CHAPTER THREE
Rekindled
Widowsfield
March 14th, 1996
“Hey there, Claire,” said Nancy as she came into the office. It was only a few minutes until her shift started, and she’d already been reprimanded for being late three times in the past month. The last thing she needed was to lose another job.
Claire was already in her seat with her headset on. She had the cubicle closest to the front door, which she said she liked because it gave her a chance to smile at everyone as they got to work. The sweet old woman tapped on her watch and smiled at Nancy.
“I know, I know, but I’m here, aren’t I? I’m not late.”
“You’d better hurry up and get to the time clock,” said Claire. She was a rotund, cheery old woman whose husband was a train conductor, a fact that Claire talked about endlessly. She was anxious for him to retire so that they could move to their ranch in Wyoming. Nancy had heard all about it, several times, since starting her job at the Widowsfield County Emergency Services Center.
Nancy threw her purse onto the desk in her cubicle across from Claire. The two of them sat with their backs to one another, and had been working the late shift together since the recent merger with Alden County. “Back in a minute,” said Nancy as she pat Claire’s shoulder.
“Get a move on, sweetie,” said Claire as Nancy ran down the hall to the break room where the time clock was located.
Nancy pushed past Darryl, who danced away with his coffee cup held high as he whistled at her. “Cutting it close, princess.”
“Shut up, Darryl,” said Nancy. She was a fan of coffee, but there was something amiss about the smell at three in the afternoon. Darryl was always drinking it, and the scent threatened to reset Nancy’s internal clock, convincing her that they were like everyone else and started their work day in the morning instead of late afternoon.
“Testy, testy,” said Darryl. “What was it this time, Nancy? A train? A funeral? An earthquake? You know Mike told us to clock in ten minutes early. Doesn’t matter if it’s not three yet, you’re already late.”
“Seriously, Darryl, shut it.” She dropped her card into the machine mounted on the wall and heard the robotic crunch as it stamped a hole in it. She breathed a sigh of relief when she pulled the card out and saw 2:58 printed on it. She waved the card in the air as if it were a Poloroid and then dropped it back into the metal sleeve beside the door. “Made it.”
“Like I said, you’re still going to get bitched out.”
“Well, whatever. Mike can go fuck himself. I had to deal with a sitter for my kid because something happened at the school and they shut down the afterschool program for the day at the last minute. My mom can’t pick him up until four, so unless Mike wanted me to let the kid wander the street for a half hour then I really didn’t have a choice. Now did I?”
“I don’t care about your sob story, darling,” said Darryl. He was a tall, obese man. He had no chin, and his neck seemed to extend from his chest to just under his lip. He had a beard, and tried to shave it to help make it appear as if he had a chin line, which just accentuated his turkey wattle.
“Then why’d you ask?” She slid past him, out of the break room and back into the hall.
He followed behind and sipped his coffee. “Just being nice. You should try it sometime. Doesn’t hurt to be affable, you know.”
“Thanks for the advice,” said Nancy as she got to her seat.
Darryl grumbled as he walked to his cubicle on the other side of the room.
“Don’t let him bug you,” said Claire without turning.
“I’m trying. He’s just so…”
“I know, I know. Some people get their jollies pushing other people’s buttons.” Claire finished whatever she was doing on the computer and then swiveled to look at Nancy. “I’ll tell you the best advice I ever got. It was from my grandma, way back in the dinosaur years when I was a kid. She sat me down after I got in a fight with a girl that made fun of my dress. We didn’t have much money, and I had to wear the same clothes for weeks at a time. My shoes had holes in them that we taped up, and baths were a once a week affair. No kidding, we were poor. Anyhow, this girl was giving me the what for, getting all the other girls to call me names, and I went and popped her. I got in pretty big trouble, cause back in those days us girls were supposed to be dainty little things. Not me, though. I was a firebrand for sure. My granny told me that there’re two different types of people in the world.” She held up one finger, “You’ve got the doers,” she held up a second finger, “and you’ve got the doubters.”
“Okay,” said Nancy as she faced away from Claire to log into her computer. She wasn’t trying to ignore the old woman, but she wasn’t exactly paying attention either. The station had been befitted with a new login system that utilized a faster modem, but it still seemed to take forever, and Nancy hadn’t gotten used to the interface yet.
“The doers are the people that give it a go. You know the type, the ones that get out there and make things happen.”
Nancy just nodded as Claire talked. The old woman rarely went five minutes without telling a story. It was a habit that had taken Nancy several months to get used to, but now the incessant chatter was actually something she looked forward to. On nights where the county stayed quiet, and no crimes or accidents were called in, it was nice to have someone like Claire, with a wealth of tales, ready to spin a yarn at a moment’s notice.
“And the doubters are the ones that get their self worth from pointing out the failure of others. I didn’t even really pay attention to her at the time, but when I grew up I saw what she meant.” Claire paused and reflected on her childhood. “Want to hear a dirty little secret?”
“Sure,” said Nancy, only half listening.
“I used to be a doubter. I’m ashamed to admit it, but it’s true. I used to be one of those catty old crows sitting around and picking at anyone that dared stir my ire. Hard to believe, I know, but it’s the truth. I loved gossip, and bought all those celebrity rags, spent my time chatting on the phone with other women about who was fat, who was gay, who was cheating on who, and all that nonsense. Waste of time, honey. That’s all that is. And you know what turned me around?”
“What’s that?”
“Cancer.”
Nancy stopped and looked back at Claire. She’d never heard anything about Claire suffering from cancer. “What do you mean?”
“Oh yeah, honey. I don’t talk about it much, but I had quite a cancer scare a few years back. Nothing will ever set you right like getting up close and personal with the grim reaper. After something like that, I’ll tell you, you just don’t have the gumption to be a doubter no more. I pulled myself up by the bootstraps, beat the disease, and started focusing on what’s important in life. It took me most of my years to finally pay attention to what my granny said, but I haven’t forgotten it since.”
Nancy was going to respond to what Claire said, but then she heard the beep of a new email as it showed up in her folder. She looked and saw that it was from her supervisor, Mike.
“Aw fuck,” she said as she opened the tersely worded email. “How did he know I was running late? He’s not even here.”
Claire rolled across the short gap between their cubicles. Her headpiece’s wire stretched to its limit as she looked at Nancy’s screen. “It’s the new system. He can track when you log in even when he’s at the headquarters in the other county.”
“But I punched in at three on the dot. Two minutes early actually,” said Nancy as she pointed down the hall at the break room.
Claire shook her head and pointed at the screen. “I’m talking about the computer. You’re supposed to log in ten minutes before your shift starts.”
“Are you serious?” asked Nancy.
Claire nodded and then rolled back to her cubicle. “Yep. Sorry, honey.”
“I thought computers were supposed to make our lives easier,” said Nancy. “This sucks. Next thing you know they’re going to be ins
talling cameras in here so they can watch us.”
“What’s the email say?” asked Claire.
“Nothing new. He’s just being a dick, reminding me that I’ve already been warned about being late and that our quarterly review is coming up.”
“That doesn’t sound good.”
Nancy was about to put on her headset, but then set it on her keyboard and groaned as she rubbed her eyes. “I swear to God, Claire, this place is going to be the death of me.”
“Don’t be a negative Nancy,” said Claire, and then she turned and chuckled. “That’s a funny name. Isn’t it usually negative Nelly? I’m going to change it to negative Nancy if you don’t cheer up.”
“Thanks,” said Nancy with a groan. “Do you mind if I transfer my calls over to you for a minute. I need a quick smoke. I’m already having a shitty day.”
“Go for it, I’m not going anywhere.”
Nancy hit the numbers on the phone to facilitate the transfer. All calls that went into the center were routed to a free line first, which would ring for a few seconds before being sent back into the round robin exchange, ensuring that no call was left unanswered for too long. Every day a report was generated that showed how many calls each line answered to make sure no one was avoiding work, but Nancy had discovered that transferred calls counted as a hit on both lines, subverting the system. It caused a slight delay in the answer for the caller, but allowed her to catch much needed smoke breaks from time to time.
She saw Darryl peering over the wall of his cubicle and gave him a snide grin. He shook his head and looked back down at his computer as she went outside.
“Why don’t you go and fuck yourself, Darryl,” she whispered as she went out the door. She smacked her hard pack against the side of her hand until a cigarette sprung free. She quickly lit it and took a long, satisfying drag.
Winter seemed unwilling to disappear entirely, and there was a chill in the air despite how sunny it was. She crossed her arms and shivered as she paced in front of the building. The ashtray had been pulled far from the entrance in an attempt to keep people from smoking by the door, surely a result of employees like Darryl complaining about having to walk through a cloud of smoke to get to work. Nancy flicked her ashes onto the pavement and flipped off the far away, waist-high ashtray as if it offended her.
She glanced in through the front window, past the patchy bushes, at her empty cubicle. Claire’s seat faced the window, but Nancy could only see the side of her coworker from this vantage, the rest was covered by the fabric wall of the cubicle.
The phone rang and the incessant buzzing was loud enough to hear even with the door closed. She watched as Claire shifted to click the button on the computer that would answer the call. Nancy took another long drag and looked away from the building, toward the small downtown area of Widowsfield. It was quiet, with only a few cars pulled up to the Salt and Pepper diner on the corner and a UPS truck parked in front of the Anderson Used Book Store. The Widowsfield Emergency Services building shared a parking lot with a credit union, but there rarely seemed to be anyone at the lonely bank.
She closed her eyes and dwelled in her own thoughts for a moment. It had been a long few weeks, and there was no end in sight. She was stuck in a workaday world, at a job she hated, with a mountain of bills waiting at home and no prospect of relief. She felt like crying.
The cigarette burned to the filter far too quickly. Her excuse for a break, minutes after getting to work, was over. She glanced at the clock on the bank’s sign at the entrance of the parking lot.
3:14
She looked for Darryl’s Chevy and then flicked her cigarette butt onto the hood before flipping off the car. A swirl of smoke wafted in front of her face and she waved it away only to see more smoke appear, as if her arm’s movement had cast a spell bringing with it a grey mist. She looked down and saw thick smoke filling the parking lot, like water moving slowly through the town.
“What the fuck?”
She kicked at it, and the mist wafted up where it sullied the air. A flash of green light erupted near her and an electric zap cascaded up the gutter on the side of the building. Dogs started to bark as the fog swept through the streets. Then a massive black shadow was cast over the ground as something flew by above, blotting out the sun for a second. She tried to look up, but the fog surged skyward to block her view.
The dogs started to growl, and she saw black shadows zip through the fog in the parking lot. The movement caused the mist to ripple before a green wave of light flashed from within.
Nancy quickly opened the door and ran inside as the fog snuck in by her feet. She kicked at it as if it were a corporeal entity. It dissipated around her leg as she pulled the door closed.
Someone was groaning nearby. It was a wet gurgle, as if someone was choking. She saw Claire in her chair, rolled into the center of the space between their cubicles, staring at her. It took a minute for Nancy’s brain to register what she was seeing. It seemed impossible, and she blinked several times before accepting that it was real.
Claire’s body was partially sunk into the chair and her headset was pressed into her head. The microphone stuck out of her throat and the headset jutted from her ear as if someone had plunged it into her, but there was no blood to be seen. Her arm was trapped in the armrest of the chair, and her left leg was below the seat while her right was above. She was twisted, and when she tried to speak only a gurgle came forth. Spittle dripped down her chin as her eyes darted back and forth, terror seizing her as she struggled to get free.
Nancy screamed and backed away.
That’s when she saw the creature outside. It was the size of a child, but with the head of a dog. The monstrosity clawed at the glass door with hands that looked neither human nor canine, but a bloody, pulpy mix of both. The creature snapped its jaws against the glass, spreading its lips wide to bare vicious white teeth. It seemed to be trying to bite her through the glass.
“Somebody help,” said Nancy just before the windows broke all around her. Green electricity cracked through the room as the humanoid dogs rushed in from all sides. She tried to fight them off, but they held her down as their maws ripped at her clothes and flesh. They tore at her, shaking their heads back and forth, nipping at one another to secure a spot for the kill. Their nude, childlike bodies writhed over one another as their grotesque heads gnawed at her bones.
Out of the corner of her eye she caught sight of a man standing near the bank’s sign in the parking lot. He was tall and thin, but his features were hazed by the fog. Then a flash of electricity illuminated him for just a moment. His lower jaw was shaking, and there was no skin on his cheek, revealing his teeth even from the side as he stared at something across the street. She could hear his teeth chattering and despite the horror she endured at the mercy of the dog-like creatures, she was relieved the man in the mist was focused on something other than her.
She should’ve been dead, but nothing could end the pain. The fog swirled around her and lifted her head to force her to watch. The green electricity zapped in her ears, stinging and burning, as the creatures ripped her apart. She could see her bones, her intestines, her heart, and her lungs. She watched as the monsters fought over her meat.
The fog wouldn’t let her die. The mist was capable of trapping her spirit, and she was conscious even though her body ceased to live. The flashing green fog kept her alive and forced her to witness every agonizing moment until the creatures plucked out her eyes. Then she was forced to listen.
16 Years Later
March 9th, 2012
Alma stared at her apartment complex from the safety of her car. The yellow lights in the parking lot cast a hazy hue over the scene, as if a polluted mist had descended upon her life.
“Are you here?” she asked as she chewed on her thumbnail. “Did you find out where I live, you son of a bitch?”
She could see her apartment door, on the middle floor of the three-story building. Each section of the apartment complex
was connected to the next by a concrete, railed landing with stairs that zigzagged down. From her vantage she could see her nondescript door as June bugs and moths fluttered around her porch light.
Was her father hiding in the shadows? Was he waiting for her?
She reached for her purse and got her cell phone. She flipped over to her page of contacts and thought about which of them might be able to help her. Several of her friends were out of town, and others didn’t answer her call. She kept trying, even selecting people she hadn’t spoken to in years. The few people that answered all had excuses as to why they were unavailable.
Alma led a reclusive life, only venturing out to go to work and the occasional concert. She wasn’t socially adept, preferring the comfort of a late night movie alone than a party. She didn’t make friends easily, and when she did they usually tired of trying to convince her to come out. Alma always had an excuse why she was staying home for the night, and eventually the new friend would stop calling.
There was always Paul.
She looked at his icon on the phone. He had a wide, beaming smile and a stoner’s eyes. “Fuck it.” She tapped his icon and waited, half hoping he wouldn’t answer.
“Yo,” he answered with a lethargic greeting.
“Paul?”
“Alma? Holy shit.” She heard covers rustle and assumed he was in bed. “To what do I owe the honor?”
“Paul,” she sighed, regretting this already. “I need your help.”
“You got it, babe. What’s up?”
Alma had a mixed reaction to his voice. His lounging baritone, each syllable drawn out as if he savored them all, caused an equal amount of disgust and adoration in her. While their past convinced her to hate him, she couldn’t help but love him a little.
“I need a place to stay.”
He didn’t answer.
“Paul?”
“Yeah?”
“Did you hear me?”
“Yeah, yeah, sure. I heard you. Just, you know, thinking about it.” He sighed and she could hear him scratching at his scalp like he always did when conflicted.
“Never mind.” Alma was annoyed and ready to hang up.
“You can stay here, Alma,” said Paul. “You’re always welcome, you know that. It’s just that, well, you need to know that I’m not alone here. You know what I mean?”
“You’ve got a roommate now?” asked Alma.
He paused for a telling second before saying, “Sort of.”
She understood what he meant, and didn’t know how to respond. “Maybe I’ll just get a hotel.”
“You don’t have to,” said Paul. “You can stay here if you want.”
“No,” said Alma. “Don’t worry, I’ll be fine.”
Alma and Paul had been together long enough for him to become familiar with the underlying meaning of certain phrases. Every couple develops passive aggressive mannerisms, and Alma was as guilty of it as anyone else. Paul knew that when she said, ‘I’ll be fine,’ it really meant anything but that. And if Alma were being honest with herself she would admit that she deliberately used that tone to stoke Paul’s compassion. It wasn’t that she wanted to guilt him into helping her, but rather that she needed him to hear how hurt she was that he was sleeping with another girl. Even though they’d broken things off, for the third time, six months ago, Alma still hadn’t moved on and the revelation that he had was agonizing. Six months was far too long to dwell on a failed relationship, but Paul and Alma had kept in contact over the break, and she always thought they would end up together again. It was agonizing to find out that Paul felt differently.
She could hear him push the covers off as he got up. “Babe, stop being silly. If you need help, I’m here for you. What’s going on?”
“I just need a place to sleep for the night.”
He chuckled. “Yeah, sure, and I’m the first person you call? Come on, Alma, don’t treat me like I’m an idiot. What’s the matter?”
“You weren’t the first person I called.” She had a spiteful bite to her words. “I literally called everyone else I could before I called you.”
He stayed quiet, and Alma felt bad for attacking him.
“Look, I’m sorry,” said Alma. “I’ve had a crappy day.”
She heard his beard scratch on the phone and then a beer bottle hiss as it was opened. The cap clinked on the counter and she could imagine the scene, his kitchen littered with bottles, some upright and others overturned, and a seared pan on the stove, probably filled with burned macaroni. He was always a mess when they weren’t together.
“Door’s open,” he said callously. “You know the address.” Then his tone softened and Alma could tell that he was sorry for being gruff with her. “If you want my help, I’ll always be here for you. I didn’t mean to sound nasty, I’ve just had a long day. A buddy of mine got in some trouble and I’ve been trying to help him out. It’s a long story.” He groaned and Alma could hear his beard scratching on the receiver again. “I want you to come here, Alma. I’ve been meaning to call you, but just haven’t worked up the courage. Come to my place and I’ll help you with whatever you need.”
“You’ve been working up the courage to call me by banging some girl?” asked Alma.
“It’s complicated,” said Paul.
“I’m sure it is.”
His voice lowered and he spoke quickly, “Look, babe, I want you here. The door’ll be open.”
He hung up.
She looked down at her phone in shock, as if he’d cursed at her. “You asshole.” She tossed the phone onto the passenger seat and then stared up at her apartment as if the conversation might’ve given her strength to attempt to go home, if for no other reason than to avoid giving Paul the satisfaction of seeking his help.
She grinded her grip on the top of her steering wheel as she looked up at the swirling bugs in front of her apartment door. If her father was going to hide, where would he do it? She looked at the shadows that plagued the space between her car and the apartment door. He could’ve been in the bushes along the building’s façade, or on the other side of a stairwell, faced away from the parking lot and out of her line of sight. Maybe he was already in the apartment. He could’ve lied to the office, and showed them his license to prove he was her father, convincing them that he was here to surprise his daughter. He could be in there right now, hiding.
Had she left the bedroom light on?
It was on now. She could see her bedroom window from the car. Had she left the light on this morning? She often did, but how could she be sure? What if it was him? What if he was in her room, searching through her drawers, planning his assault? He couldn’t have gotten here before her, could he? What if he did?
“Nope.” She yelled out as if celebrating her decision not to chance fate. She put the car in reverse and sped out of the complex’s lot, a chill running down her spine the whole way as if she’d just barely escaped with her life. Whenever she finally decided to come home, she wouldn’t be alone.
Alma intended to go to a hotel, but she passed them all on her way to Paul’s. His studio apartment was in the city, in a neighborhood that was in the midst of a planned renewal. It was going to be called ‘LoDo’, standing for Lower Downtown, and city officials promised that the rejuvenation would attract new business. They hoped to push out what they called the ‘unwanted element’ and restore a sense of pride to the neighborhood.
Alma wondered what element Paul fell into.
His studio was above a tattoo parlor, and was accessed by a stairwell in the rear. She parked next to a row of Harleys beside the parlor and could hear the raucous music as soon as she turned off the car. Tattoo parlors often stayed open late to host parties, and this one was no exception. When she’d lived with Paul, they attended several of the bashes that the parlor’s owner threw, and she had a couple lasting reminders of those nights on hidden parts of her body. It’s hard to turn down a free tattoo when you’re drunk.
“What the hell are you thinking,
Alma?” she asked herself. “Don’t do this. Just go to a hotel. Don’t get out of the car.”
She fiddled with the keys as they dangled from the ignition. The teddy bear keychain that Paul bought her on their first date, back in high school, spun from its chain.
“Fine.”
She took the keys out and put them in her purse along with her phone before she got out and headed for Paul’s door. She raced up the wooden stairs as if scared she might reconsider. She didn’t have a coat, and the chilly night caused her arms to break out in goose bumps.
She stood in front of the simple white door, hesitant to go in. There was a new mat at her feet that read, ‘Welcome.’ She wondered when he bought that as she wiped her loafers on it.
Why did she wear such plain shoes to work every day? She looked at her drab outfit and thought about how nice Rachel looked at the restaurant. Alma needed to start dressing nicer. She was suddenly embarrassed that she had been filmed for a news program today. And now she was standing in front of Paul’s apartment, dressed in clothes she should’ve thrown out years ago. The once purple top had faded to mauve and her jeans were worn out in all the wrong spots. Then a terrifying thought came to her that she hadn’t considered before: What if his new girlfriend was here?
The door opened and Paul greeted her. “Hey beautiful.” He glanced up and down, inspecting her. “You look good. Did you start jogging again?”
“Don’t patronize me. I look like shit.”
He rolled his eyes, sighed, and turned away from her. “Fine, whatever. You look like a washed up hag. Get in. It’s cold.”
Paul looked good. He was a big guy, both in height and width, but his weight was sexy. He lamented his former football physique, but she often tried to convince him that some girls liked hefty men, and she was one of them. He had a gut, but it wasn’t a loose one. It was as if he were just a big, bulging muscle. His beard was trimmed down from its once bushy length, but was still thick, and he’d shaved his long hair down to stubble, revealing a head tattoo of a snake that she’d never known about. He had a tank top on and a pair of torn jeans that he hadn’t bothered buttoning or zipping up all the way.
“I like your hair,” said Alma as she walked in.
He rubbed his palm over the stubble. “Yeah? Thanks. I lost a bet.”
Alma glanced around the impeccably clean apartment. She couldn’t believe the sight, and knew that he hadn’t been able to simply clean up in anticipation of her possible arrival. “What the hell is this?” she asked as she looked around. “Did you hire a maid or something?”
He rubbed his belly, which was a trait that she’d always loved about him. Every morning when he got out of bed he would stretch and his long arms would nearly touch the ceiling before he’d bring them back down to rub his stomach. It was one of a thousand endearing traits that she recalled.
She knew she was falling back in the same old trap. Alma let this happen far too frequently, but even when she recognized the pattern she was helpless to avoid it. The comfort of familiarity was alluring. She recalled all of the things she loved about Paul, but none of what she hated.
Alma glanced around the studio apartment, relieved to see that Paul had asked his slut to leave.
“No. I’ve been trying to keep things nice around here. It hasn’t been easy. You know how I am.”
“Yeah, I do.” The cleanliness was a nice change, but she felt oddly uncomfortable in the apartment that had once been her home away from home. It seemed somehow foreign now.
“Want a beer?” he asked, already headed to the corner of the studio where the kitchen was set behind a breakfast counter.
She nodded and walked with him while still surveying the changes in the apartment. A new flat screen television was mounted on the wall and had tall speakers one either side of it. There was a new coffee table, cherry wood with a glass center and metal legs, and the top of it wasn’t littered with bottle caps and ashtrays like she would’ve expected. All of the changes were welcome ones, but she felt a pang of sorrow that she hadn’t been around to see them. She would’ve preferred that Paul stayed exactly as he was the day she walked out, as if it was impossible for him to live without her.
When they got to the kitchen, Alma was almost sad to see that there wasn’t a burned pan of macaroni on the stove. She felt like a mother visiting her son’s new home for the first time, expecting disaster, only to discover that he didn’t need her anymore.
“Here you go,” he said after he popped the top off a Milk Stout Nitro and handed it to her.
“Glass?” she asked.
He smirked and winked. “That’s my girl.” He retrieved an extra tall pint glass from the cabinet and gave it to her.
This was their beer, and she knew how it was supposed to be poured. As opposed to most brands, this one needed to be hard poured. Instead of daintily tipping a glass to keep the head from exploding, this beer had to be overturned and plunged into the glass. It was a technique that they’d taught a hundred guests, and it had a noticeable effect on the flavor of this beer.
She took a long drink and then sighed in satisfaction. “I needed this. Thanks.”
He put the two bottle caps in the garbage, which wouldn’t have surprised anyone but her. In all their time together, she couldn’t recall ever seeing him throw a bottle cap away instead of just tossing it onto the nearest surface.
“Are you going to tell me what’s wrong?” he asked. “Or am I going to have to get you drunk first?”
She sat on a stool on the opposite side of the breakfast counter from him. “My dad showed up.”
He stiffened and raised his eyebrows. “Oh shit. Really?”
She nodded and tilted her glass to watch as the foaming brown color of the beer slowly turned black. “Yep. He found me at a restaurant where I was meeting with a reporter.”
“A reporter? What was that for?”
She smiled as she recalled the start of her day. “My school surprised me with a new music room, and the local news sent a reporter to cover it. They wanted to interview me, so I met up with them at the China Buffet on Fairmont.”
“That’s awesome, about the room and the reporter, not the buffet. That place sucks.”
“I know, right? I hate that place.” She smiled as she looked down at her beer. It was nice to be with Paul. They understood each other, which was a comfort she direly needed. “All in all, I was having a pretty great day until Dad showed up. Turns out the reporter had interviewed him in Pittsburgh…”
Paul interrupted her, “Why?”
While the two of them had shared a lot, she’d never revealed anything about her history with the Widowsfield incident. “They were, I don’t know, doing a story on the king of assfucks or something. Doesn’t matter. The point is: He followed them to me.”
Paul drank his beer and stared at her over the rim. She could see by his expression that he sensed she wasn’t telling him the whole story. When he lowered the glass there was foam on his mustache.
He wiped his mouth on his arm. “Want me to beat his ass?”
“No. I already had a guy do that for me. Now there’s a Dad-sized dent in the side of my car.”
Paul frowned and his eyebrows sunk as if he were scowling, but his menace was comedic as he asked, “Who do you have beating up guys for you? I’m supposed to be the one protecting you.”
“Yeah, well you’ve been busy porking bar sluts.” She thumbed in the direction of the nearby queen bed that Paul had made up in an attempt to hide what had occurred there just hours before.
“Hey,” he said as if offended, “don’t call my hand a bar slut. She’s a fine lady.” He wiggled his fingers.
“Gross.”
He ignored her condemnation. “I know you and your dad have a bad relationship, but is he dangerous?”
“Uh, yeah,” she said as if he should’ve known.
He shrugged. “I don’t know, you never told me the details. You just said he was a dick, and that you never wanted to
see him again.”
“And I don’t.”
“Do you have a restraining order or anything like that?”
She shook her head. “No. My mom moved us back here where she grew up. I moved in with my grandparents after my mom…” She was surprised by the grief that swelled from the mention of her mother’s passing.
“I gotcha,” said Paul to end the conversation and spare Alma the pain of recounting any more. “Maybe you should think about getting one now.”
“Could I? I’m not sure I’ve got enough against him to warrant it. Hell, I hurt him more than he hurt me at the restaurant.”
“Still might be worth looking into.”
She nodded and took another drink. “Maybe. For now, I just want to stay as far away from him as I can. I’m afraid he’s going to show up at my place or something.”
“Hey, if you want, I can go round up some of the guys downstairs and we’ll take you home. If the fucker shows up, we’ll make sure he never does again.”
“Yeah, sure,” she said sarcastically. “That’s the answer. We’ll just beat him to death and bury him in a shallow grave. That’s a good idea.”
He tilted his head to the side as if convinced it was a good idea. Then he laughed and shrugged like he’d meant it as a joke all along. “I didn’t say anything about killing him, just hurting him a little.”
“I didn’t come here to hire a hitman.”
“Well, while we’re on the subject, why did you come here?”
“I guess I just wanted to be somewhere that I felt comfortable,” said Alma. “Although it’s kind of weird here now. It’s all so different. In a good way, but different.” She drank her beer and scanned the apartment.
“You know my offer still stands, right?”
“What offer?” she asked.
His shoulders sunk and he sighed, tired of playing this game. “You know what offer. I’ll always take you back. If you want me, I’ll drop whatever else I’ve got going on for you.” He looked away as if embarrassed, crossed his arms, and leaned against the counter on the other side of the kitchen. “I wish it weren’t true, but it is. No matter how many times you break my heart, you’re still my girl, for as long as you want to be.”
“Stop it,” said Alma. His confession was everything she wanted to hear, and she felt her ears flush as blood rushed to her face.
“I’ll always love you like a new favorite song.”
She loved it when he said that, and he knew it. He grinned at her, and if it weren’t for her conflicted emotions she would’ve hopped over the counter and torn his clothes off right then. Instead she cleared her throat and said, “I have to go to the bathroom.”
“You know where it is.”
Alma finished her beer and then headed for the bathroom, a tiny room that was the only private spot in the apartment. It had only a shower, toilet, and sink in it, and all three were jammed as close to one another as possible. She marveled at the cleanliness of the room as she closed the door and stared into the mirror.
“Don’t do this, Alma,” she whispered to herself. “I can’t believe you’re going to do this.” She set her purse on the counter to search for her lipstick and perfume before doing her best to fix her makeup. “This is stupid.” She repeated the phrase over and over as she went through her routine, applying mascara, foundation, and even a pinch of glitter between her breasts. She winked at herself in the mirror and said, “You’re such a slut.” She was almost giddy, and couldn’t help but smile. The on-again-off-again nature of her relationship with Paul was torture most of the time, except for when they were just about to kick things off again. In these moments it felt like she’d just started dating someone, but without the nervous tension that led up to having sex for the first time.
She stopped and stared into the mirror. “Do you really want this, Alma? Are you sure?” She thought about it, and then smiled as she nodded. “Yes I do.” She snapped the button closed on her purse, confident in her decision to rekindle her relationship with Paul, if even for just one night.
Alma lifted the toilet cover to pee.
There was a used condom floating in the bowl.