Surviving Emma

by Jen Atkinson

  The brown, mucky water from my mopping bucket ran down the janitor closet drain. I put away the dripping mop, empty bucket and turned out the light of the Do or Dye. At two after five I pulled my purple bag from its crammed corner in my locker. I tip-toed through my mopped floor and walked out to my car.

  Dinner. Dakota and Taggart would want to eat—again. I scrolled through a mental list of food I had in the fridge. It wasn’t a long list. I’d have to stop at the market before home if we were going to eat more than mac n’ cheese. I pulled my phone from the side pocket of my bag and punched in my passcode. I had four missed calls from our neighbor, Virgie Wire. That could only mean one thing. “Taggart!” I screamed inside the Volkswagen. Virgie hadn’t left a message. I hit redial and started the car. With my cell clenched between my shoulder and my ear, I shifted into gear. “Hi, Virgie.” I prayed in vain that my kind, eccentric neighbor didn’t have Dakota bumming at her house once more.

  “Hello, Mother.” Dakota answered Virgie’s phone, her voice sounding small, but too old for her six years.

  “Kotes, where’s Grandpa?” I tried not to let the I’m-planning-on-murdering-him tone ring in my voice, but it proved difficult.

  “He’s not home, so I came to check on Virgie. She’s out of Pepsi-Cola.” Her small voice didn’t sound alarmed—this was normal for Taggart. “Can you get her some Pepsi-Cola, Mom?”

  My mind reeled with multiple ways to rip Taggart apart. He promised when I took this job he’d be there—but then, he hadn’t quite been sober when he promised. I couldn’t be blamed for that though. I couldn’t remember the last time Taggart had been truly sober.

  “Mom?”

  “Pepsi, right. Got it.”

  Our neighbor, Virgie Wire, drank Pepsi like Taggart drank the drink. She’d introduced it to Dakota. I didn’t appreciate that one bit since we couldn’t afford Pepsi, and my six-year-old’s diet didn’t need that much sugar. But then, I couldn’t complain, Virgie took Dakota in whenever Taggart behaved like an incompetent ass—which was more often than not.

  I hung up the phone, my face burning. When would that old fart have a heart attack and die? Then at least I would know not to count on him. I wouldn’t have to listen to his gripes or insults. I’d be free.

  My brain scrolled through schemes that could make Taggart’s night miserable as I drove to the market. I thought about driving to Twila’s and leveling him—no one could argue—the man deserved a good punch to the face. I considered letting the air out of his tires, but Sal wouldn’t let him drive home anyway, and then I’d be the one in a bind come tomorrow morning. Heaven forbid Tag take care of his own troubles.

  Leaving the store with Pepsi and a frozen pizza, I pulled my phone crammed into my tight jeans pocket out and hit the fourth speed dial down on my short list. “Sal, hi, it’s Emma.”

  “You looking for Taggart? He’s here.”

  “Yes, I know he’s there. I need you to stop his tap by six.” I listened to the bar owner’s hushed argument. “We both know who pays his tab, Sal. Cut him off or you’ll be buying his drinks the rest of the night.”

  “Fine, but you know what you’re starting, right?”

  “Yeah, I know. I’ll face the wrath.”

  I tapped my toe and knocked on Virgie Wire’s screen door. I pretended the autumn leaf, that had somehow survived the snow, was Taggart’s face as I stomped it to crumbs.

  Virgie opened the wooden door and smiled through the screen. Her long muumuu dress hung to the floor, her short hair spiked up on her crown, the tips black, the roots gray. She waved me in, waiting to the side with the main door in her hand. She held out her palm and I placed the six-pack of Pepsi in it. “Thank you, Emma,” she said.

  I squeezed by Virgie’s large frame. “Sorry for the trouble. I told Taggart to be home. He just—”

  She waved off my apology. “It’s no trouble. The little stink even fixed my TV for me.”

  “Oh, uh, well, good.” My brows knit together—I hadn’t any idea what the old gal jabbered about.

  I followed Virgie’s waddle into the living room and lavender incense invaded my nostrils. I rubbed my eyes, holding in my cough. Virgie’s pink carpet from 1970-something lay in pristine condition, due to the plastic walkways across the floor. Her yellow daffodil covered couch sat in perfect condition too—again with the plastic covering. Dakota sat in front of the television, her eyes glued to the screen and the couple deep in conversation—though they spoke in Spanish.

  “Kotes,” I said when the couple started to passionately kiss. “Dakota!”

  Her blonde waves flipped over her shoulder as she turned to see me. “Hi, Mom. One minute.” She spun back, facing the TV as the dark man on the screen unzipped the back of the woman’s dress.

  “Okay!” I yelled, venturing off of Virgie’s plastic path. “Time to go. I bought a pizza!” I smiled, doing my best to distract her from the television.

  “But Mom, Virgie and I are watching a telenovela!”

  “Madre Camila.” Virgie puckered her lips, her voice low and raspy.

  “Yes.” Dakota nodded. “And Bianca and Juan have just—”

  “Right—I see Bianca and Juan, but it’s time to go.” With my hands under her arms, I lifted her to a standing position.

  “Oh! Oh! But she’s translating for me,” Virgie said, her pout as pronounced as Dakota’s.

  I gaped at her and shook my head. “Virgie, she doesn’t know Spanish.” With my hands on Dakota’s back, I ushered her towards the door and away from the cable approved sex scene. Virgie shuffled behind us.

  “But she does,” Virgie insisted. “Juan finally declared his love for Bianca.”

  “I know more than you think,” Dakota said, her pretty blue eyes, too much like her dad’s, staring up at me. She moved around me and held an open hand out to Virgie.

  Virgie loosened one of the cans of Pepsi from its plastic ring and handed it to her.

  My cheeks puffed out with the air I held. I pushed Dakota out the door and past the screen. “Oh, Virgie, could Kotes come back around six—just for a half hour or so?”

  “Ooo, Dos Asesinatos comes on at six.” She giggled and her round body seemed to shimmy. “Stink, don’t be late.”

  Dakota clapped her hands. “Yes!”

  I wanted to cry. I couldn’t seem to win. But stupid crying only wasted my time and energy. Crying wouldn’t make dinner, or pay the bills, and crying wouldn’t give me satisfaction like reaming out Taggart would. I took Dakota’s hand and started across the yard to our little log cabin.

  “You’ve got to yell at Grandpa again?”

  A shaky breath left my nostrils and I squeezed her little fingers. “I just need to talk with him. That’s all.”

  “It’s okay. I know he needs yelled at from time to time. He’s a man who needs put in his place.”

  I tried to laugh as I opened our front door, but I couldn’t find the humor in Tag’s habits. “I’m afraid he’s a man who will never be put in his place.” I knelt in front of my little daughter and unzipped her jacket—even though I knew her perfectly capable. “By the way, where did you learn Spanish?”

  “Oh, here and there. It’s easy to pick up since my brain is young and pliable.” She slid the old denim coat off—the one I used to wear—and pulled a book much too fat for her six years from her backpack. She found her notch on the couch, kicked off her sneakers, and started to read.

  “Well, no more telenovelas—or whatever you were watching. It’s inappropriate for little girls.”

  She didn’t take her eyes from the book. “If it’s inappropriate for little girls, isn’t it inappropriate for big girls too? I mean, when does something become appropriate?”

  “When you’re eighteen, that’s when.” I took the pizza from its bag and flipped it on its back to check for directions that I should have had memorized by now.

  “That doesn’t make a lot of sense. One day I’m seventeen and something isn’t appropriate, the next day is my eight
eenth birthday and suddenly it is?” She peeked over the top of her book. “It’s very unlikely that a person will be ready for something just because they’ve had a birthday.”

  “Then never, okay. Never, ever, ever, ever will telenovelas be appropriate.” I started for the kitchen doorway but stopped before going through. “A little girl should not be watching smut.”

  “I like it.”

  Her brilliant but innocent eyes made my throat swell again. A piece of beauty like Dakota shouldn’t be growing up in a house with Taggart. Why couldn’t I depend on him—for anything? I could have screamed until all of Dubois heard my cries. Taggart would never change, and me wishing for him to wouldn’t make one ounce of difference. He couldn’t be depended on because he was too busy being inappropriate himself.

  And maybe tears threatened because the old fool had been right, too. I didn’t want Dakota ending up anything like me.

  Chapter 3

  Emma

  Dakota hadn’t been at Virgie’s five minutes when I heard Taggart’s car screech up to the house. I stood in the living room, hands on my hips, trying to look stern and bracing myself for what would come. When the old fart drank himself into a stupor he’d become a bumbling idiot. A mostly sober Taggart, and definitely a denied Taggart—well, he was mean. Taggart may have been nursing whiskey for the last two hours, but it wasn’t enough to get him smashed, and I had just denied him.

  The door flung open, smacking into the wall behind it and leaving a dent. I held my breath. That would be another repair I’d have to find time to get to.

  “Emma!” Taggart searched around the room as if he thought I’d be hiding, though I stood right before him.

  “Did you kick that door?” I clomped over to where Taggart stood panting and rubbed my hand against the black shoe mark. Looks like I’d be fixing a lock as well.

  “You!” He pushed my shoulders and I stumbled back from the door. “You cut me off? What gives you the right?” Blood streaks shot out from his irises and his already red cheeks deepened to an angry plum. He zoned in on my face, and if looks could kill, I’d be a goner.

  “My job, my money—that gives me the right.” With my cowboy boots on I almost stood eye level with him. His shoulders hunched, a motorcycle accident years ago making it impossible for him to stand straight. “You left Dakota! She’s six years old and she came home to an empty house.”

  “She ain’t my kid.”

  I wanted to slap his redneck face. But I’d get slapped right back and though we were close to eye level, my scrawny arms would never match his strength. He’d knock me on my butt, while I’d barely put a mark on Taggart’s red cheek. “She is your granddaughter.”

  Slow and determined, he moved toward me, his nose grazing mine. “Emma, so help me. You ever, ever do somethin’ like that again and I swear, you’ll both be out on your hides.” Taggart reminded me on a regular basis that I didn’t own the house. So, I paid for his nasty habits and rarely said anything. I let him make his jokes and call me names. I put up with it all—for Dakota. She needed a bed and food to eat at the very least.

  He walked past me, his shoulder hitting into mine, and opened the wooden cabinet against the wall. He pulled out a bottle of Old Crow Kentucky and held it by the neck. His red face snarled as he looked back over his shoulder. “You stay away from me tonight,” he said, walking back to his bedroom.

  A shaky breath fell from my chest. No problem.

  Emma

  “Your next appointment just went back.” Jodi’s red high heels clicked against the tiled floor as she jogged toward me.

  “O—kay.” I stood outside the storage room, holding a new bottle of eucalyptus oil in my hands.

  I started for my massage studio, but Jodi grabbed my arm, stopping me. “A new client,” she said, bouncing her freshly plucked eyebrows.

  “Yep.” My eyes widened at her ridiculousness. I saw the name. Aiden. I knew I had a new client. But I didn’t know why Jodi acted as if this news should turn me into a giddy fourteen-year-old. I usually had a new never-to-be-seen-again client once a month. I pulled my arm from her grasp. “Let’s not keep him waiting.”

  Jodi shook her head, speed-walking back to Mrs. Colson, whose platinum blonde curls looked just like they had four days ago when she sat in Jodi’s chair. The two shared a knowing glance that meant absolutely nothing to me.

  I waited to roll my eyes until they couldn’t see me. I knew very little needed to happen in this town to get people riled, but a new massage client? They both needed to get out of town.

  Instrumental music played from within the room. I’d turned it on before Aiden’s arrival. The Eucalyptus oil in my hands slipped and I caught the bottom with my left hand before it crashed to the floor—that could have been a disaster. My eyes on the floor, I saw my new client hadn’t undressed—as I’m sure Jodi told him to. His work boots had mud clumped around the edges and his jeans were a dark denim. He leaned against the table, only his shirt off. The glare of his smartphone shone onto his bowed head. His bare chest rippled with his slouch stance—so much that I couldn’t quite count the muscles on his abs. Six, or an eight pack? I couldn’t tell. His biceps bulged with brawn and I instantly knew why Jodi behaved like such a weird-o. I suppose with good reason—it would be a different experience giving this man a massage verses Mr. Bear. I should know him—small town—but I didn’t. I kept to myself and ignored the rest of the world most of the time.

  Aiden’s light brown hair flopped to the side, one side longer than the other—long enough that Jodi would talk him into a cut before he left. I liked it though… maybe I’d sneak him out the back.

  I set the oil onto the counter beside me. Pulling my hair up, I tucked the thin strands into a bun with two bobby pins. And now for the awkward part. I liked having regulars who knew the drill over newbies who I had to explain it all to. “Sir, there’s a bathroom right behind you. Would you like to finish undressing? There’s a robe in there as well and a sheet to cover yourself out here.”

  “Oh. Ah—okay.”

  My arms crossed over my scrub top, and I tried to fake my best smile.

  Blue eyes flicked their gaze upward and became as round as marbles when he saw me. His mouth contorted into disgust and he growled out the word, “You?” He straightened up—six pack.

  I hadn’t thought of Deputy Idiot since that first day he’d driven me batty. “Carter?” Seeing him only made me want to laugh—I still had the upper hand from our first meeting. I hadn’t paid the stupid ticket, and I hadn’t been the one to dig myself out of the snow.

  “I should have known,” he said, rounding the table and opening the bathroom door. He reached in without entering and snagged his T-shirt. “When Andy talked me into this—for my back.” He held up quoting fingers as he said the words. “I should have realized then. Ha. Ha. Nice.”

  I flipped on the lights and watched him blink with the brightness. I set my hands on my hips, my fingers squeezing until I’m sure bruises formed. “This is not a joke. At least not one that I’m in on. This is my livelihood and you will pay me for the slot you’ve taken from someone else.” I didn’t mention the three slots I still had open for the day.

  “Right,” he said, slipping the shirt over his head.

  “Hey!” I rounded the table and poked him in the stomach. “Take your clothes off and lay on that table. You aren’t leaving here without a massage.”

  His arms crossed over his chest, the muscles from his biceps sprouting like spring flowers. “You? A masseuse?”

  I motioned to my framed certificate on the wall.

  “You don’t strike me as someone that helps others relax.” He stepped over to the wall and examined my massage therapy certificate. “Emma Sunday?” He cocked his head and gave me a mocking grin.

  What? Did he think that’s all he needed to write me that ticket?

  “Online?” he said, still studying my certificate. His laugh reverberated off the walls of the small room. “You became a masseuse o
nline? Wow, those are some credentials.”

  “Hey, I know what I’m doing!” I yelled, not caring that Jodi and Mrs. Colson could without a doubt hear us. I blinked back the tears my anger always tried to bring on. “Do you want a massage or not?”

  With his eyes wide and crazy, Carter cocked his head to the side. “Ah—not!” He disappeared into the bathroom, coming out with his coat on and stormed past my black therapy table, into the salon.

  “Aiden!” I heard Jodi yell. I hadn’t followed him out. “Deputy Carter!” She amended, trying to sound more businesslike, but the urgency in her voice really didn’t sound professional. “What—where are you going?” The jingle of Jodi’s shop door rang and I heard feet patter against the tiles before— “How about a free haircut?”

  Certain he’d gone, I pressed my palms to my eye sockets, keeping in any stupid moisture that considered leaking out. I huffed, crossed my arms, and stepped out of my back room and into the shop. “A free haircut? Since when is anything in this place free?”

  “What did you do? What in the name of all that is holy did you—” One of Jodi’s six-inch heels slipped as she stomped toward me, but she caught herself with barely a dip and continued on. “You’re done.”

  “No!” The tears I’d made sure were at bay sprang to the forefront of my eyes. “No, Jodi, you know my situation. You know I have bills and a daughter and—”

  “You can’t be nice? You can’t ever just be nice, can you?” Her long red nails pinched at her waist and she licked her red lips.

  “Jodi, please, it was one person—and—and he doesn’t like me! I was perfectly nice, I promise.”

  “Oh, screaming at the client is nice, Emma? Mrs. Colson and I could hear everything!”

  “Well,” I said, unable to stop the harsh tone of my voice. “Then you know that he started it!”