“I told you I was busy this weekend.”
“You don’t look very busy. I thought … I thought you were seeing someone else.”
I’m breathing as hard as a horse. Can’t he see that I am? Surely he could pick up on what was between Judah and me. I feel rage—the type of rage that makes me do stupid things. But breaking up with Johan is not stupid; it’s necessary. Like throwing out clothes that you’ve outgrown.
A door opens down the hall and my neighbor steps out, walking toward the garbage shoot with a giant, stinking bag of trash. I wait until he’s back in his apartment before I look at Johan.
“I’m in love with someone else.”
Johan looks confused. I don’t blame him.
“I’m breaking up with you,” I say. He opens his mouth to protest, but I shush him. “There’s nothing you can say to change my mind. Not, I didn’t mean it like that, or you’re acting rashly. I’m not. Your visa expires soon. You have to go home. I’m not coming with you, Johan.”
He’s full of words. I can tell by the look on his face. In the end, he merely nods and walks away. I feel an immediate sense of relief.
When I go back inside and latch the deadbolt, my eyes are on my bedroom door. The light is off, which means Judah is probably already in bed. I take a quick shower and curl up on the couch with my cell phone. Then, without overthinking things, I text Judah.
Are you awake?
I vigorously chew on my lip until my cell phone chimes.
I am now.
I hide my face in my pillow for a second, then start typing again.
Sorry. I think he’s jealous. He showed up to check you out.
His reply comes quickly.
I’m sure his jealous streak was sufficiently assuaged after he saw my wheelchair.
What difference does that make? You have bigger arms than he does.
Wheelchairs are heavier than fish!
I giggle and roll onto my back so I can keep texting him.
I broke up with him.
The text dots appear, disappear, reappear like he can’t decide what to say.
And then…
That’s good. So now I can kiss you.
I choke on my own spit as it pools in my throat. My body feels warm, and all of a sudden I’m breathing like I just ran five miles through a field of feelings. I get up and cross the living room, pausing at the bedroom door, only slightly hesitating before I push it open.
I can see the swell of his body under the covers, the light on his phone as he holds it above his head.
“Judah,” I say. He drops his phone on his face and makes a groaning noise. I laugh, then launch myself at the bed. I crawl up his body and straddle him. He’s holding his phone again, but as soon as he sees what I’m doing, he tosses it to the nightstand. Light pools in from the kitchen. His face is anxious … intent. I lean my body down until our chests are pressed together and kiss him. The first time Johan kissed me it was awkward, the slow acclimation of lips pressing together until we somehow found a rhythm. With Judah, it’s natural, like we do this all the time. My self-doubt races in, and I begin to pull away, but Judah wraps his arms around my back and holds me there. We both smell of toothpaste and shampoo. He kneads my back as he kisses me—his lips fluent and his tongue rhythmic. I feel his hardness between my thighs and know that if I were to touch myself, I’d be wet. When he is assured that I won’t leave, he moves his hands to my hips and rotates them down in a circular motion, then back up. He is grinding our bodies together, as if to declare that everything works but his legs. I moan into his mouth, not just to feel the weight of him inside me, but to know what it’s like to be that deeply connected to someone I love.
I’m wearing only a T-shirt and panties. I lift my hips so that I can grab at his pajama bottoms and pull them down. He springs free, and as soon as he does, he pushes my panties aside in a single swipe, and slides me down onto him.
“Oh shit,” I say. “If you had another one of these things, you could walk on them.” He smacks my butt, and it’s so dark I can’t tell if he’s smiling. After that we don’t talk. We just move … the ugly girl and the cripple guy.
The next morning, we lie in bed until my phone begins to incessantly ring. I try to ignore it, but when the caller tries several more times, I gingerly pick it up and look at the screen.
“It’s Johan,” I tell Judah. “He wants to meet up to talk.”
I chew on my nails, feeling the weight of Johan. He must have woken up with renewed perspective after my outburst last night. But I don’t want to talk about it. I don’t want to spend hours mopping up the mess our feelings have made. It’s kaput, as Johan would say. A dead dog.
“Maybe you should,” he says. I shake my head.
“Right now you’re here, and I want to be with you. He can wait.”
He searches my face, but I’ve become better at hiding my expression.
“Do you want to talk about what happened last night?”
I breathe in the smell of his skin. My cheek is pressed to his chest, and I shake my head. “I’d rather do it again actually, and not talk about it at all.”
“Okay,” Judah says. “But first you have to make me breakfast.”
“Perfect. I have frozen waffles and canned orange juice.”
DESPITE THE CONSTANT DRIP OF RAIN, thunder in Seattle is as rare as the sun in winter. When it rumbles, shaking the windowpanes in my apartment, I run for the window to see what’s happening. Judah, fresh from his bath, is reading a book in the living room. He laughs at me when I trip over a pillow and crawl the rest of the way to the window to look out.
“It’s thunder,” I say incredulously, still on my knees.
“Yes,” he says. I turn and sit with my back against the wall. Because my bathroom is not equipped with the hoist that Judah needs to lift himself in and out of the bath, I helped him instead, surprised at his upper body strength and how little he actually needed me. I think on this now, as I sit staring at the maleness of his beauty—the wet hair, the broad expanse of chest. It was shocking to see his legs. It looked as if two pieces that did not belong to him were hastily placed on his body. Frail and thin, free of hair, I averted my eyes when I helped him out of the bath, and then I felt ashamed. What right did I have to avert my eyes from his body when I was naught but a monster underneath my skin?
“How come you’re so good at being in a wheelchair?” I say softly. Judah sets his book aside, folding his hands on his lap.
“I decided very early on that I wanted as little help as possible,” he says. “There wasn’t always going to be someone around to do things for me, so I taught myself to do them.”
“And Delaney?”
“She was tough … loving, but tough. She didn’t do anything for me unless she had to.”
I think about the day he called to me from the window, how I crept into his house in the dark and held his hands while he sobbed. It was the only time Judah showed weakness, and I wonder now if it’s still there, his feelings of ineptitude buried under the bravado of capability. The tarnished silver.
“But you don’t complain. You never look burdened by it.”
“I’m not,” he says. “Other people are though, when they have to wheel me off the airplane, or bend down at the Starbucks counter to hand me my change. When someone has to hold a door open for me, or pack my wheelchair into their trunk. That’s when I become a burden.”
I think about what it would be like to have to depend on others for all of the little things, and I instantly know I’d never be like Judah.
“I’d be angry and bitter,” I announce.
He laughs. “You’re the most hopeful person I’ve ever met, Margo. That’s untrue.”
I jump up and run to him, pressing my lips against his, holding his face in my palms. Just because I can.
We stay inside for most of the day, ordering Chinese and watching movies like we used to. This time I have a long list of things I want him to see.
“Well, that was depressi
ng,” he says. I eject the movie from the DVD player and slip my finger through the hole in its center while I look for the box. The Stoning of Sorayah M is one of those films that leave you in a funk for days.
“How did you go from sappy chicks flicks like The Wedding Date to something like that?”
“It’s meaningful,” I say. “I want to fill myself with images that mean something, not ones that placate my fears.”
“How did The Wedding Date placate your fears?”
I sit on my heels in front of the TV and stare at him. “I’ve always been afraid that love isn’t real. So I watched movies that assured me that there can be happy endings and shit.”
“And shit,” he says. And then, “Okay … okay … I get it. What else you got for me? Let’s see how far we can slump into depression.”
I pick up the next movie I have lined up and wave it around. “The House of Sand and Fog,” I say.
“Bring it,” says Judah. “I’m super in touch with my feelings right now.” He rubs a palm over his chest.
The following day I drive Judah back to the Bone. I can barely keep my hands from shaking as they grip the steering wheel in a death vice. I haven’t been back—not since I left. Too afraid to go; too afraid to stay. Now I am sick at the thought of seeing the eating house, and Sandy, and Delaney. I curse myself for agreeing to this and wonder if Judah has some ulterior motive in wanting me to go with him. What steadies me is Little Mo. Maybe Mo will let me have him for a little while. He’ll be so much bigger by now. Walking. I cheer at the thought and find my foot pressing a little harder on the accelerator. Yes, that’s what I’ll do. I’ll concentrate on Mo, and maybe I’ll have a little time to pop by Nevaeh’s grave. I heard that the city paid for a large angel statue to be placed next to her gravestone. It was a nice thing to do. I glance at Judah, suddenly feeling much better, and find him staring at me.
“What?” I ask.
“You should have seen your face. This entire time I thought I was watching a silent film.”
“Oh, shut it,” I say. But I can already feel the blush creeping up my neck. Way to act like a psycho, Margo.
“You were chewing on your lip and hunched over the steering wheel one minute, the next you were smiling to yourself, and then all of a sudden you’re frowning and rocking back and forth like a mad woman.”
“Nonsense,” I tell him. “But seriously, it’s like you just woke up after all this time and realized I’m not normal.”
“I guess I’ve been gone too long. But that’ll be different now that I’m coming back.”
I glance at him out of the corner of my eye, wondering if he thinks I’ll be driving back to the damn Bone every week to see him. Fat chance. I stick a slab of chocolate in my mouth to keep from bursting his bubble.
“My therapist told me you aren’t real,” I tell him.
He grins at me. “I’ve always been too good to be true, Margo.”
It’s the same as it’s always been. I keep my eyes fixated ahead, trying not to look at all the things that haven’t changed. I don’t see the wet paper cups lying in the gutters, or the smoke from the food trucks curling into the sky. I definitely don’t see the high school girls wearing mini skirts and hanging all over boys who will get them pregnant and leave shortly thereafter. Judah chats cheerfully next to me, but I don’t hear him. I turn down Wessex and pull into Delaney’s driveway. It takes all of five minutes for me to drop his bags off at the front door and help him into his chair.
“Come inside with me, Margo,” he says. “My mom would love to see you.”
I shake my head. “I have to head back,” I lie. Before he can say anything else, I’m back in the Jeep and backing out of his driveway. I don’t go to the eating house, even though I can feel it calling to me. I pull into Mo’s driveway. He must have been standing near the window, because as soon as he sees my car, he comes outside, his eyes narrowed. When he sees it’s me, his shoulders lose some of their tension.
“Well, well … look who’s back,” he says. He’s not smiling. My stomach does a little turn as I slam the door and walk up the drive.
“Hey Mo.”
“What you want, girl? You never been the drug type.”
I grin. “I came to see Little Mo, actually.”
He looks surprised. “Yeah, he’s in his cage. You can go in. Want to watch him for a bit. I have some business to take care of.”
“Sure,” I say. He doesn’t even go back inside the house. I watch from the open doorway as he drives off in his Lincoln. Mo has never invited me into his house. I suppose he’s desperate enough to let his former neighbor play babysitter to his motherless son. Little Mo is playing with a set of plastic keys as he sits in a stained pack-and-play in the living room. His face is smeared with chocolate, but other than that, he looks fine. When he sees me, he smiles. I can’t control the utter happiness I feel. We spend the afternoon together, and when he naps, I walk around the house and look in Mo’s drawers. I find tiny baggies of cocaine under the bed he shared with that child-beating whore, Vola. I empty them out one by one into the toilet, then I re-fill each bag with flour and replace them. When I drive out of the Bone, long after the sun has gone down, for once I feel refreshed. I haven’t thought about Leroy in hours. My mind is a clear sky.
A WEEK LATER, I drive to the Bone to pick up Judah and deliver him back to SeaTac airport.
“How was it?” I ask as we cruise onto the highway. The air is warm, and my hair is whipping around my face.
“Good. I’m ready to come back.”
“Great,” I say. But it’s not great. Judah going back to the Bone feels like a bad omen. If the Bone can call him back, what can it do to me?
“You don’t mean that,” he says. “You hate that I’m going back.”
“Yeah.”
We don’t say much after that, but when we cross the water into Seattle, he asks me something that makes the hairs stand up on the back of my neck.
“Did you do something bad? Is that why you don’t want to go back?”
“Why would you say that?” I narrowly miss hitting a car and swerve back into my lane. I press my foot against the accelerator.
“When I asked you about it in California, you ran. Didn’t even say goodbye.”
“There’s more than one reason I did that,” I say, thinking about Erin/Eryn/Eren.
“Margo, tell me what you did … also, you’re going really fast.”
I change lanes, then change again. I can see the tension in his upper body. I cut off a semi and the driver blares his horn.
“I killed Vola Fields and Lyndee Anthony. I killed a man in an alley who was trying to rape a girl.” I hesitate for a moment before I add, “And then I tried to kill Leroy Ashley.”
He’s quiet for a long time. Traffic gathers along my exit. I slow down, but I want to keep driving, keep going fast.
“Who is Leroy Ashley?”
“A rapist,” I say.
“But, you haven’t killed him yet?”
I glance at him, and he’s looking at me.
“No.”
I see the relief.
“How do you know?”
“How do I know what, Judah?” I flick the hair out of my eyes, annoyed at his questions.
“That he’s a rapist!”
“It’s a long story,” I say. “But, I know.”
He’s rubbing his jawline, looking out the window then back to me. If he had working legs, I wonder if he’d already have asked to be let out of the car.
“Why, Margo? Why didn’t you go to the police?”
I laugh. “Are you kidding? After what happened with Lyndee? Judah, why are you even saying this to me?”
“Why did you have to kill them? You could’ve…” He’s focusing on the women, not Leroy. Maybe because I haven’t killed him yet.
“What? Sat them down and had a nice little chat with them about what they did?”
“Maybe … it seems more reasonable than taking someone’s life.” r />
I think about this. Possibly for the first time. Why did I have to kill them?
“I had no proof,” I say. “The police wouldn’t have done anything. I believe in swift justice.”
He slams his fist on the dash, and then keeps it clenched as he speaks to me through his teeth. “You are not the law. You do not get to administer your own brand of justice on humankind. How could you be so stupid?”
“Stupid?” I sound distant when I say it. My tongue is fat with the confessions I’ve just made. I never considered what I did to be stupid. I never considered what I did. I just … did what my body told me to do. I moved like a person who has cut ties with her mind and was relying on the guidance of some deeper force. A possession of sorts.
“Maybe…” I say. And even to me, my voice sounds noncommittal. Judah stirs at my words. Becomes angrier. His irises boil around his pupils, making him look like a cartoon version of himself. Eyes never lie. Not the emotions we convince ourselves to experience, or we convince others we are experiencing—the real ones. You can listen to words, or you can listen to a person’s eyes.
“Why are you so angry with me? You left me.”
But he’s not listening anymore. He’s putting things together.
“That’s why you were in the hospital,” he says. “You almost got yourself killed.”
“Go on,” I say. “Rail me with how stupid I am. How I should have told the police, left the punishment of criminals to the infallible law. But you and I both know how it really is. We lived in a world where children were not protected from their parents. Where you can hurt someone because someone once hurt you.”
It’s all true to my own ears. They lived in a form of ignorant hubris—Vola and Lyndee. At least Leroy knew what he was doing. He was looking to be caught. Even if he didn’t know it.
I want to execute my plan, and this time I am not acting on impulse. I will not make mistakes. I am, I think with little mortification, an evolving killer. We are at the airport. I help him out of the Jeep and into his chair. When I bend down to say goodbye, he’s teary-eyed.
“Why does it have to be like this, Margo?” he asks.