by Harper Kim
In a low eerie voice, the man holds out both his hands and whispers, “Betsy…shhh…it’s okay. Everything is going to be okay. I’m here to save you, Betsy. I love you. Betsy, come here please. Betsy. Oh, Betsy.”
A jumble of questions flood my mind, but rational thought is quickly steamrolled by tsunamic doom. Desperate, I try to swallow the rising film of bile that coats my tongue and sticks dry in my throat, but can’t. I can’t swallow, move, or think. I remember my cell and pull it out of my back pocket. The screen is blank, battery dead.
I am trapped.
If I scream, what will that do? The streets are deserted and I will have to run downhill and through the handball courts in the dark to reach the buildings. Even if I make it to the buildings, the school is closed. It is summer break and there are no faculty members burning the midnight oil, no teacher stuck inside correcting papers or preparing exams. There are homes and apartments across the street, but he is blocking the way. And no one would think twice if they could hear me scream. By the time the scream is recognized as a cry for help instead of a cry of passion, it would be too late.
I force myself to focus. He is harmless. I just have to reach out to the sane part of him I met in the beginning. He has to be in there somewhere. Sucking in a breath of the cool night air, I gulp noisily.
“Betsy? Why did you call me Betsy? Who is she? Is she someone I should know?”
He grins. It is a manic kind of smile that makes me wonder what he is capable of. Is it my imagination or did the air turn thick and still?
“Betsy…”
I gulp for air again. “I’m sorry, I think you’ve got the wrong person. My name is Loral.”
He shakes his head, the tufts of white whoosh around like smoke, the eyes burn steady like coals. His voice is almost inaudible and comes out in a faint whisper. But the message rings clear: he is totally psycho.
“Betsy, now why would you say that? I know you’re mad that I didn’t come get you sooner, but I’m here now. You’re safe. He’s not going to hurt you anymore. You can trust me.”
My fingers close tightly around the chain link, my knuckles turning white, fingers aching from the strain. Yet I won’t, can’t let go. I have to anchor myself to something or else I will crumple limp beside Mr. Dimples.
Desperate, I blindly search for an escape. I grope for an angle. He seems fond of this Betsy. Was she his wife? Girlfriend? Lover? I try the first one, hoping for the best.
“Is Betsy your wife? The one you would never cheat on?”
His hazel eyes clear for a second before hardening again, like ice. Goose bumps rise along my flesh and I shudder beneath my hoodie. It is not the cold night air that chills me, it is his presence. Tears fill his eyes but he makes no motion to brush them away. He just lets them fall. “Why are you doing this? I don’t understand! I told you that I’m SORRY!”
His voice crescendos, shaky and irritable.
“I love you, Betsy. Please come home with me where you belong.” His voice, flat and cool. “Before I get really upset.”
Panic sears my nerves. I watch in slow motion as he moves toward me. Large hands reach out to grab hold and take me. What does he want from me? Where is he going to take me? To his home, or to some abandoned lot? To do what? Rape me? Kill me? Enslave me? I don’t know what he has in store, but the possibilities skittering through my scared mind make me squirt a small amount of urine into my jeans. I am overcome with shame and embarrassment.
My first assessment of this man was completely wrong. I let this old man’s feeble build and charming pet disarm me. Did this crazy old guy cheat on his wife? Did she leave him? Did he kill her?
I try to scream. A muffled gasp escapes. It is like trying to scream through a mouthful of cotton balls. With no weapon except my own hands, my only recourse is to move and move fast.
My fingers mercifully unlock from the chain link, my legs unfreeze.
I react swiftly. Dodging his first attempt to grasp hold of my arm gives me a flash of hope. I turn to run past him, toward the apartments. Maybe if I run fast enough, I can get someone to help.
With unexpected agility, he sidesteps to cut me off; grunting, he lowers his shoulder into my chest and knocks me backward. Full-blown panic takes over. Full of adrenaline, I cannot feel pain. I crouch down, blindly clawing at the dirt, attempting to escape through a tiny gap beneath the fence. The meager attempt is short-lived. I hear a petrified scream before my vision erupts into sparks, then closes to a blinding shade of black. Too quick, I do not register my own voice.
It is too late.
…Hearts sink, limbs fall, eyes abound.
Chapter Twenty-Eight:
Tuesday, June 19, 2012
10:02 P.M.
Neil Wilcox:
My evil Betsy rocks back from the blow, and falls on all fours, exposing the nape of her neck. I knife downward with the edge of my hand, making direct contact with the base of her skull. She falls, lifeless, atop the tiny patches of faded grass. She lies frozen. Dead.
Mr. Dimples stirs, as if awakened from a dream. He shuffles toward the unmoving body and presses his wet nose against her chilled hand. He gives the cold hand a cursory lick before slumping into a wheezing lump next to her unmoving, still-warm body.
I cannot move. I slump into an awkward kneel in front of her solid body, chilled from the sudden rush of cold air, and cover my face with my hands in angst. Pain rips open my heart and I gasp from the gut-wrenching pain. Wiping my moist eyes with the backs of my hands, I crouch, agape. Reaching over to feel her pulse, my fingers quiver from the disheartening knowledge that the girl lying before me is not unconscious, but dead.
Disbelief. Minutes go by without a single movement from either of us. I sit patiently hoping that the absent pulse was misread and she will awaken any second, slightly disoriented but perfectly fine and alive. Checking my watch, seven minutes have passed without so much as a twitch or flicker of movement.
I stare, transfixed at her pale and beautiful face. Her lips, turning a shade closer to blue; her frail body, crumpled and twisted. In a daze I roll her onto her back and unwind her limbs. She shouldn’t be stuck in this uncomfortable position. It is not restful.
Fear. What can I do? How can I help ease my Betsy’s suffering? Scanning the grounds I spot a wavering sparkle of color at the bottom of the ramp, washed to a saturated yellow hue by a solitary sodium-vapor lamp. I trot down to get a closer look. To my surprise, it is a flower bed filled with colorful poppies, gently waving half-closed in the evening’s on-shore breeze. The small flower garden must be tended by students, most likely a community service club. Being set behind what looks to be the auto shop yard, no one will be tending to the garden until school starts back up and the poppies will surely die without care. My Betsy would want me to do something about this. She always loved her flowers.
It is perfect.
Excitement. It creeps into my bloodstream. My pupils dilate. Returning to my Betsy’s cold body, I try to lift her. Nothing; her dead weight won’t budge. The strain pulls tight against my already tender back muscles and I stifle a squeal of pain by biting down on my lower lip, drawing blood. I suck the wound absent-mindedly, relishing the taste of copper, serendipitously not letting a single drop of blood fall to the ground or touch my hands.
Luck is on my side. Even at this time of night, a steady stream of cars would normally be parading by, illuminating this very spot with their bright headlights. It is not uncommon for police to make night patrols down this way, either. But no one comes. We are alone. Just like that night on Halloween, but this time we’ll have peace and time on our side.
I regroup. I decide to drag her by pulling up on her armpits and walking backwards, so not to risk harming her any further. I cannot bear the thought of hurting her more. I love her.
Dragging her body downhill is slow and tedious. I have to drag her backwards across the dirt embankment, up and over clumps of grass, through a tiny gap in the loosely chained gate, and down the deca
ying asphalt ramp. Smudges of dirt lay behind us. I hope not to inflict more pain than need be. I did not want to hurt her. I did not want her dead, but she wasn’t listening to me. She was going to leave me. She didn’t listen.
Bargaining. “Work with me, dear! You want to see the pretty flowers, right?” Huffing and puffing, my sore muscles scream with each step. Tears roll down my cheeks as I plead with my Betsy. “Don’t be dead, dear. Oh, Betsy! Not dead. Not gone!” I stop, collapsing over her unmoving body, sobbing. A single tear falls onto the shoulder of her hoodie.
Acceptance. I rise, exhaling deeply in a cosmic sigh, and again I clamp my hands under her armpits, and drag until I cannot drag any more. I finally make it to the garden, huffing and puffing but otherwise intact.
As the thrumming of my heartbeat subsides in my ears, I hear Mr. Dimples’ collar jangling from the top of the hill. I look up and see the greenish reflection of my kid’s eyes strafing back and forth along the fence in excitement and agitation, watching me with a certain loyalty. I absently recall forgetting to tie off the leash before starting the downhill trek, but it is no matter. That mutt knows where the bacon comes from. He is too smart to run off, and even if he does, let him. He is too old and too fat to get very far.
I look down, focusing again on the task at hand. After some finagling, I get her body nestled into the soft pillow of poppies without smashing too many; their golden tips, intensified by the light. Laying her face up, I spread her arms and legs out as if she is about to make a snow angel on a soft, pillowy snow bank.
I carefully lift her hair out from her hoodie, cradling it lovingly in both hands. I inhale deeply. Ahhh, peppermint. I fan her long locks out onto the flowers, a spray of chestnut on a golden field. Gold. I notice another glimmer of gold around her neck. It is a fine chain, wispy; perhaps a relic of straw spun to gold, in the land of ago. Rumpelstiltskin!
Confused and enraptured by the glimmer of the necklace, glowing golder-than-gold in this pool of sodium-vapor light, I unclasp the necklace and lift it out of the golden puddle, up toward the moon’s soft glow. The chain cools, exposing the dangling pendulum—a ring. The green stone set into the ring’s center glints in the dim, soft light. A high school class ring. A symbol of love and ownership. Jealousy churns my blood black as I transfer the golden thread from her neck to mine. I will set her free. I will take on the burden of her love, and mine.
My cold lips taste of blood, cracking as I strain a smile. I bend over her body and place a soft, lingering kiss on her cold lips.
The sprinklers come on as if on cue, sprinkling water across her lying form, purifying her body.
Betsy’s memory will live on with this ring. Until my dying day, I vow the ring will remain hanging over my heart. For Betsy. In the veil of darkness, in the fog of dementia, I see only a symbol of our unfailing love.
“For Betsy,” I say through clenched teeth, tasting water, blood and tears, while clutching the ring in a balled fist beside my pulsing jugular.
Satisfied with the outcome, I remove a blanket from my backpack—the one I use to wrap Mr. Dimples whenever I carry him along—smooth out the wrinkles with the length of my arm in harsh downward strokes, and place it gently over her body. It is like she is only sleeping and will wake up with the rising sun.
Casting a final, wistful smile at her peaceful body lying in the bed of poppies, I picture my beautiful wife smiling up at me from our garden: crouched over her flower bed, the golden sun gently kissing her face and hair and casting her prominent ears in brilliant, translucent red; the slight exertion painting her cheeks a lovely shade of pink. She is more stunning than a sunset. More beautiful than a budding rose.
Now my lovely Betsy will not be so easily forgotten, nor will the poppies she so dutifully tended. Everyone will see her the way I see her every day. The way she is meant to be seen. Her beauty will finally be noticed. My Betsy is surely looking upon me now, proud to know that I saved her garden from destruction by the heat of summer and the school’s neglect.
Bending over her, I kiss her lips for the last time and walk away, content.
At the top of the hill Mr. Dimples patiently waits, sitting side saddle about fifteen feet away from the ramp, his tongue lolling. I scoop him up and amble back home, shuffling my feet as I go.
The house is dark.
No lights were left on, inside or out. The porch light is not on. I wasn’t planning on being gone so long. Normally the walks end before twilight fades into a curtain of black, before spiders crawl out of their nooks and crannies to cast transient webs.
Mr. Dimples is heaving heavily, his breath irregular. The weight makes my arms and shoulders ache, but my mind is numb to all sensations except the weight of the jewelry hanging from my clammy neck. I no longer feel the damp chill of the night air. Summer is closing in, but the night air still holds fast to the spring chill and rolling fog.
If I was asked about what happened in the last hour, I probably couldn’t answer truthfully. I walked my dog and then came home. “But a five hour walk isn’t normal,” they would counter. And I would shrug my shoulders, eyes misty and lips thinned into a faint line of grief. Silence would envelop me in guilt, for how could I explain the events that transpired? I saw my wife, reached out to her, but she slipped away from me again. I tried to hold onto her, but I couldn’t. They would be puzzled and say, “Elizabeth has been dead for months.” And I would look to them with somber eyes and say, “I know, my Betsy is dead.”
My stomach churns. Pain radiates up and down my arms. It feels as if every bone in my body is shattered. Gasping for breath, I trip over Mr. Dimples’ dangling leash and land hard on my left side, hitting the maple wood floor with Mr. Dimples still wrapped in my arms. The rough landing tears open my clotted lower lip once more. A trickle of fresh blood lands on my shirt, then on the floor.
I lie dazed and disoriented. Mr. Dimples manages to wiggle out from under my grasp. I can feel his slimy licks against my temple. I can smell the strong scent of the orange floor polish I used earlier that day, can hear the rumbling churn of the fridge’s compressor and the erratic clang of the neighbor’s wind chime. God, I hate that wind chime. It is just plain inconsiderate. Noise pollution. If I ever get up from this fall, the first thing I am going to do is march right over and yank that damn chime out of the stucco and toss it into the trash where it belongs. I should have done it for my Betsy when she was alive. Why didn’t I? I am such a horrible husband.
Gritting my teeth through the pain, I feel a mild sense of relief when I manage to wiggle my fingers and toes. My spine is intact and for that I am grateful.
No one is around to hear me fall, so no one is around to help me up or call for help. Still lying limp on the ground, I twist my body so I can face Mr. Dimples. He doesn’t look good. He is lying on his side, his black hair is damp with sweat and a yellowish film coats his eyes. White foam bubbles around his mouth and tongue and the only movement seems to come from his nose, desperately trying to inhale enough oxygen to keep him alive.
“Sorry, old friend. I guess we’re in the same boat.” Fading into a stream of semi-consciousness, I hear myself mumble, “Just hold on a little longer, I’ll get you—”
Chapter Twenty-Nine:
Wednesday, June 20, 2012
3:21 A.M.
Neil Wilcox:
I must have blacked out.
Thrashing from discomfort, soreness, and the worst headache of my life, I jerk upward in a heaving panic. I feel pain, all over, radiating in all directions. My ears ring. I feel tattered, like blown out speakers.
Wincing, I gradually prop myself onto my elbows. A leather ottoman stands at the foot of the deep cushioned couch—that couch got a lot of snuggle time back in the day—and I am able to lean against it until the ricocheting pain abates to a dull ache. Gasping for breath, I open my bloodshot eyes.
I was out cold for nearly five hours.
I look over toward the motionless silhouette of my faithful companion. No rise and fall.
No sounds of breath. Poor Mr. Dimples. Poor me. I am now completely alone.
I immediately hoist myself up and hobble to the patio. A thick blanket of fog envelops me the minute my bare feet touch the stamped concrete slab. I shiver but the cold will not distract me. Opening the tool shed, I reach for the long-handled shovel and begin mechanically digging a hole beside the rose bush, one foot long by one foot wide by two feet deep.
The shovelhead makes a flat scraping sound each time it slices into the earth, ringing out each time it strikes cobble. Small pebbles clamor and skid across the patio each time I pull the shovel out and pour soil onto the pile. I do not care if the neighbors wake from the noise. They probably won’t; if they do, well, fuck them. It would just be payback for all the times they chose to annoy me.
I can still hear the wind chime. That damn wind chime. I’ll show you—
My mind is full of poisonous rage. My atrophied muscles strain under the resistance of each shovelful of soil. Thin beads of sweat trickle down my haggard face, hairy back, and from under my arms. Having not showered from the night’s excursion, the sour stink of my body starts to make me gag.
I redouble my focus, pushing through the strain, the stench, the annoyance of the darkness, of the thick fog obstructing my vision, and that damn wind chime. I continue digging the hole, slowly but surely, seething in a full-fledged thought-attack.
Fuck those neighbors. Thump. Fuck every last one. Clang! Fuck you! Clump, clatter-clatter-clatter. Fuck it all!
After thirty-five minutes, I stand back and wipe the sweat off my brow. I sink back into my folding Algoma Sport Couch—the electric blue, loveseat-style lawn chair I received as a Christmas bonus four years ago; the very spot where Betsy and I lazed away so many afternoons in blissful nothingness—balancing the shovel vertically, clutching the handle loosely in front of my face. I stare through the gap of the handle and see double.
