SHUDDERVILLE FOUR

by Mia Zabrisky

  Mandelbaum nodded knowingly. “It’s a long story, Sophie.”

  “I want to hear it!” She was fed up with the games.

  He rose to his feet. “The Judge has Jayla now. There’s nothing I can do about it. You might as well go home.”

  “Who the hell is the Judge? What’s his real name? Where can I find him?”

  “I can’t tell you that. So you might as well kill me. I buried my son tonight. I’m done.” He finished off the bourbon and set his empty glass on the table with deliberation. “Go ahead and shoot me.”

  “I don’t want to shoot you,” she said furiously. “I want to get my daughter back!”

  “She’s perfectly safe. He won’t harm her.”

  “She’s probably terrified! She belongs with her mother!”

  “Look at you,” he said, smiling smugly at her. “Sober for how long? Six months now? Eight? Good for you.”

  “Where are they? Jayla and the Judge?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “You’re lying.”

  “Why would I lie to a person pointing a gun at my head?”

  There was a forceful knock at the front door.

  Mandelbaum grabbed his cane.

  “Who is it?” Sophie demanded to know, her legs going wobbly, her mind racing.

  The knocks came faster and harder.

  Bam, bam, bam.

  “Aren’t you going to answer it?” she said.

  Mandelbaum shook his head. His eyes were glassy.

  The knocking stopped. The abrupt silence clung like sticky humidity. She became aware of her crazy heartbeat and took a deep breath. She walked across the living room and down the front hallway and opened the door. A man was standing there. Mid-thirties, big and intimidating, black hair, narrow brown eyes.

  She tried to slam the door in his face, but he had wedged his foot between the door and the jamb. “Let me in,” he said, pushing it open.

  She leapt backwards and pointed the gun at him. “Who are you?”

  He stared at the gun. He looked at Sophie. “Hector Mendoza. I’m here to see Mandelbaum. I’m going to kill him.”

  “Why? What did he do to you?”

  “He made my wish come true.”

  They locked eyes for a moment.

  She lowered the gun.

  He swept into the house, brushing past her, but Mandelbaum was gone.

  “Why’d you let him get away?”

  “He was just here,” Sophie said defensively.

  Hector ran out of the house, and she hurried after him and stood on the front lawn. Mandelbaum’s car was gone. Hector got in his Lexus, while Sophie scrambled to unlock her Toyota. She gunned the engine, radial tires spinning in place before gaining traction. Visibility was poor. The cones of her headlights probed the pitiless darkness ahead.

  She followed the Lexus down a featureless road, taillights dancing before her eyes. What was Hector chasing? Where were they going? She couldn’t see Mandelbaum’s Buick up ahead in the dark. The two-lane road hugged the coast. To their right was the deserted public beach, a haunting sodium flatness in her headlights’ glow.

  Now a pickup truck pulled directly in front of her in the northbound lane. She could see the bundle of unsecured trash shaking and rattling in the flatbed and tried to pass it, her knuckles going bloodless on the wheel. Then the pickup truck took a left at the fork and Sophie kept following the Lexus.

  Soon the asphalt ended and the ride got bumpy and choppy. Sophie floored it along the rough dirt road, while pieces of gravel plinked against her wheel wells. They were on a long stretch without any streetlights. About 30 yards ahead, Hector took a left and rounded a corner insanely fast, kicking up dust. The fog was rolling inland from the sea. She drove against a viscous drag and couldn’t see a thing.

  Sophie downshifted into a lower gear, her headlights casting batwing shadows. She took a blind turn past a granite outcropping and lost control of the car. She tensed and hit the brakes, the Toyota’s rear end swinging wide, tires squealing. She thundered to an abrupt halt just inches from Hector’s rear bumper. The world froze for a moment as her head whiplashed and her seatbelt caught her.

  “What the hell—?”

  Hector’s vehicle was parked in the middle of the road with the driver’s door thrown open wide. The engine was purring and the headlights sliced through the fog.

  Sophie threw an elbow into the door panel and got out. “What’s going on?”

  Hector came loping toward her through the fog. “We lost him.”

  “What the hell do you mean, we lost him?” Her hands were slippery with sweat. “Did we ever actually have him?”

  He smiled and rubbed his chin. “Thought I had him. Guess I was wrong. Let’s go back to his place. You and I need to have a talk.”

  *

  Hector sat hunched at the kitchen table, ripping chicken meat apart with his fingers and making snorting sounds as he ate. He wore one of those gaudy Palm Beach shirts with the coconuts on it. “I’m staying put. He’ll be back. And I’ll be here to greet him, the motherfucker.”

  She angled her chair so that she could keep an eye on him. Her throat was parched. She wanted a drink so badly she could taste it. There was a worm in her gut that needed sedating. But she’d promised herself she would never touch another drop again. And she intended to keep that promise.

  He squinted at her. “Sophie, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “So what did you wish for?”

  “My little girl.”

  His smile vanished. “Your little girl?”

  “She died. I wanted her back.”

  His shoulders slumped so far down that his stomach protruded like a beach ball underneath his gaudy shirt. “Really?” He shook his head and wiped his mouth with greasy fingers. “Now I get it.”

  “Get what?”

  “What he’s doing here.”

  “What’s he doing where?”

  “Nothing.”

  “What do you mean—nothing? What is it you suddenly ‘get?’” she said angrily.

  He wiped his hands on his pants and heaved a sweet-and-sour sigh. He tore a slice of whole wheat bread in half, popped it in his mouth and idly thumped his foot against the table leg. “I’m here for the same reason you are, Sophie. I want him to fix what he broke. He ruined my life.”

  She rested her hands in her lap. “What did you wish for?”

  “Ha. I was young and stupid. Eighteen years old. I wanted to be the world’s greatest lover.” He laughed. “I was already pretty good at it. Women like me. I have no problems in that department. But hey, I was wasted when he asked me—if I could have any wish in the world, what would it be?” He looked at her expectantly. “Right? He asked you that too, didn’t he?”

  “Yeah,” she said.

  “Yeah.” Hector popped the rest of the bread in his mouth. “Anyway, this was years ago. I told him I wanted to be a Lothario, you know what I mean? Don Juan. I wanted to be the world’s greatest lover—but it came out wrong. I was wasted, like I said, and my words got all tangled up. I don’t even know what I asked for. I think I said, ‘I want to be the answer to every woman’s prayers.’ You know? Some shit like that. ‘When I’m fucking a woman, I want to be the vessel for her greatest desires.’ I thought it was cool.” He slowly twirled his beer bottle around in its puddle of condensation, lines in his brow deepening. “So now? When I’m fucking some chick? You know what she’s seeing in her head? She’s seeing her ex-boyfriend who dumped her, the guy she’s still in love with.”

  Sophie frowned. “What do you mean she sees him?”

  “Like, in real time. Like, now. Like what he’s doing now. She sees her greatest desire. Whatever she’s been praying for. For some of them, it’s their ex-husband. For others, it’s an old flame. She’ll see him wherever he is now, what he’s doing, picking his nose and reading Sports Illustrated. But the point is, she’ll see him.”

  Sophie sat a little straighter. “So when you’re making love
to someone, she can see her greatest desire?”

  He cracked a smile. “This one chick, all she could visualize was Brad Pitt. I think he was having a fight with Angelina. An argument. A marital dispute. She told me about it afterwards verbatim.”

  “And by greatest desire—you mean whatever it is she wants the most? The answer to her prayers?”

  He darkened. He pushed his plate away and licked his fingers. He stared at her. “Yeah, right? And it’s not just who they’re sexually attracted to. Some women see money, or mansions, or diamonds, or the kids they lost custody of. They’ll see all these other things when they’re supposed to be focusing on me. It’s messed up. That’s not what I asked for. Some of them come begging for more—just so they can spy on their exes or whatever, see what he’s up to. Like I’m some kind of private detective or something. Like I give a shit.”

  “So it could be anything? Her greatest desire?”

  He eyed her suspiciously. “Why?”

  She turned away, ashamed, and burst into tears, the staccato sound of her weeping stabbing at her heart.

  He shook his head. He realized how vulnerable she was. “Yeah, I get it,” he said.

  Her sobs gradually subsided. “You do?”

  He nodded. He had scraggly, greasy hair and coffee-colored cheeks crawling with acne. “You’re thinking about your daughter,” he said. “You want to know where she is and if she’s okay. That’s your greatest desire. Right?”

  She experienced a surge of gratitude. “Would you do it?” she asked softly.

  He made a face. “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “You’re a nice lady. I don’t fuck nice ladies.”

  “You could,” she said, irritation creeping into her voice. “I’m not that bad-looking, am I?”

  He frowned. “It’s got nothing to do with your looks. You’re hot enough.”

  “Then why not?”

  “I just told you.” He became a blank space, like a face with no eyes.

  She said, “Then I’ll never see her again.”

  He sat very still with his hands on the table. She watched his powerful muscles ripple with tension. He stood up and grabbed her. She let him. She let herself drift away. She wanted to see Jayla.

  Hector pushed her down onto the kitchen floor and kicked the chair away. He tore at her clothes, tugging down her jeans and ripping off her underwear. He rearranged her body beneath him, pulling her legs toward him, pushing himself inside of her and failing, and then trying again, wetting his fingers and inserting them inside her, and then sliding his penis inside her; pushing, pushing, friction; it hurt a little, and then it hurt a lot, him grunting above her, losing all sense of who she was, this woman lying on the floor beneath him—who was she really? He lost all focus and no longer saw her as a person; he kept working his hips harder and harder, pushing his penis into and out of her, over and over, grunting and groaning, making noises, closing his eyes while she gazed up at him and—what? When do I get to see my daughter? Is this a joke? Were you lying to me? Is this how you get women to fuck you? Her legs were sore, and her back hurt from lying spread-eagled on the floor. Was this rape? Was he raping her?

  But then something changed. She began to feel more distant, and soon she was floating away from him. She lingered somewhere above them, looking down from the ceiling like a scientist inspecting two bugs. Hector pounded his hips against her, until three—four—five hard thrusts made him shudder so crazily, his eyes rolled up in their sockets and he made an oh-God face.

  Sophie couldn’t breathe. After several long moments of struggling, she gave up. She sank into a deep sleep and thought about Jayla. A small journey began. She was tiptoeing from mushroom to mushroom, thinking at the speed of light. She heard voices. People talking gibberish. She looked into a magic mirror at her endless eyes.

  *

  A little girl was sitting cross-legged on a bed, smiling curiously at her collection of dolls and teddy bears. She had big blue eyes and shoulder-length brown hair, and embroidered on her fuzzy pink sweater was a sleepy-eyed cat. There was a pair of costume wings attached to her back with an elasticized strap—angel wings made out of fluffy pink feathers. There were rhinestones on her purple tiara, and in her hand was a magic wand with a sparkly star at the tip.

  It was Jayla.

  Sophie tried to speak to her. “Jayla?” It came out thin and watery.

  “What are you doing here?” the little girl said.

  Sophie thought she was talking to her, but then Jayla picked up one of her dolls. It was a boy doll. A Ken doll. He wore a blue shirt and khaki pants. On his feet were little plastic shoes. Now she made her Ken doll speak. “Be quiet, or he’ll hear you.”

  Jayla nodded with comic exaggeration and put a finger to her lips. “Shh.”

  Sophie looked around woozily. The room was unlike any other room she’d ever seen before. The ceiling was ten feet tall and strung with twinkly lights. The floor was painted to look like the ocean, deep blue ripples surrounded by a border of prancing sea horses. There was a clamshell armchair, a plastic dolphin rocking chair and a wooden chest of drawers with seashell handles—the sort of furniture you might find in a mermaid’s castle.

  Jayla slid down off of her bed, took a few crudely mechanical steps forward and stood blinking at the large elegant doll seated in the rocking chair. “Have you come to rescue me?” she asked.

  “Yes,” Sophie whispered. Only Jayla didn’t hear her. Didn’t see her. Didn’t acknowledge her existence.

  I’m not really here. But I can see you, my precious baby. I love you. I’ll find you, and yes, I will rescue you.

  Jayla’s eyes went wide. She picked up the large doll dressed in Victorian garb and carried it out of the strange room into an even stranger one. Sophie followed her down a short hallway past a kitchen and bathroom, then stood inside a living room that was decorated to look like the fifties. A pink-and-black sofa and two sleek armchairs, two black lacquer end tables and an old-fashioned television on a swivel pedestal. There was a white vinyl record player next to a stack of scratchy-looking records and lots of antique toys—a pinball machine, a shelf of tiny robots and futuristic-looking cars, a pink poodle clock and a stuffed monkey with a fez. The pink-tiled kitchen was large and well lit. The mint-green bathroom had an old-fashioned bathtub, the kind with clawed porcelain feet.

  Now Jayla pretended that her doll was talking to her. “Did you try the door again?” the doll asked.

  “It’s locked. I told you already. See?” Jayla walked over to a blue-painted door and jiggled on the handle.

  She made the doll try it. She had her pull on the knob and kick the door panel with her slender inadequate ceramic legs.

  “See?” Jayla told the doll. “It’s locked.”

  Sophie almost wept. Her daughter was so brave and strong.

  Now they both heard a noise upstairs. Footsteps.

  Jayla shivered and looked at the ceiling. She seemed worried. Her pretty blue eyes glazed over, and she put a finger to her lips. “We should sit down,” she said.

  She put the doll on the sofa and sat next to her.

  Sophie looked frantically around the room. There were windows, but they weren’t real windows, just pretend windows. Behind the glass, somebody had painted in the woods and the sky. She figured her daughter was being held in a basement, since basements didn’t have real windows, and it felt dank and oppressive down here. She got a bad feeling, as if she’d been sucked into a hole.

  Sophie thought she heard something. It sounded like a radio. Then she heard footsteps. First they sounded way far away, but then they shuffled closer. She looked up at the ceiling, and her mind reeled. Who was up there? What sort of monster was holding her daughter hostage?

  Now Jayla was watching TV with the doll in her lap. She talked to her doll. “Mommy isn’t here,” she whispered. “Mommy’s not coming back. Daddy’s upstairs making lunch, so you be quiet. You’d better be good. Shh. Be quiet!” she said, suddenly shaki
ng her doll. “That’s enough! Go back to your room.”

  A door opened and closed upstairs.

  “You be quiet!” Jayla said, little hands on little hips. “Or else Daddy’s going to make you sorry you were ever born!”

  It chilled Sophie to the bone.

  Now she heard footsteps. Loud footsteps tumbling down a set of stairs. A key jiggled in the lock and the door swung open.

  Jayla leapt to her feet and hid her doll behind her back.

  “Hello,” a very tall man said.

  “Hi,” Jayla said shyly as he entered the basement.

  Sophie’s heart was hammering. Her daughter was too young to realize she should be afraid of this man. He wore a charcoal suit and stooped down to talk to her, his face washed with worries. He had a tight smile and thin hair and solemn dark eyes. “What’s all this noise?” he asked her.

  “It was the TV,” Jayla said, pointing at the old Zenith.

  The tall man nodded. His eyes narrowed critically on the television set, and then softened as they gazed upon Jayla. “What are you hiding behind your back, sweetie-pie?”

  She showed him her doll.

  “What are you hiding your doll for? I want you to have it, Jayla.”

  She seemed a little overwhelmed by recent events, and her mild irritation soon manifested itself as exhaustion. She rubbed her puffy eyes and said, “I want my mommy...”

  Sophie shuddered.

  The tall man’s skin was blotchy, like the skin of a person who agonized over things. He was old, like an old file folder you kept stuffing things into. His eyes were so bloodshot, red confetti seemed to be falling from his eyelashes. “Don’t you look like a little princess,” he told Jayla.

  She blinked. “My shoes hurt.”

  “Do you like your new sweater?”

  “It itches.”

  “Want some Sugar Pops?”

  Her face twisted up. “No.”

  “Did you look in the mirror and see your pretty wings?”

  She shook her head and tugged on her underpants.

  “You look like a princess. I think you are a princess.”

  She squinted at the ceiling. “Where’s Mommy?”