Douse (Book One: At the Edge of a Hurricane) (16 page)

“I
prefer that.”

“They’re
not here anymore. We need to focus on us not them. Our wellbeing.”

“What
can we do? Can we even go back now? What if they’re staking the property
out. They could come back—”

“We
can retreat to my place then. We don’t have to go—”

Bishop
seizes my wrists. His grip hurts. I have to shake him to loosen him up.
“They could be watching us there. They could be stalking us now.”
He twists around, then twists back, eyes ablaze with panic.

“Don’t,”
I say. “Stay here. Stay put. We’re okay. They ran. They’re
not here.”

“File
the tips.”

“Okay,
okay. Let’s file those tips.”

Just
holding the phone calms him down. The idea of power, wrecking the two who did
us harm courses through him.

It
could possibly backfire entirely on us both. The two gamblers could rat us out
and end us. Moving definitely becomes a more and more pressing matter. We might
even have to abandon everything he
owns
.

“Are
you dialing?”

“I
am. I’m dialing, just let me. Here, put your head on my shoulder.”

Bishop
takes the wheel. He merges back on the boulevard and drives silently while
listening to my hushed phone conversation.

Whenever
I touch on sensitive details, I glance at him for approval. He either nods or
shakes but I am the conduit through which our story is relayed, and I take
liberties with those nods and shakes. Exact names and places blur. I’m
good at this, the blurring part. Names, places, dates, faces. Things change
rapidly if you’re not paying attention. You can manufacture any kind of
reality you want if that’s your game.

I
have to stop myself from revealing my knowledge of Spade. Explaining how I know
him would be too inconvenient and worrying for Bishop.

“It’s
done. I told. How angry will they be?”

“Very.”
Bishop’s been running around the same four corners, four boulevards
connected to one another by an intersection. He rounds the last of the four
corners, then pulls into a new street, a nicer, upscale neighborhood with
McMansions dotting the land. At the streets end is a gate, but a car passing
through allows us entry by simply following from behind.

“I
could’ve been safer.”

“If
you keep blaming yourself then you’re no better than me. I question if
I’m a good person and apparently you do too. You are. You’re not
bad. You’re good, Bishop. You’re a good man who got trapped.”

“Do
you forgive me?”

“As
if there’s something to be forgiven for.”

“I
feel like I need to atone.”

“If
you atone you’d be doing it for nothing.”

Bishop
swerves into a long driveway of white pavement. We stay idling in front of what
must be five-thousand square feet of property. Beautiful spires top the peaks
of the house. There must be a pool or Jacuzzi on back. The garden is trimmed
and eaves wet.

“It’s
a nice house,” I say. “Good property.”

“One
day. Not that being rich is important. But I bet it’s safer here than
anywhere else.”

“Can
you imagine living here though? It seems so different. Like a different species
lives here.”

“Does
it intimidate you?”

“Not
really. Nothing does anymore.”

“I
forgot.” Bishop spins the wheel. We wheel out the driveway in a slow arc,
crunching gravel under our weight. “Thanks,” he says. “I
don’t think I’ve thanked you all night. It’s been all
me.”

“You
don’t have to thank me for anything.”

“I
should for everything.”

“Don’t.
Just drive home. To my place.”

Except
for a soothing mumble or relaxing croon, we stay silent for the remainder of
the drive, maintaining composure.

If
not for supporting one another, we’d crack entirely. At my center grows
an unfathomable pain, suppressed but growing. Explosive and numbing. Panic.

We
reach the apartment complex. Bishop and I unbuckle ourselves with trepidation.

“Thank
you.”

Bishop
opens the diver’s door before I can reply. I sit, mulling over his
appreciation.

I
did save us. I guess.

Bishop
opens my door and helps me step out. The humidity clings to our skins and
saturates our clothes.

We
tread upstairs to my place, wet, haggard, unhinged.

And
in love. If they thought they could rend us apart—scare us into fighting
one another—then they miscalculated.

I
love Bishop. It might be a tenuous, small love, but the cultivation has begun,
and my commitment to him grows.

CHAPTER 29

“Sleep,”
I say.

“What
about you? Take care of yourself.” Bishop waves for me to join him in
bed, but I hover near the doorway, pushing my hand towards him.

“I’ll
be there. Let me brush my teeth.”

Bishop
flops backwards, fed up with my resistance. I shut off the lights and skip the
bathroom, finding my friends in the living room. They flutter about me.

“Are
you guys going to tell us now?” Caddy whispers. He raps on the table to
gain Piranha’s attention. She perks up and dashes to the kitchen.

“Right,”
she says, “I’ll make soup!”

“Girl,
girl, come here.” Caddy bear hugs me and drags my wilting body to the
couch. I convulse in his arms, unable to comprehend what had just happened. All
the trauma, all the incident, our struggle, our fight—they warp my hard
façade. I can play the tough girl but even the tough girl has to cry. I
do.

“What
happened? Come on, say something. Help us help you.”

“The
gambling.”

“It’s
gambling for Christ sakes, not child prostitution. Shades of gray?”

“No.”
I push Caddy away, keeping my sobs to mere squeaks. “I almost died.
It’s not shades of gray anymore, it’s more like shades of blood,
see how much you can you paint the walls with.”

“You’re
not making anything of anything. What’s going on?”

I
stand and pace the length of the couch and turn to face Caddy. “What can
I even do with this? He’s totally embroiled. We’re in
trouble.”

“Sit
down first, sit down.”

“I
need to pace. I need to feel myself working.” My feet stamp the carpet
with deep imprints. My fingers thrum the air as if grasping water. “I
want to help him. He’s not a bad guy at all. We’re not bad
people.”

“We’re
not, no,” Caddy says, watching Piranha add spice to a pot. “But
he’s running in with the wrong crowd, isn’t he?”

Caddy
blocks my path. I thump against his scrawny chest.

“You’re
stressed, I get it. But girl, info, info, info. America didn’t get strong
by being quiet all the time. They made shit loud and happening.”

Tears
work their way across my ducts. I avail myself the option of catharsis.

I
cry.

And
sob and weep, and you can use whatever term you want to call it, but I bawl.
Warm hands touch the small of my back. Piranha’s working her way down to
my waist, cooing with a bowl of soup sitting nearby. They sandwich me in their
love. Younger self would’ve thought platonic love to be a silly trait,
something only grade school girls did on the playground. But older me
understands the essence of platonic love—camaraderie and an audience.

I
stifle what sounds I can. Crying has always made me feel weak. Seeing the
heroines on television always weeping over nothing gave me second hand
embarrassment. What did they have to cry for? Why couldn’t they show
strong girls on TV that didn’t need to cry?

Now
the power of crying shows itself. The nasty hatred, the fear, the anxiety, the
love, the fight in me. They make their exit through my eyes. They drop to the
floor where I stamp them out.

“This
isn’t what was dreamed of.”

“You
wanted wedding bells, I know.”

“I
feel like I’ve fulfilled all my parent’s expectations of me.”

Caddy
blows a raspberry. “This? Is this what you’re crying about?”

“We
were robbed. Assaulted. Attacked.”

“Who?”
Piranha says.

“It’s
not just that. Spade was there too.”

“
Spade
?”
they say.

“The
Spooky Spade. The inventor of Spadeness. Stalker Spade. The guy…the guy
I’d slept with junior year. Remember chemistry? The forty percent DWF
rate? Spade our Savior?”

“Girl,
how’d he find you? You have a restraining order.”

“My
history. It just repeats.”

I
unlatch myself from Caddy and walk to the bed, myself, head aimed at the
pillows. I bury myself in the soft couch fabrics, hoping for relief. In a small
college town everybody knows who’s who along the grapevine, especially
those who don’t leave.

Slut,
slut, slut
.

Mom’s
voice rings out like a harpy’s cry. Slut, slut, slut. I proved her right
then—rebelling only served to spite the caricatures I’d built up.
They probably don’t even care about me anymore, or if they do, they
“care” in the way twisted, controlling parents care about their
kids—when they don’t have control.

Caddy
and Piranha flank me. An aura of comfort escapes from them. They surround and
create a space of love to enjoy.

“We’re
here,” Caddy says. “When you’re ready, you can say anything you
want. Boss us around. Make us run. We need to get what’s going on
though.”

I
choke off the last of my sobs. And then I weave together our story—the
dirty version. Everything.

CHAPTER 30

“Girl.
You called the police, right? Right?”

“I
did.”

“You
damn well should’ve beaten them like the douches they were.”

“I
wanted to.”

“They
are definitely not American. I can think of many other countries that would
make this behavior. It’s the culture.”

I
have to giggle a little at Piranha’s xenophobia. Any other context would
be grounds for calling her out, but I need the twisted humor to brighten my
perspective.

“It’s
not that. It’s just these events piling together and making me feel like
complete crap.”

“You
did what anybody would,” Caddy says. “Plus, that man over there
owes his life to you. You’re the rocking type, not even robbers can take
advantage of you. Feel good about that at least.”

“I
do. I did beat them up.”

“You’re
strong,” Piranha says.

“I
am, I guess.”

“Don’t
guess,” Caddy says. “You are and you need to internalize it. You
are amazing.”

“Amazing
grace! That’s you. You’re everybody’s grace. Caddy’s
speaking the right stuff here.”

I
sniffle. Snot drools out of my nose, and they both reach for napkins to help
sop up the mess. Are they telling me truths though? Is my brain the liar? Or
are the roles all reversed?

“Thank
you, guys. You don’t have to be at my side anymore. You can
go—”

“The
fuck.” Caddy dabs the napkin gently at my nose and tilts my head up. Piranha
swims at the edge of my peripheral vision, her hands like two pillars of steel,
jutting forth and stabilizing me. I could collapse and fly simultaneously. I
could melt and freeze, die and reborn. “You’re sleeping in my bed
tonight,” he says.

“I
want to sleep with him.”

“Whatever
you want, then. Just stop with the crazy downer talk. Else we’re going to
send you to a shrink and unravel that noise in your head.”

“I’m
not depressed. Just shocked. Everything’s hitting me. It’s all
coming together.”

“Let
her sleep, Caddy. Here, I’ll go make more soup.”

“She
hasn’t even eaten the first batch.”

“She
will!”

On
the table, steam rises out of a cup. Caddy rambles. Piranha cooks. The world
churns at hurricane speeds, gale forces pinning me, completely nullifying all
senses.

“Sleep
here on the couch if you want.”

“I
don’t…okay. I’ll rest.”

Caddy
helps press me against the couch. He disappears into the bedroom hall, then
reappears with a blanket flapping behind like a cape.

“My
superhero. The original guy.”

“Don’t
compliment me. You’re the important one.”

“I
don’t get why you praise me so much.”

“You’re
the reason why we can stay together.
Why we’re afloat.
Rent, Violet, rent.
You’re brains, beauty, and common sense
wrapped in one.” Caddy flattens the blankets at my sides, ensuring no
spaces for cold air to rush and assault my skin. He spoons in Piranha’s
soup, and then she returns, another boiling broth in a cup, ready to be served.

“Give
this to her. It’s medicine.”

“Medicine?
Did you put anything weird in it?”

“Don’t
question. Now’s not the time.”

“She’s
not sick.”

“Practically
yes. Look, she’s drinking it.”

I
lick my lips, an apparent show of appreciation. Piranha goads Caddy to ladle in
more, and I gulp the soup as if it were manna.

 “You
really didn’t have to,” I say.

“We
have to help you. I can’t not. Tonight,” she says, “I promise
to play the most soothing music I know of. If you want.”

I
could use another laugh. “Sure, play whatever you think will help. But
don’t play it too loud. My guy is nearby.”

Caddy
sighs. And Piranha stows herself in her room.

All
throughout the night, the low humming of a child singing the National Anthem
chimes through the house.

Not
even casual sex could rival friends supporting you in your time of need.

CHAPTER 31

Caddy’s
black eye bags rival my own. His though are rounder and plumper, like grapes
tied to runny eggs. 

As
if to make up for last night, or all nights, Piranha slaves over the stove. Warm
steam rises off a pot and suffuses the air with garlic and rosemary. Multiple
pots whistle. She darts between the oven, which has a pie baking, and the
refrigerator, where she plates four dashes of rice, cumin, red onions, and
tomatoes. No idea what she’s making, but I savor the thought.

“Is
she up?”

“Yeah,”
Caddy says. “She’s waking up. She’s here with us.”

“Where’s
her boyfriend?”

“I
think he’s still sleeping. I hope he didn’t wake up.”

“I
kept the volume low. You barely could hear it.”

Caddy
crosses his arms and legs. He cranes his neck towards my chest, eyes swinging
wildly to check out my chin and neck. “You’re okay?”

“Rough
night. But I slept totally decently.”

Caddy
whips out his vanity mirror again. He shows me the bruises around my
collarbone. One welt raises the skin around my ankle. I shimmy out of my jeans
just enough to see my waistline and abdomen. Slight redness, could turn purple
or yellow, but no real damage. Caddy angles the mirror behind my head, but I
pull his arm down.

“If
I was hurt, really hurt, I would’ve gone to the hospital. Sought care.
That stuff.”

“I
know you wouldn’t. You’d suck it up and wait till things got really
bad.”

Caddy
continues with his makeshift medical assessment. He gasps whenever he fines a
patch of skin not my natural tone.

“Those
are
acne
scars from puberty.”

“Oh.”
He ceases poking my neck.

“Breakfast
is almost ready. Tell me you’re ready?”

“I
am,” I say, “but where is Bishop?”

Caddy
glances at me, and I nudge my chin towards the bedrooms. “I’ll go
check on him,” he says.

“I
appreciate it,” I say, as he trudges away.

Bishop’s
in better condition than last night. No longer emotional or wrecked by events
prior, he manages to hug me and settle into the general chaos that is our
collective lifestyle. Piranha at the stove, rushing between the kitchen and her
laptop, switching on tracks and cooking. Caddy lording over me like a real Dad
would. Bishop adding in his two cents where relevant, commenting on the
décor and occasionally whispering comments about my friends.

“They’re
eccentric.”

“I’ve
managed five years out of both. After the third, I figured I’d keep them
out of comfort.”

“I’m
jealous. You’re like—” he hesitates “—family. Is
that a good word to use? I don’t mean it offensively.”

“We
are family.”

Never
have I exactly described the house triad as a family dynamic. But now, after
the robbery, it’s clear we act as one unit. Able to care for one another
when one is down and there to provide financial, emotional, and mental support.

“They’re
my anchors. Not having them will be the next major transition in my life, I
guess.”

“You’re
thinking about moving out too?”

“I’ve
shot it around in my head but never gone through. Everything’s always in
a flux. A beautiful, crazy flux.”

Piranha
calls us for breakfast, though it’s past noon so she corrects herself and
calls it American brunch.

“I
don’t think they have this in other countries,” she says. Caddy
sighs, though I opt out of poking fun. She has the right to be zany as hell if
she’s plugging along like a robot for us.

Piranha
even serves the plates and accepts no help to arrange the table. We eat,
somewhat silently, avoiding the trauma topics, simply assessing each
other’s status. I’m tired. Caddy’s tired. Piranha’s
tired. Bishop’s tired. But we sneak in smiles over our toast and stuff
our sorrows elsewhere.

A stereotypical all-American brunch means sunny,
sanguine behavior. So I smile the rest of the time at the table, just
appreciating my health and life.

Storms
clear but are ever looming. The next approaches. What do we do?

“I
really want to just say that you can’t go back.”

“It
would be safe if we hired some folks to go in and get out.”

“They
could’ve tracked us here.” I raise my legs onto the bed, making
space for Bishop. He hangs around the door entrance, bobbing his head into the
corridor, then shuts the door. “Your friends are dead,” he says.

“They
did a lot for us. Come sit. Get closer.”

Bishop
hooks his thumbs into his jean pockets. His feet
cwah-cwah
as he drags
them along the carpet.

“We
need to plan,” I say.

“Bet
you scared them off. They were two armed guys taken out by you.”

“Women
can fight.”

“But
it’s not the norm.” Bishop drops onto the bed and spreads apart his
arms, as if making a snow angel. “They were tough guys. I knew them.
Thought I did—I should say I knew their personas. Tough guy types.”

I
do know Spade’s persona though. And Bishop’s right. He would be one
to take deep offense at a girl nullifying his plot. But he’s wrong too:
Spade’s personality was always weak.

“They’ll
want revenge.”

“Maybe,”
Bishop says. “You don’t the police will help?”

“I’m
skeptical. But nobody predicted a robbery.” I scuttle closer to
Bishop’s face. “Or did you?”

“If
I did, I wouldn’t have started anything with you. I thought they were
clean, good guys. The one who had me would go to services with me. He sings.
Doesn’t look like that guy though.”

“I
bet they both look like
that
guy. Creepy. Outrageous attitudes.
Underneath the ski masks, they’re monsters.”

“Inside
too. Ugly in, ugly out.”

“Cowards.
I hate that. They ran and were all big and mighty coming in.”

“It’s
because the real big and mighty was already there.” Bishop jabs my
shoulder, and I grin. If everyone believes in me, then I should allow a modicum
of belief in myself.

 “You
should stay with us for now. We can recover what we can after waiting them out
a little. Then we can plot the next point in our map.”

“Anywhere
but here.”

“Literally.”

Bishop
closes his eyes. He shuts mine too, and I rest against him. We’re two
logs floating on a blanket river, casting wishes to the drywall ceiling above.

Plaster,
white plaster. Replace them with black, night blackness, and then add in stars,
an endless carpet of stars. I can wish to these imaginary stars. Pray, even.

“The
country would be beautiful this time of year.”

“Is
it?”

“Now
would be great for a road trip.”

“Alone
together?”

“Yes,”
Bishop whispers. His voice is a tether to the real world I wish to escape.
I’ve casted many wishes. As a child. As a teenager. Now as an adult.
It’s never wishes that changed reality though. It’s action.

“When
do you want to go?”

“What
are you planning there?”

“To
go. Let’s go. Countryside. Anywhere. Lead me. I’ll go with
you.”

“A
weekend.”

A
weekend—though I wish for more. Every weekend. All days.

“A
weekend,” I say. “We could clear our heads camping together or
something. Don’t even need a fancy hotel, just you.”

“You
don’t need me. I need you.”

“I
need you.”

“I
love you.”

The
stars vanish and the plaster ceiling takes its rightful, real place.
Bishop’s turned to me, his mouth crooked open, as if he wants to take
back what he’s said, stuffing those stilly overwrought emotions back into
his Pandora’s box.

“I
love you,” he says. “I don’t know what else you could do for
me. But if there’s anything I need to do, it’s to tell you,
plainly. I love you.”

I
fight the churning in my stomach. The terrific jolt of his speech writhes
throughout my intestines and strangles my vocal cords.

“You
too,” I say. “Bishop. I love you too.”

“I
will never know why.”

I
swing my hips over and tuck my legs at his sides. I pin his shoulders with my
hands and delicately nuzzle his chin with my forehead, upturning myself to land
three kisses on his nose. Then I plant one his mouth.

“Do
I have to show you?”

“You
can show and tell.”

“Okay.
But in kindergarten, I was a greedy girl. Always kept rambling. Everyone wanted
me to shut up.”

“Don’t.
Keep talking. Keep showing. Everything. We can explore everything
together.”

Everything.

Bishop
has everything I could ask for in a man.

“I
love you,” he says when the sex is over. “I’ve wanted to say
it but never found the right moment.”

“Don’t
hide your feelings. I’ve hid mine too, and it only hurts.”

Bishop
wraps his legs around mine. I tuck my arms underneath him. We’re one log
now, travelling along a stream, imaginary and real, under a canopy of drywall
and stars.