“Whoa. I mean . . . thanks.” I think. “The future Mr. Santangelo or whoever might not be willing to go along, though.”
“Well, the beauty of this is,” her dad said, “even if there isn’t a Mr. Santangelo, you can still choose motherhood down the road. Use a sperm bank, get a med student donor so you know you’ve got the right genetic background, and delay it until you can afford to give your child the best, like I gave you.”
“Well, I had a mom, too. This all sounds kind of Future World, doesn’t it?”
“No,” her father said, “it sounds like a solution that would set your mind at ease and help you keep that focus where it belongs But we’d both better get back to work. I’ll put the three hundred in, just to cover you. Until the first of the month.”
“I promise, it’ll be back in your account on the first. Thanks.”
It wasn’t until she hung up that she realized he hadn’t asked her if she’d been hurt when she’d gone off the road. But then, he’d have figured that she’d have told him if she had been. That was her dad. Focused on the practical details. Eyes on the prize.
Freezing her eggs. Wow. It was practical, she could see that. It just sounded so cold. So bleak. But maybe that was the answer. Maybe so.
She glanced over at the cowboy boots that had cost half of that $300. She’d known they were a bad idea. Why was it that everything that felt good was a bad idea?
She thought about calling her mom. Her mom would understand about the boots. But she’d also want to know how Zoe’s dad was doing, and that was so depressing, and so exasperating, too. Give it up, Mom, she always wanted to say. He doesn’t love you anymore, and he never will again. But it was too cruel.
Her dad was right. Relationships were confusing, and they got you off track. And men were fickle anyway. Her dad was the prime example of that one, too. She’d focus on work. She knew about work.
She’d call her mom tonight, tell her she’d gone out dancing, describe what she’d worn. Her mom would love that. Meanwhile, she needed to finish her grading, and then she could take a walk, have that swim. She could say hello to people along the way, and they’d say hello back. She could even look at babies in the park. But she had a stack of tests to grade before she could do that, and she was only halfway through, so she picked up the next one, opened it, and got started.
Amy’s. Her handwriting had become increasingly wild as she’d gone along. It was obvious that, for whatever reason, she had indeed panicked. During the test, anyway.
Zoe sighed, read, marked, and hoped Amy would keep after it, would do those corrections. She reminded herself to encourage the girl if the opportunity arose, because she hated failing a student who was trying. It was the worst.
CANDY AND FLOWERS
Wednesday night, and Halloween, too. Amy walked the last few blocks toward home in the dusk, her coat buttoned against the increasingly chilly late-afternoon wind. There was going to be frost tonight, and all the kids would have to wear their jackets under their costumes, and they’d complain about it, just like she always had. It was pretty hard to feel like a beautiful princess with a puffy jacket stuffed under your Snow White dress.
She hoped she’d get some kids, but the apartment complex was student housing, so probably not. She’d bought some M&M’s just in case, hoping she could restrain herself from eating them. When you were short anyway, five extra pounds were five pounds too many, and she’d gone to a Halloween party at Bill’s frat house on Saturday night, had drunk too much, and beer was fattening, everybody knew that.
She didn’t have to eat M&M’s, she reminded herself sternly, because she was in control. Of her body, and her life. Even though she’d finally gotten her geology test back in class today, and it had had a big red “61” on it. She’d turned the book over fast, looked around and hoped nobody had seen, and swallowed against the sickness that rose at the grade distribution Dr. Santangelo had posted on the whiteboard, because her 61 was third from the bottom. She was going to do the corrections tonight, though, and then she was going to stay caught up. The next midterm, she wasn’t getting a 61.
She climbed the final hill to the apartment complex, saw the splash of color outside the sliding door to her apartment, and her heart lifted a little. Bill had never sent flowers before, but then, he’d walked home with her on Saturday night after the party, had come in to say good night . . . and it had been really good.
They’d both been a little drunk, and her roommate had been at a party of her own, so they’d had the apartment to themselves. Bill had pulled the plunging top of her belly dancer costume right off her when they’d barely been inside the door, and they’d never even made it to the bedroom. They’d done it right there on the living room rug, and it had been the best sex she’d ever had.
“Damn, baby, you looked hot tonight,” he’d gasped, grabbing her by the hips and grinding into layers of transparent skirts. He’d gotten everything off her except the jangling bells around her ankles, and when he’d been doing it hard and fast, those bells had rung like crazy, and so had hers.
Right in front of the window, in the dark, and that had been exciting, too. And now there were flowers outside that same window. Which told her it wasn’t just sex. Flowers were romance.
She bent down on the concrete slab, picked up the plain glass vase full of chrysanthemums in bronze and gold. Fall colors. Halloween colors. She balanced the vase on a hip, opened the sliding-glass door and locked it behind her, set the vase on the coffee table, and plucked the white envelope out of its holder.
A Halloween card. Aw. That was sweet. Prepare to be spooked, the outside proclaimed. She opened it and laughed. Bigfoot, holding a sign. Have a hairy scary Halloween.
Trick or treat, pretty girl, was printed in block letters beneath. Not signed, because he hadn’t had to sign it. She smiled and sighed. She’d already gotten her treat. What had happened the other night, and flowers. Two pretty good treats.
She pulled her phone out of her pack, texted him.
Just wanted to say I loved it. Thank you.
She carried the phone with her while she took her things into her bedroom, and sure enough, it dinged within five minutes.
Anytime, he’d texted back. See u tomorrow.
She wouldn’t eat any M&M’s, she vowed. Not a single packet. Next time she got naked with him, there was going to be a pound less of her. Meanwhile, she’d heat up some soup and do those corrections. This was going to be her new leaf, because there was no way she was flunking out of school and going home, no matter how many panic attacks she had during a midterm. She was in charge of her life, and she was going to stay in charge of it.
HAPPY HALLOWEEN
He swung himself up, balanced for a second on top of the wooden fence, then dropped to a crouch on the other side, his navy-blue sweatshirt and dark blue jeans blending into the shadows.
He could have walked straight up the driveway and around the sidewalk. Not like there was anybody around, not at three in the morning. The witching hour, when sleep was deepest, defenses were lowest. His favorite time of night.
But you never knew. Somebody up late studying, some guy banging his girlfriend, then coming outside to smoke a cigarette? He’d gotten away with this so far not just because of his . . . advantages, but because he was smart, and he was careful, and he planned.
Fail to plan, he reminded himself, or plan to fail. He didn’t plan to fail. Not tonight. Not ever.
Amy had been savvier, more aware than most of them, but that just made her more of a challenge. She’d picked up on him faster, although not as fast as she could have, because she hadn’t caught him shadowing her on foot, had she, during his preliminary reconnaissance? But once she’d figured it out, she’d definitely taken more precautions, had slowed him down. He’d had to lie low longer than he’d expected, hadn’t had more than those few nights of fun chasing her in the truck, the entertainmen
t of watching how jumpy she’d been ever since.
He’d have to make tonight extra good to make up for it, that was all. There was no big, strong boyfriend to help her now. It was just going to be the two of them, him and his cute little Amy. His dream date.
She’d had a good time with Billy-boy on Saturday, and he’d enjoyed the view he’d gotten of it from his spot right here by the fence. He’d used his night-vision goggles to make sure he hadn’t missed a thing, and he’d enjoyed the hell out of it. Bill had warmed her up pretty good for him, and now it was his turn.
They always got complacent eventually, and Amy was no exception. They always doubted what they’d seen, what they’d felt. Women were so easily swayed. Face it, they were stupid. They were weak, and the strong preyed on the weak. That was the law of the jungle.
He unzipped the pocket of the sweatshirt, felt for the thin, sticky latex of the surgical gloves, worked them onto his hands in the dark. His fingers found the reassuringly jagged edges of the zip ties, gave them a little pat. Two, and two extra, because he always brought extras. There was that planning again.
A gloved hand in the other pocket, and he pulled out the black ski mask, tugged it over his head, aligned the eye and mouth holes. Now he looked like a bona fide nightmare.
He smiled inside the woolen mask. Happy Halloween, Amy.
He didn’t need anything else. He never did. Fear froze them for those first critical seconds, and by the time they woke up enough to know what was happening, it was already much too late. A few threats, a good hard slap or two if they needed it, a hand on their throat, and by the time he started, their minds had gotten ahead of them and they were just praying to survive. That was all it took.
His heart was beating harder, but it wasn’t unpleasant, not at all. He was on edge, but it was a good edge, knowing he was at the top of his game, that he was in charge. He never felt better than he did right before. Not even afterward. He could get off anytime. But he couldn’t get this. This was special. This was his.
Mask, gloves, zip ties, penlight. He was ready. He wondered again if he should change it up, start blindfolding them. Use a pillowcase, maybe. Shove it over her head, and he wouldn’t have to worry one bit about her identifying him.
But if he did that, he couldn’t see their eyes, and their eyes were his favorite part. Seeing the fear in them, the desperation. The pain. And then there was the bargaining, the reasoning. When they tried using their freshman Sexual Assault Awareness training on him—Christ, that made him laugh.
So no blindfold. Because it would take away half the fun, and the fun was the point. That and the danger. The danger . . . that was the extra spice in the stew.
But that was enough time savoring the pleasures to come. Time to make his move. He looked around once more, stayed low, and crept across the yard. Then he was standing on the concrete slab, lit by the dim illumination of the so-called security lights, the most dangerous part of his mission.
The sliding door was aluminum, but he knew that already, because he didn’t take chances. He’d checked it out weeks ago, when he’d picked his Amy. He tried it, just to make sure. Locked.
Well, that would have been too easy. No fun at all. Anyway, locking one of these things was like taking your shoes off for the airport security scanners. Didn’t keep anything safer at all, just made stupid people feel like it did.
He put one hand up to the corner of the aluminum frame, the other on the handle. A couple hard, sharp jerks in exactly the right place, and he felt the snap. He smiled. Piece of crap. Easy as pie. He slid it open, left it that way, ready for a quick exit, and stepped inside. Unzipped his sweatshirt pocket, touched the ridged edge of a zip tie. Party time.
“Honey,” he breathed. “I’m home.”
MONKEY PAWS
Amy sat up in bed, her heart knocking against her chest. What was that? Was that something?
She’d sat up in the dark with her heart beating exactly like this, over and over and over again, every night for more than a week. But this was the first night she’d been alone.
It’s all right, her brain said. Just the wind. But her body was telling her something else. That it was the very furthest thing from all right. Every muscle had tensed. Everything in her was screaming danger.
Her eyes were fixed on the doorway. It was pitch-dark in here, the shades drawn, but she could sense something. Not quite hear it, just a feeling. And then she heard the hint of a rasp that she somehow knew was the doorknob turning, saw a sliver of a break in the shadows, a wedge of gray that grew slowly wider. The door was opening.
Her right hand, the one that had been resting on the switch, hit it hard, and her bedside light went on.
She saw him standing frozen, his hand still on the doorknob. And then she had leaped to her feet, on the side of the bed away from him, even as he rushed around the end of the bed, straight for her.
She didn’t try to run, didn’t scramble across the bed. She never even thought of it. Instead, she charged him, shouting at the top of her lungs, a wordless, primal scream of fear and anger and aggression, lifted the maple wood bat that had been beside her bed and swung it backhanded, because there wasn’t enough room between her bed and the wall. And because she had seen him telegraph his move.
He’ll go for your right. Go for his left.
She didn’t swing for his head. Too small, too uncertain a target.
Center mass. It had worked when she’d been standing at home plate facing the pitcher, and it worked now. She swung, hard and fast, and that right hand that had been reaching for the bat missed, but she didn’t.
Wham. Into his left arm, and he was spinning, gasping.
Wham. Into his back as he spun, and he was catapulted forward, and then he was scrambling, running away, and she was still screaming at the top of her lungs, no words forming, just screaming. And chasing him.
Out of the bedroom, through the dark living room, out the open sliding door, into the shock of the freezing night, her bare feet hitting concrete, then grass as he ran for the fence, hunched over, hugging his left arm.
Three steps, four, and her foot was sliding out from under her on the frost, and she was flailing, falling backward, the other foot going out from under her.
She hit the grass hard, the wooden handle flying out of her grasp, into the darkness. Her head banged against the frozen ground, and she saw stars, but her feet were scrabbling all the same.
She rolled, looked up, and he was there. The face she’d seen only for those couple of terrifying seconds before she’d struck. Nothing but black, the white edging visible in the moonlight outlining his eyes and mouth, a staring, screaming mask. His hands glistening weirdly, curled monkey paws reaching for her.
“Bitch,” he hissed, still favoring his left side. “You bitch.”
She scrabbled back like a crab on palms and feet, reached desperately behind her for the bat.
He didn’t let her get there. He grabbed her left ankle in his right hand, was pulling her toward him, her short nightgown riding up over her hips, above her waist, nearly to her breasts, her bare skin burning against the frosted blades of grass, sharp as needles, and she was kicking desperately, screaming with every ounce of breath in her lungs.
“You’re going to pay.” It was a snarl, and he grabbed her right ankle as well, pulled harder, toward the bushes, and she was hauled up on her elbows, naked now from the shoulders down, still trying to kick, still screaming.
“Hey!” It was a shout from behind her. “Heyheyhey!”
She didn’t stop kicking, didn’t stop screaming. Her attacker froze, dropped her ankles, turned and took off. It was Tom, her neighbor, running after him, and the man in the ski mask was running, too, still hunched, leaping for the top of the fence only yards ahead of Tom and heaving himself awkwardly across it.
Tom was up and over seconds later, and Amy heard the pounding o
f feet, Tom still shouting, the sound fading into the cold night.
She was sobbing, pulling herself up, tugging her nightgown down with shaking hands, then standing, hunching over with her arms wrapped around herself, and the yard was full of people now. Lights coming on along the row of apartments, students pouring out, milling around, talking. Tom’s girlfriend, Janice, was running across the grass, grabbing her.
“What happened?” she asked, panting. “Who was that? Was that Bill?”
Amy couldn’t answer. She was crying too hard, shaking too violently.
Tom appeared at the top of the fence again, dropped down, came over to the two of them, stood over her, hands on hips, breathing hard, and Amy shrank into Janice’s arms, sobbed and sobbed, and couldn’t stop.
ANOTHER BORING COLLEGE FUNCTION
Five o’clock on Friday afternoon, and instead of getting a start on Tuesday’s lecture for her Groundwater Hydrology class, Zoe was about to use a precious couple of hours to go to a cocktail party.
Which she had no interest in attending, and which would take time she couldn’t afford. Teaching three classes, preparing lectures and labs for all of them was way too much work, especially on top of that consulting job, and was leaving her dangerously close to the edge of panic most of the time. The first year teaching a full course load, she knew, was a sink-or-swim proposition. And she had to swim.
“Just use the slides that go along with the textbook,” her next-door office neighbor, Roy Blake, had advised before the semester had begun. “Somebody’s got to teach Geology 101. Last few years, that lucky camper has been me, and I can’t tell you how glad I am that they finally filled that position. With anybody. Although having it be you, of course, is a bonus.”
“Oh, thanks,” she said. “Because I brighten the place up. With my femininity and all.”
“No,” he said, “because you occasionally laugh at my jokes. But you want my advice? Don’t spend too much energy on it, and don’t let the students suck all your time. You have to keep your office hours, or somebody will tattle to Daddy, but other than that . . .” He mimed slamming a door. “Keep it closed.”
Carry Me Home (Paradise, Idaho) Page 7
