The End Is Her

by H. Claire Taylor

  I’m already pretty tipsy. Why do I need another drink?

  I’M ONLY TRYING TO SPARE YOU THE STING.

  The sting of what?

  But he didn’t answer.

  The sting of what?!

  Her phone rang, and she fished it out of her purse, cursing a blue streak. The screen lit up in her hand, and she didn’t fail to notice the treasure trove of missed notification icons spread across the top of her smartphone screen. She must not have heard them while she was in the bar.

  Jessica answered the phone. “What is it, Wendy? Someone’s dead, aren’t they?”

  “Not this time. But you should check your texts. I sent you a link to a news story you should be aware of.”

  Jessica put the phone on speaker and pulled up her texts from Wendy. The first one she saw, the most recent, simply said, Under no circumstances comment on this!

  “Oh boy … I’m loading the link now.” But she didn’t miss that the URL was Eugene Thornton’s website.

  Wendy waited silently as Jessica watched the whole video, her disbelief growing with each false accusation. When it ended, Wendy’s voice came through the speaker again: “We’re already working on this.”

  Jessica laughed dryly. “What is there to work on? Dolores Thomas just went on the record saying she’d known me since I was a child and … she even dragged my mom into it!”

  “Don’t worry. I already have people keeping an eye on Destinee. And Rex promised he’s hidden the shotgun where she won’t find it.”

  “The shotgun? You think she only has one?”

  No reply.

  “Wendy, when she tells people to fetch her shotgun, she just means the closest one to her in the house.”

  Wendy cursed under her breath. “Okay, we’ll continue to manage and monitor that situation.”

  “If you think for one second she’s not going to lock and load and hunt down the Devil on her own like some Holy Rambo, you’ve grossly underestimated my mom. This story … who even were those guys who said they’d slept with her?”

  “Country bumpkins who no doubt are a little richer for it.”

  “I mean, don’t get me wrong, my mom isn’t shy about all things sex, and I know she’s been with her fair share of men, but once I was born—”

  “I know, I know,” Wendy said. “The story is ninety percent lies based on just a little bit of truth.”

  “And the bit about the criminal record? Sure, she beat the ever-living shit out of Ruth Wurst, but the woman deserved it, and she never pressed charges.”

  “Once your mother blackmailed her a little. I know. Listen, Jessica. I would never characterize your mother as a hardened criminal or a sex fiend, partly because of all those guns you just mentioned. Either way, we’re on the same page here.”

  “And Chris,” Jessica said. “Will this ruin his career?”

  “About that.” There was a tone to Wendy’s voice that set her even more on edge. “As much as I hate to say it, the fact that he participated in a hit-and-run in college and left a woman for dead … He’s in the NFL, Jessica. He’s a high-profile player. What happened was years ago. I have every reason to believe this accusation will be accepted as the truth … and bounce right off of him.”

  Jessica hadn’t seen that coming. “Oh, that’s good news, though, right?”

  “Good news for him, yes. Bad news for society.”

  “I just feel so … I dunno.”

  “Exposed.”

  “That makes it sound like all those claims are true.”

  “Not necessarily. You just had a bunch of crap from your past come to light and be distorted to make you look terrible. Worse, your notoriety put those you love in the crosshairs. All you’re feeling is shame, and that’s never an accurate representation of the truth. That being said, I don’t blame you for feeling like you do. I’d be concerned if you didn’t.”

  “That thing makes me look crazy.”

  “And I bet it makes you feel crazy, too.”

  “How’d you know?”

  “Dolores Thomas has been gaslighting you your whole life. Why would she stop now? And Eugene Thornton is the master of misinformation. No one does it like him. In a lot of ways, he’s more dangerous than the Devil because he can be brazenly honest about his intentions and people still buy his drivel.”

  Jessica scrolled through the article below the video, taking in the recap. “It’s just … so much. There’s so much here. When I look at my life in summary like this, yeah, it doesn’t look great for me.”

  “You listen here,” Wendy snapped, startling her. “That is not a summary of your life. That is a summary of your weakest moments as a child with enough embellishments on top to crush an elephant to death. A real summary would have mentioned that after Chris’s mistake, you two stuck around and you brought Ruth Wurst back to life. A real summary would mention all the times you listened to a friend who was struggling or forgave someone who’d betrayed you. And it would show how many ways Chris has sacrificed something he loves to protect you, and it would show that your mom always had your back and never made you feel ashamed of who you are.

  “That article isn’t a summary, and if you think it is, you need to get your ass back to fifth-grade English class and relearn the definition. Anyone could look bad with the Thornton touch. Hell, I once set an alligator loose in a frat house and it tore the limbs off of two people. I never got caught, but a handful of people know it was me who did it. Any one of them could spill the beans, and it wouldn’t make me look very good, would it?”

  “No,” said Jessica. “It wouldn’t. Wait, the gator ate—”

  “It ate the limbs off of two people. But it was the right two people. Do I need to spell it out?”

  Jessica’s stomach dropped as the story behind it clicked. “Nope. Read you loud and clear.”

  “My only regret is that it didn’t eat the rest of them. Anyway, I know this sucks, and you’re probably going to feel shame about the truth in each of the accusations. So, all I can recommend is that you spend more time around those who don’t make you feel like that and zero time around those who do.”

  Jessica nodded and swallowed hard. “God was right,” she said. “I should’ve had a drink to take the edge off.”

  “If you want to call your mom and Chris, do it. But if I see you make a single public statement on this …”

  “Got it. But what happens if I’m swarmed?”

  Silence for a second then, “Maybe you should get out of town for a little while. Make yourself scarce.”

  “I don’t have the mon—”

  “Chris does, and he’ll give it to you in a heartbeat. Stop resisting this and just do what I say. It’s easier for both of us, I promise.”

  Once they were off the phone, Jessica watched Eugene’s video twice more. She’d wanted to smite him plenty of times, but this one was a cut above. He knew so much. Obviously, Dolores had spilled to him, but who else? Mrs. Wurst? Seemed likely. The part about Jessica smoking weed in high school could only be one person, though. How had he found Greg Burns?

  Had Dolores given Eugene the names of every single person in Mooretown who didn’t like the McClouds?

  Jessica grabbed a pen and notepad and jotted down a list of the worst accusations:

  Murdered a bird in cold blood while in kindergarten.

  Lured a man to his death at the zoo when she was eight.

  Smoked pot starting in tenth grade.

  Participated in a hit and run as a senior in high school.

  Thankfully, most of her college years were a blank, except for the more public moments, like when she obliterated a statue of President Johnson in the middle of the Quad. The article didn’t mention anything about her smiting it, and instead spun it as if she had placed some sort of explosive at the base. And that was worse. Much worse. Bombers were psychopaths.

  And then there were all the accusations of fiscal irresponsibility at the bakery, culminating with the strange insinuation that she might have ki
lled the man outside her bakery. That part was true, but merely insinuating it left so much to the imagination that it was somehow a worse jab.

  Of course, interspersed with all of her worst moments were descriptions of when she stood up and spoke out in any way, shape, or form that she was the daughter of God.

  Yep, she looked like a real fucking maniac. Possibly a serial killer.

  And that was just the way she was painted. Chris and Destinee, and even Rex, had been dragged through the mud with her until it looked like the four of them formed a little sleeper cell of dangerous lunatics.

  WENDY IS CORRECT. YOU SHOULD GET OUT OF TOWN FOR A LITTLE WHILE.

  And do what?

  DOES IT MATTER? WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE THAT’S SO IMPORTANT?

  She considered it. You mean a vacation?

  SURE, IF YOU BELIEVE YOU’VE WORKED SO HARD LATELY THAT YOU DESERVE ONE.

  You’re such an asshole. What do you mean then? A road trip?

  COULD BE EDUCATIONAL. THE REST OF THE COUNTRY IS NOT LIKE TEXAS. I DID NOT TASK YOU WITH BRINGING PEACE TO TEXAS ALONE.

  You’re saying I should get to know the people I’m trying to convince?

  INDEED.

  And if I do this, you won’t let my car break down in the middle of nowhere again?

  THE LORD IS NOT A MECHANIC.

  God! You better promise.

  FINE. YOUR CAR SHALL NOT BREAK DOWN.

  She hated to admit it, but it wasn’t a terrible idea. She’d only been out of Texas twice—once to Chicago for the NFL draft and another to New Mexico to have her life pulled out from under her.

  Perspective. That sounded nice. She could get behind a fresh perspective. However, she knew very little about road trips. She did know that one person going across country alone was called “being on the lam,” not a road trip. She’d need a companion, someone to help her gain that perspective, someone she wouldn’t get tired of on the road. And she knew exactly who that person was.

  Chapter Twelve

  “Absolutely not,” Quentin said later that night. Ruby, formerly No Name 32, lay curled up by his feet, snoring gently.

  “What?” Jessica was stunned. This was supposed to be a given. She stared at him across her kitchen island, trying to decide if he was just messing with her.

  “I’m not going on a road trip with you, Jess.”

  “But you just said the other day that you had a ton of paid time off saved up.”

  “Yeah, for a vacation. You know how long I’ve been single? Too long. I plan on spending my days off on a beach somewhere—not the Gulf, but a real beach. I’ll meet a nice young lady and her friend and get laid. Super-duper laid. I need to get laid so bad I can hardly think at work anymore. Guy I share an office with said the word ‘insects’ the other day and I got a hard-on.” He shook his head somberly. “But that’s not even the biggest reason why I won’t do a road trip with you.”

  “You think I’d get on your nerves?”

  “Of course you would. And I’d get on yours. But also, I have a dog now—”

  “Ruby can come with us! She’s an easy dog.”

  “—and black people don’t do road trips.”

  She jerked her head back and narrowed her eyes at him. “That seems a little self-limiting.”

  He sighed and crunched down on a queso-covered chip. “Maybe so, but it’s just not the safest way for us to travel.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He sighed, and inspected her, and it was clear he was weighing whether or not he should bother elaborating. “You’ve already forgotten about Mooretown, haven’t you?”

  “I wish I could, but no.”

  “Well, then you clearly forgot about how the rumor that you and I were dating brought out the racists.”

  “No, I remember that.”

  “We’re in Austin right now. But between Austin and the next state, there are a hundred little Mooretowns, each with a startlingly similar attitude about a black man and a white woman spending time together. Or a black man existing.”

  She cringed. “Is it really that bad?”

  “Yeah, it really is. Nothing brings out that spare length of rope like a bunch of white bumpkins knowing they’re stuck in the same shitty town for the rest of their lives, and having a black dude with more money than them take a road trip through. No. You don’t want me along. We wouldn’t be able to stop at a gas station without getting looks and threats.”

  “But I do want you along. I don’t care if people look at us like that or threaten something. I can smite them if I have to.”

  “I appreciate the offer, but I’d rather spend my vacation in the Caribbean. Having sex.”

  “Quentin …”

  “I’m sorry, Jess. I don’t know what to tell you. A road trip sounds fun in theory. I’d love to be able to go on one without considering these things and worrying about my safety and yours. But it’s just not how things are. I can do everything in my power to break the stereotypes, and it doesn’t matter to people like that.” He paused and when he spoke again his voice was softer. “Remember when we talked about how God sent a white messiah?”

  She felt a pang of guilt in her stomach, thinking back on it. She’d been shocked that Quentin had resented her for her race, so she’d quickly stashed the memory somewhere it wouldn’t come back. But here it was. “Yeah, I remember.”

  “God sends the messiah people are ready for. It doesn’t surprise me for a minute that the one he sent us now is white.”

  “I can’t help it.”

  “I know you can’t.”

  “And I don’t even think of myself as white.”

  “Everyone else does, so maybe you should.”

  “I don’t know if—”

  “Yes,” he said firmly. “Everyone else thinks of you as white because you are. The only reason you don’t think of it is because they don’t treat you worse for it. But if they did, you sure as hell would think of yourself as white, because you wouldn’t be able to escape it, even if you wanted to.”

  She jerked her head back. “Are you kidding? I want to escape my life all the time.”

  “I know, Jess. But you’d want to escape it even more if everything were the same but you were black.”

  She kept her mouth shut. She wanted to keep protesting, but something about his face told her she was out of her depth and would only make herself look bad if she kept on.

  He groaned. “Listen. I hate to even bring this up because I can tell it makes you uncomfortable, but I don’t want you thinking it’s personal that I don’t want to go on a road trip with you. It’s not.”

  “It’s okay. You can make me uncomfortable. It’s good practice. And, I dunno if this helps, but I’m sorry you have to be black.”

  “No, that doesn’t help. That’s … I love you and I know that came from a good place, but maybe don’t ever say it again.”

  “Ah, okay. I’m trying.”

  “That’s all I can ask.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Jessica sat at the airport bar, trying to keep her eyes open so she didn’t doze off before the flight. At 5:55 a.m. on a Sunday, the bartender couldn’t legally serve them alcohol and so had to keep the cash flowing through other forms of price gouging. At present, it was the seven-dollar glasses of orange juice that Jessica was sucking down one right after another to load up on vitamin C for the big voyage ahead.

  While Judith and Jesus weren’t her first picks for the road trip, they had one thing going for them: they agreed to do it. Quentin’s concerns didn’t seem to extend to Judith, who was technically Latina, though her skin was roughly the same shade as Jessica’s own. And Jesus merely said he loved traveling, and the whole idea reminded him of his youth when he’d journeyed … was it East? North? She’d stopped paying attention. The important part was that he was on board. There was probably something to having a male traveling with them. Might scare off a certain type of man who got big ideas when he saw two women traveling alone. No one need know that
it was Jesus with them, and he couldn’t be relied on to save them if it came to any sort of a physical altercation.

  But though they weren’t her first picks for traveling companions, she could see the unique value in having them along. Already, Judith had made a contribution by suggesting they take a plane to somewhere else to start off. That meant the first eight hours of their trip wouldn’t be spent in Texas simply trying to get into another state.

  “I wish they’d turn that off,” Jesus of Nazareth mumbled, even as his eyes remained fixed to the television above the bar.

  “Really?” Judith said. Despite the summer heat outside, she was dressed in black jeans and a long black sweater that Jessica, in her exhausted state, had a strange desire to nest in. Judith sipped her screwdriver, which was part overpriced OJ from the bar, part vodka from one of the travel-size bottles she’d brought from home. “I find it inspirational.”

  On the screen, coverage of the White Light Church scandal continued silently, the typo-filled closed captions providing the most recent updates:

  The bar rage of videos only seems to be getting started

  and all we can do is wait for more whore fying videos to surface.

  While white light crutch claims no responsibility for the inside dents,

  they say thieves poking to their congregations and will continue to

  insist that their central reliefs do not condom sexual contact with pigs

  and that “some us omen pork ohs, said de assist a pair” does not imply

  that an act of beast reality is holy or godlike.

  Since footage of the transgressions had surfaced from three more sources, the story had sprung into the national headlines. Apparently, this was good news for Jessica, but it sure didn’t feel like it was really good news for anyone.

  “Doesn’t really make Texas look great, does it?” she said, trying to broaden her perspective in light of their impending trip.

  “No,” Judith said. “It does not. But to be fair, Texas doesn’t always make Texas look great.”

  “I like the state,” Jesus said, tearing his eyes from the television. “Everyone’s friendly and accepting.”