Confessed

by Nicola Rendell

  “No cops.” I growl at the sky. I’m an idiot. To my credit, I have relatively little experience with actual criminal criminals. White-collar criminals, yes. But guys like Vince, no. Turns out, it’s the same game: look you right in the eye and rob you blind while they’re doing it.

  In my head, I hear my dad’s voice. “So what did we learn today, Lucy?”

  Great. A teachable moment. Just exactly what I’m in the mood for right now.

  But all that dirty, filthy, perfect sex could not have been planned. He could not have planned on that happening—the sparks. The way we felt together. I’ll bet he even planned to rob me in the middle of the night but didn’t have the balls. And I take just a teeny, tiny little bit of satisfaction in that. That he couldn’t do it.

  But he did. Yep. He did. And now here I am. Screwed.

  I sit down on a little bench outside Subway. My thighs stick immediately to the metal due to the Dr Pepper, which is still pretty much all over me. What an asshole.

  My anger is pounding in my eyes, and it takes me a minute to calm down enough to think. What I could really use right now is an inadvisably large bag of bubblegum-flavored Jelly Bellies. That would be the ticket. That would get me thinking straight. I unstick myself and walk across the street to a gas station. The guy behind the bulletproof glass gives me an, “Afternoon ma’am,” but I’m still just speechlessly angry. I try to smile. He stares at the brown stains all over my white shorts. This is not my best moment.

  Browsing the aisles of candy, it’s somewhat calming. There is a certain Zen in sugar. No Jelly Bellies to be found, so I go retro, my drug of choice in times of extreme crisis: Fun Dip. A partitioned envelope of mainline glucose in three weird flavors with that delicious stick at the end.

  I stand at the counter and put it down, and put the hundred with it.

  The guy taps on the glass, where a sign says: “NO BILLS OVER $20.”

  “This is a gas station,” I say. “Are you joking?”

  He shrugs. “Management’s policy. I could take debit.”

  I grip the little counter feeling like I could just rip it apart into a bazillion tiny shreds of plywood and veneer, but I don’t. I put on my very best Greenwich smile and say, “Thanks anyway.”

  Uncalmed and unsweetened, I stand outside the gas station. I pace back and forth and think it through. I decide I have two options.

  1. I could pick up my phone, call Mom and Dad, and say, “So I might’ve gotten in slightly over my head here. I blame the bad meats. Fugue state, you know? So how about you buy me a ticket home?”

  I groan. That sounds like failure, and failure is not an option. I will not be beaten. Not like this.

  So then there’s only one other thing to do.

  2. I can go after him.

  I can track him down and tell him that nobody steals from a Burchett and gets away from it. Especially not this Burchett.

  He’s got my clothes, my money, my makeup, my everything. No way is he getting away with that.

  No freaking way.

  Opening up my phone, I see it’s perilously low on battery because I was too busy having the best sex of my life last night to remember to charge it—could this situation possibly get worse?—I see I am exactly nowhere. Unpinching my fingers on the map to zoom out, I figure he wouldn’t have gone back the way we came, would he? No, he said he was heading south. “I’m heading to Mexico.”

  Horseshit.

  I’ll bet he’s going someplace that doesn’t have an extradition treaty. I can just see him scamming tourists in Morocco.

  And I have no idea how to find him.

  My head drops and I place my hand on my forehead. Even my hair is sticky. I hate him. I hate his face, I hate his body, I hate his voice, I hate, hate, hate…

  I stare at the cracked pavement between my feet. And then it hits me.

  My shortcomings will be my victory at last. Long live the scatterbrain.

  I have had a lifelong tendency to lose my car in parking lots—there’s an astonishing number of white Beemers in Greenwich—so ages ago, I hooked up the BMW’s onboard assistance to my phone. I open the app and hit: FIND MY CAR.

  It takes a minute, the little spinning wheel catching up, but then bingo! A little blue dot pops up heading south on 495.

  Yes. Yes!

  An ant begins crawling up my sticky leg. I smoosh it with the bottom of my sandal. I kill all the running apps on my phone to save battery. Then I start walking down the road.

  And stick out my thumb.

  Fifteen minutes later, I’m pretty sure my feet are bleeding, but I’m too afraid to look. My flats cut into my heels with every sweaty step, and there’s a thin layer of roadside grit between my feet and the soles. A lady in a minivan passes, glaring at me like, You should know better, honey!

  “I have no choice!” I yell at her quickly shrinking rear van door. I checked. No Uber. No cabs. It’s just me, the great American highway system, and whatever assortment of strangers are coming my way. I swat at a mosquito on my sticky arm and I’m left with a glop of my own blood on my skin. I wet my fingertip and rub it off.

  I’m going to kill him. I’m going to wrap my hands around that massive, sexy, muscle-bound neck and squeeeeeeeeze…

  In the distance, I see a big red pickup barreling towards me. Okay, okay! Here we go. Maybe they’re farmhands or something. Cute boys who smell like hay and a hard day’s work. Perfect.

  Except as they get closer, I realize it’s not at all what I was hoping. At the very moment I see a Confederate flag for a front license plate, I pull my thumb in.

  But it’s too late.

  The truck slows to a stop, and I see it’s not just one guy but two. There’s also a rifle rack on the back, with two hunting rifles strapped in. Protruding from the truck bed is a rigid deer’s leg, straight up in the air like a flagpole. I glance at the deer and see a tire track across its crushed body. The guy in the passenger’s seat cranes his neck out the window. He’s got a thick, unkempt black beard, a teardrop tattoo on his cheek, and a very definite scar across his throat.

  I smile out of my utter terror. “Hello.”

  The driver leans forward so I can see his face. He’s a meaty white cube of a guy with a big black swastika tattooed on his bald head.

  Oh, yay! Perfect. Happy Tuesday, Lucy! Shame you’ll never see Wednesday!

  But I don’t want to be horrible. I don’t want to be biased. They’re probably thinking all kinds of things about me that aren’t true. Like that I, I don’t know, always vote Democrat or that I always eat organic or that I only drink white wine. Whatever. Lots of mistaken assumptions. “I don’t think you’ve got room in there for me,” I say.

  The Nazi says, “Awww, we got room fur yeu.”

  Cutthroat tries to whisper under his breath, but he looks like he’s never whispered, never ever, and he’s not very good at it, so it’s pretty much at speaking volume that he says, “Shet the fuck up, Tommy. Don’ scurrrre ’er off.”

  The Nazi answers by slapping the dash and saying, “Nawwwww, who’s in charge of this ’ere operation, huh? Because she’s got a real purttty…”

  Fade to silent, and, swear to Jesus, I hear the theme from Deliverance playing. Full banjo feud. “Really, I’m good,” I say, sort of waving them off, trying to be pleasant and polite. “I love to walk.”

  Which I most definitely do not, especially not in these shoes that have revealed themselves to be tiny torture devices. Horrible, horrible inventions, flats.

  I start walking. I make like an Olympic speed walking pro. The world’s largest horsefly begins dive-bombing my face. The thing is as big as a black olive.

  Whap, whap, buzzzz, whap.

  They idle forward right alongside me as I hustle onward. The gravel on the shoulder crunches under their tires. I try to pick up the pace, and the horsefly pings off my swinging arm. I speed up. They speed up too. The engine revs menacingly. No muffler. Of course not.

  “Where yeu frem, lil’ gurl?”
the Nazi says.

  “Have a good day, guys,” I say. Smile. Make eye contact. Stay cool, Lucy. Stay cool. Show no fear. No fear! Remember, it only takes as much pressure to poke out an eye as to open a can of soda.

  “We cen fitcha in the truck bid,” says Cutthroat.

  Alive or dead? Dismembered or whole? I sniff and glance at the dead deer. “Allergies! I can’t ride outside.”

  “Alriiiiight,” says Cutthroat, rubbing his scar. “Be that way.”

  I nod and grip my arms with my hands. It’s exactly the opposite of cold out here, but I’ve got to hang on to myself to stop my hands shaking and shrieking something along the lines of “My family will pay any ransom you want!” Instead I say, “Thanks anyway!”

  The truck accelerates past me. I breathe out with relief. Close one, Lucy. Dodged a bullet there. The horsefly whaps off my forehead.

  But then, about ten feet up, the truck skids to a stop.

  I see my whole life streaming in front of my eyes. Peanut’s eyelashes. Our house surrounded by fall leaves. My mom, the smell of her lotion on her cheeks…

  Out gets Cutthroat. In two strides, he’s in front of me. He’s roughly nine feet tall.

  This thing is getting serious. Time to buckle down: Our Father, who art in heaven…

  Honestly, I can’t even talk. I just put my hands into fists and think, This is it. I’m a goner. Right here. Make it quick. Hallowed? Hollowed be thy name…

  From his pocket, he takes a switchblade hunting knife.

  LUNCHMEAT HEIRESS FOUND MURDERED.

  Thy kingdom come, thy will… “I’ve got cash. Do you want cash? Take my phone,” I say. I try to shove it into his hands. He’s not taking me up on it. I can hear the tremble in my own voice. “Please. You can take everything.” I try to put the hundred and my phone in his hand. “Unlimited data! Password is 1-2-3-4!”

  Except what does he do then? Puts the knife in my hand and closes my fingers around it with his enormous paw.

  “Take et.” He smiles, suntanned smile lines. Big, blue, clear, kind eyes.

  I’m stunned. Utterly stunned. I look at the knife in my hand. It’s gigantic. Huge. Vicious. Possibly stained with blood. Deer’s blood. Has to be.

  He swats at the horsefly and squishes it, midair. It sounds like an exploding grape.

  “Thank you?”

  He gives me a curt nod. “Be curful, ye hear?”

  “I will,” I say, the cool flood of relief pouring through me. “I really will. Tommy, was it? Thank you. So much.”

  He winks. He wipes off the horsefly guts on his jeans. Then he turns away, gets in the truck, and with a roar, they’re off.

  After another hour of walking, I am pouring sweat like I’m in an Indonesian jungle on a nature show. I’m limping and have flattened the back of my flats, so I’m walking on the heels, like they’re slippers, but at least I’m well-armed. The air down here, it’s thick as the steam room at the gym. Even in the shade it’s stifling. If it ever got like this in Connecticut, I was well and truly ensconced in the glories of 10,000 BTU air conditioning.

  I am miserable. I am exhausted. I am gritty, sticky, and greasy. But vengeance, it will be mine.

  As I walk, I make a list of things I’m planning to say to the bastard while I roll the hunting knife over in my hands. Things such as “You have the right to remain silent,” and “Do you know what they do to car thieves in Greenwich?” But that’s when I hear the rumble of an engine behind me.

  I’ve learned my lesson, and check carefully to see what’s coming down the line before I stick my thumb out.

  From the little orange plastic light on the top of the white sedan, I know it’s not a cop, but some sort of security something, so I stick out my thumb with extra delight, and smile. Best smile. School portrait smile. Cheese!

  He stops and rolls down the window. He’s an enormous man, with his gut pushing up against the steering wheel. I see a wedding ring, which has been there so long that his finger has plumped up right around it.

  Houston. We have liftoff.

  “Hello!” I wipe the sweat from my face and try to straighten my shirt.

  “Afternoon!” he says. Big smile, good teeth, and no sign of duct tape, garbage bags and/or chloroform anywhere. I’m feeling good about this. Also, his uniform shirt says:

  * * *

  HAROLD R.

  FOREST LAKE MALL SECURITY

  * * *

  “I need a ride, please,” I tell him, “I’d be so very grateful if you could help me out.”

  “Where you headed?” He has to lower his head down below the doorjamb to see me. He’s a little bit bald and has these huge bushy eyebrows. There’s something kind of sad and adorable about a man that big in a car so little. The answer to where I’m headed is, of course, to the blue dot, but instead I say, “My parents are teaching me a lesson. Told me if I didn’t stop my complaining, they’d stop the car and make me get out. Which they did.”

  He whistles. “I’ll be!” “I know!”

  “Well, hop in,” he says, and thrusts himself against the console to open the door for me.

  The car smells a little bit like hamburger. Doesn’t bother me a bit. There are some fast food wrappers on the floor and also, the belt Harold must have to wear for work at the mall. It’s this sort of black fake leather thing with a two-way radio clipped to one end of the belt, and a pair of handcuffs clipped to the other, hanging on a leather loop with a snap. Somehow it looks more like a Halloween costume than a uniform.

  “I’m Harold,” he says, reaching out to shake my hand.

  “Helen,” I tell him. Well done, Lucy! Got it in one. “Thank you so much for this. I was dying out there.”

  “It’s a scorcher! Just heard it’s 99% humidity and 103. With the heat index, that makes it 118!” He seems thrilled by this, which is easy to be if you’ve got cold air blowing on you. He hands me an unopened bottle of water from the little door compartment. I crack open the lid and drink it almost all the way down. He fires up the AC to full blast and I feel the sweat on my body begin to dry. Glorious little waves of coolness run up and down my bare arms and legs. It’s better than sticking my head into the freezer at the grocery store.

  “So your folks, they’re aiming to teach you a lesson,” he says, putting the little Accord in gear and heading down the road. “Out there in the heat?”

  I nod. “They’re very serious about discipline,” I say. Flashes of my parents negotiating with me over my curfew come into my head, and phrases like, “Sometime around 2am…ish? Or 3am? What works best for you, Lucy Loo!” stream through my brain. “They won’t even answer my calls. But here they are.” I hold up my phone. The little blue dot is still heading south. Southwest now.

  Harold squints. “Musta upset them real bad!”

  With my fingers, I try to make some semblance of order of my sweaty hair. I pull it back into a soaking wet ponytail and fasten it with a sweaty rubber band that I had around my wrist. “You know. Families. Can’t live with them, can’t live without them.”

  “Well, I got a couple hours drive myself. Heading down to see my kids in Atlanta. You keep an eye on that map. Might be we catch on up to them,” Harold says, and then adds, “That’s a real nice knife, by the way.”

  I look at it in my hand. “I found it, on the side of the road.”

  “Why, I’ll be…”

  And off we go, listening to golden oldies on the radio. The ensuing ride is actually perfectly nice, aside from the texts from my parents…

  Dad: FYI. Don’t eat any roast beef.

  Mom: Oh Lucy. You did. You ran away again.

  Dad: Turkey breast still questionable.

  Mom: I’m guessing you don’t want me to set a place for you at dinner.

  Dad: Or pastrami. Definitely no pastrami.

  Dad: Can’t say more here.

  Mom: Peanut misses you.

  That last one makes my eyes well up immediately and I have to press my knuckles to my lips to keep back a so
b. But I manage to stay strong. Harold provides a good distraction. Due to an endless array of cocktail parties throughout my youth during which I was the only person under sixty, I’m able to make pretty good conversation with baby boomers. Harold tells me he’s a mall cop, retired Army, has three kids and two dogs, and enjoys planting tulips. He gives me some advice on where to buy the best tulip bulbs. I pretend to be interested. In the grand scheme of my life, I have no intention of ever planting a tulip ever, but I don’t mind hearing about it. I like knowing about people. On the other hand, given the events of last night, I realize I could get a little bit better about vetting them. I ask him about his family and his job. It’s all very normal, very usual. Very…peaceful. But then he asks me about myself. That’s when I realize that Operation Reinvent Lucy starts right here.

  And of course, I have exactly no idea what that looks like. I figure it’s probably good to be vague.

  “My parents live in Dallas,” I say. “I just graduated from UT.” Whoa! Who knew I’d turn myself into a Texan! Not bad! “I’m sort of trying to figure out what I want to do next. I love horses. I’d love to work with horses.” God, that wasn’t particularly vague. But not a bad story, really. And at least that last part was true. My dad once said, “If you’ve got to lie, bury it in the truth.” I’ll give him this much: My dad knows his half-truths. He’s proving himself remarkably skilled in the art of plausible deniability.

  “That sounds awful nice, working with horses.”

  Doesn’t it, though? “They’re not too keen on it. They want me to get a real job.”

  Harold looks confused. “Horses aren’t real?”

  I shake my head sadly. “Apparently not.”

  And so we drive for another hour, then two. The Vince-as-blue-dot stops once on my phone map, which I figure is to gas up because the BMW might be nice inside, but it’s got comically bad gas mileage. Harold and I also stop for gas and I break my hundred, buying a coffee and a hot dog from one of those rolling grills for Harold and gummy bears for me. He says I really should eat more. I want to say I’m almost too angry to swallow, let alone choke down a snack pack of almonds or anything else.