Don't Make Me Beautiful (8 page)

“Did she give it to you?
 
Did you see her?”

“Umm … no, not really.
 
She … she … she put it outside the door after I left, and I came back and got it.”

John sounds relieved when he responds.
Of course he does.
 
Now he knows he’s not going to be arrested.
 
And I’m not going to be free.
 
“Oh, okay.
 
Well, thanks for coming by to tell me.
 
High five, dude.”

“We’ll pay for the replacement.
 
Just give me the bill and I’ll take care of it,” says the boy’s father.

“Oh, you bet.
 
Just give me your address and I’ll send it over.”

“Fifty-eight Lodi.
 
Just one street over, the blue house.”

“Gotcha.
 
I’ll put it in your box tomorrow, maybe, if I can get someone out here.”

“Maybe your wife already took care of it,” says the stranger.
 
The tone of his voice is weird, like he’s testing John or something.
 
Nicole shakes off the sensation, knowing she’s just imagining it.
 
Strangers don’t care about what happens behind closed doors, and John is very careful to be quiet with what he does.
 
He can be so damn friendly when he wants to be.

“Nah … her?
 
She can barely tie her own shoelaces.
 
Listen, thanks, man.
 
Take care.
 
I gotta go.”

“Yeah, sure.
 
Take care.
 
Come on, Liam.”

The door shuts and no sounds come to Nicole from the front of the house.
 
She walks slowly backwards, trying to put as much distance between her and the front door as possible.

“Nicole.”

His voice comes out of the darkening hallway.
 
It’s like a demon calling her to her grave, sending chills up her spine.
 
In her mind flashes a vision of the tarp in the back yard.

She doesn’t answer.
 
Lowering herself quietly to the ground, she feigns sleep.

“Nicole, I know you can hear me.
 
Come out here.
Now.”

She closes her eyes and tries to drift off into nothingness.
 
Darkness, take me.
 
Take me!

His voice is close to her face now.
 
“Nicole, get off the fucking floor and come into the living room.
 
I want to talk to you.”

She turns her head and opens her eyes.
 
“What?”

He grabs her by the upper arm and jerks her to her feet.

She cries out with the pain.
 
“Please, John, don’t.”

“Shut up.”
 
Dragging her into the front room, he gestures to the window.
 
The curtains are drawn closed so there’s nothing to see.
 
“When were you going to tell me about that, huh?
 
Did you think I wouldn’t notice?”

She’s angry at how he talks to her, angry at the pain he’s causing her, and angry at the pain she knows he’s
going
to cause her, no matter how she reacts.
 
What’s the point in trying to get along?
 
In trying to keep him happy when he’ll never be happy with me?
 
Something snaps inside her and makes her ignore every survival instinct that has kept her alive until now.

“Well, you
didn’t
notice it now, did you, John?
 
A great big hole right in the middle of the front window and you didn’t notice it.
 
Guess you’re not as observant as you think you are.”

He slaps her hard enough to knock her to the floor.

“Get up,” he says, breathing like a bull, standing over her.
 
“Get the fuck up, right now.”

“No,” she says, kicking out at him weakly.
 
“Stay away from me.”
 
She realizes her mistake, but it’s too late.
 
She’s too weak to fight him off and now he’s more pissed than she’s ever seen him.

He grabs her by the hair and lifts her to her feet.

She dances on her toes to try and minimize the pain.
 
She feels some of her hair separating from her scalp.

“I know you’re not talking to me like that,” he growls in her face.
 
He’s keeping his voice down so no one will hear him out on the street.

“Shut up!” she screams, hoping someone will hear her.
 
“Shut up, shut up, shut
up!”

And that’s when the real beating begins. She falls unconscious when her face hits the corner of the coffee table.

Chapter Twelve

“I DON’T LIKE THAT MAN,” says Liam as they round the corner to their street.

“That’s not very nice,” says Brian in a low scolding tone, “why would you say something like that?”
 
As a parent, he can’t admit out loud that he felt the exact same way as soon as the guy started talking.

“Because he said that mean thing.
 
And his face was not nice.”

“What mean thing?”

“That his wife can’t tie her own shoelaces.
 
I can tie my shoelaces and I’m only six.
 
She’s a grown-up lady.”

“I think she’s really sick, honey.
 
That’s why he doesn’t want people to ring the doorbell.”

“She’s not sick.
 
She’s really, really ugly, but she’s not sick.
 
I saw her.”

Brian stops at their front door.
 
“That’s not very nice either, Liam. Not everyone is as pretty as your mom.”

“No, Dad.
 
You don’t get it.
 
She’s not like a real person.
 
She’s like a monster.
 
Very, very ugly and scary.”
 
Liam’s eyes are as big as saucers.
 
“I fibbed, Dad.
 
I feel really bad again.”
 
His face crumples and tears track down his cheeks.

Brian crouches down and looks his son in the eye, resting his hands lightly on his upper arms.
 
“Tell me.”

“You told me not to lie, but when he asked me if I saw her, I fibbed a little.”

“You told him you didn’t see her.”

Liam nods.
 
“But I did.
 
I did see her.
 
I saw her and she was scary.
 
I was going to tell him, but he was really mad and I didn’t want to make him madder.”

Brian nods slowly, drawing his son in for a hug.
 
“I know what you mean.
 
He was kind of intense.”

“What does that mean?” Liam asks over his father’s shoulder.

Brian kisses his son on the side of the head and then stands, guiding the boy inside.
 
“It just means I think the guy has a lot on his mind taking care of his sick wife.”

“I told you, she’s not sick, Dad.
 
She’s just really ugly.”
 
Liam moves through the kitchen and down the hallway.
 
“I’m going to get my board game out so we can play, okay?”

“Get your PJs on first!” Brian shouts at his son’s retreating form, his mind on the neighbors.
 
Everything Liam told him before their visit and all the things he’s seen and heard since are really bugging him.
 
Brian was fully prepared to accept the fact that a young guy was taking care of a terminally ill wife around the corner; it’s tragic, but that kind of thing happens.
 
But something about the guy seemed … off.
 
He sure didn’t act like a loving spouse taking care of a dying girl.
 
There was a mean streak there, as if he’s one of those guys who gets in bar fights all the time, just for the fun of it.

“Are you ready to lose your shirt, Dad?” Liam asks, putting the board game down on the kitchen table.
 
“Because I’m feeling lucky tonight.”

“Yeah, I’m ready,” Brian says, joining his son at the table.
 
Try as he might, though, he cannot concentrate on the game and he does lose his shirt.
 
Literally.
 
Liam demands his father’s t-shirt as his forfeit prize and uses it as his pajamas that night, leaving the Spider Man ones he’d put on earlier on the kitchen floor.

An hour later, Brian puts his son to bed and two hours after that falls asleep wondering about the ugly lady who lives around the corner.
 
The one his son calls The Monster.

Chapter Thirteen

LIAM’S MOTHER REVERSES OUT OF the driveway, their young son strapped into the back seat and waving like a maniac out his window.
 
“Bye, Dad!
 
See ya later!”

“Bye, Li-Li!
 
See ya Wednesday!”

“I’ll bring him back before school on Wednesday,” his ex-wife says.
 
“I have early meetings.”

“Sounds good,” says Brian, still waving to his son.
 
He waits until he’s out of Liam’s sight before he puts his hand down.
 
It’s nice to be alone for a few days, but he already feels the pangs of missing his child creeping in.

Standing in the driveway, Brian considers his next move.
 
There’s an antique armoire in his workshop that needs a final coat of stain and then some clear-coat to protect it.
 
It took a week to repair and refinish, but he scheduled two. He could do something else if he wanted to…

The armoire can wait.
 
The issue of the monster lady is weighing too heavily on his mind to let it go.
 
Ignoring the warning bells going off in his head, he walks down the driveway and turns left to go down the street.

“What am I doing?” he mumbles under his breath.
 
“The guy obviously doesn’t like visitors.”
 
The fact that the guy also looks like a Bantam rooster spoiling for a fight is not making Brian’s misgivings any fewer.

“Hey there, Brian.
 
Going for a walk on this fine morning?”
 
Agnes, his next-door neighbor is out trimming her bushes again.
 
They don’t need trimming; they’re just a prop to give her a reason to be standing outside, waiting for passersby.

Brian waves.
 
“Yep.
 
Just getting some fresh air, I guess.
 
Seemed like a good idea.”

“Little Liam gone for the week?”

She must have seen him drive by.
 
She sees everything that happens on this street.
 
“Just for a few days.
 
He’ll be back on Wednesday.”
 
Brian keeps walking, although slower.
 
If he stops, he’ll be stuck there for an hour and probably end up in her kitchen having an iced tea.
 
She’s the nicest, most talkative neighbor he’s ever had.
 
He doesn’t usually mind it; in fact, he’s happy to indulge in a neighborly chat now and again - it’s why he moved to this area - but today, he’s on a mission and he doesn’t have time for gossip or an hour-long discussion about the upcoming weather and whether Mrs. Grandston down the street will ever start recycling.

“Tell him to stop by and see me when he gets home,” she says, poking her clippers vaguely in Brian’s direction.
 
“I bought some new cookies at the store, and I think he’s going to like them.
 
He’s my official cookie taster.”

“I’ll tell him.
 
He’ll be really happy to hear that.”

She waves with a gloved hand as he reaches the far side of her property line, and he waves back.

Maybe I should ask Agnes about the guy around the corner.
 
Brian’s not sure that Agnes knows anything beyond the business of those living on Lodi Street.
 
She stays pretty close to home, taking care of her husband who’s slowly going downhill with dementia.
 
Brian’s not looking forward to the day she’ll have to put him in a nursing home.
 
He has a feeling it will take the spark from her, and she’s fun just the way she is, even if she is a little nosy.

He rounds the corner and the house comes into view.
 
As he gets closer, he sees that the window is still broken, but now there’s a piece of cardboard taped over it.
 
The house is still, with no sign that anyone’s home.
 
The large black truck that was in the driveway last night isn’t there.
 
Maybe it’s in the garage.

Brian walks up to the porch, taking the steps slowly as he looks around.
 
He’s not sure what he’s searching for, but everything seems to be in order.

“What the hell am I doing here?” he whispers to himself.
 
What am I going to say if that guy comes to the door again?
 
I’ll ask him for the bill, that’s it.
 
Tell him I want to pay right away.
 
Be a good neighbor
.
 
Brian shakes his head at his ridiculous thoughts.
 
He already told the guy to leave the bill in his mailbox.
 
Showing up again and ringing the bell when the sign on it says not to feels almost like harassment.
 
He looks at the sign again, reading the heavy scrawl.

DO NOT RING BELL.
 
DO NOT KNOCK.
 
WE DON’T TAKE VISITORS.

Brian frowns.
 
He can’t get past the feeling that it’s just a weird thing to do, to put a sign up like that warning people away.
 
It’s like something he would have done as a kid on a clubhouse to keep other kids from discovering his secret hiding place.
 
It’s so ridiculous it almost begs people to discover whatever it is he’s keeping inside.