by Jody Gehrman
“Exactly.”
SAM
Fuchsteufelswild. That’s a word Motherfucker Number Nineteen taught me. The German one. Gottschalk Breiner. Dude had a forehead so big, you could write a novel on it. Germans have the craziest compound words. Fuchsteufelswild translates as “Fox Devil Wild.” It means you’re fucking pissed. Crazy pissed. He used to call me that when I’d get so angry I didn’t even know what I was doing. I’d whirl around the room smashing whatever I could get my hands on, my vision blurring under angry tears.
I don’t feel much, but one emotion I’ve always experienced to its fullest is pure, animal rage. I can get fuchsteufelswild with the best of them.
I feel it building in me as I walk. The fox. The devil. The crazy fucking fox-devil. It’s rising inside me, the color of blood.
You’re the only woman for me, Kate. There’s one way for this to go. I’ve worked five years to make it happen. I can’t accept another outcome. You will—must—come with me to New York.
If that’s not going to happen, then I don’t want to live. I don’t want anyone to live. If you’re not mine, then nothing in this world makes sense. You’ve got to see this. You’ve got to know.
The sun’s setting. It goes down so early these days. Tomorrow, December begins. Winter’s coming. The icy stretch of snow-covered days yawns before us. But you and I won’t be here in Blackwood to see it. We’ll be in New York.
And if not there, then all bets are off.
I have to make one more effort to convince you. One grand gesture to push you over the edge, tip you past the precipice and into my arms.
All great romances require sacrifice. Think of Juliet drinking that potion, knowing she’d wake up in her family’s tomb, surrounded by dead relatives. That had to suck. But she did it.
Of course, it didn’t turn out well.
I try to keep my thoughts from veering in that direction. It’s necessary to keep my head above the darkness. I can feel it closing in on me. The fox-devil blood swirls through me, a rising red tide. You will be mine. You must be mine.
First stop: the Conservatory of Flowers at Blackwell Park. I must stay focused, stay busy, stay on task. It’s got a palatial glass dome at the center and wings that stretch out like a great glass bird. I pick the lock without a problem, harvest what I need in the gathering dusk. I’ve got a big garbage bag at the ready, gardening shears in hand. I choose the most exotic blooms: bamboo orchids, oriental lilies, African violets, and Chinese hibiscus. After a while I stop reading labels and just snip whatever catches my eye, whatever makes me think of you. The smell is heady—the perfume of violets and lilies and roses mixing with damp soil and sweaty warmth.
I’m heading toward my Honda with the garbage bag full of blossoms when I catch a glimpse of Eva. Her dark hair blows wild around her face, her curls writhing. She fixes me with the exact expression she wore before I pulled the trigger: surprise mixed with disappointment. I used to see her all the time, but not anymore. She’s not even a blip on my radar. I turn away from her, letting her sink back into the fog.
I heave the bag of flowers into the passenger seat of my car, slam the door, and walk around to the driver’s seat. Just as I’m about to climb inside and drive away, I hear feet pounding against the pavement. I turn to see Jess jogging toward me, emerging from the mist. She’s covered from head to toe in spandex, her shiny hoodie unzipped just enough to reveal sweaty cleavage heaving with exertion.
She jogs in place as she greets me, pulling earbuds from her ears. “Hey, Sam, what’s up?”
“Not much. You?”
“Needed to move. All this sitting on my ass working on my novel is getting to me.”
I know she wants me to ask about this so-called “novel” of hers, to express interest, but I don’t.
When she sees I’m not taking the bait, she changes tack. “Did you hear about Youngblood?”
“What about her?” I ask.
“They’re giving her the boot. Guess she fucked one of her students.” Her eyes gleam with pleasure.
“You sound pretty happy about that.”
She shrugs. “She kisses up to hot guys, but to girls like me she’s awful. I’m not going to miss her.”
“Whatever,” I say, wrenching my car door open.
“Who do you think she had sex with?” She does some kind of arm stretch, holding one elbow. “That vet? Or maybe the twitchy dude with the red hair?”
Not for the first time, I want to slam my fist into Jess’s face. I remind myself she’s beside the point. She’s what you’d call a “contagonist”—not a protagonist, not an antagonist, just a character sent to distract the hero from his mission.
“Later.” I climb in, gun the engine, and drive off without another word, enjoying the look of indignant hurt on her face in my rearview mirror.
KATE
I wake in pure darkness, my T-shirt damp with sweat. I’m sitting straight up on Zoe’s guest couch, panting like a racehorse, adrenaline coursing through my body.
In my dream, Sam was here. I watched as he leaned over Drew’s crib, gathered him into his arms, unexpectedly adept in his ministrations. I crept closer, peering through the soft, blue shadows of Drew’s nursery. Tenderness tickled my throat, threatened to blossom into a sob. It was painfully moving, seeing Sam’s eyes light up with wonder as he gazed down into Drew’s tiny face.
“He’s beautiful, right?” I whispered, standing beside them.
“Yes.” Sam caught my eye. “Like you.”
When I looked back down, my breath caught in a gasp. Sam had a knife pressed to Drew’s pink throat. Drew squirmed and kicked like the rabbit in Sam’s story.
“What are you doing?” I tried to grab the baby away, but Sam was too strong for me.
“I’m doing it for you,” he said, his voice flat and calm. “I do everything for you.”
That’s when I woke.
Why did I drive straight here from Blackwell Park? The risk I put Zoe and Drew in, the hideous danger I dragged to their doorstep—it’s appalling. The knowledge breaks over me all at once. Sam didn’t follow me—I checked my rearview mirror—but how do I know he hasn’t trailed me here in the past? My car’s right out front. How hard would it be for him to figure it out? My selfishness and naïveté hit me like a slap in the face. How could I be so stupid?
I know I have to leave immediately. As my eyes adjust to the darkness, I consider my options. The sterile, anonymous quiet of a Best Western sounds like heaven. Since I’ll be unemployed in a matter of weeks, though, such luxuries are out of the question.
After dressing in the dark, I find Zoe walking in circles around the nursery, bouncing Drew gently as he cries. When I push the door open, she jerks around, startled. She’s pale, with circles under her eyes as dark as bruises. Seeing the nursery brings my dream back, and I shudder.
“I’m going home,” I mouth, not wanting to shout over Drew’s wails.
She shakes her head. “I don’t want you there alone.”
“Don’t be silly. I’ll be fine.”
“Kate.” Her voice is thick with warning.
I don’t feel like explaining my fear that staying here could put her in danger. She’ll wave this off, argue with me, insist I stay. It’s better if I take refuge in my usual self-absorption.
“I can’t sleep with all this crying.” I try to sound grumpy. “Sorry, but I’ll take my chances for a little peace and quiet.”
She starts toward me, but I blow her a kiss and back away.
I slip out her back door and drive across town toward home. The quiet warmth of my Saab, with only the whir of my heater and the gentle slap of windshield wipers, feels luxurious. Peace at last. Not for the first time, I let out a deep sigh of relief at having dodged the motherhood bullet. As fucked up and crazy as my life feels right now, at least I don’t have to worry about dragging another human being through this shit.
Still, the pleasure of my escape is bittersweet. The anchor of a baby sounds oppressive,
but the rootless future I now face makes me feel light-headed with something like vertigo. For almost two decades, Zoe’s been my one constant. Now, with her planted firmly here, her life wrapped snugly around Drew and Bo, I can already sense us turning into something else. Facebook friends. Christmas-card acquaintances.
I’ll have to go where I can find work. New Mexico or Idaho or Mississippi—wherever they’ll take me. I might have to make do with adjunct assignments for at least a semester or two. There’s something both exhilarating and depressing about the prospect. It’s like a second shot at my youth, without the boundless energy and optimism that made the first go-round bearable.
I pull into my driveway and shut off the engine. For a moment, my dark house looks ominous. The opaque, black windows stare back at me impassively, revealing nothing. I remind myself of the deep silence waiting for me inside, the hours of sleep I desperately need if I’m going to face workshop tomorrow. By now, rumors of my disgrace have probably trickled through the department, maybe even reaching the ears of students. It will take serious grit to face them all. Sam will be there, with his icy blue eyes revealing only what he chooses. I’ll need to be in top form, well rested, and tough as shit.
Grabbing my bag from the backseat, I ready my keys and head for the back door.
Inside, something strikes me as not quite right. I stare around the kitchen, trying to put a finger on it. The stove’s not on, the dirty dishes are where I left them.
No, nothing’s obviously amiss. Probably just sleep-deprived paranoia.
As I climb the stairs, I sniff the air. The scent is faint, very subtle, but definitely there. It’s floral. Not the cloying, overly bright aroma of perfume or air freshener, but the smell of real flowers. Like a summer breeze, full of fragrant hope.
I open the door to my bedroom and gasp.
The room’s ablaze with candlelight. Every surface is studded with candles—tiny votives flickering. And flowers. There are flowers everywhere. Lilies and roses and orchids, a burst of color in my white bedroom. They cover my chest of drawers, my desk, even my bed.
“Welcome home.” Sam’s sitting in my leather chair in the corner, reclining in the shadows, his face unreadable.
When I’ve recovered enough to speak, I turn on him. “What the hell are you doing here?”
He frowns, like this is a strange question. “Surprising you.”
“Yeah.” I clutch at my chest, willing my heart to stop racing. “No kidding. How did you get in?”
“Your house isn’t exactly a fortress.”
I’m trying to get my bearings, stalling as the room spins around me. “God, you scared the shit out of me.”
“Didn’t mean to freak you out.”
“Well, you did.”
“Don’t you like it?” He sounds hurt.
Instinct tells me to tread carefully. He’s got me on thin ice, and I have to watch where I step. Lightly, lightly.
I put down my bag. “Sam.”
He gets up, produces a bottle of wine, pours me a glass. It’s all so surreal. I wonder dimly if I should threaten him, call the police, report him for breaking and entering. It’s like one of those dreams where you know you should scream, but you can’t. You know you should run, yet your feet stay planted. I pretend to sip the wine, wondering if he’s drugged it.
He stands inches from me, searching my face with that look I’ve come to crave. He takes me in like a starving man gazing at a feast. I can feel my body responding in spite of my brain, which is screaming warnings like a car alarm. My breathing deepens as I take in the smell of him—earth and dew and violets.
His fingers reach out, brush a strand of hair away from my face. “You’re here.”
“Yes. I’m here.” I look away. “But, Sam, you do get why this is scary, right?”
“Don’t patronize.” His voice is quiet but edged with menace.
I change direction. Lightly, lightly, I remind myself. I pivot on the cracking ice and take a step toward the shore. “You’re ballsy, I’ll give you that.”
This seems to please him. The ghost of a smile appears. “The hero must risk all to win the prize.”
“And what is the prize, exactly?” I whisper.
“You, of course.”
“Just me, or is there something else?”
He thinks about it. To my relief, he doesn’t look angry now. His hand moves to my neck, tracing the skin below my jawline with the caution of an art collector inspecting a precious vase. “Your love. Our life together.”
“In New York?” I’m trying to understand. Maybe, if I can see the full delusion, I can find a way to ease him away from it.
“Yes.”
“Why New York?”
His brow furrows. “Aside from it being the most exquisite city on earth? It’s where we belong.”
I make my voice as gentle and coaxing as I can. “But what gave you the idea, originally? A movie? A book?”
He thinks about it. I watch as realization dawns on his face. “A girl.”
“What girl?”
“It doesn’t matter.” He turns away abruptly, and I can feel the ice cracking again.
“Someone who lives there?”
“Just a girl.” His eyes are cold when they meet mine again.
I reach up and touch his shoulder. “It’s okay. You don’t have to tell me.”
“She wanted to dance there.” He sounds distant, wistful.
I nod. “She must have been very important to you. Was she family?”
“No. Like I said, just a girl.” The candlelight flickers across his face as he stares past me, into the distance, remembering.
“I know what it’s like to have a dream.” Please, I think, let me be convincing this time. Let me be a decent liar for once.
His eyes snap back to me, wary. “You’re not going to tell me how you’re thirty-eight and done reinventing yourself, are you?”
“No.” I let my fingers wander to his chest, feeling the shape of his muscles, the warmth of his body beneath his T-shirt.
“Good. Because I hate that shit. Mediocrity is the enemy. You and I are going to be savages.”
My smile feels thin. Fake. I pray he doesn’t notice. “Listen, why don’t you give me a second, let me brush my teeth, change my clothes?”
His eyes go on watching me, cagey. All I need is a minute alone to grab my phone and dial 911.
“Could you go to the kitchen, maybe get me a glass of water? The wine’s delicious, but I’m so dehydrated.”
“Okay,” he says at last.
As soon as he’s out of the room, I fumble for my bag and seize my phone.
SAM
I stand outside your room, the door ajar. The candlelight casts a thin wedge of gold under the door. I can hear you fumbling with your purse and then a pause, and then your hoarse, desperate voice says, “There’s an intruder in my house. Please come right away.”
You just kicked me in the stomach.
I know what this feels like. I’m not speaking in metaphor. When you whisper those words, I think I might be sick. Motherfucker Number Thirteen slammed his massive steel-toe work boot into my guts with three sharp vicious kicks one night. He’d warmed up by punching me in the face, knocking me to the floor, hit his stride as I lay curled up in a fetal position on the cracked linoleum. It’s a particular brand of motherfucker who enjoys kicking you when you’re down.
He broke two ribs that night. It was that first slam to the soft, unprotected flesh beneath my rib cage that hurt the worst, though. Now, standing with my back pressed against the wall, listening to you whisper into your phone, it’s the same feeling.
Really, Kate?
Intruder?
You have a serious fucking problem, you know that, lady? I’m the one human being on earth who loves you with every cell, every follicle, every drop of blood, and yet you see me as a threat. How is this possible? You’re standing in a room filled with four hundred and thirty-six fresh, exotic flowers and a dozen tiny candles
. I know, because during the three hours you left me waiting here all alone, I had plenty of time to count them—to arrange and rearrange them for optimal romantic value. What kind of “intruder” dazzles you with dewy blossoms and candlelight?
You know what this is, Kate? You’re damaged. Deep down, you do understand we belong together. But, somewhere along the way, you picked up this idea that you don’t deserve real love. I don’t know if it was your decade with Pablo that did it. Maybe the scars were carved into your psyche even earlier—childhood? Whenever it happened, whoever hurt you, it’s turned your whole view of men upside down. So many times I’ve felt the purest part of you reaching out to me, wanting to be seen, begging to be touched. Yet this other part of you, the fucked-up little girl who thinks true love is always suspect, dials 911 the second I leave the room.
I’ve been worried about your judgment for quite some time now. Fucking Raul. Making do with Pablo all those years. Enduring abuse from Maxine. Putting up with your inadequate little job at a shitty little college, thinking that’s all you deserve. I’ve tried my best to free you from these unhealthy patterns, to pry you up and out of that stuck, scared little space between the rock of mediocrity and the hard place of failure. It’s an ugly, small world you inhabit, stranded in the middle of the country. It’s obvious from your writing you have the imagination, the vision to break free of this shit. But when I show up and offer you a one-way ticket to a brand-new life filled with all the art and sex and beauty you could ever ask for, what do you do?
You call the police.
I’m so disappointed in you.
“Disappointed” is a tiny, inadequate word compared to what I really think of you. You make me sick. You make me want to destroy this whole fucked-up, backward world. There is no word for what you are to me right now. They say frustrated love turns to hate. I understand what this means now with every muscle, every tendon. The great sea of love I have for you no longer ripples in the moonlight. Now it rears up into a tidal wave so towering, it can wipe out whole cities with one massive push.
There’s nothing left in this world for you or me, Kate. If you can’t see what I’m offering, what I’m serving up on a silver platter with four hundred and thirty-six perfect hothouse blossoms and twelve tiny candles, then you’re incapable of love. I’d like to kill whoever did this to you. Who was it? Who looked into your eyes when you were just a little girl and taught you the impossibility of true romance? Tell me, because I’d like nothing better right now than to off the bastard. I’d like to gouge his eyes out with a rusty screwdriver and force them down his throat until he chokes.
