrating her with his eyes.
Mike stayed with her the rest of the evening. In between customers, they would talk about everything from college to cars to politics. He charmed her all the way to her apartment and into her bed. The night was the first time she had given herself to a man. God would be angry but he would understand. But God had not. Mike was gone in the morning. He left her a note telling her he had appreciated everything and that he
was not ready for a relationship and other one-night-stand lines that she heard about from her roommate. He had given her a fun and run, also another roommate lesson. It was a month later she found out she was pregnant. David came eight months later. Mike had tried to do the honorable thing but the marriage did not last. By the time David was eight, he knew what it was like to live without a dad.
Cole placed Mrs. Shelton’s last bag of groceries in her car. “Well, that’s all of them,” Cole said. “It was great to meet you.”
“It was nice meeting you, too.”
“Do you mind if I call you sometime? We could maybe go have a drink.”
“Oh, I don’t drink.”
“Dinner, then,” he said with a laugh.
“That would be nice,” She said. She reached into her purse looking for a pen and a piece of paper.
“Hello, Mrs. Shelton,” someone called from behind her. Mrs. Shelton did not recognize her until the girl was only feet away.
“Hello, Destiny,” she said pulling out the pen she had been searching for. “How are you?”
“Been better, ma’am,” she said touching to bandage on her nose. “I heard David is seeing Carissa.”
“Well, he hasn’t told me.”
“Well, I figured he wouldn’t. You might want to stop him. She’s kind of a slut and she takes drugs. David is nice boy. I wouldn’t want to see him go down that road.” Destiny smiled.
“Well, thank you for telling me. When will I see you back in my class,” Mrs. Shelton said returning the pen to her purse.
“Oh, I’m transferring to Bartlett. My father thinks it would be best.”
“I am sorry this had to happen to such a sweet girl.”
