Flavor of the Month (10 page)

Her daddy’s grip left her ankle while he tried to get ahold of her arm. She used her last moment of freedom to kick out with both legs, succeeding in knocking him off balance. She got down off the car trunk and ran toward the trailer.

“Dean! Dean!” she screamed. “Help me, Dean, help.” Then her father was on her in a leap, forcing her to the ground.

“You little cunt! Jest like your mother. Slut! I’ll show you. Fuck every boy that comes walking by.” He wrenched her over, straddling her at her waist, then slapped her hard across the face, stunning her. She knew he would kill her now, or worse.

“Deannnnnn! Help meeeee!” she screamed as loud as she could, and, with that gigantic effort, slackened her body. He used the moment, and quickly had her skirt up and blouse ripped open, his body pressing the breath out of her lungs.

“The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want,” she began to pray. “He maketh me to lie down in green pastures.” It was going to happen, like she always knew it would. Like she’d always been afraid of. She closed her eyes and felt his rank breath against her face. She heard the sound of his fly being unzipped. “Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil,” she whispered.

She didn’t see the bat, or Dean holding it, or the arc it made before it connected with her father’s skull. But she heard the sickening crunch, felt him tumble off her, and heard her father’s last fluid gurgle. Not until she opened her eyes, managed to scramble up from the dirt, and saw him lying there, his blood spreading over the ground, did she realize he was lifeless. And she was glad.

She pulled down her skirt, looked at Dean, who now seemed paralyzed, then ran to Boyd. She didn’t have to touch him to know that the blow from the baseball bat had killed him. His face was calm and serene, in spite of the mass of red-and-white pulp strewn on the seat of the car. He never knew what hit him.

She turned back to Dean and put her arms around him. “Dean, thank you. You saved my life. He would have killed me.”

Dean was still staring at the body of their father. Dean didn’t move, didn’t blink, didn’t even seem to hear her.

His stillness frightened Sharleen, forcing her to take command. “Dean, listen to me. He killed Boyd. Look, Dean.” She forced him to the driver’s side of the car. “He bashed in Boyd’s head with the baseball bat, Dean. He was going to kill me, too.” She stood very close to him, circling him with the warmth of her arms, reviving him, a frightened animal, with her closeness and the familiarity of her smell.

“You saved my life, Dean. Now, listen to me, and I’ll take care of both of us.”

He nodded, then looked at her. “He killed our puppy, Sharleen. He hit Momma. He was hurting you, Sharleen. He was hurting you.”

“I know. But I’m okay now. You have to be okay, too.”

He dropped his head on her shoulder and began to cry. “I’m okay, Sharleen. I’m okay. I didn’t want to do that. I didn’t. But I’ll never let anyone hurt you. Not ever.”

Mary Jane sat swirling her coffee cup in circles on the Formica table in the kitchen. Through the small, grimy window facing the airshaft, she was able to see that the sun was out only when she craned her neck with her cheek on the pane. She took a spoonful of plain yogurt, wishing it had strawberry preserves in it, then pushed the container away.

Holding the mug in both hands and blowing across the top, she sipped mindlessly, and stiffened as she heard Sam in the next room: he often mumbled in his sleep, and now he cried out, then sighed deeply. She listened as he coughed once, then heard the bed creak as he turned over.

Mary Jane relaxed in relief. I can’t talk to him yet, she thought. I’ve got to figure out last night first. What to say. How to say it. Where to draw the line, the line she would have to draw to preserve her self-respect. He really hurt me, she thought. And he did it in front of Molly and Neil and Chuck. In front of all of them.

As always, she found herself backing off from the confrontation, beginning to formulate excuses. Well, they
had
been going through a hard time lately. Guilt, shame, and anger—now, there was a nice pot of emotions to stew in. And though they’d talked about it—endlessly, it seemed—there was really nothing that could be changed. Sam had to take this shot and do the movie, she’d feel lost out there, and neither of them could force Hollywood to change. She just couldn’t stand the thought of being without him.

But she couldn’t stand the thought of going with him as nothing more than his unemployed girlfriend, either.

She knew he was angry at her for that—for not wanting to go. For abandoning him when he was so nervous about his first film. Maybe
that
was why he’d staged that humiliation last night. To “get her back” for not coming with him to L.A. Mary Jane shook her head. Whatever the reason, he was way out of line.

But perhaps it was more. Wasn’t it Freud who’d said there were no jokes? Maybe the gag last night was Sam’s way of transforming her. Maybe he wanted someone who looked like Bethanie Lake. Or maybe he wanted Bethanie herself; she certainly wanted him.

Mary Jane got up, walked across the tiny kitchen, stood in the doorway to the narrow bedroom. Sam lay, his hair spread out on the pillow, his long arm over the side of the bed. Just looking at the long, lean arm, the bulge of the muscle above the elbow, the downy hair on the forearm, made her weak, gave her pleasure. With his dark, shoulder-length hair and tomahawk nose, he reminded her of a sleeping brave.

Since
Jack and Jill and Compromise
was sold, after she was passed over, it seemed as if Sam was angry—angry not at International Studios; not at Seymore LeVine, who had promised Mary Jane the role; but at Mary Jane herself. He couldn’t bear her grief—“moping,” he called it. He’d become impatient, easily irritated. And he took it out on everyone. On her, on Neil, on Molly, on everyone. The scene last night had just been his most extreme way of showing it.

So he was going out to L.A. Big deal, she told herself. It was only for one film,
his
script. Sam had always said he wasn’t interested in Hollywood—he was a Broadway gypsy, too. Maybe he was frightened about going. Still, it was no excuse for last night.

She sipped at her coffee and then sighed. Her mind kept running in circles, like a rat in a trap. Well, she felt trapped. Last night especially. She had lasted through the rehearsal, then avoided coffee with him and the others, come straight home, gone to bed, and pretended to be asleep when he came in, much, much later.

She picked up her coffee mug, pulled her old terrycloth bathrobe around herself, and went into the living room. She put a disk on the CD—a recording of the sounds of the rain forest—and sat in the recliner, closing her eyes. To the sounds of a brook and bird calls, Mary Jane took the deep breaths she had learned in yoga class. I can’t let this get out of hand, she thought. Not like the other times. I must be clear about what happened, and how I feel.

As always, she felt a part of herself wanting to let it go, to chalk last night up to his enthusiasm for the show, a momentary lapse of taste,
anything
, so long as she didn’t have to confront him. But the hurt had been so blatant. The looks of pity on Molly’s and Bethanie’s faces flashed again before her eyes. And again she thought, How could he? Tears began to sting her eyelids. No, she
had
to confront him.

Sam’s voice from the bedroom broke into her thoughts. “Any coffee, babe?”

“In the coffeepot,” she called back. Let him get his own fucking coffee, she thought. I’ve spoiled him by bringing his coffee to him in bed every morning. I’m so pathetically grateful for his attentions that I serve him like a faithful dog. Not today, she told herself, and she wiped the tears away quickly. Then a thought came to her. Maybe he would apologize. All on his own. Blame stress, blame jet lag. Give her a good, contrite act of repentance and save the day.

Sam came into the living room. “Can I get you a refill?” he asked. Oh, he knew he was in trouble. Otherwise he’d never have noticed her empty cup. As Sam placed his mug down on the scratched old coffee table in front of the Salvation Army sofa, she could feel his uneasiness. Well, at least he had the decency to feel some remorse. He reached over to lift her cup.

“No thanks. I don’t want any,” she told him. Sure, she told herself. Try a little passive aggression; that’s right up your alley.

She watched him attempt to be casual. Well, clearly there would be no apology; she would have to begin. She reminded herself not to lash out at him, to talk calmly about her feelings. She didn’t want this to deteriorate into a shouting match. She hated arguments. They’d had only a few, but those had been whoppers. Each time he slammed out the door, she feared she’d never see him again. She watched him now as he picked up the newspaper.

“Sam, I need to talk about last night.”

“What about last night?” His eyes didn’t leave yesterday’s
Post
, which, she noted, he was reading as if it were tomorrow’s.

“C’mon, Sam. About the magic act. Jesus, that was mean. You hurt me.”

Sam looked up, his face a blank. Oh, Jesus, she thought, not the little-boy-lost routine. “Hurt you? What are you talking about? What does hurt have to do with casting? I’m trying to do a show.”

Christ. He was defensive already. She sighed. Why did otherwise normal men find it impossible to admit they were wrong? Why did they have to get so blind and stubborn? “But to hold me up to ridicule and humiliation that way…that was so unnecessary. Were you
trying
to hurt me?”

Sam placed his mug down with a thud. “Now, wait a minute, Mary Jane. What I did was try to put together a skit for a show. It was a funny bit. If you don’t like your part, I’ll recast it. You’re blowing this all out of proportion.
I
didn’t humiliate you.”

She couldn’t believe that he was going to try and stonewall. It made her even more angry, as if he were ignoring an elephant in the room with them. “I was held up to ridicule because of my looks. Tell me that’s not what happened. And tell me it’s not humiliating.” His face remained blank. He’s not going to cop to this, she thought, a sick feeling in her stomach. And if he doesn’t, we’ll have to break up.

“Mary Jane, get a grip. I needed to cast a ‘Before’ and an ‘After.’ It was a classic old gag. And you were there, could do for the ‘Before.’ Hey, this is no discovery. You weren’t passed over for Jill because you resemble Michelle Pfeiffer.”

Mary Jane felt her stomach cramp—as if she’d been punched in the gut. Sam picked up the paper again. “I don’t want to have to take the rap for your feeling bad about your appearance. I’ve told you, you look fine to me. We’ve been through it a hundred times. Own up to your own feelings, and don’t project them onto me.” Sam got up and went to the kitchen. She heard him pour himself more coffee but could barely look up as he returned to his spot on the couch. She took a deep, shaky breath.

“I’m not
projecting
, Sam. I’m hurt. Everyone there last night either laughed at me or pitied me. And I can’t stand either.” But that was nothing compared with this. Compared with his pretending it hadn’t happened, and throwing the blame back on her. She felt her eyes fill, her throat close. She wouldn’t allow herself to cry. Not now.

Sam stood in the doorway, looking in at her. “You know your problem? You’re paranoid,” he said, and walked to the bedroom.

She got up and followed him. “Paranoid? What are you saying, Sam? That you
weren’t
insensitive? That I
wasn’t
hurt?” Mary Jane was raising her voice, her anger pushing back the lurking tears.

Sam turned to her, standing in the doorway, and looked up at the cracked plaster ceiling. “Okay, Mary Jane. Now you’re not paranoid.
Now
you’re getting hysterical. I can’t talk to you when you’re like this.” Calmly he pulled on a pair of socks and struggled into the black sweater that lay on a chair next to the bed. “I’m going out until you’ve cooled down.” He tucked his T-shirt into his jeans, and pushed into his cowboy boots. Grabbing his black leather jacket from the closet, he turned back to her. “And don’t play the misunderstood martyr, Mary Jane. That doesn’t work anymore.”

“Sam, don’t go. Not till we’ve sorted this out,” she said, her voice raised.

Sam strode to the door and put his hand on the knob. “It’s not my issue.
You
do the sorting. Then stop screaming like a banshee,” he told her.

“You bastard!” Mary Jane cried. “You always do this. How did it start out being a discussion about my
feelings
, and wind up with me being the shrew who chases you out of the house?”

“Maybe because I have feelings, too,” he said calmly.

“And you’re not understood here, so you’re going to take them to Bethanie, right?”

Sam stopped, stock-still, at the door, his hand still on the knob.

“That does it, Mary Jane. Now you’ve gone too far. You
are
a fucking paranoid.” He went through the door and slammed it behind him.

Mary Jane stared at the back of the chipped old fire door, the Fox police lock jerked out of its slot on the floor by the violence of Sam’s slam. “Oh, shit,” she wept, her voice too low for anyone else to hear.

Lila opened her eyes, straining to see the clock in the gloom of the heavily draped guest room. The small green number said 11:17. She squinted and saw the even smaller “
A
.
M
.” She couldn’t have known that, because the fabric over the windows shut out the light. The entire room was swathed in silk, and looked like some kind of tent from the Arabian Nights, complete with camel saddles and brass lamps.

She lay still, trying to get it together. The dream lurked behind her eyes. She strained for a moment to bring the images back, but could only feel the horror, so she willed the pictures away.

The days and nights had merged into one long searing burn, broken only by the blessed blackness of sleep. It was when she first moved her head that she realized the pillow was damp. She must have been crying in her sleep, she thought. She turned her head to avoid the clammy spot, as she raised her hand to her forehead. What day was it? Tuesday? Wednesday? How long had she been here?