“You bastard,” she said, trying to keep her voice down. “How dare you speak to me that way? I’m not some cheap whore you can just screw whenever you feel like it.”
“I don’t know,” he said with a shrug, his grin returning, “you’ve made a good one so far.”
Darla drew back her hand to slap him again, but as she was about to make contact, he caught her by the wrist and changed his tone to one of business.
“Miss Hemmingway, please do not redden my face before my next class.”
“I could tell the board,” she threatened. “I know about your other flings. Student-teacher relationships are forbidden. You’ll be fired. Never work in this field again.”
“They also frown on adulterous relationships,” Hank reminded her. “How would this complaint look coming from a woman disgruntled with a sinful relationship with this teacher. You’ll suffer the same fate.”
“I could tell your wife.”
“And I could tell her whatever I want,” he noted. “Who’s she going to believe?”
Darla’s face was red with fury. She knew she couldn’t do anything against him. He was far too clever. She grabbed her jacket and put it on, hiding her dress code violating top. She reached the door and unlocked it.
“Leaving already?” Hank called out as she grabbed the door handle. “So no quickie today then.” He rotated his hips in a sexual fashion. Darla just stared at him, all the love she once held for him transformed into hate.
“I swear, Hank Michaels, one of these days someone’s going to kill you and wipe that nasty grin right off your face.”
“Yeah, right,” he muttered as he picked up his coffee, and she allowed the door to close behind her.
Her anger didn’t end after she left the break room, however. That conversation carried her right through her day where she had trouble being civil to anyone, and anytime she saw him in the hall, it all came back, so she made every effort to avoid him and his stupid smug expression. The end of the day could not come soon enough, so she could get home and away from everyone.
When she arrived at her apartment that evening, she walked into her bedroom and slammed the door behind her. Her bedroom was small as could be expected in a one bedroom apartment. She had only expected to live in an apartment for a short time, but that short time turned into years as she put off buying a house in the hopes that she would meet someone. That someone turned into Hank Michaels who would never want to buy anything with her, so she remained in the small apartment with a bedroom barely large enough to accommodate her full-sized bed and dresser. The space between the bed and the wall opposite the door was just enough to allow a nightstand.
She threw her purse across the room followed by her keys. When her purse hit the wall, it turned itself almost inside tossing most of its contents all over the floor in front of the nightstand and her bed. Her keys nearly implanted themselves in the soft sheetrock, but in the end, only left a deep dent before they bounced to the floor as well.
She dropped onto her bed and sobbed, “Stupid Hank Michaels… Stupid, stupid man…”
She glanced to her nightstand where she had placed a picture of Hank that she had taken of him one day at school the previous semester. He looked handsome and dashing like a regular James Bond, but like a regular James Bond, he thought nothing of loving and leaving her. In a fit, she picked up the picture and threw it across the room where it hit her solid wooden closet door, dented the wood, shattered the glass in the frame, and fell to the floor. She screamed despite herself and pounded the bed several times in frustration.
After a moment, she got up and walked to the broken frame. She fished the photo out of the glass fragments and held it as she crawled back into bed. She cradled it to her chest and curled into a fetal position, still crying over his impudence and wondering what she would do with her life.
She hated him, but the hate came out of the love she thought she felt. No, the love she knew she felt. Her early days with him were blissful and wonderful, and she had fallen in love with him. She had decided that he was the one when she had broached that topic she day she learned the truth. Even then, she was sure she could keep him even knowing he was divided. She was not certain what would happen, but she knew her heart was shattered. She wanted to be done with him, but she was not sure how she would ever be able to do it. She hated herself for feeling this way and hated the tears she was shedding. She knew he wasn’t worth it.
The last thing she uttered before crying herself to sleep was, “Stupid Hank Michaels.” Even though the lights were on in her bedroom and she was still fully clothed, she fell asleep and nothing could disturb her. She slept until the following morning when her alarm awakened her, and she learned of his death on the morning news after her shower. Needless to say, she was stunned but not entirely surprised.
“Professor Hemmingway?” a girl’s voice said quietly.
Darla blinked out of her memory and glanced up to see Mindy standing directly in front of her, holding the test paper.
“Sorry it took so long,” Mindy said. “Weird night last night.”
“Yes, I’m sure,” Darla nodded.
“And then I had to get up earlier than normal this morning,” Mindy continued. “The police wanted to talk to me about Professor Michaels.”
Darla looked at this sweet little girl and sighed. Weird night last night could mean that she had someone on guard outside her place. Interrogation the morning after another murder. She hated the thought of it, but she had to ask.
“Why would they do that? You weren’t one of those girls who was … intimate with him, were you? I promise your answer stays here. I’m not judging.”
Mindy sighed and turned to her desk, her head hung low. Darla was afraid she might have offended the girl, but then Mindy shrugged and turned back to her.
“It was stupid and sinful,” Mindy admitted. “The beginning of my freshman year, and I fall for a teacher. We had a thing for awhile. Then I found Jesus, joined the college group at Greater Life Church, and cleaned my life up. I’m not proud of some of my past. He wasn’t my only guy during that time, but I know that I’m forgiven now, and I’m never going back to that kind of lifestyle. I even changed my major between those first couple of semesters.”
“You’re a theology major,” Darla observed.
“I started in fashion,” Mindy said. “I found a peace that suits me fine.”
Darla smiled, reminded of why she even did this job. Mindy’s story warmed her heart for a moment.
“Good for you, Mindy,” Darla said. “I’m glad you found something worth believing in.”
“I did,” Mindy said, “and I’m not ashamed to say it.” Mindy glanced at the time on her phone. “I’ve gotta run. There’s a study on the Song of Solomon I don’t want to miss.”
“I’ll see you later. Take care.”
As Mindy left, Darla looked back to Hank’s picture in the paper, the darkness returning.
“Well, at least someone’s life got better since they met you,” she told the picture. She pinched the newsprint at the photo and tore it from the page. She crumpled it up, and tossed it symbolically in the trash. Happy to have done it, she continued to read the paper and wait for her next class.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Art Imitates Life
The three bedroom suburban home at 830 West Sondheim had a neatly landscaped front yard, two cars in the driveway, and a lined walkway that led to the diminutive front porch. Lights shone from most of the rooms of the house this evening, and in one of those rooms, Harriet Graham was just coming in from taking a shower, her hair lost in a towel as she tried to dry it as much as she could before going to bed for the evening. She was dressed in matching pajama pants and short-sleeved shirt and upon entering her room, she deemed her hair was dry enough and tossed her towel onto her bedroom floor as her bedroom door lazily drifted closed behind her.
Her room was modestly decorated with a mix of Harriet’s childhood leading into her young adulthood wit
h everything from stuffed animals and Barbies to assorted makeup and posters of famous artwork. Tacked to her walls around the room was evidence of her major in art as the pictures on top of pictures illustrated a progression of skill from the stick figures of elementary childhood to the full-figured (and not always clothed) images drawn by a skilled young artist. Mismatched furniture consisting of a nightstand, chest of drawers, dresser with mirror, and her twin-sized bed each found its own place against her walls directly across from her closet door.
As she tossed her towel down, Harriet shivered and noticed her window was open. She walked over to it and immediately closed and locked it. She didn’t exactly remember opening it, but she also didn’t remember whether she brushed her teeth yet or not, so she figured it was possible that she had done it for some reason earlier. She plopped herself on her bed and reached for her cell phone.
Before she could dial, her mother called out, “Harriet?” from somewhere down the hall. Harriet rolled her eyes and wondered what her mother wanted this time. She was always sticking her nose into Harriet’s business, and Harriet knew she’d want something inane tonight as well. It always seemed to Harriet that it was less that her mother needed something and more that she wanted to make sure her daughter didn’t disappear out her window. She had done it before. She stared at the door waiting for it to open impatiently tapping her phone on her bed.
The door opened and Harriet tossed her phone onto her bed and reached for her sketch pad and pencil sitting on the nightstand right next to her bed. Esther Graham stood in the open door looking at Harriet. The lines on Esther’s face along with the white streaks in her hair showed how difficult Harriet had been growing up, but the love in her eyes never wavered for a moment. She wanted nothing more than for her daughter to find success and happiness in her life but had unintentionally spoiled her in the process.
“Yes, mother?” Harriet responded disrespectfully as she drew in her sketchbook.
“Were you going to stay up and study at all tonight?” Esther asked without a touch of accusation.
“Maybe. Maybe not.”
“If you want good grades, you really do need to study,” Esther advised.
“See? I’m studying right now. I’m an art major, and I’m drawing. Aren’t you proud?” Harriet paused to give her mother an impatient expression, silently requesting her to leave. “I actually have to call Ashley.”
“Harriet, I don’t think Ashley Carter is a good girl,” Esther said and not for the first time. Harriet rolled her eyes and resumed her drawing. “I think she’s a bad influence.”
“Actually, I chose my major on my own. You can stop blaming her.”
“I’m not blaming her.” Harriet stopped drawing and gave her mother the “whatever” look.
“You always blame her. You want me to be a doctor, and she casually mentions I draw good. I know how you feel.” She resumed drawing.
“It has nothing to do with your major,” Esther said, almost insistently. “I think what you’re doing is fine, and you’re very talented. I can see that. I’ve never held that against you or her.” Harriet scoffed with an eye roll. “It’s just that she has that boy in her room all the time, doesn’t she?” Harriet scoffed again. “I don’t even think that’s allowed.”
“He’s only there because you won’t let me be there,” Harriet insisted calmly, never looking up from her drawing.
“That’s terrible though,” Esther said. “She can get herself into a lot of trouble at her age. And don’t roll your eyes again, cause you know what I mean. I was your age once, and things haven’t really changed. And what with everything going on now, you’re much safer here at home.”
“Come on, mom,” Harriet sighed. “She’s my friend, not yours. If you don’t like her, don’t talk to her.”
“That’s not the issue and you know it.”
“Yeah,” Harriet began, looking up from her picture again, “the issue is: if you let me live in the dorms like I’ve been asking, I wouldn’t have to listen to your complaining and you wouldn’t have to deal with Ashley’s voice polluting the air space of my room.”
“You watch your mouth, young lady, or,” Esther began, honestly angry at Harriet’s impudence. Harriet, however, cut her off, and went back to her drawing.
“Or what? You’ll spank me? Wash my mouth out with soap?”
“I’ll cut off your phone,” Esther threatened. Harriet chuckled.
“You wouldn’t do that,” Harriet said. “You need it to keep tabs on me cause you know I always have it on me.” Harriet finishes her drawing with a flourish and turns it around so her mother can see it. The sketch was clearly a caricature of Esther, but Esther’s mouth looked more like a demon’s with a forked tongue and a spat of fire. The words “Nag, nag, nag” hovered in a bubble over the caricature’s head. Esther closed her eyes and shook her head, fighting back tears.
“Good night, Harriet.”
“Whatever.”
Esther quietly closed the door to Harriet’s room, and as soon as the latch caught, Harriet tossed her pad down and grabbed her phone. She lay on her stomach facing her wall away from the chaos of her room behind her. She dialed Ashley’s number, propped up on her elbows, and waited for Ashley to answer.
Across town, in the dorms of Bluffs University, a cell phone rang on the nightstand of a sparsely decorated dorm room. The lights were off, so the sudden appearance of the cell phone’s backlight shed light on the occupied bed next to it. Ashley’s hand reached from the shadows and answered it.
“Hello?”
“Hey girl, what’s up?” Harriet asked.
“Harriet!” Ashley declared. “It’s going real good over here, if you know what I mean.”
“Oh, do I need to let you go?” Harriet asked, with no intention in her voice of letting Ashley go.
“Nah, it’s cool,” Ashley said with the undercurrents of there never being any question about it. “What’s up?”
“Oh, you know. The usual. You should see this drawing I did of my mom. It’s hilarious.” Harriet looked at the drawing on her sketch pad again and chuckled.
“You know, they’re only that way because they care,” Ashley assured her.
“I wish they would care a little less,” Harriet said, tossing the pad back down and glancing at her door for a moment just to make sure there were no uninvited shadows listening. “She harped on you again.”
“You know, I mention your talent one time, and I’m a black sheep for life. She knows my major, right?”
“What is it this week?” Harriet joked.
“Quit it,” Ashley said seriously. “I’ve always been a journalism major.” In reality, although only in her third semester, Ashley had changed her major multiple times. She did start with Journalism as her major, but then it changed to Spanish, then English, Music, Teaching, Art, Forensics, Philosophy, Psychology, and then back to Journalism. Harriet’s joke was well-justified and everyone knew it, but once it returned to Journalism for the second time, she had left it alone. “I would totally cover your art shows,” Ashley said just to drive it home.
“Oh yeah,” Harriet said enthusiastically. “We’d make such a good team.”
“Hell yeah.”
“Hey, speaking of news, did you see the news today?” Harriets asked, changing the subject. “They locked up Professor Michaels’ wife. Can you believe she did it?”
“Oh my god, I know,” Ashley said. “Can’t say I blame her, but geez, I don’t know if I’d go around killing everyone. I feel safer with her locked up though.”
“I know what you mean. I never would have guessed. I always saw her as the June Cleaver type.”
“You got the Cleaver part right,” Ashley said with a chuckle. Harriet returned a chuckle in appreciation of the joke. A moment of silence passed where the person sharing Ashley’s bed decided to remind her of his presence. She batted him off for a moment, and said, “Hey, what if she didn’t do it?”
“What do you mean?” Harriet
asked.
“Or maybe, what if she has an accomplice who’s still out there?”
“Give me a break, Ashley. If you’re trying to scare me, it won’t work,” Harriet warned, her voice perceptibly shaking.
“He could be in your closet, waiting for you to come in,” Ashley continued, dropping her voice like she’s telling a scary story around a camp fire. “And now, while you’re all occupied, talking to me, he could come creeping out of the closet to get you.”
Harriet spun her head around to look at the closed closet door and allowed her imagination to run away with her for just a moment. She shook her head and chuckled nervously, returning to her previous position, staring at the wall.
“You might as well give up, girl, you ain’t gonna scare me,” Harriet lied. “You’re not that good a storyteller.”
Behind her, the closet door opened soundlessly. Unbeknownst to Ashley, the faceless figure stepped out and did everything exactly as Ashley described it to Harriet, making her into a realistic, if not a bit morbid, storyteller.
“He’ll be silently opening your closet door and step out, really soft-like,” Ashley continued in her scary story voice. “Slowly, he’ll walk across your bedroom floor and come right up behind you, but you’ll never know it.”
“Come on, stop,” Harriet chuckled nervously.
“Silently, he’d reach for a cable in your room – maybe one of those USB cables on your dresser – and before you know it, he’ll wrap it around your throat and strangle you to death.” Ashley ended the story in an ominous whisper, and Harriet had to collect herself for a moment, telling herself silently that it’s only a story.
“Look,” Harriet said, finding her voice, “you’re creeping me out here. I’m going to bed. Good night.”
“Good night,” Ashley said with a smile.
Harriet hit the End key on her phone tossed it off to her side. Suddenly, she felt like she wasn’t alone in the room. She turned around to see the Faceless Figure holding a USB cable, and before she could scream, the Figure wrapped it around her throat from behind and tightened it. Harriet struggled, but the figure was far stronger than she was. She started to lose her strength and black out when the figure released its hold on the cable, and she dropped to the bed, panting as much as her crushed windpipe would allow. The Figure rolled Harriet onto her back.
Vengeance Page 10
