Revenge

by Meli Raine

  It’s that kind of day, and it’s only Thursday.

  “I’m sure. I even went back in and scanned the photo. I thought for sure Claudia took it with her, but she didn’t.” I hold up a small thumb drive. “I’ve got the photo on here, and I emailed it to myself, too, for safety.”

  Safety. Hah. I’m never safe anymore.

  “I don’t remember her,” Elaine says, squinting. She looks like she’s literally trying to pull up a memory.

  “The dean and Claudia moved here after she died,” I explain.

  Elaine relaxes. “Oh. That explains it.” She drinks some more. A tabby climbs into her lap and she strokes it. The cat begins to purr. “The dean’s wife really looks that much like Amy?”

  “So much that I thought a twenty-year-old picture was my best friend.”

  Elaine shakes her head and grimaces. “That’s so...weird.”

  “Too weird for my tastes,” I declare.

  “Did you say anything to the chief?”

  I pause. I can’t tell her the truth about Mark. And for some reason, I’m hesitating about going to the chief with the picture.

  An ache burns inside me for Mark. I wish he were here. I can’t even text or call him. I crave the sound of his voice. The feel of his hot breath on my neck. The way his tongue sparks my flesh when he—

  “Carrie! You look like you’re getting heat stroke!” Elaine says, concern on her face. “You turned fire engine red just now.”

  “Must be the white wine,” I murmur.

  “It can give people the flushes,” she says, nodding and stroking the kitty.

  I say nothing. It’s for the best.

  “What are you planning to do?” she asks.

  “Do?”

  “Are you going to tell the chief.”

  I start to laugh. “Tell him what? That I think the dean of the local university is the one stealing all these women?”

  “When you put it that way, it does sound pretty bizarre.”

  “When you put it any way, Elaine, it’s completely bizarre.”

  “I don’t understand what all these kidnappings have to do with your father and the drug operation, though.”

  I bite my lips to keep from saying anything. This is hard. So hard. How does Mark do this? How does he live a life where he knows so much and can say so little?

  For him it’s just life as usual. For me, it’s torture. I know the answer to so many of Elaine’s questions. Yet I can’t say a word.

  Not one, single word.

  “I hope his father’s okay,” Elaine murmurs.

  I just nod. What else can I do?

  “I’ll wait until Mark’s back in town. I’ll ask him what he thinks,” I finally say.

  Elaine smiles at me. Her grin lights up my world. “Good plan. Good man, too.”

  “Yes.”

  “In bed?”

  I nearly drop my wine glass. Maybe I misheard her.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Is he a good man in bed, too?” she repeats.

  Nope. Didn’t mishear her. I go bright red again. I feel it. My face is like napalm.

  “Oh, Carrie,” Elaine chortles. “We’re grown women. We can talk about sex.”

  Redder. I’m turning into goo.

  “Ummm...”

  “I’m assuming you slept with him. You were in his cottage all night the other night and he said...”

  “Yes. We, um, we’re together.” This is awkward.

  “Biblically?”

  “Elaine!”

  “Just girl talk,” she says with a wink.

  Girl talk. If Amy were here, that’s what we’d be doing. Having girl talk. My best friend’s gone and my version of girl talk is chatting about my sex life with the closest thing I have to a mom.

  Bzzzz.

  Saved by Elaine’s phone. Whew.

  “Oh, my goodness. Mikey’s football game is about to start!” Elaine leaps up. The cat jumps off in a huff, glaring at her as she walks to the patio doors. “Brian!” she shouts. “We need to go!”

  “All right, all right,” he harrumphs, wandering past the door, carrying the car keys. “Don’t get your panties in a bunch.”

  Elaine turns back and gives me another wink.

  I just shake my head.

  The truck engine starts up and I hear them leave. I finish my wine and walk through the house, locking up. Despite what Mark said before he left, I haven’t been staying in his cottage. It feels too intimate. I want my own space, so I’ve been sleeping in my trailer.

  And I’ve been perfectly safe.

  As I walk back to the trailer, the mailbox catches my eye. I walk over and get the mail, then go back into the house as I sort it. One piece is for me, and the rest for Elaine and Brian.

  That’s weird. My forwarding order hasn’t kicked in yet.

  I look at the handwriting. It’s familiar, and the return address is my old address in Oklahoma City.

  I open it. A letter in another envelope falls out.

  That handwriting makes me nearly faint on the spot.

  It’s my dad’s chicken scrawl.

  I slowly lower myself to the tile floor in the foyer of Brian and Elaine’s house. How could my dad send me a letter?

  A little note flutters out of the larger envelope.

  Dear Carrie,

  You gave me this address before you left. The day after you were gone, this arrived. I thought you’d want it. The new roommate sucks. She leaves her dirty dishes out and the ants are back. She also fucks her boyfriend all morning and he leaves condoms in the toilet. We miss you.

  Janie

  Well. Isn’t that a heaping dose of nostalgia?

  My hands shake as I open the letter within a letter. The stationery is the same my dad always used. I had to send it to him, with self-addressed, stamped envelopes. I pause as I get to the actual letter.

  This is the very last thing my daddy will ever say to me.

  My nose and throat swell with tears. I ache to hug him one more time. He was my anchor. My champion. My only source of true, unconditional love.

  And he’s gone.

  I close my eyes, then slowly, painstakingly unfold the letter. Half the words are crossed out with thick, permanent marker. This has happened before, when the prison authorities censor stories Dad told about events in the prison, or law enforcement investigations.

  Alarm shoots through me. I’ve never seen one this blacked out before.

  Dear Carrie,

  I have to tell you to be careful about ______. He’s part of the _________ and he’s going to act like he’s _________. Don’t be fooled by his power. He is corrupt. Stay away from him. Do not spend time alone with him, ever. If he tries to get you alone, do whatever you have to in order to get away.

  Last week he ______________—

  The next entire paragraph is blacked out. The whole thing.

  I stop reading and rest my forehead against my knees.

  Who is “he”?

  And why is my father warning me from the grave about this unnamed man?

  Chapter Twenty-One

  There’s more. It goes on for three pages, so many sentences and words blacked out that it becomes gibberish after a while.

  I read and re-read, my eyes racing over the page until it all becomes a blur. It’s meaningless. The letter means everything and nothing, all at the same time. Without Dad here to explain, and without the blacked out words, the context doesn’t make sense.

  That’s the story of the last three years, isn’t it? Trying to find meaning in bits and pieces of information, but always lacking the whole.

  I toss the letter on the floor and begin to sob. My ribs ache from the force of my ugly cry. I wrench my neck as I stretch up and howl, the pain in my heart so steady it feels like it’s being ripped from my chest.

  This is what it feels like to die but still be alive. How can I protect myself from a man I don’t know the name of? How could the prison authorities sit there and cross out all this informat
ion knowing—knowing!—my dad was trying to warn me?

  In my freshman year of college I read a book in Introduction to Philosophy. It was called Eichmann in Jerusalem: The Banality of Evil. It was about the Holocaust, and why ordinary German citizens were able to be in the army and send people to the concentration camps and gas chambers. Why didn’t they argue? Not do the job? Walk away and refuse?

  The question was: how could perfectly normal people become such monsters?

  I am suddenly reminded of that book.

  I pick up the letter and walk outside, locking Brian and Elaine’s front door. The sun is setting. I have to work in the morning. Mark is still gone.

  At this point, I think I just need to crawl into bed and call it an early night. Maybe sleep will tear me away from some of this confusion and pain.

  I hope Mark comes home tomorrow. I need him so much. All the love my dad used to offer me is gone. Elaine and Brian offer some. So does Amy. But now that Mark and I are back together, he’s who I need the most. The love I feel for him is different. It’s all about the future. The love I have from other people is about a shared past.

  Mark is who I need.

  My legs feel like bricks as I walk up the steps to my trailer. I close and lock the door, pull the curtains, and slide under the covers fully clothed.

  And pray for a peaceful night’s sleep.

  * * *

  “Daddy?” I say, my voice filled with irritation. We’re sitting in a beautiful tea room, in a major city, miles above the crowds and noise. This is a restaurant for the wealthy, with important business men leaning in toward each other. Their brows are knitted in concentration, voices hushed and full of money.

  The women are gorgeous, stunningly perfect. Deep red dresses and wide white hats, pearls and diamonds and expensive high heels galore. The restaurant is full of rich, purple velvet and bright sunlight. Silver tea sets abound.

  Daddy wears a cashmere suit. I am clothed in some dress I bought in Milan a month ago.

  I’m drinking a mimosa and the waiter delivers a glass of cocktail shrimp bigger than my fist.

  “Why are you talking like that?” I ask, persisting. He’s looking at me, his own brow tight with frustration.

  Every third word out of his mouth is silent.

  Its as if someone hits a mute button each time.

  “Carrie,” he says. “Want. Think. What. Doing.”

  I drink my mimosa in a furious gulp. “Stop it, Daddy! Stop it!” I slam the glass onto the white linen table cloth. It shatters, a sharp piece of glass digging into my wrist.

  Red blooms, like a rose opening in sunlight. My blood fills the cloth, taking it over, all of the cloth in the room turning crimson red.

  I look at Daddy.

  His eyes have gone blood red, too.

  Something wet licks at my ankle. I look down.

  Blood.

  The room is filling with blood, waves of it crashing against my ankles, the table legs, covering all the men’s black wing tips in the room. People talk and drink and eat as if nothing’s happening.

  Their eyes have all turned red, too.

  I stand and scream.

  No one notices.

  Daddy reaches for me and grabs my wrist, scratching me.

  I wake up, clawing at my throat, the scream in there but trapped. It feels like a tennis ball lodged in my throat. I rip the covers off me and frantically touch my ankles.

  No blood.

  The trailer is hot and stuffy, shaking slightly as I move around. I pant, the sound an echo in my ears. It feels like someone is scraping the inside of my head with a nail file.

  My heart beats in triple time, pumping blood.

  I touch my wrists. No new scratches. Just the one Eric left there on Friday, barely visible now.

  I look at my phone. It’s Friday again. 4:11 a.m.

  Slumping back, I stare at the fiberglass ceiling, my heart pounding so hard I can look down and see it rise and fall. A vein in my neck starts to flutter. I reach up and press two fingers to it. It calms down instantly.

  If only I could do the same to my entire body.

  What the heck did that dream mean? The letter from my dad clearly invaded my dreams, but the blood? All those people acting like nothing was happening? Breaking the glass and bleeding? My own dad hurting me? Talk about symbolism.

  Images from the dream go through my head and I try to will them away.

  Half an hour later I give up and just start making coffee. The motion of scooping the grounds into the filter, filling the tiny coffee pot from the sink, clicking and pushing buttons and listening for the first tell-tale sounds of gurgling all help to bring the scattered pieces of me back together.

  I turn on the radio and find a quiet classic rock station. This was the music Dad and Brian always played in the bar. “Freebird” comes on and I sit in the cramped little bed, waiting for the coffee machine to make its final hiss.

  My heart is finally back to normal. Normal beat, that is.

  Nothing is “normal,” really.

  As steam rises from the back of the coffee pot, I stand, pour a cup, add some milk and cinnamon, then settle back, propping myself up on pillows. I close my eyes and inhale. The coffee smells like heaven. Tastes like it, too.

  I remember how Mark and I let our coffee go tepid the morning we made love. A smile twitches on my lips. Mark. He’s who I should be dreaming about.

  Not a room full of people with blood eyes.

  I wish he were here. He never answered my text about Claudia’s mom. I wish I could tell Mark everything I’ve learned. I wish I could hear his voice. Even a text from him would be enough right now. So many days with no contact feels like three years. I know we’re still together and he’s gone just for work. My rational brain understands.

  My emotional center weeps with each passing hour.

  My phone rings suddenly.

  I scream, spilling coffee all over my arm. The burn makes me freak out and I shove my arm away from me further, spilling more all over my bed spread. I rush to put the half-full mug on the shelf behind my head and paw at my body, trying to find my phone.

  It’s under my ass.

  Waving my burned arm, I answer just in time. The number just says, “UNLISTED.”

  “Hello?”

  “Carrie?”

  It’s Mark.

  “Mark! Mark!” My burnt hand suddenly feels fine. “Oh, God, I miss you.”

  “Miss you too,” he says in a clipped voice. No nonsense. All business. “Sorry to call so early.”

  It’s 4:54 a.m.

  “I was up.”

  “You were?” His voice goes sharp. “Is everything okay?”

  “I had a nightmare.”

  “Oh.” That simple sound has compassion in it. “I wish I were there,” he says in a whisper. His tone makes me feel blanketed by protectiveness. If he were here, he’d hold me. He’d let me tell the story of the nightmare. We’d talk about it and try to understand its meaning.

  I know that. I know that now. I know he’s mine and I’m his.

  “I wish you were, too. When are you coming home?”

  “Tomorrow.”

  Disappointment makes my stomach drop. “Another day?”

  “Yes. I’m sorry.”

  “You can’t help it.” I try not to sound sad.

  “You sound like your puppy died,” he says in a joking voice.

  Puppy. Dog. Dean Landau and Claudia at the shelter. I want to tell him the story, and start to say something, especially about the picture of Claudia’s mother I found in the dean’s office, but then:

  “I have to go, honey. I just wanted to take a minute to call. I love you,” he says, his voice so low I can barely hear the words.

  I feel them, though.

  “I love you, too, Mark.”

  “Tomorrow morning. I’ll find you.” Click.

  And just like that, he’s gone.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  I set down my phone and look at t
he mess. My forearm is turning a nasty pink, and it stings. It isn’t a deep burn, though. I stand and cross to the kitchen sink, where I fill the tiny little bowl with cool water and immerse my forearm.

  Within a few minutes it feels better. There’s coffee all over my sheets and cover, so I strip the bed, making a pile of laundry for later.

  The rest of my coffee has cooled down enough to drink. I sit on the bed, gulp it down and make a second cup.

  So many questions run through my mind. Why did Mark call now? Four days without contact was hard. This tiny little call will have to be enough to pull me through until tomorrow. Why the secrecy? The quiet?

  There’s so much I don’t know about him.

  Another cup of coffee and a bowl of cereal later, I grab a change of clothes and a towel and head to Elaine and Brian’s house to shower. This early in the morning, the only person I ever see is Elaine.

  Sure enough, she’s sitting on the back porch with the tabby in her lap and a black cat on her shoulder.

  “Carrie! Heard from Mark?”

  “Yes. Just this morning. He’s coming home tomorrow.”

  Elaine makes a sad face. “I’m so sorry about his father.”

  His father? Why is she—oh. That’s right. Mark’s cover story.

  “Yeah,” I say, trying to lie well. “It’s a shame.” That’s not a lie, right? The truth about his biological father is a shame.

  “How are you doing? Has your mail started coming?”

  I hesitate. How much should I share? I’m bursting inside with loneliness and with wanting to talk about my dad’s letter with someone. Anyone. It’s killing me not to. If Amy or Mark were here, I’d spill my guts to them.

  Elaine will have to do.

  “I got a letter from my dad.”

  Elaine jumps with shock, making the two cats run away. “What? How?”

  “He sent it right before he died. It went to my place in Oklahoma City. My roommate forwarded it. Got it last night.”

  “Oh, Carrie,” she says. “How bittersweet.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Anything helpful? New?” Her gaze cuts away as soon as she asks the question.

  I reach in my back pocket where I’ve put the letter and hand it to her. She unfolds it, her eyes racing over the page like mine did the first time I saw it.