Dearly devoted Dexter

by Jeffry P. Lindsay

  Luckily, Rita also was uninterested in sex, for the most part. She was the product of a disastrous early marriage to a man whose idea of a good time turned out to be smoking crack and beating her. Later he branched out into infecting her with several intriguing diseases. But when he battered the kids one night Rita’s marvelous country-song loyalty ruptured, and she flung the swine out of her life and, happily, into prison.

  As a result of all this turmoil, she had been looking for a gentleman who might be interested in companionship and conversation, someone who did not need to indulge the crude animal urges of base passion. A man, in other words, who would value her for her finer qualities and not her willingness to indulge in naked acrobatics. Ecce, Dexter. For almost two years she had been my ideal disguise, a key ingredient of Dexter as the world at large knew him. And in return I had not beaten her, had not infected her with anything, had not forced my animal lust on her, and she actually seemed to enjoy my company.

  And as a bonus, I had become quite fond of her children, Astor and Cody. Strange, perhaps, but nonetheless true, I assure you. If everyone else in the world were to mysteriously disappear, I would feel irritated about it only because there would be no one to make me doughnuts. But children are interesting to me and, in fact, I like them. Rita’s two kids had been through a traumatic early childhood, and maybe because I had, too, I felt a special attachment to them, an interest that went beyond maintaining my disguise with Rita.

  Aside from the bonus of her children, Rita herself was quite presentable. She had short and neat blond hair, a trim and athletic body, and she seldom said things that were outright stupid. I could go in public with her and know that we looked like an appropriately matched human pair, which was really the whole point. People even said we were an attractive couple, although I was never sure what that meant. I suppose Rita found me attractive somehow, although her track record with men didn’t make that too flattering. Still, it’s always nice to be around somebody who thinks I am wonderful. It confirms my low opinion of people.

  I looked at the clock on my desk. Five thirty-two: within the next fifteen minutes Rita would be home from her job at Fairchild Title Agency, where she did something very complicated involving fractions of percentage points. By the time I got to her house, she should be there.

  With a cheerful synthetic smile I headed out the door, waved to Doakes, and drove over to Rita’s modest South Miami house. The traffic wasn’t too bad, which is to say that there were no fatal accidents or shootings, and in just under twenty minutes I parked my car in front of Rita’s bungalow. Sergeant Doakes cruised past to the end of the street and, as I knocked on the front door, he parked across the way.

  The door swung open and Rita peered out at me. “Oh!” she said. “Dexter.”

  “In person,” I said. “I was in the neighborhood and wondered if you were home yet.”

  “Well, I-I just walked in the door. I must look like a mess… Um-come on in. Would you like a beer?”

  Beer; what a thought. I never touch the stuff-and yet, it was so amazingly normal, so perfectly visit-the-girlfriend-after-work, even Doakes had to be impressed. It was just the right touch. “I would love a beer,” I said, and I followed her into the relative cool of the living room.

  “Have a seat,” she said. “I’m just going to freshen up a little.” She smiled at me. “The kids are out back, but I’m sure they’ll be all over you when they find out you’re here.” And she swished off down the hall, returning a moment later with a can of beer. “I’ll be right back,” she said, and went away to her bedroom at the back of the house.

  I sat on the sofa and looked at the beer in my hand. I am not a drinker-really, drinking is not a recommended habit for predators. It slows the reflexes, dulls the perceptions, and knits up the raveled sleeve of care, which always sounded to me like a very bad thing. But here I was, a demon on vacation, attempting the ultimate sacrifice by giving up my powers and becoming human-and so a beer was just the thing for Dipsophobic Dexter.

  I took a sip. The taste was bitter and thin, just as I would be if I had to keep the Dark Passenger buckled into his seat belt for very long. Still, I suppose beer is an acquired taste. I took another sip. I could feel it gurgle all the way down and splash into my stomach, and it occurred to me that with all the excitement and frustration of the day I hadn’t eaten lunch. But what the hell-it was just a light beer; or as the can proudly proclaimed: LITE BEER. I suppose we should be very grateful they hadn’t thought of a cuter way to spell beer.

  I took a big sip. It wasn’t that bad when you got used to it. By golly, it really WAS relaxing. I, at any rate, felt more relaxed with each swig. Another refreshing sip-I couldn’t remember that it had tasted this good when I’d tried it in college. Of course, I was just a boy then, not the manly mature hardworking upright citizen I was now. I tilted the can, but nothing came out.

  Well-somehow the can was empty. And yet I was still thirsty. Could this unpleasant situation really be tolerated? I thought not. Absolutely intolerable. In fact, I did not plan to tolerate it. I stood up and proceeded to the kitchen in a firm and unyielding manner. There were several more cans of lite beer in the refrigerator and I took one back to the couch.

  I sat. I opened the beer. I took a sip. Much better. Damn that Doakes anyway. Maybe I should take him a beer. It might relax him, get him to loosen up and call the whole thing off. After all, we were on the same side, weren’t we?

  I sipped. Rita came back wearing a pair of denim shorts and a white tank top with a tiny satin bow at the neckline. I had to admit, she looked very nice. I could really pick a disguise. “Well,” she said as she slid onto the couch next to me, “it’s nice to see you, out of the blue like this.”

  “It certainly must be,” I said.

  She cocked her head to one side and looked at me funny. “Did you have a hard day at work?”

  “An awful day,” I said, and took a sip. “Had to let a bad guy go. Very bad guy.”

  “Oh.” She frowned. “Why did-I mean, couldn’t you just…”

  “I wanted to just,” I said. “But I couldn’t.” I raised the beer can to her. “Politics.” I took a sip.

  Rita shook her head. “I still can’t get used to the idea that, that-I mean, from the outside it seems so cut-and-dried. You find the bad guy, you put him away. But politics? I mean, with-what did he do?”

  “He helped to kill some kids,” I said.

  “Oh,” she said, and looked shocked. “My God, there must be something you can do.”

  I smiled at her. By gum, she had seen it right away. What a gal. Didn’t I say I could pick ’em? “You have put your finger right on it,” I said, and I took her hand to look at that finger. “There is something I can do. And very well, too.” I patted her hand, spilling only a little bit of beer. “I knew you’d understand.”

  She looked confused. “Oh,” she said. “What kind of-I mean-What will you do?”

  I took a sip. Why shouldn’t I tell her? I could see she already got the idea. Why not? I opened my mouth, but before I could whisper even one syllable about the Dark Passenger and my harmless hobby, Cody and Astor came racing into the room, stopped dead when they saw me, and stood there looking from me to their mother.

  “Hi Dexter,” Astor said. She nudged her brother.

  “Hi,” he said softly. He was not a big talker. In fact, he never said much of anything. Poor kid. The whole thing with his father had really messed him up. “Are you drunk?” he asked me. It was a big speech for him.

  “Cody!” Rita said. I waved her off bravely and faced him.

  “Drunk?” I said. “Me?”

  He nodded. “Yeah.”

  “Certainly not,” I said firmly, giving him my very best dignified frown. “Possibly a little bit tipsy, but that’s not the same thing at all.”

  “Oh,” he said, and his sister chimed in, “Are you staying for dinner?”

  “Oh, I think I should probably be going,” I said, but Rita put a surprising
ly firm hand on my shoulder.

  “You’re not driving anywhere like this,” she said.

  “Like what?”

  “Tipsy,” said Cody.

  “I’m not tipsy,” I said.

  “You said you were,” said Cody. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d heard him put four words in a row like that, and I was very proud of him.

  “You did,” Astor added. “You said you’re not drunk, you’re just a little tipsy.”

  “I said that?” They both nodded. “Oh. Well then-”

  “Well then,” Rita chimed in, “I guess you’re staying for dinner.”

  Well then. I guess I did. I am pretty sure I did, anyway. I do know that at some point I went to the refrigerator for a lite beer and discovered they were all gone. And at some later point I was sitting on the couch again. The television was on and I was trying to figure out what the actors were saying and why an invisible crowd thought it was the most hilarious dialogue of all time.

  Rita slid onto the couch next to me. “The kids are in bed,” she said. “How do you feel?”

  “I feel wonderful,” I said. “If only I could figure out what’s so funny.”

  Rita put a hand on my shoulder. “It really bothers you, doesn’t it? Letting the bad guy go. Children…” She moved closer and put her arm all the way around me, laying her head on my shoulder. “You’re such a good guy, Dexter.”

  “No, I’m not,” I said, wondering why she would say something so very strange.

  Rita sat up and looked from my left eye to my right eye and back again. “But you are, you KNOW you are.” She smiled and nestled her head back down on my shoulder. “I think it’s… nice that you came here. To see me. When you were feeling bad.”

  I started to tell her that wasn’t quite right, but then it occurred to me: I had come here when I felt bad. True, it was only to bore Doakes into going away, after the terrible frustration of losing my playdate with Reiker. But it had turned out to be a pretty good idea after all, hadn’t it? Good old Rita. She was very warm and she smelled nice. “Good old Rita,” I said. I pulled her against me as tight as I could and leaned my cheek against the top of her head.

  We sat that way for a few minutes, and then Rita wiggled to her feet and pulled me up by the hand. “Come on,” she said. “Let’s get you to bed.”

  Which we did, and when I had flopped down under the top sheet and she crawled in beside me, she was just so nice and smelled so good and felt so warm and comfortable that—

  Well. Beer really is amazing stuff, isn’t it?

  CHAPTER 6

  I WOKE UP WITH A HEADACHE, A FEELING OF TREMENDOUS self-loathing, and a sense of disorientation. There was a rose-colored sheet against my cheek. My sheets-the sheets I woke up to every day in my little bed-were not rose-colored, and they did not smell like this. The mattress seemed too spacious to be my modest trundle bed, and really-I was quite sure this was not my headache either.

  “Good morning, handsome,” said a voice somewhere over my feet. I turned my head and saw Rita standing at the foot of the bed, looking down at me with a happy little smile.

  “Ung,” I said in a voice that sounded like a toad’s croak and hurt my head even more. But apparently it was an amusing kind of pain, because Rita’s smile widened.

  “That’s what I thought,” she said. “I’ll get you some aspirin.” She leaned over and rubbed my leg. “Mmm,” she said, and then turned and went into the bathroom.

  I sat up. This may have been a strategic mistake, as it made my head pound a great deal more. I closed my eyes, breathed deeply, and waited for my aspirin.

  This normal life was going to take a little getting used to.

  But oddly enough it didn’t, not really. I found that if I limited myself to one or two beers, I could relax just enough to blend in with the slipcover on the couch. And so several nights a week, with ever-faithful Sergeant Doakes in my rearview mirror, I would stop over at Rita’s house after work, play with Cody and Astor, and sit with Rita after the kids were in bed. Around ten I would head for the door. Rita seemed to expect to be kissed when I left, so I generally arranged to kiss her standing in the open front door where Doakes could see me. I used all the technique I could muster from the many movies I have seen, and Rita responded happily.

  I do like routine, and I settled into this new one to a point where I almost began to believe in it myself. It was so boring that I was putting my real self to sleep. From far away in the backseat of the deepest darkest corner of Dexterland I could even hear the Dark Passenger starting to snore gently, which was a little scary and made me feel a tiny bit lonesome for the first time. But I stayed the course, making a small game of my visits to Rita to see how far I could push it, knowing that Doakes was watching and, hopefully, beginning to wonder just a little bit. I brought flowers, candy, and pizza. I kissed Rita ever more outlandishly, framed in the open front door to give Doakes the best possible picture. I knew it was a ridiculous display, but it was the only weapon I had.

  For days on end Doakes stayed with me. His appearances were unpredictable, which made him seem even more threatening. I never knew when or where he might turn up, and that made me feel like he was always there. If I went into the grocery store, Doakes was waiting by the broccoli. If I rode my bicycle out Old Cutler Road, somewhere along the way I would see the maroon Taurus parked under a banyan tree. A day might go by without a Doakes sighting, but I could feel him out there, circling downwind and waiting, and I did not dare hope that he had given up; if I could not see him, he was either well hidden or waiting to spring another surprise appearance on me.

  I was forced into being Daytime Dexter on a full-time basis, like an actor trapped in a movie, knowing that the real world was right there, just beyond the screen, but as unreachable as the moon. And like the moon, the thought of Reiker pulled at me. The thought of him clomping through his unworried life in those absurd red boots was almost more than I could stand.

  Of course I knew that even Doakes could not keep this up forever. He was, after all, receiving a handsome salary from the people of Miami for performing a job, and every now and then he had to perform it. But Doakes understood the rising interior tide that battered at me, and he knew that if he kept the pressure on long enough, the disguise would slip, HAD to slip, as the cool whispers from the backseat became more urgent.

  And so there we were, balanced on a knife edge that was unfortunately only metaphorical. Sooner or later, I had to be me. But until then I would see an awful lot of Rita. She couldn’t hold a candle to my old flame, the Dark Passenger, but I did need my secret identity. And until I escaped Doakes, Rita was my cape, red tights, and utility belt-almost the entire costume.

  Very well: I would sit on the couch, can of beer in hand, watching Survivor and thinking of an interesting variation of the game that would never make it to the network. If you simply add Dexter to the castaways and interpret the title a bit more literally…

  It was not all dismal, bleak, and wretched. Several times a week I got to play kick the can with Cody and Astor and the other assorted wild creatures of the neighborhood, which brings us back to where we began: Dexter Dismasted, unable to sail through his normal life, anchored instead to a gaggle of kids and a ravioli can. And on evenings when it was raining, we stayed inside around the dining table, while Rita bustled about doing laundry, washing dishes, and otherwise perfecting the domestic bliss of her little nest.

  There are only so many indoor games one can play with two children of such tender ages and damaged spirits as Cody and Astor; most of the board games were uninteresting or incomprehensible to them, and too many of the card games seemed to require a lighthearted simplemindedness that even I could not fake convincingly. But we finally hit on hangman; it was educational, creative, and mildly homicidal, which made everyone happy, even Rita.

  If you had asked me pre-Doakes if a life of hangman and Miller Lite sounded like my cup of tea, I would have been forced to confess that Dexter Oolong was somew
hat darker. But as the days piled up and I slipped further into the reality of my disguise, I had to ask myself: Was I enjoying the life of Mr. Suburban Householder just a little too much?

  Still, it was very comforting somehow to see the predatory zest Cody and Astor brought to something as harmless as hangman. Their enthusiasm for hanging the little stick figures made me feel a bit more like we might all be part of the same general species. As they happily murdered their anonymous hanged men, I felt a certain kinship.

  Astor quickly learned to draw the gallows and the lines for the letters. She was, of course, much more verbal about it. “Seven letters,” she would say, then tucking her upper lip between her teeth add, “Wait. Six.” As Cody and I missed on our guesses she would pounce and call out, “An ARM! Ha!” Cody would stare at her without expression, and then look down to the doodled figure hanging from its noose. When it was his turn and we missed a guess, he would say in his soft voice, “Leg,” and look up at us with something that might almost have been triumph in someone who showed emotion. And when the line of dashes under the gallows was finally filled in with the spelled-out word, they would both look at the dangling man with satisfaction, and once or twice Cody even said, “Dead,” before Astor bounced up and down and said, “Again, Dexter! My turn!”

  All very idyllic. Our perfect little family of Rita, the kids, and Monster makes four. But no matter how many stick figures we executed, it did nothing to kill my worry that time was gurgling rapidly down the drain and soon I would be a white-haired old man, too feeble to lift a carving knife, tottering through my horrifyingly ordinary days, shadowed by an ancient Sergeant Doakes and a sense of missed opportunity.