Novel

CHAPTER EIGHT

      Laine ran every night, becoming familiar with her neighborhood, noting the cracks and fissures in the broken sidewalk and roads with as much attention as she had given her own son when he was learning to walk. There was nothing in her nightly jogs that escaped her attention, nothing anywhere in her life lately that got away. She seemed primed for every noise, was nearly precognizant of what would happen next, what people would say. She had a heightened sense of awareness about her at times that evoked a supreme attention to sights and sounds, found herself readied and primed for whatever happened next.
      When she made toast every morning, she stopped herself before the toaster oven and stared at the burning rods inside, glowing an ember of such heat, she could feel its significance through the windowed-door. She listened to the hum of the machine, felt the vibration of it on the countertop. The smell of it--never enough to even be noticed, not as significant as a bagel, not nearly as delectable as a donut--did not escape her now. It brought nothing to mind, was in fact as plain as anything she could eat, but the smell of it made her feel alive. That she could smell it at all, made her feel alive. The sounds and sights of toast was enough now to make her realize that she could not look away from one single thing occurring in her life, that as insignificant as making toast seemed to be, it meant something in her life.
      She could not even comprehend the wonder of coffee. Each time she made it now, her head swirled with the thoughts of cold afternoons and Christmas mornings. She lingered over her cup first thing, even before she took a sip, and let the steam of it flow inside her like a poem. She often sat on the couch and looked out at the river, imagining the steam of the coffee the steam rising from a river boat and that first sip, that first sip of such wonder, made her close her eyes and roll her head back onto the couch, wrapped up inside the slow chugging momentum of a tall-stack riverboat sauntering away from the dock. Nothing was insignificant now.
      She spent the last few days of her vacation inside a solitary conviction, kept herself closed off from the world and its inhabitants. Their very existence was bothersome and distracting. She never answered the phone. The few phone calls that came in were either wrong numbers, Mel or Joie, or salesmen calling to offer her another great deal on another great piece of furniture.
      Her apartment was homey and warm. She could look into every room and find nothing out of place or awkward. She loved the fact that she could leave her house looking just this way, and it would be exactly as it was when she got back. Even when it was wrecked, she knew it would be the same when she came home. There were no surprises or disappointments inside this home. Everything was as it should be. Everything was exactly as it was.
      She was thinking about the number of days she had left before returning to work when she drifted off to sleep. In her dreams she had been running, but not jogging. Her running was staggered and unsteady. She was running from something, from someone. She stumbled into several men, each one old and haggard, breathing into her a grassy smell, like a poison from the pores of men with dead livers. They grabbed her and tossed her around, they stood over her and laughed. She found herself in the mud, covered with her crime and guilt, and they laughed, pointed at her, and threw dirt in her face, making her dirtier for all her self-importance.
      When she awoke, she felt nothing at all. It did not bother her that she had slept for thirteen hours, that the sun was now rising for morning, and that she had slept on the couch, not moving, and cramped into her age like a reminder of her limitations. She ached when she got up, but she slowly walked it off, her muscles letting go little by little all the pent-up frustrations and hopelessness.
      She had not realized she was going to see Michael until she was in her car and driving down the highway. She had not realized it even mattered to her, but she felt now that she had to at least say the words. "I've left you," she said out loud. Smiling at herself in the rear-view mirror, she repeated the words. "I've left you, you dickless wonder."
      At times her laughter boomed out of control, escaping from her like a swells of a river held too long behind sandbags. She noted the urgency and smiled from it. Yes, she thought, come out, come out. "I've left you, you needle-dick butt-fucker."
      Her car swerved several times until she was able to control herself, breathing lightly as if metering herself out for fear of losing it all at once. She had never laughed so hard.
      She found herself surprised to discover Michael still home, though it was several moments before he was expected to leave for work. She wondered vaguely why she had even come this far if she had had no hope of finding him at home--she had no interest in taking anything from the house, had no cares or concerns about the handling of whatever property she had in there. She was sure whatever items rightfully belonged to her inside were possibly poisoned by the thick stench of that emotional prison.
      She parked behind his car and got out, looking up and down the street as if a prowler about to break in. Quickly she glanced over at the Hartwell's house and noted that they had returned from their trip already, too early really to have enjoyed any part of California. She saw Mr. Hartwell banging around the garage and knew he'd be leaving soon. He did that; made announcements to the neighbors that he was outside his house and available for viewing.
      Laine had always ignored him before, but this time she purposely walked down the sidewalk, situated herself directly in front of his home and crossed her arms. He barely glanced up and immediately dismissed her, sneered and rolled his eyes at the insignificance of her presentation. But when she didn't back down, he looked again, possibly noting the stance of her, which seemed to suggest a challenge of sorts. She smiled at him, feeling the entire breadth of her hatred in the curve of her mouth.
      He stopped dead, the shock registering on his face without check, as if seeing someone come to life moments after he had killed them with his bare hands.
      She could see his fear settle in around him like a toxic aura, and guessed that the wrinkles in his forehead deepened, the grooves signaling a cause for alarm. She could feel the battle of his pride losing the war with the discomforting awareness that he no longer intimidated her.
      "Laine?"
      For a few moments she could only lock her eyes into his and telegraph her intent across the road and into his home, violating his pure and snobbish sanctuary.
      "Laine!"
      She had not noticed when Michael crept up, but there he stood, regarding her with an expression of relieved curiosity. "What are you doing here?"
      She hugged him quickly, never taking her eyes off Mr. Hartwell and his movements inside the garage. "I just came to talk a bit," she said and noticed his work clothes. "It's a bad time, I guess."
      "I was getting ready to go to work. Do you want to come inside?"
      "No," she said. "I just really came by to tell you I'm not coming home."
      "What?"
      "I'm not coming back, Michael."
      "Laine, let's go inside and talk about this."
      She smiled and shook her head. "No, I don't think so. There's really nothing to discuss."
      "What about discussing our marriage? What about our vows?"
      She became distracted when Mr. Hartwell closed his garage door and approached his car, briefcase in hand. "Um, well...if you really want to, I guess I could come back some other day."
      "What about now? I can call work."
      "No," she said and opened her own car door. "I'll call you and we can meet somewhere for dinner, how's that?"
      "Laine," Michael said and motioned the passenger-side window down. "I don't want you to go."
      "Okay," she said and put the car in reverse. "I'll talk to you later."
      "Laine!" he shouted after her.
      "I'll call you," she yelled back and pulled into the street behind Mr. Hartwell's car.
      She followed him for what seemed like days, navigating a respectable distance behind him, keeping well behind the car that traveled behind his, dropping back when she suspected she was being too obvious. She knew he worked downtown, probably close to where she worked, but nobody ever knew what he did. The neighborhood wives had their guesses, believing him to be some high-powered banker or an operative with the CIA. For all his fancy suits and expensive leather briefcases, Laine still wanted to believe he was a gas-station attendant.
      She smiled as she imagined getting gas there for the rest of her life, ordering him around, making him hop and jump for her, and then leaving him a nice shiny nickel for a tip, for being such a good boy. She could taste evil in her throat and swallowed it down, reveling in its delectable bitterness.
      She had to pay more attention once inside the city limits. She was still four car lengths back when she saw his silver BMW pull into a basement parking garage, noting that he held up a badge of some sorts to be granted admission. She parked across the street and sat in her car for a few minutes. On either side of the gate, there was a passageway that allowed anyone's entrance into the parking lot. The gate was nothing but a sentry to keep errant cars from entering.
      She crossed the street before she even knew what she was doing, wondering vaguely why she had not noticed such a large building in the middle of the city just blocks from where she worked and lived. It was certainly a government-looking building, gray and nondescript, its architecture designed in such a way as to blend in with the city's design. There was no main name on the building but three large numbers, 1-2-9, which she immediately memorized because it was Aaron's birthday. She looked up as she crossed the street and immediately thought of a tiered wedding cake, noting the increments of five floors getting smaller until the top, where it appeared there was one large office.
      Filing in through the parking garage and keeping step with several office employees, she found herself in the elevator blending into and becoming a part of the population of office drones, giving their lives to pursuits that had nothing to do with them, helping other people run the world and no doubt wondering about the last time, or the next time, they had had really good sex.
      She was wondering that herself, realizing that fucking Mel in the bathroom stall was the last time she had really done anything productive, when a voice said, "Can I help you?"
      A tall man in a dark suit stood outside the elevators and approached her with a serious look. "Can I see your identification badge?"
      "Me? Mine? Uh, no. I mean, I don't have one."
      He immediately radioed for assistance.
      "Come with me," he said and moved his arm out as direction.
      "I'm sorry," she stammered. "I really didn't know how to go about..."
      The elevator door opened and several security guards stepped out. She was relieved to find that Mr. Hartwell wasn't one of them, though she made a mental note to fantasize about that later on.
      "Didn't know how to go about?"
      "Yes," she said and smiled. "Uh, I want to rent space in this building, and there's no information on the outside."
      "Rent space for what?"
      "An office. I want to set up my own business."
      "For what kind of business?"
      "Well," she said, thinking quickly. "Real estate. I'm a real estate agent." She made a pretense of looking in her purse for a card. "I ran out of cards a few weeks ago and have been using ones I made on the computer. And now it looks like I'm out of those, too."
      "If you're a real-estate agent, how come you don't know anything about this building?"
      "Know anything?" she repeated, perplexed. "I...well, this is commercial. I'm in residential."
      "There is no space in this building."
      "No space?"
      The main security guard motioned for another officer. "Please escort her to the parking garage and make sure she leaves."
      "But is there a manager?" she asked quickly.
      "We will have you arrested for trespassing if you return," the guard said as the elevator doors closed.
      Her heart was beating wildly. "Wow. These guys have no sense of humor," she said out loud and then smiled. "I didn't mean you, of course."
      The officer smiled back. "It's a very secure building. You shouldn't have gotten as far as you did."
      "Well, you can just walk right in, ya know."
      "Yeah, Hartwell is trying to have that corrected. Something about handicapped ramps on either side of the garage entrance..."
      "Hartwell? Is he in maintenance or something?"
      The security guard laughed. "Maintenance? Are you kidding?"
      The elevator door opened but she made no move to leave. "Well, does he have an office in this building?"
      "An office?" he smiled. "Hartwell is the building."
      "What?"
      The security guard checked himself, realizing he had said too much and offered a tip of his hat.
      "I really need to find an office," she said urgently. "Is there any way for me to get a hold of this Mr. Hartwell?"
      "You could check one of his other buildings. He owns about eight around the city."
      "Eight buildings? But how would I get in touch with him?"
      "Well," he answered as the elevator door closed between them, "you're a real-estate agent, aren't you?"
      Over coffee with Mel later that morning Laine was pensive and distracted. She listened half-heartedly to a joke Mel was telling, and shook her head several times throughout the conversation when she suddenly tuned into the words. "What?"
      Mel smiled. "I said, 'Practically the only thing that will get a woman's attention these days is a hard, long fuck in a bathroom stall.'"
      "You said that?" she asked, smiling.
      "I did."
      "You prick."
      "So, what is it?" Mel asked.
      "What's what?"
      "What has taken you so far away?"
      She knew if she spoke one word about it, she might have to give more of it away than she wanted, but she needed information, and obtaining it through formal means might get her in deeper than she might want to go.
      She shifted uncomfortably in her seat. "What would you think if you found out a friend or a neighbor, perhaps, owed nine or ten buildings in the city?"
      "I'd think I was lucky to have such a friend, and I would think I was in the wrong neighborhood."
      "That's what I think too," she said absently, staring out the window for a long time. "Why would someone who owned ten buildings in the city live in Carsdale?"
      "That's your neighborhood."
      "Yes, I know. Why would someone really rich like that live on a middle-class street, among middle-class people?"
      Mel shrugged. "A miser, maybe? Someone who likes to squeeze the dollar until the eagle begs for mercy?"
      "No," Laine answered, shaking her head. "He's no miser. He likes flashy. He likes loud and shiny and bells and whistles. Not a miser at all."
      "Who?"
      "Our neighbor," Laine said. "Mine and Michael's...lives across the street."
      "Why the interest?"
      She didn't know. It was exciting to her to have something in which to focus her energies on, something which made her feel mysterious. But that interest for Mr. Hartwell had always been there, since the time of the grocery store humiliation. What could induce a person to so much hatred? What could scallop out a human being to such apathy that they would steal such a precious moment from a mother and child?
      For so long in her world she and Aaron had existed inside a bubble. The sanctuary of her living room was their entire universe and their laughter and tears were the people who lived there with them. Not even Michael broke through that. Day by day they interacted and mingled within that small circle and bonded into a mother-child entity that was amazing to behold. She could see them as if from another room, each touch and glance an essential part of their lives.
      All too quickly their lives branched out from the nursery, grew beyond the borders of the living room, and stretched out into the real world, to daycare and kindergarten, to elementary school and into the library and the skating rink. Foreigners and strange tongues were added to their culture, and though it was good and necessary for that to happen, she resented, on many occasions, the accommodations required to make the guests feel welcome.
      "Laine?"
      She looked up quickly and glanced around. A tear made a slow trek down the left side of her face, burning a trace of her resentment into her skin. She didn't wipe it away.
      Mel reached over with a napkin and gently touched her cheek. "Sometimes," she said gently, "you go places where I'm afraid to follow."
      "If you only knew."
      "Tell me."
      Laine hesitated. What could she tell her? Could she tell her about stealing money from the church? Could she tell her about seeing her husband fucking their neighbor? Could she tell her why she was in the house to begin with? And what could she say about the details from the convenience store? How would she say it? Oh yeah, the other night I held a gun or a store clerk's head, just to see what it felt like to be on the other side of the fucking trigger.
      "And what about you, Mel? There are places you go where I'm afraid to follow."
      "You should be," Mel said matter-of-factly.
      "Yes, I know."
      Mel titlted her head. "Laine, is there something going on that you need help with? Are you in trouble?"
      "No, I'm not in trouble."
      "Something, though. I feel something."
      Laine laughed. "You're an empath?"
      "Yes."
      Laine laughed again. "Really? Do tell."
      "What? You think my butchly nature negates such a power?"
      Laine stared at her. "Butchly nature?"
      "You obviously don't know enough about lesbian subcultures to even have this conversation."
      "Try me," Laine said.
      "Laine, it would take days. Let's just say I've always been very attuned to people's feelings and emotions. I can pick up what someone is feeling, even when they're exhibiting the exact opposite presentation. My mother told me I've always been like that, since I was like four or so."
      "And what do you pick up here?" Laine asked playfully, running a fingertip around the edge of her coffee cup. "You gettin' any vibes from me right now?" She stretched a bit and licked her lips, then lowered her head and gazed into Mel's face. She wanted her to feel her need, wanted her to feel the urgency of her desire.
      Mel smiled. "I think you're scared to death. I think you're getting into something that is carrying you away. I think you believe yourself to be stronger and wiser than you are, but also more stubborn than you've ever known...which is why this thing is going to drag you off and mutilate you before you even think about letting go."
      "Actually," Laine said, her voice catching slightly. "I was thinking about sex."
      "You didn't ask me to pick up on what you were thinking. You asked me to pick up on what you were feeling."
      "What I'm feeling...what I was think..." She stood up quickly and grabbed her purse. "I've gotta go. Lots to do, ya know. I'm going back to work Monday and that's," she said and looked at her watch, "ten-twenty a.m."
      "You're not making any sense."
      "And you're making too much," she said and walked off.
      At home, she readied herself for her nightly stake-out at Babylon's. It was getting to be a routine for her to leave the house at 5:00 p.m., run for forty-five minutes and then naturally find herself inside the alcove of the store across the street. She sometimes brought a paper and a cup of coffee and sat on the stoop as if she were a vendor of sorts, waiting for her next customer. And in a way, I am, she thought with a smile. My next customer...
      She had not seen Kelly and though she gave up hope sometimes of ever confronting her, it was enough for her to sit and watch the women and men entering the club. She loved the drag queens, loved the beauty and pride of them, but felt such pain from them, even through their outrageous laughter, felt it oozing somewhere under their sparkles and sequins, and saw it hovering about them like an aura of persecution and derision. At the same time, she did not pity them. It was hard to pity anyone who went to such lengths to be themselves when the rest of the world seemed to dart away and shy away from ever living their lives as the people they really were.
      Like I do, she thought. It was quite a task to intend to be exactly the person you were, especially when you didn't know who that was. But even harder it seemed, to break out of the patterns of behavior which kept you there. Her intentions were pure but her reactions were tainted. The response to anything seemed to be a knee-jerk imprisonment that was destined to keep her confined inside her own mind, that would keep her forever flailing about, buckling under the pressures of others, running away from her own dreams and desires, all to keep from looking really closely at the person looking back, all to keep from seeing the person there, as she really was. It was not hard for her to see her own faults. She could list them and number them, prioritize them and juggle them while balancing upside down on her nose, but to see her own beauty took a greater level of concentration than she was capable of at the time. Whatever beauty there was too small to be noticed, or her own vision was too impaired to see what was flaunting itself before her, and easily visible to everyone else.
      Or perhaps it was so immense, perhaps the beauty of her own person was so immense, the shine was too bright to look into.
      She didn't know how long she had been standing there considering the possibilities when she finally recognized that there was a knock on the door. She hurried and flung it open and found Mel standing there.
      "I was gonna call first," Mel began.
      "Don't be silly," Laine said and pulled her in. "You're right down the street. You can pop in anytime."
      "Well," Mel said, stepping in and looking around. "Uhm..."
      "What?"
      "Laine..."
      "What?" Laine repeated and looked around as well.
      "Doing a bit of shopping?" Mel asked.
      There were bags everywhere. Tags and ribbons, tissue paper and shoe boxes were flung from end to end. Clothes were draped over the couch, all tagged and creased with newness. The smell of department store crispness was prominent over the scent of coffee and strong enough to illicit the sensation that a store clerk might momentarily offer assistance.
      "Well," Laine said and laughed nervously. "I'm down like two sizes, ya know. I actually don't even know how much I weigh..."
      "How much money have you spent?"
      "How much..."
      "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have asked."
      "It's okay. Actually, I don't know. I just needed clothes."
      Mel was quiet as she figured the cost. Though she didn't know precisely the amount of women's clothing, she had a pretty good idea that she could estimate what a man or butch might pay for any item and then double it to come up with a correct estimate. Just from what she was seeing, she approximated about four-thousand dollars worth of clothing, accessories and footwear in Laine's living room. "Damn."
      "What's up?" Laine asked.
      "Um....oh! I brought over this CD for you. There's a song on it that reminds me of you and I thought you might like it."
      "Reminds you of me?"
      "Yeah," Mel said. "May I?" she asked and pointed towards the entertainment center.
      "Of course! Why such formality today? One might suspect you were planning to propose."
      Mel laughed. "I don't believe in marriage."
      "I don't either," Laine agreed.
      "But I do believe in fairies," Mel said and winked.
      She had not warned Laine about the music before playing it, and at once a single voice filled the room with the most incredible sound Laine had ever heard. It was an aria but from where was inconsequential. She sat down easily into her chair and closed her eyes and opened herself to receive it fully. Soon another Italian soprano joined the first in a marriage of such harmonic bliss, Laine felt she might not be able to handle the union, and placed a hand over her chest. Her heart beat a wild appreciation inside, and her hand tapped lightly against it like a soothing percussion.
      Music had always been a way for her to disappear inside herself without guilt, to commune with her deepest fears and most tender thoughts, and she stilled herself inside that moment, letting the voices tell their secrets without disturbing the melody.
      When she opened her eyes she found Mel sitting on the couch across from her, looking at her with eyes that telegraphed an erotic intention. She smiled, her head resting against the back of the chair, and looked out through half-closed lids with an expression of unmistakable invitation.
      Mel simply rose and then kneeled before her, spreading Laine's legs apart so she could move in closer, and then kissed her.
      Laine melted into it. She felt the promise of her happiness on her lips and heaved her desire by heavy breath, short spasms of breathless yearning, and swirled with the sensation into absolute physical surrender.
      They made love on the floor in the living room, found themselves bent over the countertop in the kitchen, and then, in the hallway, each feeding and being fed. They moved over and above each other, straddled and grinded, kissed until their lips were numb, and at one point, knocked a lamp over on the bedside table. Laine did not know how long she and Mel had made love, but the sunlight in the room had casually strolled across the bed, out the window, and into the distant West, and left Laine's sweaty body gasping for air in the dark.
      She had never known such attention before, and each time Mel put her mouth to her, she felt she could not go one more time, that there were no moans of delight to be had, there were no more spasms or begs or screams to be uttered. And then, there were.
      She had fallen asleep at one point looking at Mel's head resting on her stomach and dreamed nothing but clusters of black and purple hues. Hours had passed when she awoke, the room darker and cold, and she found Mel's tongue flickering about the inside contours of her thighs, moving upward towards the lush undergrove, still moist and sticky.
      There was nothing more for her to do in the world but to open herself up, spread herself wide with eager promise, and vibrate ecstasy into her lover's mouth like an urgent whisper.
      Still later, she awoke with a start and jumped out of bed and into her jogging clothes without realizing Mel had been asleep next to her.
      "Where ya going?" Mel asked suddenly.
      She froze and stared, as if Mel had just suddenly appeared, naked and disheveled, by reflex. "Where?"
      "Yeah," Mel said and opened her eyes fully.
      "Jogging."
      "Now?"
      "I jog every night."
      "At ten p.m.?"
      She wanted to back peddle, to back away from a discussion about her nightly habits. She wanted to climb back into bed with Mel, and found the fight against doing so completely awkward and uncomfortable.
      "What's the struggle?"
      Was it that apparent? She lurched forward a bit at being caught, but recovered quickly. "I have to jog tonight because of some muscle tightness. If I don't run, it'll get worse."
      "Laine," Mel said smiling. "I can work those muscles out for you."
      Laine laughed nervously. "Of course you can, but I need to run. I have to keep the habit going, or I'll slack off and stop. I'm just weak that way."
      "You're not weak at all, Laine, you're just..." she began and stopped as she watched Laine put on her sweat pants. "When did you buy those?"
      "These?" Laine said and looked down at her pants. "I got these when I moved in here, like a month ago."
      "Did you buy them big?"
      "What? No. I've lost some weight. I've been running a lot, Mel."
      Mel rose quickly and stepped into Laine's closet. "Is there something in here you brought from the house, when you left?"
      "No, all my clothes are new. I bought everything new when I moved here. You know that."
      "What about the clothes you had on that night?" Mel asked and began to snap the hangers to the side, squishing the clothes together at the end of the rack. "What about those? You had jogging clothes on that night too. I remember that. Where are they?"
      "What's wrong with you?" Laine asked, feeling worry creep up her spine. "It's not a big deal. I've lost some weight."
      "How much weight, Laine? Ya know, come to think of it, you never fucking eat. I never see you eat. Not even at the restaurant at lunch, that fruit plate and coffee you buy, you pick at that." She walked out of the room quickly and entered the kitchen.
      Laine quickly followed at the sound of the refrigerator door being opened. "I haven't gone grocery shopping yet, Mel. I have a list going."
      "It's completely empty. There's never been food in here?"
      "No, not really, but that's only because I've been eating out."
      "You eat out for dinner?"
      "Yeah, and take-out from the Chinese place downstairs."
      "Really?" Mel said and picked up the phone. "What's the number?"
      "To the Chinese place?"
      "Yeah, what's the number?"
      She stammered and took a step back. "I usually just go down there and..."
      "BULLSHIT!" Mel screamed and slammed the phone down. "You haven't been eating a fucking thing. You pick at lunch every day at my restaurant and then what? You eat a fucking cracker or a piece of bread?" She slammed through the cabinets. "There's no food in here either except a bag of pretzels and fucking poptarts!"
      "I haven't had much of an appetite," she began.
      Mel punched her fist through Laine's pantry door. She stepped in closely and pressed her body against Laine's, holding her hostage against the empty shelves. "You're not eating. You run about forty minutes a night. You can't be getting much sleep either. I venture to say you've lost about thirty or forty pounds since I met you. And all of that adds up to something pretty fucking wrong, if you ask me."
      "I didn't," Laine whispered, her head bowed, her submission overwhelming her body language against her will. "I didn't ask you."
      She could feel Mel's body tense, feel her leg muscles bulge against her own, and could smell the caustic scent of Mel's anger like sulfur lingering in the air after a match had been struck.
      "You do not want to fuck with me, Laine."
      "I know," she whispered.
      "You do not want the business end of this anger, Laine."
      Laine shook her head and whispered, "That is for your slave."
      For a moment, their silence became the essence of the empty pantry, accentuating their heavy breaths like small gusts of wind against the smooth surface of the shelves, heaving chimes up and down the slats of the pantry doors, and swaying the metal-tipped string that hung from the high ceiling like an emotional metronome. Their standoff was so significant, it was as if an apparition had taken shape in the small closet with them, and was awaiting, with poised pad and pen, to take the score of the next move.
      "My sister starved herself to death," Mel said, her voice catching. "We watched her fade away, dying right before our eyes, day after day for five fucking years."
      A small noise escaped Laine's throat, like an apology too fragile for a word, and was followed by an outpouring of emotion pitched forward by waves as big as mountains, which engulfed her and sent her tumbling to her knees, clutching Mel's waist as if taking her last breaths before losing grip of the only life preserver capable of keeping her afloat.
      They ended up sitting on the kitchen floor, Laine's head in Mel's lap, as Mel stroked Laine's hair in an upward sweep, away from her red, tear-stained face. In the bright kitchen light, Mel noticed that Laine's hair was not blonde as she had always thought, but was instead a pallet of blonde, brown, red and yellow, all blending together like a wheat field at sunset. At that moment, she looked to Mel a petrified goddess, perhaps astride a spirited colt, caught inside the essence of one absolute and significant moment in time, frozen inside a page of history after having triumphed over adversity, or after having slain an evil dragon.
      “What dragon are you fighting, Laine?” Mel whispered.
      Laine squeezed her eyes closed against the question.
      Later they found themselves at the grocery store. Laine had not wanted to go, but Mel insisted, and looking upon them, one might've thought the excursion payment of a community service, so uncomfortable and impatient did Laine look. Mel walked up and down the aisles, pulling the cart and Laine behind her, choosing ready-to-eat, easy items. She had done this before, and though the process was the same, she suspected that Laine was not anorexic, but too stressed and frustrated with life to bother about eating. "I know you won't cook," Mel said. "But you have a microwave and it takes nothing to pop this stuff in, Laine."
      Laine nodded. She could not take her mind away from her post, where she was sure Kelly would be alighting from her kidnap-vehicle on the one night she couldn't be there to confront her. She looked at her watch. It was nearly midnight. How wonderful would be her revenge to approach at midnight? And with a full moon? She could hear her steps echo across the pavement, slowing down for effect as she got closer, could see the glint of the .38's metal beneath the street lamp. She imagined the shocked look on Kelly's face, as she held the gun to her head and...
      "Laine?"
      "Yes?" she said quickly and gave her full attention. "That's good, I like noodles," she said and motioned at the box.
      "No," Mel said and tossed the box in the cart. "I was wondering why you were smiling."
      "I was smiling?"
      "Yes," Mel said, smiling back, believing Laine might've been thinking of the day's events in bed. "And it was quite evil."
      "Was it now?" Laine asked.
      "Yes, it was."
      Laine blushed her guilt easily. Silently she followed Mel around the store, making quick eye contact when necessary, stealing glances when Mel wasn't looking. Soon Laine felt eased and relaxed to be shopping with Mel, as if the task had added a dimension to their relationship by its very mundane nature. They strolled casually, as if down some small town lane, window shopping for overcoats or shoes. They could've been at the library or a bookstore, perusing shelves for the answer to self-esteem issues or guidance down a spiritual path. They could've been anywhere but in the grocery store when Kelly walked in.
      The appearance of her was so shocking to Laine that she stood statued at the end of the aisle, mouth open, looking through eyes shocked wide open and unblinking. Was it an apparition? Had she willed Kelly's appearance simply by thinking hard thoughts about killing her? Her whole heart beat a solid drum of apprehension that reverberated through her bones and clashed the neurons in her brain until they scattered, vibrating and numbed, flattened against the grooves and rendered dysfunctional. Her body tensed and stopped, her hand still holding a box of oat bran cereal in midair, as if offering a pose of endorsement.
      Mel had turned to guide her, accustomed already to her frequent daydreams by now, and stopped short, so alarmed by the appearance of Laine that she braced for whatever might come. She followed Laine's gaze towards the storefront, where she saw Kelly, stomping towards the customer service counter. A strange noise from Laine made her look back quickly, afraid she might be gagging, but found instead the noise coming from the cereal box, the contents being agitated by the shaking of Laine's hand. She took the box and placed it in the cart, put her arm around Laine's shoulder and took a step.
      There was no guiding her. Her body had grown taunt and resistant, like a stone of immeasurable fear, and tears, one after the other, raced down Laine's face noiselessly, silently escaping the enormity of emotion too fierce to contend.
      Laine shook from her center, from a deep place she had not known existed, and felt the expanse of her self, the source of her pain, the place to be stitched up, ooze a caustic awareness of her own limitations. She had not remembered Kelly being so tall, so wide in the shoulders. She had not remembered how intimidating she presented, just by her stature alone, that she could enter a room and command attention. Even walking into this store, Laine noted, Kelly had garnered the consideration of everyone within visual distance. Was it the way she had entered? Was there something in the way she appeared hurried, but directed, keenly aware of the task, and yet confident and patient enough to stand aside and let an old woman in a raincoat and matching hat pass by. Had she bowed? She had bowed her head to the old woman, with a slight smile, and stepped aside even though no further distance was needed to allow passage.
      Laine watched entranced as Kelly reached casually into her brown Pilot's jacket, her hand slipping seductively within the cracked leather, making no bungling movements, but producing a brown wallet as if by magic, as if a magician had fluidly uncovered an arrangement of silk flowers from beneath the smooth and unfettered surface of a lace handkerchief.
      Laine blinked in amazement, enthralled by the trick, and followed Kelly's steps to the counter. Kelly leaned patiently on the counter, awaiting service, and reminded Laine of that night, when she had probably dropped the drug into Laine's drink at precisely the same time she was telling her how beautiful she was. Laine expected that Kelly would just as casually remove a handgun from her jacket now and hold up the store, all while telling the cashier how she loved the color of her eyes.
      She had never known another person with such aloof entitlement. She watched the transaction from the spot where her feet had cemented, forcing her to reckon with the reality of her plan. She looked at Kelly now and realized that she would've never trusted her, not in her right mind, and saw now, just as others saw, that there was something in Kelly that commanded respect, demanded outright and utmost worship, and that would be willing to go to any lengths to enforce it and enslave it if it were not given freely.
      Just like my father, Laine thought suddenly and flinched.
      She realized a gun wouldn't stop Kelly. Perhaps it had been tried before. Perhaps many lovers and brothers and husbands had approached Kelly before and failed to extract the necessary revenge to satisfy the outrage.
      She watched Kelly leave the store, wanted to will her to glance over and see her standing there, but she never looked. She had no need to steal furtive glances about the store. She feared nothing.
      "C'mon," Mel said when Laine finally blinked. "Let's get going."
      They did not discuss it.
      Later on at home, Laine ate the soup and sandwich Mel prepared, not knowing by taste or smell the flavor or texture of what she ate, but ate obediently, as if being graded, and finished the entire meal, as if thoroughness counted. She sat back and closed her eyes, pushing thoughts out of her mind as fast as they entered, refusing to allow settlement of even the most mundane idea. Not even the shrill ring of the phone disturbed her task.
      "Hey Joie," Mel said, answering the phone when she realized Laine would not. "Good, good. How are you? No, she's falling asleep, I think. Doing a little better today. Yeah, she's going back to work Monday. That's the plan..."
      As she fell asleep listening to the sounds of Mel in the kitchen, she realized she would have to try a different approach. Confronting Kelly with a gun was not only fantasy, it would fail to elicit the reaction she wanted. Kelly's colossal conceit could stop a bullet by itself. And even if it did scare Kelly and drop her to her knees, what would it give Laine?
      She recalled the power she felt holding the gun to the clerk's head. After the initial thrill of having such control, what was there after that but a realization that it had been a supremacy enforced through artificial means. If he had taken the gun away, she would've been subjugated immediately, simply by the removal of the weapon, and not because she had been dethroned. She never had the power to begin with.
      As she fell asleep that night, thoughts floated inside her mind with the light and airiness of pussy-willows, too lazy and muddled to form much meaning, though they were large in number, and at one point engulfed her awareness with a sense of their meaning in number alone, and caused her to sit up quickly and hold her breath.
      What was hiding there?
      Somewhere close, ominous and foreboding, the dragon heaved a caustic breath across the dried and cracked grooves of her memory. Along the edges of her brain, in dark and ominous crevices where secrets huddled in masses of convoluted motivation, a vision appeared of such repulsive violation, she was screaming before she fully realized what she had seen.
      Her phone began to ring immediately and she snatched it up, fearing a neighbor had heard her cries and perhaps called a report to police, and she answered in an impatient manner in order to right the misconception, “Hello, hello, I’m fine.”
      “Hello?” said a man’s voice.
      “Yes?”
      “Laine Sanders?”
      “Who is this?”
      “This is Evendale State Hospital calling for Laine Sanders.”
      “This is Laine Sanders,” she said and held her breath.
      “Mrs. Sanders, there has been an urgent change in your mother’s condition and you are needed at the hospital right away.”
      “What?”
      “I am Dr. Nicolas, Dr. Singleton’s resident, and have been asked to inform you that you are needed at the hospital to discuss your mother’s condition.”
      “What happened?” she asked.
      “I’m not at liberty to divulge anything further, Mrs. Sanders. Please, we need to see you down here as soon as possible.”
      “I’ll be right there,” she said and looked at her watch. “I can be there by 3:00.”
      “I’ll meet you in the lobby,” he said and hung up.
      On her way out moments later, she stopped before the mirror, squinting deeply into the reflection, tracing her fingertip around the outline of her image. There were times when she almost recognized herself, when she could look and quickly, before the thoughts flooded through and saturated the awareness, she could see herself as she really was—a woman, strong and weak, good and bad, upright and crumbling, altogether mingled in and of herself, sharpening the focus of herself by blurring the edges. She smiled slowly, mentally drawing out her sword, shiny and bejeweled, tainted only of blood and battle, and left purposely, prepared to fight the fiercest dragon that had ever swept fire across her path.