Need

by Stephanie Lawton

  “Normally,” Mrs. Christopher says, “that’s the end of our presentation, but today I have a special guest who would like to say a few words. I’ve heard his story, and I think you’ll want to hear it, too. It hits rather close to home, I’m afraid. I only ask for your patience and understanding. May I present Mr. Isaac Laroche.”

  At first, there’s no sound at all. No one breathes; no one dares move. Then, mumbling and a huff from Marcie Swann.

  “He is not part of the program and will not be speaking. He’s not even a member of this society anymore!”

  “No, but he’s my guest,” Heather says. “I’d like to hear what he has to say.”

  “Me, too,” Mr. Swann adds.

  I make my way to the front of the room, aware that every eye in the building is trained on the bull’s-eye on my back. It’s been there too long, for all the wrong reasons. That ends now. I can see it’s time to grow a pair and set things right. Time to admit what happened, own it, and place blame where it belongs.

  I curl my fingers around the edges of the podium and take a deep breath. “I’m asking for your attention because there’s something that needs to be said so a number of us can move on with our lives, and so those who come after us can learn from our mistakes. I admit I’ve made a number of them in my nearly thirty years, but they all started after one event in high school.”

  “This is ridiculous! Someone get him out of here,” Marcie yells. No one budges, so she charges the podium, ripping the microphone out of its holder. No matter. I stand up straight and project my voice.

  “Many of you knew me when I was younger and that I dated Heather Swann. We were very close and I had hopes that we’d stay together even after I went to college. That didn’t happen. Marcie,” I wave in her direction, “caught us on the couch and threw me out of the house. Ya’ll might not know that she threatened me with a statutory rape charge, which was technically true, though it was consensual. Am I right, Heather?”

  A few people shift in their chairs to get a look at her. “Absolutely,” she says.

  “Marcie also threatened to have my family kicked out of the Mystics if I didn’t go far away to college. That’s why I ended up in Boston, among other reasons, and why I stayed out of Mobile for so long. But here’s the important part, and why Mrs. Christopher agreed to let me speak today.”

  “You wouldn’t dare!” Marcie raises the microphone like a weapon.

  I muster the iciest, most menacing glare I can. “I would dare. Now sit down, before you make more of a fool of yourself.”

  Mrs. Christopher pulls Marcie off to the side and forces her into a chair. Marcie slaps her hand away and mumbles, “…black hands off of me.”

  I clear my throat. “After Marcie kicked me out of her house, she followed me to my car. I was seventeen, mind you. Not a child, but not quite a man, either. She came on to me.”

  “Oh, please! That’s ridiculous.”

  “She kissed me. Told me she’d pick up where I’d left off with Heather.” I squeeze my eyes shut and relive those moments. “She groped me through my pants and taunted me. When she kneeled down in the driveway and began to…perform on me, I started to cry. Mind you, she had been my Sunday school teacher and a mother figure within this society. She got very angry and said I’d made a huge mistake. Said I’d pay for it.”

  I open my eyes. “She was right. I’ve paid for it. I was forced to leave the city I love, my family, my friends. I lost Heather, who I loved very much. I’ve failed at every relationship I’ve been in since. That was very much evidenced by what happened with Julianne Casquette.”

  Her father and brother sit up straighter in their seats. Mr. Casquette’s face reddens until it matches his hair, while R.J. stares a hole through me.

  “I’d like to formally apologize for that. Since Juli was seventeen, it wasn’t technically statutory rape, plus it was also consensual. I’d like to make that clear, because I’ve been labeled a predator, a pervert, and a pedophile. None of those things is true. I’m just a man who messed up. I wasn’t out for revenge and I certainly didn’t mean to hurt anyone, unlike Marcie.”

  “I have had enough of this! Get out. None of this is true, you sick bastard. You took advantage of my daughter.”

  “He did not,” Heather says. “Play the audio, Isaac.”

  But I’m already on it. I’ve plugged my flash drive into Mrs. Christopher’s laptop and loaded the program.

  “Before I do, I need to tell you that there’s more. Messing up my young adulthood wasn’t enough for Marcie. She also tried to drive Heather and me apart while I was mourning the death of my Uncle Robert Cline. His funeral was just days ago, and Marcie saw an opportunity. I’ll let you listen for yourself.”

  I press play.

  “Well, well. Look who’s come crawling back for more.”

  “Hello, Marcie. So it was you that snuck into my bed. Thought so, though I wish I hadn’t been so drunk that I couldn’t enjoy it.”

  “You enjoyed it. You moaned like a whore, but you were such a pussy about your chin.”

  The room breaks out into mumbles.

  “Holy shit,” R.J. says. “Ew!”

  Marcie makes a grab for the laptop, but Mr. Swann hooks her around the waist and holds her still.

  “You’re going to listen to all of this, Marcie, and you’re going to be judged by your peers. Now hold still,” he says.

  “Not once, but twice I’ve spared you from getting too involved with my daughter—with our family. You’ve had the privilege of fucking both of us, and I did you a favor by getting her out of the picture before you got too attached.”

  “And I should thank you for that? Why?”

  “Honey, you don’t need to be in my family’s business. Your Aunt Angela and her daddy had the chance, but turned their backs on their relations.”

  “Explain.”

  “Since when do you make the demands? Seems to me, young man, you are at a distinct disadvantage. Geoffrey’s already shown those pictures to Heather. Chances are you’ll never see her again. Can you imagine her humiliation when she finds out you screwed her mama? I’d give years off my life to see that exchange.”

  “You’d enjoy seeing your daughter in distress? That’s pretty sick, and forgive me, but I doubt your reasons for doing me a favor.”

  “Believe what you want. I’m actually a very nice person.”

  “So nice that you groped your daughter’s seventeen-year-old boyfriend?”

  “You loved it, admit it.”

  “So nice that you crawled into my bed on the eve of my uncle’s funeral and let me think I was sleeping with Heather?”

  “You can’t be that dumb. You knew full well it was me.”

  “Matter of fact, I didn’t. Had polished off a case of beer giving Uncle Robert a proper send-off. Kinda knew something was off, but I didn’t know it was you. What I want to know is, why?”

  “Why not?”

  “There are a million reasons why not, but you seem to ignore them all. Do you know how badly you messed me up after what you did? It was technically sexual assault of a minor.”

  “Oh please, enough with the dramatics, Isaac. You were a horny young man bent on ruining my daughter. I did what any mother would do to protect her daughter.”

  “Protect her from what? She needed protecting from you.”

  “You have no idea what you’re talking about. Now, is there a reason you came here today, other than to harass me in my store?”

  “There is, actually. These photos—the ones you thought would send Heather running for the hills—they did the opposite. We’ve both seen them, and we both think you’re a psychotic bitch. I came here today to tell you to stay the fuck away from us.”

  I shut off the audio and pull up the pictures. “My apologies for the language. Here are the photos she’s talking about. She took them while I was passed out, and I’ll warn you that this material is offensive.”

  As humiliating as it is to see my drunk self projected
on the screen, it’s worth it to hear the gasps and muffled squeals when Marcie’s wrinkled ass appears. Can’t hide my grin when Marcie blanches and realizes I just broke every rule of polite society—and probably a few state laws—by showing naked pictures of the sixty-something-year-old harpy who’s made my life miserable.

  Heather begins to clap. “Bravo, Mama! You’ve always been an attention whore. Now everyone knows you’re a real one, too!”

  I watch as Heather’s daddy releases his grip on Marcie and slowly walks toward me. We told him what we’d planned to do, but I’m not sure he realized exactly what it meant. There may still be a face punch in my future.

  “Excuse me, son, I need the floor for a moment,” he says. I nod, grateful for this small miracle. “Marcie, we’ve been married more than three decades and with each one I realized more and more than I’d sold my soul to the devil. Well, it’s finally over. More than ever, I’m positive I want a divorce, and there will be no alimony thanks to these pictures. You can take your mob money and get the hell out of my house.”

  “Actually, she can’t take her mob money,” I tell him. “It’s all tied into her ‘antiques store,’ which was technically in your name to throw off the IRS, correct?”

  “Ah, you’re right, son. And since I just agreed to sell the building to you, Marcie no longer has a source of income or a place for her cronies to meet. Goodness,” he says, turning to his wife. “That leaves you nearly penniless, dear.”

  She doesn’t move. Doesn’t bat an eye. Doesn’t even cry or yell or do any of the things I’d expect from Marcie Swann. She simply sits there immobilized while everyone in the room picks up their plates and drinks and scoots their chairs as far away from her as possible.

  “Pleasure doing business with you, sir,” I tell Mr. Swann.

  “Indeed, but I believe there’s one more, uh, transaction that needs to take place?”

  I smile and shake his hand. “Yes, sir. This one’s easy.”

  I hold up my hands to calm the room. Eventually, everyone settles down enough that I can speak. “One of the major side effects of Mrs. Swann’s actions was to drive apart two people who loved each other. Sure, we were just kids, but I can safely say neither of us went very long without thinking of the other. Heather Swann was my first love, and there’s nothing Marcie can do to change that. Neither can she change the fact that I still love her daughter. She’s not the same girl I knew in high school. She’s even better. In the short time we’ve been back together, she’s shown me tough love, brought laughter to my life, and been by my side during tragedy.”

  Marcie opens her mouth, but everyone in the room turns to stare her down. She closes her jaws with an audible snap. I walk to the back of the room to the table where Heather sits alone, legs crossed at the ankle, nervously twirling a linen napkin in her hand.

  “Isaac? This wasn’t part of the plan,” she whispers.

  “Actually, it was. You just didn’t know about it. And yes, your daddy is in on this, too.”

  Her eyes get wide. She holds her breath. She’s never been more beautiful.

  I fall to one knee.

  She blinks.

  I take her hand.

  She smiles.

  I smile in return.

  She cries a little.

  “Heather, neither time nor distance nor the meddling of outside forces could keep us apart. Either fate or your stubborn determination brought us together again and I’ll always be grateful for this second chance. A lot has changed in the past year. I believe it was all to prepare me for reuniting with you, to make me worthy of you. I loved you when we were kids, and although we’ve both changed so much, I love you even more now. Your strong will, your ability to read me like a book, your kindness and your joie de vivre—I want it all.” I pause to take a deep breath and pull the small velvet box out of my blazer pocket. “Please do me the honor of marrying me?”

  Somewhere in the distance, I swear Marcie Swann is emitting a death rattle.

  Heather wipes her cheeks with her free hand and smiles. “Hell, yeah,” she says, then giggles. I smile and place the ring on her finger. It’s a perfect fit.

  “It’s not as big as the rock that other guy gave you, but I think this one is more appropriate,” I tell her.

  “It’s perfect,” she says. “Now come here.”

  The room erupts into whoops and hollers and even a rebel yell when I stand, grab the back of Heather’s hair with one hand, her waist with the other, and pull her in for a deep, wickedly inappropriate kiss. She responds by biting my lower lip while her hands tug on the lapels of my coat.

  The kiss ends when R.J. Casquette yells, “Get a room!” Glad he can have a sense of humor about this.

  Mr. Swann shakes my hand. “I always liked you, even if I didn’t like what you were doing with my daughter. Don’t make me regret this,” he says with a wink.

  “Not a chance.”

  He and Heather share a warm hug that makes me wish I could tell Baby Jayne right now that she’s going to have a cool new auntie, and maybe a couple more cousins to play with down the road. My daydream is interrupted when Marcie stands and the room quiets. Her movements are lethargic as if she’s under water, and now more than ever, she looks like the aging debutante that she is. Guess I expected more of a fight out of her, so it’s a relief when she picks up her purse and trudges toward the door. Her life-long friends, acquaintances, and fellow Mystics move to the side, giving her a wide berth. Like I did, they finally recognize that she’s pure poison. God help the poor soul she chooses as her next victim.

  Once she’s gone, there’s a collective sigh of relief.

  That’s when it sinks in. We did it. We won. My shoulders feel a little broader, my back a little straighter. Couldn’t wipe the grin off my face if I tried, but why the hell would I want to? The best girl in the world just agreed to be mine.

  After we accept our congratulations, I square things up with Mrs. Christopher and we say our goodbyes. I hold out my arm and walk Heather to the car.

  “What are you smiling about, big guy?”

  “Was just thinking how good Heather Laroche sounds.”

  “Uh, it’s the twenty-first century, even in Alabama. Isaac Swann has a pretty nice ring to it, too.”

  “You really expect me to share a name with your mama?”

  She pauses with one leg in the car, one out. “Good point. Laroche it is. But I’m still going to make you wear an apron. Maybe only an apron. I already know you look good on your knees. I’ll give you a bucket and a sponge while you’re down there.”

  I simply smile.

  She looks up at me through her eyelashes. “I’m not going to scare you off, am I?”

  “Not a chance, sweet pea.”

  She pulls her leg back out of the car and stands before me. She may only come up to my chin, but I love the menacing look that spreads over her face.

  “Good,” she says, wrapping her fingers around my throat. “This is going to be so much fun.”

  For once in my life, I have absolutely no doubt.

  Epilogue

  Ten years later

  A small boy clings to the metal barrier along Government Street in downtown Mobile, Alabama. It’s his first Mardi Gras and although a bitter wind chaps his tiny face, he’s excited to see the colorful floats and catch the thrown beads. His parents huddle behind him protectively, determined to keep him safe from the more unsavory revelers, as well as any hard-flung throws.

  Next to this trio stands an old woman in a full-length fur coat. The elbows have been rubbed bare and some of the silk lining pokes out at the cuff. Her graying blond hair is teased and matted, the leather on her high heels peeling. She pinches the coat tight around her neck as if the very air of those around her carries a toxic contagion, or at the very least, the exhaust fumes and sweat of everyday metropolitan life.

  A giant, lighted Moon Pie slowly drops from a nearby building and the parade begins. Marching bands dance past, their drums vibrating the
little boy’s body to the core. He grins and climbs higher on the barricade. The mounted marshals have already given him several doubloons, special beads, and a faux red rose. The other children around him have also collected small prizes, but the floats with stuffed animals, theme cups, and special beads have yet to pass. He glances back at his parents, who both return his wide smile. This is a night to remember.

  Finally, the Mystic Society’s elaborate floats come into view. The children push forward to get as close to the metal barricades as possible. As the floats pass, their hands go up and they yell, “Hey mister! Throw me something, mister!” The men don’t disappoint. They lob handfuls of special beads at the children as well as colorful plastic cups, doubloons, entire boxes of Moon Pies, and a stuffed whale bigger than the little boy. The children cheer while scrabbling for the prizes as they rain down.

  Suddenly, the woman in the fur coat elbows the children aside and grabs what she can right from their hands. She puts the ball of her foot over a doubloon and bends to pick it up. It disappears into her pocket, as well as a handful of Moon Pies and several bags of peanuts. The parents watch in horror as their children begin to cry. She raises her hand and catches a glow stick, followed by a Frisbee. These, too, disappear into the folds of her coat.

  “Ma’am,” says the boy’s father, “do you think you could share those with the little ones?”

  “Absolutely not,” she spits.

  The father backs away while the other parents raise their eyebrows at the woman’s incredible rudeness. “So much for Southern hospitality,” he mumbles.

  A smartly dressed woman steps forward and addresses the man. “I’m so sorry. Please don’t think we’re all like that. She’s a very bitter woman. Used to be a member of the Mystic Society, but she got kicked out. Now she returns every year for Mardi Gras to terrorize the crowds. There’s nothing we can do about her. She’s just a bitter old woman. You have my sincere apologies.”

  The woman extends a white-gloved hand and the man gently shakes it. She pats the little boy on the head, casts a disapproving look at the old woman, and disappears back into the crowd.