by Tara Wylde
I hate not knowing. I should ask. Put myself out of my misery. But then he might demand an explanation, right here and now. Over text. Which I don’t exactly have time for, and can’t face, and—no. Just no.
I stick with the question at hand: How about 1? Gives us most of the afternoon.
He texts back just as the bus pulls up: perfect. you like greek food? heard about this new place, thought we might try it.
Love Greek! :-)
also perfect. see you sun!
So... He’s still planning on dinner. That’s...probably good?
I don’t end up having a lot of time to obsess over it. The night’s a busy one: from six till midnight, there’s not a moment when my section isn’t full. I get screamed at by some lady who can’t understand why we don’t have ranch dressing, and threatens to leave a bad Yelp review. Some college kid puts a roach in his salad to avoid paying the bill, but he’s not nearly sneaky enough. Half the dining room sees him do it. Two old ladies actually do manage to skip out—one of them in a fucking walker! How the...?
My tips suck, and my feet are beyond pain. I stop feeling them around seven. By nine, the ache’s resurfaced in my ankles. It spends the rest of the shift creeping up my legs till it settles in my lower back.
By the time the last diners clear out, well after one, I’m sick with fatigue, barely standing. Vanya shoos me out the door. I feel bad, not helping close up, but I’m in no condition to argue. Especially with tomorrow promising to be twice as bad. There’s a two-for-one promo on; those are always bad news. They bring out the cheapos and jackasses like nothing on earth.
Paying Maria eats up every penny of my tips, and an extra ten bucks to boot. So... Tonight was a bust. All that for—for—I add it up quickly, in my head: a net loss of $16.50.
I could fucking cry.
Instead, I put the first coat of paint on Joey’s bike: cherry red, just like I remember. I take a quick shower and faceplant into bed without setting the alarm. Doesn’t matter: Joey’s up with the sun every day. He tries to be quiet, bless his heart, but...yeah. If he’s up, so am I.
When I finally find my way to bed, I keep imagining I can smell Joe Sr.’s cheap cologne on my pillow. Takes me forever to fall asleep, and when I finally do, I dream I’m trying to take a bath. Someone’s in the water behind me, with an arm around my neck. He keeps pulling me under, making me cough and splutter. I can’t wake up.
132
Nick
I’m half-convinced Lina’s going to stand me up again. Instead, she’s early, waiting in front of the Aquatic House. She waves when she sees me coming. I wave back, picking up my pace as I realize she’s shivering, rubbing her bare hands together.
“You should’ve waited inside!”
She stuffs her hands into her pockets. “Wasn’t sure if you’d been here before, if you’d know where to go.” An embarrassed look flits across her face as she glances around. “Though, I guess there’s...kind of a lot of signs. And maps. And that arrow thing.”
I shrug. “What happened to your gloves?” I seem to remember her having a red, fuzzy pair that made me think of the warmest parts of winter: firelight, hot chocolate, knitted blankets.
“No idea. I swear, I came home last night and threw them on the shelf, just like always, but this morning...pfft.” She flips her palms up and rolls her eyes. “Just...gone. Maybe I do have rats, plural.”
“Or maybe it’s the socks-in-the-dryer phenomenon.” I pop up an imaginary sock-puppet and make it speak. “‘Y’know, I’ve loved, loved, loved cuddling your feet all these years. Honestly, it’s been great. Oh!—the memories! I’m getting misty!” I do an exaggerated sniffle. “But I think the time has come...for us to go our separate ways.’” I make my hand-puppet dip its “head” in apparent regret. “’No hard feelings, right?’”
That gets a laugh out of her, but I can tell she’s nervous. I’m not going to draw this out. As soon as I can find a place to sit, that Band-Aid is coming off.
I’ve decided I’m more concerned for her than about her. Hours of pacing and reading and obsessing and considering have left me with a gut feeling there’s a whole other side to this story, something that’s made her wary, made her hard. The way she rebuked me when I showed up at the restaurant, that was defensive, not aggressive—I’m more convinced than ever.
There’s a rough wooden bench overlooking a fenced-in pond, full of the biggest lily pads I’ve ever seen. It’s partly shielded from the walkway by low, swaying branches: a peaceful spot. I guide her to it. Lina seems relieved to take a seat, leaning back and stretching her legs like it’s the best feeling in the world. I notice she’s wearing sensible shoes, cute but flat.
“Been on your feet a lot?”
She groans. “You have no idea. Waiting tables on a weekend, with a two-for-one special going...ugh.” For a moment, her eyes close, and I can see how tired she really is: there’s a hollow, bruised look to her eye sockets, and she’s pale, really pale. I feel bad doing this, but putting it off might be even worse.
“So...Joe.”
Lina exhales roughly. “Joe.” She’s fiddling with the zipper of her coat, staring at something beyond the lily pond.
“So, I guess I....” In all my fevered imaginings, I only thought about what she might say. Probably should’ve concentrated on my side of the conversation. “I had some... I figured I should hear your side.”
Lina’s lips tighten. “My side....” Outside, the sun comes out from behind the clouds. It filters through the hanging leaves and sparkles on the water.
“Maybe if you started from the beginning—how you met? What you saw in him? Like, I guess he couldn’t always have been the monster I read about online.”
She nods. The sun’s in her hair, too, bright golden spots dappling her head and shoulders. I’m tempted to call the whole thing off, tell her it’s too beautiful a day to waste on painful memories. Tell her I trust her, tell her it’s none of my—
“I was eighteen when we met. He was twenty-five.” She’s still playing with that zipper, twisting the tab back and forth like she’s trying to tear it off. “It was... I was walking home from work, and he started walking beside me, like it was the most natural thing in the world. He was fresh out of the Marines, just back from Afghanistan, and he didn’t—“ She breaks off abruptly. “I....”
“What’s the matter?”
“I mean...here you are, trying to get to the truth, and I have no idea... I—even the things I took for granted, the things that were just...part of who he was....” A cloud passes overhead. She dips her chin under her collar, like she’s trying to hide behind it. “He had the uniform. The medals. Even the scars. But I never met anyone he’d served with, never saw him get mail from, uh...from any kind of veterans’ groups, or.... Wouldn’t there be something, if you’d...?”
I shrug again. I’m honestly out of my depth: military service isn’t my area of expertise.
“Anyway, I guess, just... Whatever I tell you, you might want to take it with a grain of salt. If any of it’s lies, all I can do is swear they’re not mine.”
She’s going to hurt herself with that zipper: she’s gripping it tight enough that I can see where it’s digging into her fingers. I pull her hand away and find it cold as ice. Rubbing the warmth back into it seems too intimate for this moment, so I offer my gloves instead. She pulls them on without looking at me.
“So he seemed like a good guy at first?”
“Mostly. Kind of irresponsible, didn’t always plan ahead—but we both had great jobs. So if he spent half a month’s rent on a giant TV, or stayed out all night, I’d...chalk it up to immaturity. Boys being boys. I suppose the first real red flag was....” There’s a distant look on her face, like she’s trying to remember. “Let me think... We’d been together six years, so we’d been engaged for one—I was halfway through my first year of college. No student loans—I was so proud of that. But when I went to pay for the second semester, my check bounced. Insufficient funds. I
couldn’t understand: I didn’t even suspect him. I thought it was a mistake.”
The blog post said pretty much the same thing: you don’t suspect the ones you love. You don’t want to. Why would it be any different for her?
Guess it wouldn’t be any different for me, either.
Keeping an open mind....
“He....” Lina rubs the back of her neck like it’s hurting her. “This is going to sound idiotic. Like, how anyone could fall for such bullshit....”
“You trusted him.”
“I did, but it was more than that.” There’s finally some color in her face, an angry red flush, high across her cheekbones. “He called the bank right in front of me. I could hear someone talking on the other end, a lot of ‘yep’ and ‘uh-huh’ from Joe—and he yelled a lot. I still wonder, if none of it was real, how’d he... Why didn’t they hang up on the psycho having a fake conversation?”
“Could’ve called that weather phone thing, screamed at a robot voice the whole time.”
“No one would....”
She stops talking as an older man in a heavy wool coat passes by. He takes us in: her tension, my presence in her personal space. His eyes narrow, like he’s thinking about saying something—asking if I’m bothering her, most like—but he shuffles on without a word.
Lina watches him till he’s safely out of range. In those few quiet moments, the furious spark keeping her going seems to gutter out. Her voice is toneless, exhausted, when she picks up the story. “So, the phone call—yeah. He hung up. Acted devastated. Even took the blame.”
“What’d he say happened?”
“Our account was frozen ‘cause he made some mistake with his military benefits, forgot to fill out a form....” She pinches the bridge of her nose. “None of it made any sense—how he’d be collecting benefits in the first place, with a full-time job; how there’d be no notice of a problem; how our credit cards would still be working, but our checking account shut down—but none of that crossed my mind.”
“Not sure it would’ve crossed mine either.”
“You don’t have to say that.”
I offer up a wry smile. “Well, I work in banking. I would’ve had some questions... But I wouldn’t necessarily expect anyone else to. No one knows how that stuff works. They make it confusing on purpose.”
“Like how a one-dollar overdraft turns into a chain reaction of fees and penalties that takes a month to pay off?”
“Exactly like that.”
“Still.” The door opens and shuts behind the man from before. It lets in a chilly gust. Lina wraps her arms around herself. “Still, I feel pretty dumb.”
“When’d the whole cancer thing start?”
“Not long after that. And I had no choice but to believe it. Because it wasn’t fake—or it was, but.... I mean, fuck!” She hugs herself too tight, digs her nails into her biceps. Takes a deep breath, and another. “He never had cancer, but he sure as hell had all the symptoms.”
That I wasn’t expecting. “So he actually—?”
“Made himself sick. And once it started, there was no time to think. Barely time to sit down. Work all day, sitting up with him nights; there were times I thought he was dying in my arms. I called 911 six, seven times, and those hospital stays were real. And the bills that poured in: real. And of course, he stopped working.” She huffs. “That is, he said he stopped. In truth, he’d never started. It was always my money, all of it, everything....”
Her eyes are glistening, her hands knotted into fists. I open my mouth to say something, but she doesn’t give me a chance.
“If I got frustrated, if I dared question anything, he’d get sicker. From the stress, he said. He’d—even if we disagreed over something completely unrelated, like...which of us forgot to pay the phone bill...somehow I’d come out feeling like a monster, like I was picking on a dying man.”
She rubs at her eyes. The rough wool of my gloves leaves her skin pink and raw. “I dropped out of college. Took a second job. And the money—he was taking it to Atlantic City, the whole time. When I thought he was getting blasted with radiation, pumped full of chemo, he was... He was hitting the slots. Or the tables. Whatever.” Lina’s rage is back: she’s practically thrumming with it, taut as a bow. “Bet those were hangovers I’d come home to, on his treatment days, not....” She thumps her own knee with the flat of her hand. I lay my own over it, to keep her from doing herself an injury.
“So when you say he took everything....”
“Everything.” Lina rubs her eyes again. “I lost my job when the story came out. My friends, my reputation; even my mother—she didn’t outright say it, but the I told you so was hovering in the air. And when I went to the cops, I found out what I thought was our joint account was actually his, his alone, so... So in their eyes, so was the money.”
“Didn’t the, uh, the Badger Club press charges?”
She shakes her head. “No. I—I managed to talk them out of it. Not that I thought they shouldn’t, but he’d—but I was—he’d made me part of it!”
“With the fundraiser, and everything?”
She nods. “I was afraid if it went to court, I wouldn’t be able to prove I had no idea what I was doing. I talked to a lawyer—he said in civil court, there’s no innocent until proven guilty.”
I nod. “Yeah, that’s true.”
“So I paid them back all I could, over the next couple of years. Anyone who could show me a PayPal receipt, a Facebook conversation—any kind of proof money had changed hands—I made good on it. Couldn’t repay the whole amount from the fundraiser: it was too much. But I sold my engagement ring, most of my clothes, my computer—just...everything that was mine. I know it made me look guilty, but what could I do? Whether I meant to or not, I helped drag them into it.”
I kind of hate myself for how relieved I feel, hearing the agony in her voice, watching her curl in on herself. I know genuine pain and outrage when I see it. There’s just one thing still bugging me, one thing that feels too cruel to ask.
She spares me the need: “I couldn’t even leave him. I had...nothing left. Nowhere to go. And when he found out I’d gone to the cops....” She ducks her head so I won’t see the tears glistening on her lashes.
I finally slip an arm around her shoulder. She shudders, but I feel some of the tension leave her body. “What’d he do?”
“I came home from work a couple of nights later. He was waiting. He...he didn’t hit me, but he slammed me into the door. Punched the wall beside my head. There were bits of plaster in my eyes, and I was desperately trying to blink them out, and he....” Her voice drops to a whisper. “He reminded me Charles Joseph Whitman was a Marine, just like him.”
The mass murderer? “Jesus Christ.”
“I started saving again the next day—to get out, I mean. College... That was a memory by then. Took me nearly another year, a restraining order, and three changes of address to get rid of him. Even now, it’s only been two months since his last e-mail.”
Shit. “And I show up at your restaurant, all ‘hey, let’s go on a date!’”
“You couldn’t have known.”
“I could’ve guessed.” Looking back, I really could have. The angry restaurant guy seemed to think I was someone else, when I called—someone persistent. And right from the start, she was cautious. Didn’t share much about herself. Even the way she snuck out of my car that morning... She never wanted me to drive her home. Never wanted me to know where she lived.
“So you...believe me?” I realize she hasn’t looked at me once since she started talking. Isn’t looking at me now. She’s watching the dust motes dance over the water’s surface. I cup her chin as gently as I can, and turn her head toward me. Her eyes dart to the side.
“Look at me.”
“I—“ Lina closes her eyes for a moment. When she opens them again, she’s meeting my gaze boldly. Defiantly, even.
I brush my thumb over her cheek. “I do believe you.”
“You’re not...
You’re not just saying that?”
It hits me like a ton of bricks: all this time, she’s been fighting for my trust. What can I say to win hers? “I, uh—I grew up kind of rough. I knew guys like Joe, scammers, leeches, people who’d take advantage just because they could. The lies, the excuses, the way they’ll turn on you in a heartbeat, make you feel like the crazy one—it’s all part of a personality type. Nasty, but predictable.”
“Wish I’d predicted it.”
And...foot, meet mouth. “No, I didn’t mean you should’ve predicted it. I meant more... It follows a pattern, that kind of behavior. You can see it in retrospect, but not so much when you’re in it. That’s how it works: they build up this larger-than-life story, keep it moving so fast there’s no time to spot the holes.”
Lina’s shoulders slump. She draws in a long, shaky breath, like she’s been suffocating this whole time. I can only imagine how the last few days have been for her. She isn’t shivering any more, and that cold, bloodless look’s faded away, but I run my hands up and down her arms all the same. When I feel her relax, I lean in and kiss the top of her head, her nose, her fingertips. I stroke her back, pat her knee, offer whatever physical comfort I can. She smells nice, up close like this, clean and warm and natural.
She only pulls away when the door whooshes open and chattering voices float in. It’s a bunch of kids, working on a school project from the looks of it. They’ve all got notebooks and pencils, and one of them is consulting a list.
“We should check out the plants too,” I say, wanting to keep some distance between us and the kids. Feels like we’re sharing a private moment. “If you’re still up for it, that is.”
She stands up, brushing imaginary dust off the back of her pants. “Actually, I love this place. I have a whole kitchen garden going on at home. Or I did, till last week.”
I curl my little finger around hers, and am pleased when she curls back. “I’d have guessed that about you.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah—you seem, I don’t know—the gardening type.”
