chapter Five
She’s back in the morning, a coral-clad blond version of the crazy chick in “Fight Club”, the one who wanders in and out of the picture spouting off weird shit and not giving a f*ck about steamrolling anyone.
“Here, drink this.” A cup of hot Starbucks coffee is thrust at my chest as soon as I open the front door. “We’ve got work to do.”
“My apologies, but did I miss a memo?”
“Was I not clear last night? We’re fighting fire with fire. Ooh, and don’t you look handsome with my marks on you.”
“Your–” I flinch when she snaps her teeth near my ear and spreads her fingers like claws.
“Have you even looked in the mirror this morning?”
“Uh, the sun’s barely up,” I reply and scratch my head.
“Come, come. Follow me.”
The crazy lady I used to know as Heather grabs my hand and pulls me up the stairs like she owns the place. Normally I’d stop her, but it’s all too bizarre and this bastard’s enjoying the view of her curvy ass way too much as it sways with each riser she ascends.
“Where’s your bathroom?”
“You mean you don’t already know? Surprised you haven’t cased the place or studied blueprints.”
When we hit the landing, she turns and says, “Whiny sarcasm is not an attractive quality in a grown man.”
“And psychotic bitchiness is not–” Stars dance in front of my eyes when she cracks me across the face with an open palm.
She smiles. “I’m sorry, what were you saying?”
“I said, psy–” She backhands me this time, the faint taste of blood mixing with the coffee I’d been sipping.
“You’re a slow learner, aren’t you? Oh, look at your clenched jaw and flared nostrils,” she simpers. “Are you going to hit back?” She looks at me sideways and bats her lashes. “I didn’t think so. Now come on.”
The breath I’d been holding rushes out. Of course I’d never hit a woman, though if she doesn’t explain what the hell kind of crazy game she’s playing, I have no qualms throwing her shapely ass out on the curb.
“Come on!” When I don’t move fast enough, she shoves me from behind. “In you go. Oh dear, is that the only mirror you have?” I follow her gaze to the small antique shaving mirror extending from the wall above the bathroom’s dingy sink.
“Yeah.”
She heaves a great sigh. “I guess it’ll have to do.”
“Do what?”
“Stand in front of it, please.”
“Don’t see the p–”
“I said stand in front of the goddamn mirror!”
Holy shit, this woman’s off her rocker. Good thing she’s tiny—she won’t be difficult to restrain until someone gets here with a straitjacket. Until then, better do what I’m told.
“That’s better,” she says. “Now, tell me what you see.”
“What I see?”
Over my shoulder, she rolls her eyes in the reflection. “Eyes?”
“Blue.”
“Hair?”
“Dark brown.”
She fingers my sideburns. “What about this?”
“Bit of gray. Thanks for pointing it out.”
“What does it mean?”
“Getting old.”
“Oh, fiddle-dee-dee. Try again.”
“Fiddle-dee-dee? What are you, Scarlett O’Hara on meth?”
She tilts her head and pretends to think. “That’ll work. So what does this mean?” Again, she brushes my sideburns, but this time she keeps going, trailing her finger down the side of my neck.
“Distinguished?”
“You’re getting warmer. What do people with gray hair have that younger ones don’t? And don’t be cute like the other night.” A blush creeps into my face when I recall my awkward hemorrhoid comment.
“Experience?”
“Exactly! That and wisdom—allegedly. Well done, pet.” She reaches up and undoes a button on her shirt.
“What–what is this?”
“You did something right. This is your reward. You do something wrong, you get one of my marks,” she says, pointing at my earlobe, which, according to the mirror, is the purplish color of old-fashioned ink. “Seeing as it’s Saturday and you don’t have to work and neither do I, we’re going to spend the day together whipping you into shape. Sorry to say, but you need a lot of work. More than I’d anticipated. Lucky for you, I inherited my mama’s tenacity.”
“Her crazy, too.” No sooner have the words left my mouth than she rakes her nails down my bare chest. “Shit! Ow!”
“I already explained the rules to you. Better keep up if you want me naked in your bed again.”
“I never–” She swallows my protest with a kiss, a deep one that reminds me of the capabilities she displayed last night. To my great dismay, my body overrides my brain. Again.
With a nibble on my lower lip, she breaks the kiss and steps back. “As I was saying, lots of work to do. Take off your shorts.”
“What? I’m not taking off my shorts in front of you.” When she crosses her arms and tilts her head, I see the irony. “Okay, why? Did I earn another reward already?” I employ full air quotes on that one.
“Manscaping.”
“What the hell is that?”
“Lose the shorts and I’ll show you.”
An hour later, I’ve been plucked, trimmed, and shaved in places that should never see sharp objects. I’m also completely humiliated…until I get my reward.
“Much better,” she says as I help her to her feet. “On to the next task.” She bounces out the door and down the hall. All I can do is follow and hope I haven’t made a mistake by not calling the fifth floor at Mobile Infirmary. “Oh, very nice,” she says after opening my closet. We’re wrapped in the scent of fabric softener as it wafts into the room, temporarily canceling out the musty smell of unwashed sheets and dust. “You always keep your clothes so neat?”
“Pretty much.”
“Interesting,” she says. We both stare at the hangers spaced an inch apart, pants on the left, button-downs on the right, divided by short sleeves and long sleeves. After an inspection of my drawers, she selects several items for me to wear. Oddly, she hasn’t picked my nicer clothes. Rather, she hands me a pair of old cargo shorts and one of my ratty, sweat-stained work T-shirts.
“Really?”
“Ain’t no rest for the wicked,” she says.
“Some privacy?”
“No. Get dressed. You’re wasting time.”
“Jeez.”
After I’m dressed, she points to the bed. “Change your sheets.”
“Don’t have any others.”
She plants her hands on her hips and sighs. “Then wash them. Where’s your basket?”
“Um…”
“You don’t have a basket. Okay then, time to improvise. Do you have a big cardboard box?”
I reach behind the chair and pull out one of the ones I saved from moving. “This do?”
“It’ll have to. Now strip the bed and collect your other dirty clothes. Where can I find a pen and paper?”
“Kitchen.”
“Right. I’ll be in there if you need me,” she says.
“Doing what?”
“Making you a shopping list.”
“I hate shopping.”
“Suck it up, big guy. Your way didn’t work, so we’re playing by my rules now.”
As soon as she’s out the door, I grab my cell phone off the nightstand, intending to place a call to…who? Who can I call to get this crazy woman out of my house? Her mama? Mine? That’s less likely than snow in Mobile. The police? Doesn’t seem quite right to call the cops on someone who’s granted you any number of sexual favors in the past twenty-four hours. Sure, I’m sporting fingernail scratches and a bruised earlobe, but I can just see that report in the paper.
Reluctantly, I tuck the phone into my pocket and rip the sheets off the bed. A cockroach scampers across the mattress and disappears behind a dresser. Looks like I better add bait traps to that list she’s writing.
Don’t mind doing laundry. Not sure why, but it brings peace, as long as I use the fabric softener with the pink cap. It’s the kind my mama always used growing up, plus Juli loved to brush her cheek against my shirt and inhale.
“Damn.” I’d managed to go all morning without thinking about her.
The sheets and a couple of pieces of clothing go into the box, as well as the dank towels I retrieve from the bathroom. Washer and dryer are on the first floor off the kitchen, which means I can’t avoid Psycho Scarlett any longer. Here we go.
First thing I see are her bare legs crossed, one foot perched on the rungs of a stool at the island. Maybe if I don’t make eye contact with the beast, she’ll let me slip by.
“Please see me when you’ve put those in.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
I stretch out my task as long as possible. When I can’t stall anymore, I shuffle back into the kitchen.
“Daylight’s a-burnin’. Here are your lists. There are two. One is your shopping list, the other details the chores you need to complete before I return tomorrow after church.”
This is ridiculous. “I’m meeting with Uncle Robert after church.”
“Not anymore you aren’t. Have these tasks done or there will be hell to pay.”
“Heather, I’m not made of money. Can’t buy all these things,” I tell her.
“You have a credit card?”
“That’s not the point.”
“Anyone else to support besides yourself?”
“No, but–”
“Exactly. Turn around.”
“Look, this has been an entertaining morning and your antics are interesting to say the least, but whatever f*cked-up plan you’ve dreamed up is just that—a dream. Think you should go home now.”
“Oh, I’m going home, but I’ll be back. You need me. Also, here’s your key.” She plucks a key out of her pocket and drops it into my palm.
“How did you get that?”
“You left it on your nightstand. I took the liberty of having a copy made before I came over this morning, and don’t bother changing the locks because you and I both know you want this. Plus, I’m a clever girl. Now, turn around and take your punishment like a man.”
Honest to God, she’s bat-shit crazy. Those locks are getting changed as soon as she’s out of sight. Yesterday I was threatened with a restraining order. Looks like I need to threaten one instead.
“I said, turn around.”
Fine. Whatever it takes to get her out of here. I turn and cross my arms. No doubt she’s going to scratch her nails down my back again or some stupid shit like that. Cool air hits my ass. Then her hand. “Son of a bitch! That stings!” Humiliation burns hot, and before she can land another blow, I turn and wrench her wrist away.
“You’re completely psychotic!”
Her gaze drops and she smirks. “Clearly, you are too.”
I look down. “Damn it.”
“See you tomorrow, Isaac. Be a good boy and I’ll take care of that for you.” She gives me one quick stroke before turning on her heel and walking out of my house. My house, which is now a house of shame. Looking around the room, I expect to see fun-house mirrors that will reflect the bizarre and grotesque morning that has just unfolded. Of course, there’s nothing here but me, a ticking clock, and my traitorous dick.
***
“A sander? A couch?”
Heather’s list is, of course, ridiculous. She even left little notes of encouragement, like I’m a kid she’s packing a lunch for: People, like houses, require a good foundation. Rent a sander and refinish the floors. If you work a little each evening, you’ll have them done by the weekend. No excuses. My fingers are in my hair before I realize what it means. Juli always accused me of making that gesture before I was about to cave in to something. Much to my chagrin, she was right.
Suppose Heather has a point, too. My buddy Ben Carner owns this house, but agreed to let me stay here rent-free if I fixed it up in my spare time. So far, the only improvement I’ve made is to occasionally wipe off the kitchen counters.
The floor is soft under my bare feet, worn smooth by decades of upper-crust Mobilians living, visiting, perhaps even dancing within these walls. Ben said the house has been in his family almost since it was built, but no one wanted to undertake the responsibility of restoring it. I’m no master carpenter, but I can swing a hammer and lift a paintbrush. Sanding floors? Not so sure about that one.
After a trip to Home Depot, I discover that it’s not that hard. In fact, once I move all the furniture out of the parlor and cover my piano so no dust gets inside, the work is soothing. My back and arms are sore after hours of making the same movements over and over, but the movements become rhythmic, allowing my mind to wander. And at the same time, I’m able to immediately see the fruits of my labor—instant gratification as years of dirt and wear melt away under my steady hands.
“You look good on your knees.”
“Jeez, Heather. Give a guy some warning?”
She shrugs and hands me coffee. “It’s not like you could hear me over the sander. So you’ve decided to embrace my brand of crazy, hm?”
A deep breath calms my nerves and gives me courage to admit the truth. “I see where you’re going with this. Gotta say, you scared me yesterday, but the more I thought about it, the more I saw what you were doing. Pretty effective. You do crazy frighteningly well.”
“So I’ve been told. But?”
“But…I needed a swift kick in the ass. If you’re willing to be the one to deliver it, I’m willing to play along.”
“Now that,” she says, arching an eyebrow, “deserves a reward.”
“Not that I’m arguing, but I’m filthy.”
“Exactly.”
After we’ve showered, her Scarlett personality slips back into place. “Here, wear this. We’re going shopping.”
“Together? Isn’t that dangerous?”
“One,” she says, ticking off a finger, “it’s a Sunday and all the non-heathens are doing the church and family thing. Two, we’re going to Mississippi, where no one will know us. Three, your car has tinted windows.”
“You’ve thought about this too much.”
“And you haven’t thought about it enough. Like I said before, time to suck it up and get with the program, big guy.”
“Doesn’t your mama wonder where you are?”
“Nope. She’s pissed at me for breaking off the engagement, plus she’s got her hands full dealing with Daddy,” she says. “He’s pushing for a divorce. She’s trying to save face. You know, the usual.”
“You broke off the engagement? The other night I got the impression Golden Boy had ended it.”
“I’ll tell you about it sometime, maybe as a reward. Right now, it’s none of your concern. All you need to know is it’s over.”
“So I don’t need to add a raging ex-fiancé to my list of troubles?”
With a shake of her head, she leads the way downstairs and out to the car.
“So, mistress, am I allowed to drive my own car?” I was going for sarcasm, but it comes out a little too harsh.
“Look, I’m not trying to emasculate you. Quite the opposite. I’ll gladly ride shotgun.”
That little admission takes a minute to sink in. No, I can see she’s not trying to cut me down, unlike most of the other people in my life lately. In less than forty-eight hours she’s lit a fire under my ass that has me a bit hopeful, like there’s something out there other than a lifetime of disappointment and loneliness. A big part of me wants to get swept up in her enthusiasm and optimism. I’d be lying if I said the, uh, reward and punishment thing wasn’t a big motivator, too, but I’ve never looked forward to positive and negative reinforcement quite so much.
Still, a larger, more familiar part of me knows when she gets tired of this game we’re playing and takes whatever revenge she’s planning on her mama, she’ll disappear and I’ll slide right back into the black hole I’ve occupied for the last year. The only time I peeked out was when I met with Julianne, and look how that turned out. There’s not even a guarantee that once I get my shit together, she’ll be willing to give me a chance. Hell, she’ll be in Boston with Dave. The whole situation makes me bone-tired.
“Hey,” Heather says, nudging my side. “I see the storm clouds moving in. Cut it out. We’re going to have fun today.”