by Jeff Strand
Allen's eyes narrowed even further, as if he still wasn't sure if he was being made fun of or not. "We're ready for you to leave," he said.
"Let's put everything out in the open," I said. "You're mad because I'm spending time with Rachel Kramer, right?"
"That's right."
"Well, it's none of your business, so if you want to fuck off, that'd be appreciated. Go on, just fuck right off back to wherever you came from." I used my index and middle fingers to mimic a pair of legs walking away.
"I'm not going anywhere."
"You're trespassing. This is my agent's property."
"Are you going to call the sheriff?"
"If you make me."
Allen didn't move. "She's disgusting."
"Why? Because her face got burnt up? She doesn't have an infectious disease. If somebody did that to you, would you want people to call you disgusting?"
"How can you even look at her?"
"I can look at her fine. When I look at you, not gonna lie, I get a little queasy. My stomach is churning just a bit. I'm not sure how to explain it. Maybe I have an aversion to looking at assholes." I took a step toward him. "Oh, by the way, now I'm making fun of you."
Allen looked down at his feet and muttered something.
"What was that?" I asked.
"I said, you need to leave."
"It's not going to happen."
"You'll be sorry."
"Actually, my vacation was over. I was all packed up and ready to leave. But because you're being so whiny, I may just buy some property around here, build a lakeside amusement park."
I was probably taking this too far. I was certain I could kick this guy's ass if he actually tried to make this physical, but my hands were crucial to my livelihood, and the last thing I needed was to be unable to draw new strips while my fingers healed from breaking against his jaw.
"I'm not trying to be antagonistic," I said. "I understand that bad things happened and you lost your best friend. But you're mad at the wrong person. Be mad at Brandon, wherever he is."
"I am."
"Good."
"I've got plenty of anger to go around."
"Well, it's misplaced. You should get to know Rachel. You'd like her."
"I already knew her."
"Right. You would have. Best friend's girlfriend. Sorry. All I'm saying is that none of this is her fault."
Allen chuckled. "None of it, huh?"
"That's right."
"Whatever."
"Are you saying that she slashed up her own face?"
"I'm saying that maybe she deserved it."
"Okay, well, thank you for this insight into your moral compass. My invitation to fuck right off still stands."
Allen stepped toward me. I wasn't sure if it was a threatening step in my direction, or if he was simply ready to leave the dock and I was in his way. I moved aside, hoping it was the latter.
He walked past me.
He stepped off the dock, then turned back to face me. "You're not leaving, huh?"
"Not presently."
"Okay."
"Did you burn down the cabin?" I asked.
"Maybe."
"Maybe? What the hell does that mean?"
"You don't know the definition of the word 'maybe'?" Allen grinned. "Now I'm making fun of you."
"Are you seriously going to make me call the sheriff on you?"
"I'm not making you do anything. Apparently you live in a world where anybody can do whatever they want." And with that, the little shit walked away.
I wanted to rush after him and punch him in the face, but again, my hands were the instruments of my trade. I found it hard to believe that somebody would burn down Chuck's cabin and then "maybe" admit to it, but I was going to call Sheriff Baker anyway.
I drove to Rachel's place. I was so angry that I was muttering to myself, which wasn't something I did very often, and I was clutching the steering wheel so tightly that my fingers ached. I wished I'd picked up a canoe paddle and knocked that creep into the lake. Who did he think he was? What was wrong with this town? I probably should bring Rachel with me, so she could live someplace where everybody wasn't a complete freaking nutcase.
Goddamn, I was mad.
I think even Ignatz could sense it. He sat on the passenger seat, head hung.
I pulled into the driveway and got out of my car. I decided to visit Malcolm first, because I wasn't sure if Rachel had a phone.
When he answered the door, Malcolm didn't look angry or annoyed. Instead, he seemed resigned to my continued presence in his life, like taxes.
"Do you know a kid named Allen?" I asked. "Brandon's best friend."
Malcolm nodded. "Not well, but yeah, I've been around him a few times. Any friend of Brandon's is an enemy of mine, so I can't say that I've gone out of my way to be nice to him."
"He doesn't seem to like your daughter very much."
"I wouldn't expect him to, but what makes you say that?"
"He was watching us at the restaurant, and then he showed up at the cabin."
"I thought it burned down?"
"It did. I was just using the lake. He basically told me that Rachel was disgusting and that I needed to leave. I asked him if he torched the cabin and he said maybe. I don't think he did, but I definitely want to let Sheriff Baker know to keep an eye on this guy."
"Phone's in the kitchen. If Allen shows up here, he'd better pray that somebody from law enforcement is also here."
I went into the kitchen and made the call. Sheriff Baker assured me that he'd be headed right out to ask Allen some questions and make sure he didn't bother Rachel or me again.
"Can we get a restraining order?" I asked.
"Did he specifically threaten you?"
"No, he didn't specifically threaten me with physical violence, but it was definitely a 'get out of town or something bad will happen' visit."
"I'll put a scare into him," Sheriff Baker assured me. "He's not a bad guy. People around here just aren't used to things getting shaken up. If you see him watching you again, even if he doesn't say anything to you, let me know and we'll get a judge to slap a restraining order on him."
"Thanks."
I didn't feel that much better after I hung up. Obviously, they couldn't just throw Allen in jail, and even I didn't believe that he was legitimately dangerous. But it truly pissed me off that he thought he could wander onto Chuck's dock and tell me to get out of town.
It was nobody's business what I did with Rachel.
I wanted to kick something. Desperately. Unfortunately, I didn't think Malcolm would be okay with me kicking his wall or his possessions, so I just stood there, clenching and unclenching my hands into fists.
"You look perturbed," said Malcolm.
"Very perturbed."
"Got some aggression you need to vent?"
"Yeah. Big-time."
Malcolm smiled. "Want to chop up some firewood for me?"
"Actually, yes. That would be lovely."
* * *
I stood outside with an axe, hoping that Malcolm wasn't watching just how much I sucked at chopping wood. It wasn't that my arms were too puny; apparently there was some kind of art to it, because though I felt like I was slamming into the wood with the force of a mighty lumberjack, the wood was not splitting apart as if a mighty lumberjack had struck it.
Also, I completely missed a couple of times, which was embarrassing.
"Dad has you doing chores?" asked Rachel, startling me so badly that I almost dropped the axe.
I turned around. She was wearing the light blue mask.
"Nah," I said. "Blowing off some steam."
"Have you read The Wonderful Wizard of Oz?" she asked.
"No, I've only seen the movie."
"In the book, the Tin Man's origin story is that he keeps chopping off his own limbs while he swings his axe, and replacing them with metal ones, until he's completely dismembered and made of tin."
"Are you saying that my axe-swi
nging skills are going to take me in that direction?"
"Just an observation."
I swung the axe again, hoping for an impressive hit that would split a log completely in half. The blade made it about a quarter of the way through, but at least I didn't miss. I lifted the axe, taking the log with it, and slammed it against the tree stump again. Three more hits later, and the log was halved.
Rachel applauded.
"Thank you," I said.
"Seriously, why are you chopping firewood?"
"Because I can either slam this axe into a log and be productive, or I can slam it into Allen's skull, which would be even more productive but also illegal."
"What happened?"
"He tried to be all menacing. I'm over it now, though." I set down the axe.
"You don't look over it."
"Do you have any crayons? Maybe if I drew a picture of his face on the log it would do the trick."
"I do, actually."
"No, I'm just kidding. But I'll take a Cherry Coke if you still have them."
"Of course."
She walked back to the shed. I decided to follow her.
My hands were tingling. I should've been wearing gloves.
I couldn't get over that piece of crap telling me what to do. Malcolm? Fine, okay. Rachel was his daughter. He was trying to protect her. It was severely misguided but you could understand his rationale. But Allen? Friend of the monster who ruined her life in the first place? He should've been thrilled that somebody was being nice to Rachel. He should've been ecstatic that in some tiny way, the damage done by the psychopath he'd befriended was being undone.
I agreed with Malcolm. If Allen showed up here, he'd better hope that Sheriff Baker was also here to keep things from getting bloody.
"You okay?" Rachel asked me, as she opened her door.
"Yes."
"You sure?"
"Who the hell does he think he is?"
"I'm getting the impression that you don't like people telling you what to do."
"You are absolutely right."
After we walked inside, I pulled Rachel into my arms, took off her mask, and kissed her.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Rachel put her arms around me and returned the kiss, but it wasn't with quite the same level of passion so I adjusted accordingly. Her lips were hard and rough but the sensation was not remotely unpleasant. It felt like exactly the right thing to be doing.
She pulled away. Had I just made a gigantic blunder?
Then she glanced at the door. Oh. Right. The door was still open. If Malcolm was watching through the window, he could see right in.
Rachel pushed the door closed.
She smiled. "Why did you do that?"
"I wanted to."
"That's a perfectly good reason." She gave me a gentle kiss.
"Why did you try to kiss me in the car?" I asked.
"I was trying to take advantage of you."
"Good reason." We kissed again. I felt way less angry now.
I wasn't sure where I should be trying to steer this. I kind of wanted to scoop her up in my arms and walk her over to the bed (which was not far to walk, so my back would be fine), but I wasn't getting a "take me now, you stud" vibe. We had salvaged the previous awkwardness and I didn't want to mess things up again.
So we just kissed some more. Gently. Tenderly. No tongue.
I wasn't checking my watch, but after a while I realized that if Malcolm was going to pound down the door, he would have done it by now. He either hadn't seen us or he wasn't going to intervene.
A flick of tongue from Rachel. Then she pulled away and started giggling.
"What?"
"This is just so ridiculous."
"Why?"
"Because you're old and I'm hideous." She put a hand over her mouth to stifle the giggles, but couldn't keep them contained.
"I'm not ninety! Thirty-eight is a perfectly respectable age to be dating a twenty-three year-old. When I'm fifty-eight, you'll be forty-three."
"And?"
"Fifty-eight year-olds date forty-three year-olds all the time. It's as socially acceptable as you can get."
Rachel took her hand away from her mouth. She was smiling but not giggling. "Are we dating now?"
"I don't know," I said. "Maybe we're just making out. I'm cool with it either way."
"What would your friends think if they saw you now?"
"'Woooo! Go for it, Jason!'"
"You lie."
"I lie not."
"They would be gaping at you in horror."
"No, they wouldn't, and if they did, I'd kick their asses, no matter how long we'd been friends. If we're going to date, we have to work on some of your self-esteem issues."
"Will you take me to a fancy restaurant?"
"Yes."
"Will you take me to meet your parents?"
"No, but only because they're dead. If they were alive, yes."
She kissed me. "Thank you for pretending."
"I'm not pretending."
"Thank you anyway." She pulled away and walked over to the portable refrigerator. She took out two Cherry Cokes and handed one to me.
I opened the can and took a long drink. The wood chopping and rage had made me thirsty. She sat down at the table, so I did the same.
"Thanks for being my friend," she said.
"Anytime."
"When are you going back home?"
"I don't know. Not this afternoon, I can promise you that."
"But you can't stay here forever."
"No, I can't. But I'm not that far. Three and a half hours. And it doesn't matter where I draw as long as I meet my deadlines, so there's no reason I can't come back and visit all the time. We can make this work."
Rachel popped open her own can of soda. She took a sip, set down the can, picked it up again, took another sip, then set it down again. "I guess I just don't understand why you're doing this."
"I like you. I liked you from the moment you said it was hilarious that I broke that kid's arm."
"I like you, too."
"Do you want me to be superficial? I can do that. You have a fantastic body. You have an amazing, tight, scorching-hot body."
"I do keep in shape."
"Do you want the full truth?"
"Yes."
"When I saw your face in the window that first night, it scared the shit out of me. I thought I was watching a real live horror movie. And when I came over to apologize and you took off your mask, I understood why you wore it."
Rachel's eyes glistened with tears.
"Don't cry," I said. "That's the bad stuff that leads to the good stuff."
"Okay."
"So, to recap, yes, when I see a girl whose face has been slashed up with a straight razor and burnt with a blowtorch, my initial reaction is shock and unease. That's just the way it works. Then I got to know you, and you're incredible, and your appearance doesn't matter anymore."
Since I did not expect to get laid this afternoon, I realized (but did not share with Rachel) that I wasn't saying this to get laid. I truly believed it. Her looks didn't matter anymore.
Was there also an element of "Screw you, world, and especially you, Allen—I'll do what I want!" involved? Probably. So what?
Rachel didn't say anything, so I forged onward. "If you were a filthy dirty pig, I might not be able to get past that. But I'd be an awful person if I couldn't look past what happened to you. What if we'd been together, and then you were attacked? Would I have abandoned you? Not a chance in hell. I'd be proud to call you my girlfriend."
It was hard to tell, but Rachel seemed to be practically beaming.
"Okay," she said. "You can call me that, then."
We leaned across the table and kissed. That works better in the movies.
"My dad may or may not be all right with this," said Rachel. "By being my boyfriend, you're accepting the risk."
"Write up the waiver and I'll sign it."
"And we have to take
things slow. Slower than you're probably used to."
"I'm fine with that."
"I'm..." Rachel took another drink to gather her courage. "I'm a virgin."
"I assumed that."
"Are you one, too?"
"Me? Uh..."
"I'm kidding. You told me you'd been married."
"Yes, I was. Although that particular marriage wasn't that much different from the virgin lifestyle."
"I assume you've been with a lot of women."
"I wouldn't say—"
"I don't want to know how many," Rachel said. "If you start to tell me, I'll put my hands over my ears and go la la la la la."
"That's reasonable."
"I mean it, never tell me. Even if I ask, I don't really want to know. But I won't ask so it doesn't matter. What I'm saying is that I'm sure you have plenty of experience, and I have zero experience, and it might be a long road for me to get to that point. I wanted to put that out there in case you're just after this hot bod."
"Noted."
"We can kiss as much as you want. You just can't touch my boobs or my butt. Well, you can touch my butt a little."
We kissed. I kept my hands to myself.
* * *
When we were done kissing, which didn't happen soon, she walked me to the door. "If you're sure you want to do this, I'm going to tell my dad."
"Do you want me to tell him?" I asked.
Rachel shook her head. "I'll do it."
"Should we tell him together?"
"No. You should leave. I'll tell you how it went."
"Is it because you think he'll kill me?"
Rachel smiled. "He was never really going to kill you. If he got truly mad about this, the worst he'd do is yell at you. He'd yell and scream and the vein in his forehead would bulge out, and you'd think your life was in danger, but it wouldn't be. But I'm not trying to save you from getting yelled at. I just think this is something I should do by myself. He might respect it more coming from you. I don't care. It's important to me that I have this conversation on my terms, and let him know that it is one hundred percent something I want."
"Well, I can't argue with that," I said. "Are you sure I shouldn't just hang out here?"
"I'm sure. This might take a while. And if you're here, he'll want to talk to you instead. Come back in an hour. No, hour and a half."
