He ran his hand over his completely bald head, a nervous habit. It was a holdover from the days when he still had hair, which was when I was an infant. Mom said he began losing it in his early twenties. Instead of fighting it, he shaved it all off.
When I was little I loved the stubbly feel when he didn’t take the time to shave on the weekends. I would run my hands over his head, tickling my own palms and laughing wildly. Then we would run through the house, me squealing and him growling. When he finally caught me he would nuzzle the underside of my chin with his stubble. I would shriek louder and louder until Mom would finally holler for both of us to quiet down. In those moments he was my Daddy, and I loved him.
“Where the hell have you been?” His tone was full of fake indignation. He knew as my father he should have been worried I was out after dark and hadn’t called to let him know my whereabouts. The truth was he probably hadn’t realized I was gone until I appeared at the front door.
“Out. I didn’t think you were home. You were supposed to be on a trip.”
“It got cancelled, and that’s no excuse. You should have called.”
“Sorry. I need to go do my homework.”
“Persephone, this is not a hotel. You cannot just come and go as you please.” Pot meet kettle. “You may think you’re all grown up, but you’re still living under our roof. There are rules. It is downright inconsiderate to make your mother and me worry about you like this.” Dear God, why did his trip have to get cancelled? With Mom incapacitated I was the one who had to deal with his foul humor. He was really going to try to do the whole parenting thing. I just wanted to get away.
“I said I was sorry. It won’t happen again. Dad, seriously. I have a lot of homework to do.”
“Whatever.”
I should have known it wouldn’t end there. He needed something to keep himself entertained if he was going to be stuck at the house. I was only in the shower for a few minutes when I heard the bathroom door open. I could see his silhouette through the shower curtain—which meant he could see mine.
“I thought you said you had homework to do, Persephone.” Get out, get out, get out, my brain screamed.
“I do, but I needed a shower.”
“Why? What have you been doing?” Go away!
“I can’t hear you over the water, Dad!”
“Then turn it off and get out here.”
“Soap in my hair! Be out in a moment!”
His hand slithered in and shut off the water. “Now, Persephone.” He pulled the curtain back and handed me a towel. I snatched it, hiding my body as quickly as I could. The brief glimpse was enough. Satisfaction flickered in his eyes. He could make me do whatever he wanted, no matter how old I was.
“Go do your homework.” And he walked out.
Homework was put on hold while I carved a pattern of hash marks across my left hip. One for the first time he touched me. Another for the first time Mom got drunk. A third for the first time I realized there was nothing I could do about either. And one last cut for the first time I didn’t cry because there were no tears left.
“Persephone, are you okay to drive? I’m ready to go.” Maggie was at my arm, eyes a little red, speech a whole lot slurred. Thankfully, I saw where the night was going within thirty minutes of arriving and drank accordingly. Maggie was obviously not going to exhibit a lot of self-control. It was amazing how much Red Bull and vodka a girl her size could put away before ten o’clock.
“Yeah, I’m good. Let’s get out of here.” We half-heartedly mumbled our goodbyes. A few idiots whined the party was just getting started. I saw some plastic baggies peeking out of jacket pockets and knew I wanted no part of the next phase of the night.
“You want to stay over? Dad’s on a trip, so it’s only Mom at the house.”
“Yeah, that’s sounds good.” Maggie’s head lolled on the headrest.
“Hey, Maggie, do you think God exists?”
“Sure, and He hates me.”
“No, seriously. Do you believe in God?”
“Yeah, I guess so. I mean, how could you not? There has to be some ultimate power creator-type force out there. But do I believe in the whole Jesus loves me crap? C’mon. Have you looked at our parents recently?”
What could I say? She had a point and she was too drunk to debate the issue further.
After tucking her in, I sat on my floor thinking about what Maggie said. Little strains of Bible school songs played in my head. Jesus loves me, this I know, for the Bible tells me so… This little light of mine, I’m gonna let it shine… Jesus loves the little children… Suffer the little children, come unto Me. And then my phone rang. It was the same number as before. Who the hell called someone this late at night? I was fed up.
“Hello?” Silence. “Hello?”
“Um, yes, is Ken there?”
“No, Ken is not here. As a matter of fact, you will never reach Ken at this number no matter how many times you call it because this is not Ken’s phone! This is my phone! And I would appreciate it if you told Ken the next time you actually call him instead of me to stop giving my number out!”
“I’m so sorry, miss. I guess this isn’t 555-8786?”
“No! This is 555-8687.” What a moron.
“I do apologize, miss. Ken’s an old buddy and not doin’ too well. Guess I musta misdialed. I won’t bother you again. You have a good night now.”
Wow, did I feel like the biggest bitch on the planet. Poor guy was only checking on his friend, got the numbers confused, and I went off on him. Nice going, Persephone. Maybe tomorrow you can go kick some puppies.
4.
Maggie’s mom called at some God-awful hour the next morning, demanding her daughter’s immediate presence at home. That meant I had to drag myself out of bed and drive her there. On the way back home, I started thinking about the poor guy on the other end of my tirade the night before. I actually worked up a pretty high level of guilt about my behavior. It wasn’t his fault my life sucked. My need to make it right was overwhelming, as weird as that was. I pulled my phone out and scrolled through the recent calls. There it was—multiple times. I pushed call.
“Ken?” His voice was anxious. Apparently he still didn’t have Ken’s correct number programmed into his phone.
“No, sir. This is the girl you called last night by accident.” Total silence. He was probably scared I was going to start ranting again. “Um, I wanted to say I was sorry. You didn’t deserve to be yelled at. It was an honest mistake, and I took a lot of personal frustration out on you.” It was a pretty truthful explanation. I felt the need to throw in some really wild lie to make up for my honesty, but he didn’t give me the chance.
“Well, that’s awful nice of you. Not too many people would do that. Ken and I were in the Marines together years ago, and he’s been kinda under the weather lately. I try to keep in touch—make sure he’s still hangin’ in there.” The guy had a southern lilt to his voice that made the end of his words disappear. It was kind of charming.
This was the perfect opportunity for me to lie. I could have told him my grandfather was in the Marines, too. Or that my father was sick and dying (I wished). The truth was my grandfather had been a con man at best and died when I was thirteen. My grandmother followed him to the grave shortly thereafter. She actually loved the son of a bitch and most people said she died of a broken heart. And, of course, my father was in perfect health.
I don’t know what kept me from telling him any one of the innocuous white lies flying through my head. It wasn’t like I was ever going to meet the man. What would it matter? I told bigger lies to people I saw every day. Instead I heard myself saying, “I’m sorry to hear that. Have you gotten a hold of him yet?”
“No, miss, I haven’t. I’m startin’ to get a little worried about him. Course, I’m not sure I’ve dialed his actual number more’n a couple of times.” There was a little chuckle. “I live up here in Kansas City, so I can’t really pop over and see him.”
“Well,
maybe I could check on him for you. It’s not like Springfield’s a real big town. It wouldn’t be hard.” What the hell? Where had that come from? Not lying to the man was one thing, but I never offered to do anything I didn’t want to. I wasn’t that nice—as my grandmother was kind enough to point out in her final days.
About a week before she died, she was put in the hospital. Somehow, one evening, I ended up in the room alone with her. She took my hand and asked, “Who are you, Persephone? Why are you so mean and deceitful? You used to be such a sweet child.” My mouth hung open. I wanted to slap the shit out of her. “It was right after your sixth birthday. It was almost like you fell asleep one night, and a little monster woke up in your place.”
Nice words from a grandmother, huh? I felt like telling her she was absolutely correct. Right after my sixth birthday was when my father “visited” my room for the first time. A different kid did wake up the next day—a kid that felt like telling her grandma to burn in hell.
Instead, I kissed her cheek, walked out and never went back. She died three days later. I didn’t shed a single tear at the funeral.
“No, no, no. He’s a tough old bird, and I’m sure he’s doin’ fine.” Whew, dodged a bullet on that one. “‘Sides, I don’t know that he’d answer the door to a stranger. Then again, the way things are goin’ everyone might be a stranger to him soon.” He laughed at his own joke, but it sounded hollow. He was worried about his friend and trying to make the best of the situation.
“Okay, well, if you change your mind, I guess you have my number.”
He chuckled again. “That I do, miss, that I do. Thanks again for callin’.”
Since Maggie was tied up the rest of the day with her mother, I had to find ways to avoid my own maternal figure. Holing up in the piano room seemed like the most viable option. I rifled through sheet music trying to find something to fit my mood. One of the biggest problems with playing was when I couldn’t find the right song, I ended up more frustrated and angst-ridden. It was worse than coming home starving and finding nothing you wanted in the pantry or fridge.
This appeared to be one of those mornings. I could feel my mood darkening and the rage escalating the longer I sat with my fingers drifting over the keys, stabbing random notes. So what the hell was I going to do now? Boredom and anger were a deadly combination for a teenager with an affinity for razors. But I didn’t like to cut when the sun was up—a quirk of mine, I guess.
I hated coffee shops—pseudo-intellectuals pretending to have meaningful conversations. Sitting in the park would require me bearing witness to actual happy families. That pretty much left driving around aimlessly, smoking, and flipping through crappy radio stations.
The thing about Springfield was when you needed to get somewhere traffic would ensure a mile took thirty minutes. When you had nowhere to go, you could drive the entire city in fifteen minutes or less. On my second trip through the same intersection, my phone started buzzing. It was Ken’s friend.
“Hello?” I answered, expecting him to be embarrassed he had misdialed again.
“Uh, hello. This is the man that accidentally keeps callin’ you.”
“Uh huh?”
“Well, I feel kinda silly askin’ you this, but I finally got a hold of Ken. He doesn’t have much family to speak of, and he likes to read.” I couldn’t figure out what one had to do with the other or why either one had anything to do with me. “I was wonderin’ if you really meant what you said about goin’ to check on him?”
“I guess so.” Me and my stupid mouth. I meant it at the time. Now, not so much.
“It’s okay if you were just bein’ polite. I mean, I know we’re complete strangers. I don’t even know your name now that I think about it.”
“It’s Persephone.”
“Well, Miss Persephone, my name is James Fry.”
“Nice to meet you, Mr Fry. So to speak.” I was trying to find the happy line between polite and disconnected. Perhaps a chilly tone would head off wherever this was going. On the other hand, I hated to be rude to him again. I was pretty sure I already banked enough bad karma for one week.
“You too, miss. Here’s my predicament. Like I said, Ken likes to read, but his eyesight isn’t real good anymore. He keeps losing track of where he is, getting headaches, that kinda thing. Old age ain’t much fun.”
“I would imagine not.” Well, there was a profound insight, Persephone.
“I don’t suppose you would be willin’ to go over there and read to him a bit, would you?” He sounded so hopeful I couldn’t say no, even though I had no idea what I was getting myself into. These guys could be scam artists who lured young girls into a prostitution ring for all I knew. What a delightful turn of events that would be.
Now, instead of a horror movie playing out my death, I saw a poignant drama—a Lifetime movie. I would go missing, posters would be plastered all over the town, and my parents would appear on the news pleading for someone, anyone to come forward. Please tell us where our baby is, kind of thing.
Months later, my body would be found in the woods, malnourished, abused, and abandoned. I could see myself wrapped in a huge tarp, a horrible Christmas present left behind for an unsuspecting hunter to find and open. I only needed the courage to show up at the guy’s house. Fate could take over from there.
“Sure, not a problem. What’s his address?” Now that I had warmed to the idea and all its glorious possibilities, I wanted to get over there as soon as possible.
“He lives on Buena Vista, southwest side of town. I’ve been there a couple of times, so I could probably give you directions.”
“No, I know where that is. It’s only a couple of streets north of mine, and I have GPS. I’m free today if you want me to go over.”
“I’m sure he would like that. I should probably call, let him know. Are you sure you want to do this? I hadn’t told him I might have someone, so it’s not like you would be disappointin’ him. I’m thinkin’ from the sound of your voice, you can’t be more’n sixteen. Surely you have better things to do than read to some cranky old Marine.”
Like what? Stare at my bedroom walls trying to talk myself out of cutting another part of my body? Pray that when Dad came home from his next trip I got at least one good night’s sleep? No thank you.
“No, I’m good.” And if you could convince your friend to take care of this pesky little being alive problem I have that would be great.
“Course, I’ll pay you for your time.”
“That won’t be necessary. You can tell Ken I’ll be there around two or so. Will that work?”
“Yes, ma’am. I just can’t thank you enough for this. It means the world to me and will mean even more to him.”
That afternoon I sat in Ken’s driveway wondering what in the hell I was thinking when I agreed to this. Nothing like having second thoughts after it was too late in the game. It was kind of like regretting sex after the STD test came back positive. You pretty much had to take your medicine and hope for the best.
A quarter mile and a different way of life separated my neighborhood from Ken’s. The houses were nothing to be ashamed of but would definitely never make Better Homes magazine. They were about what you would expect for a newly married couple or retiree. I sat as long as I could and decided it was time to stop staring and go meet the man within. Heaven help me.
When Mary Shelley described Frankenstein’s monster, I can only imagine she knew there would one day be a man like Ken Austin. At a little over five feet nine inches, I was by no means petite. This guy made me feel like a hobbit. His shoulders could have borne the weight of a small country and his hands could have held another two. His hair was kept in the same military cut from his youth, which showed every odd bump and roll of his skull. Could a brain even function in a head shaped like that?
But it was his eyes that caused me to squeak instead of belting out the clear, commanding introduction I practiced the whole way over. Imagine a pristine, crystal blue pond. Now add a layer
of ice. That’s what was staring at me from the doorway. In his younger days, I’m sure those eyes made every female between the ages of ten and one hundred fall in love. Now they scared the shit out of me.
“Um, Mr Austin… um, I…”
“Are you Persephone? I thought you would be older.” His voice matched his appearance in every way. It rumbled out of his chest like a sonic boom and vibrated in my stomach. It took all my self-control not to run at a full sprint away from the house. “Well, come in.”
His home was exactly as I suspected—orderly and uncluttered as a Marine barracks. I was pretty sure I would find hospital corners on his bed and everything hung neatly by color in his closet.
Despite the neatness, there was a faint smell under it. It was almost imperceptible if you didn’t know it should be there. Sickness was circling this house like a plane in a holding pattern at LAX on a holiday weekend. No one knew when it was going to be cleared for landing, but it was only a matter of time.
“James said you could read.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I hope you read louder than you talk.”
I cleared my throat. “Yes, sir.”
“That’s better. How old are you?”
“Seventeen.”
“You’re just a pup, aren’t you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“The living room is this way.”
There was a recliner, rocking chair, and three floor to ceiling bookshelves. I could see why he didn’t have many visitors. Where in the hell would they sit? Which chair was meant for me? Ken settled himself into the overstuffed recliner, leaving the massive oak rocking chair. My butt would be numb in ten minutes.
“How do you feel about John Irving?” I knew the name—kind of. I mean, who hasn’t heard about John Lithgow’s famous cross-dressing role? As for reading any of his books—yeah, well, reading wasn’t really my thing.
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