So Special in Dayville Page 8

  “I’d like to know who else it could be?” Disembodied, the voice echoes down the zigzagging pathway. “But,” clicks become louder as, up around Crystal’s head, Darla Sue rounds a corner, “why are you using this escalator to hell?”

  “The elevator seems to be stuck on three.”

  The other woman spits in disgust. “Great! Now I gotta go all the way back up to phone the repairman!”

  “You can use our phone,” offers Crystal.

  Darla Sue, wincing from the pain in her feet, appears to consider this. “Nah,” she shakes her head, “thanks anyway. But they’ll probably keep me hanging on hold all afternoon. And I’d rather be near my . . . refreshments if that’s the case.”

  A thought strikes Crystal. “Oh! I just thought—what if someone’s stuck inside?!”

  “Then I hope their flask’s full, cause it’s likely to be stuck till morning!” The woman pauses as she begins rounding the landing to take her from view. “I’ve been meaning to ask—did you get an invite from someone called Lizzie, for a birthday party on five?”

  The girl drops her eyes. “Uh, yes. I think we did.”

  “It’s funny, you know, because I don’t remember any kids on five.”

  “Really? Well, I thought we’d drop in. You going?”

  “To a kid’s party?” Darla Sue snorts. “I don’t think so. I just wrote a note saying we were going to be out of town.”

  “Really? Where’re you going?”

  The older woman grunts, catching her breath, before resuming her upward climb. “Nowhere . . . unfortunately. But I had to have some excuse.” She disappears up into the grayness of the upper stairwell. “Saying no might hurt someone’s feelings. It’s just polite to lie!”

  “Yeah,” says the girl to empty air, “I guess so.” She follows in Darla Sue’s path. But, judging by the clicks fading quickly, she guesses the older woman’s already ascended higher than Crystal’s fifth floor. She makes a mental note to buy a present for the birthday party mentioned by Darla Sue.

  Lizzie is one of the alternate personalities of Beth Phillips. Beth, herself, first came to the Eden Palace ten years before. Ajeno had tracked down the old woman, a former social worker, after the Garcias expelled him from their family. Beth was retired by then, but she still remembered Ajeno from when she’d worked for the city in children’s services.

  “Knew ’im as a boy,” Beth explained once to Crystal. “Also knew his mother, Maria, real well. I’d see her every time she’d come into our offices, trying to give him back to the city. So he thought I might be able to help when she kicked him out.” Her lips bunched together as the color rose in her cheeks. She avoided Crystal’s look of enquiry. “But I was having my own troubles by then. The meds weren’t keeping me straight like before, and I’d been asked to . . . well, to resign.”

  “No!” The young woman couldn’t keep exasperation from her voice. “Well, it just seems like they should’ve tried getting you some help.”

  Faded blue eyes traveled up the wall behind Crystal. “To be fair, you know, they . . . uh . . . probably would’ve, but one day, you see, I was counseling this anger-management client. He’d beat his wife up real bad. And, well, Eliza stepped in . . . I mean, I was lucky really. Not many people get off murder raps these days due to diminished capacity.”

  “Oh . . .” A shocked breath caught in Crystal’s throat.

  Fretting, Beth tried explaining, “It’s not like Eliza meant to kill ’im. She just miscalculated the force of a well-thrown stapler is all.” A tender smile stretched her lips. “My coworkers testified for me. Can you believe that? They told the judge flat-out how they’d all been tempted to do the very same thing! A couple of the girls even talked about the guns they’d bought or the knives they’d fantasized using. One even showed him a photo of a guillotine she’d built in her very own basement.” A bony hand lifted to her bosom. “Wasn’t that sweet? It touched me here, you know. That they were trying to help even after what I’d done.”

  Crystal, having regained her composure, reached across the table to pat Beth’s hand. “You didn’t do it, Beth. It was Eliza.”

  “Who?” The old woman’s fingers trembled beneath the girl’s hand.

  “Eliza,” said Crystal, raising her voice.

  “Oh.” Beth looked away and tried to smile. “Of course.”

  The girl tried to be comforting. “Now, we all know how Eliza struggles with her temper, especially in the case of an injustice.”

  “Damn straight,” shouted the old woman, rearing back in her chair. “It was a gross injustice!”

  “Is that you, Eliza?”

  “Are you blind? Who do you think it is?”

  Crystal asked Beth once about her condition. “I wasn’t aware that people having more than one personality could, you know, talk to themselves. The books in the school library explain that when one personality steps in, the others have to . . . go away.”

  A gentle snort came from the old woman. “Silly books written by doctors, I bet. What do they know about having more than one person inside you?”

  “So when Eliza’s here,” Crystal pointed around the room, “you still know what’s going on? I mean, what she’s saying and doing?”

  “Well . . . most of the time. Most of the time, when she takes over, she’s just too strong for me to do anything. Then it’s like riding a bus with someone else at the wheel.”

  “And when you all talk to each other?”

  “Huh, how do I explain this?” The old woman paused and licked her lips. “I guess then it’s like we’re sharing a microphone. Kinda like at a political debate where the candidates take turns.”

  ***

  Still breathing hard from her climb up five flights of stairs, Crystal finds Ajeno dwarfing a near-empty refrigerator. His mouth is hanging open in his contemplation. For a brief second, she’s unsure which opening to slam shut first.

  She opts for the one leaking Freon-cooled air, closing the refrigerator door firmly with a free hand. “Now, baby, we’ve talked about this. We open the icebox only after we know what we want. Right? Remember—that keeps our utility bill down.”

  “Buuuut,” whines Ajeno, reaching again for the fridge handle, “how do I know what’s inside if I don’t first look?”

  Crystal keeps her weight against the aluminum door. She points over her shoulder. “That’s why I’ve taped our grocery receipts to the door here.” Feet flattening against the floor to anchor her, she resists as Ajeno’s hand pulls on the door. Her feet start sliding across linoleum. “See? It lists everything I’ve bought in the last week, with the food we’ve eaten crossed out.”

  The fat man complains, “Reading’s too hard when I’m hungry.”

  “Here!” Crystal reaches over her shoulder to rip off the nearest receipt from the door, her feet still sliding. Now she puts all her weight into pushing the door backward. Ajeno’s large, meaty hand still holds the handle, though, and already has the door halfway open. “See, there’s your chicken pot pies, fried chicken casseroles, slabs of beef, and frozen French fries.” The girl feels the refrigerated air swirling up her blouse, raising goose bumps on her skin.

  Ajeno, his eyes wandering to the receipt, pauses. “Huh.” A tongue flashes out to lick his lips. “I’d forgotten ’bout the casseroles.” Unexpectedly, his hand releases the door handle. “You’re right, this list is good.”

  “Oh!” Crystal, jerked by her own weight, flies backward. Her head slams into the refrigerator door as it closes. Stunned and only semiconscious, she slides down the door, her butt stopping at the floor.

  Ajeno leans over her with a concerned expression. “Crystal. Hey, Crystal?”

  “Yes, baby?” she manages to whisper.

  He points at the receipt. “Is this four or five chicken pot pies?”

  Painfully, she tries focusing her eyes on the slip of paper. “Five.”

  “Oh, goody!” He turns away, licking his lips.

  Thirty minutes later, after she’s
applied yet another compress to the back of her skull, Crystal stands, facing the fat man. He hasn’t, she notices, changed out of his clothes to watch television. “Ajeno,” her voice is tentative, “have you ever thought that if we were . . . ‘together,’ then I might conceive a baby?” Her gaze goes pointedly to below his belt.

  The fat man drops his head to stare as well. Finally, he looks up with a doubtful tuck of his chin. “But we’re together all the time. Anyhow, there’s no baby in my pants, so I don’t see how staring at ’em helps.”

  She starts stroking the skin of his arms. “No, baby, you don’t understand. I mean if we were together like a man and woman, then . . .”

  “Then what?”

  “Then I might get pregnant.”

  Tucking his chin ever tighter, Ajeno pushes out the elastic waistband of his pants. He peers down into the dark recess; his head shakes, quick and definitive. “Nope! No baby down there.” The snap of elastic as his fingers let go makes him smile. “Whatcha wanna do instead?”

  Crystal’s feelings about sex are complicated. Her body tingles, hungering to be touched and ridden with the skill of a trick-riding rodeo clown. But against this primal, throbbing itch is her mind. She can’t forget. She can’t forget what happened. The last time she lay with a boy is imprinted behind her eyes. The breathtaking pleasures, the giddy heights. How it felt to fall.

  She and Ajeno have never actually had sex. At least with each other. Early in their courting, Ajeno tried explaining his hesitancy but failed when he started crying. So now, whenever she brings it up, he just tucks his triple chins and gazes at her doubtfully.

  But after three years, she feels justified in asking for more clarification. So Crystal takes him by the hand and leads him to the edge of the mattress, where they can both sit. “I want,” she says hesitatingly, “to talk about this. About . . . you know. I mean, we’ve lived together for three years, hon. It just seems like things should be progressing a little . . . faster.”

  Tears begin to puddle on Ajeno’s huge cheeks. “I don’t . . . it’s, uh.”

  “Baby,” soothes Crystal, “it’s okay. Just tell me what’s holding you back.”

  “Okay, okay.” Ajeno nods. “When I still lived back home, I, uh . . . had a girlfriend. She was my first.”

  The girl puts on a brave face. “And you loved her.”

  “Kinda. I mean, yeah, I did. She was real pretty.” His look turns eager. “Looked just like buttercream frosting on a birthday cake! Made me so hungry for...you know.” He glances at her quickly as his lips bunch up again into a pout.

  “Yeah, I know,” says Crystal quickly. “But then what? It ended badly?” She hates herself for hoping it did.

  “Kinda. I mean, she told me how she wanted me.” He lifts his eyes to the ceiling to avoid her gaze. “And I wanted . . . her.”

  Crystal’s heard enough. The likely scenario of boy meets girl, has sex, and gets dumped flashes through her brain. She tries to fold herself into a roll of his stomach fat. “Seriously, you don’t hafta explain. I understand, really! You loved her more than she did you. That’s right, isn’t it? Ah, baby, teenage love’s so powerful cause it’s the first time!”

  Worrying his bottom lip, Ajeno shakes his head shamefully. “But I lost control. My urges, you know. And I did wrong. Alejandro said so. He said he’d tell if it happened again.” He clasps his great arms around Crystal. “So I can’t let that happen with you.”

  Happily, Crystal lays her cheek against his belly. “You’re just so good to me. And we can wait for as long as you want.” She then playfully pushes against him. “But, mister, you might find that my appetite’s even bigger than yours! You might—” A rumble deep beneath her makes her pause. At first she’s startled, even a little afraid, thinking it a tornado about to obliterate them or a tsunami crashing down upon their heads. But a quick glance up at Ajeno settles her, even as her jaw drops open in shock. It’s the first time she’s ever seen him belly-laugh!

  Bang, bang, BANG! The sound of wood hitting their door makes her jump to her feet. Flinging the door open, she comes face-to-face with a small, predatory creature with creamy, inky skin. It’s their neighbor, Smu Chen. She’s standing in the open doorway, a baseball bat propped up on one shoulder. Her appearance is nothing new. Black leather boots. Just one long, black, leather glove on her left hand. The other hand, unblemished, noticeably naked. Her fondness for leather heightens her intimidation factor. Crystal wonders what she’s doing at their door.

  Usually Smu Chen likes to wait for her victims by the broken ice machine. The sight of her leaning against the battered ice machine, cradling her baseball bat, quickens the pace of most residents. Complaints have been made to management (i.e., Conrad), but whenever the security patrol (i.e., Darla Sue) shows up, Smu Chen’s nowhere to be found.

  “Can I help you?” asks Crystal politely.

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  In her best teacher-manner, Crystal tries to explain, “It’s a more polite way of asking ‘Why are you knocking on my door?’”

  “Why am I knocking on your door?”

  “Yes, that is what I’m asking.”

  Jutting her small chin in the air, Smu Chen looks as if she might spit in the girl’s face. “Bitch!” Turning on one leather heel, she struts away down the hall, laughing aggressively.

  Crystal sighs and shuts the door. Smu Chen’s threatening demeanor has always struck her as childish.

  More than once, the Chinese girl has leaned into Crystal, hissing, cobra-like, “You think you satisfy him?” Her delicate features will then twist into a scowl as she makes a spitting sound. “Never!” She’ll rear back. “What satisfies that hunk of fat is this.” The baseball bat, pushed into Crystal’s face, stops just short of her nose. A smile will then curve Smu Chen’s lips like a cat at mid-meal. “That and my sharp boot heels stomping his big . . . enormous . . . ass!”

  The first time this happened, Crystal had honestly tried to find a middle-ground of understanding between the two women. “But I’d really feel more comfortable,” she replied helpfully as Smu Chen sneered, “if you’d use ‘I’ statements. For example, you might say, ‘I feel the most capable of physically satisfying your fiancé’ or ‘I pride myself on knowing his sexual trigger points.’” She’d then smiled brightly at the other woman. “See how much better that sounds? It keeps the focus on yourself without making me feel personally attacked.”

  Smu Chen’s face had zoomed in to within an inch of Crystal’s. “But that’s what I’m doing, bitch! Are you so stupid that you don’t know a personal attack when you hear it?”

  “Oh!” Crystal’s pupils dilated momentarily as her eyes traveled over the other’s face. “How do you keep your pores so clean?”

  ***

  With a trembling hand, the mayor brushes his lapel clean of lint. He’s also trying his best to swallow another blood-pressure pill. Anything to calm the pulse pounding in his head. The car idles. He’s sitting in his exquisite BMW, near the on-ramp to the Byhalia Falls Bridge. Should he do it? Make a run for it? Flee Dayville’s death trap like all the others? Isn’t that why the Fed gave him a heads-up?

  He listens to the engine purring. The sound reminds him of how, when he was a kid, he’d first learned to drive on his grandfather’s old pickup truck. Its motor never purred, but rather roared like a lion in heat. All his girlfriends, for miles around, knew when he was on the prowl. They’d known whenever they heard that engine in the distance.

  He sighs now, gazing at the RPM gauge. When, he wonders, did engines go from being lions to kittens? Or tasteful European machines replace American ostentation? Or safety replace living-on-the-edge adventure? Or he become a fearful town administrator rather than a fearless, kick-ass leader?!

  Stuffing the medicine bottle back into his pocket, he grunts, fear morphing into pure testosterone-fueled adrenalin. This decision isn’t as hard as he’d thought. Making an illegal U-turn, he floors the accelerator. “Mabel!” he barks
into his cell phone. “Get your prettiest dress on. We’re gonna buy ourselves a new car. And it better damn well make some noise!”

  Chapter Five

  Jackman, wincing from a bad back, lifts up his arms to cars zooming past. To horns tooting. To people yelling. To factories belching carcinogens and to digital billboards promising better tomorrows. “YOU KNOW WHAT SANITY IS?” he yells into all of this. “I’ll tell ya. It’s being absolutely positive that this is all that’s real.”

  Crystal, having come downstairs with the trash, follows his gaze around the street. To the factory workers on break, squatting on the sidewalk. To the gaily dressed man working the hotdog stand. To half a dozen bicyclists delivering orders for the Chinese place on the corner, and even to a couple of heavily tattooed gang members sitting on their motorcycles across the street, peaceably chatting. She observes, “Kinda looks real, doesn’t it?”

  “About like an apple skin looks like an apple.” He whips out his stained handkerchief to blow his nose. Wiping it vigorously free of moisture, he continues, “But the skin’s just the outside, ain’t it? People don’t think the skin’s the apple. They think what’s under the skin’s the apple. What do they do with the skin? They just toss it out as trash, right?”

  “So . . .,” Crystal gestures to the scene, “This—the street, the hot-dog man, our apartment building, the Chinese place,” she clasps a hand to her chest, “. . . me—we’re not real?”

  Jackman shrugs, careful of his spine. “Six months ago, alone in my bed, I dreamed that a hand touched my arm. It felt just as real to me as I feel right now, standing here with you. But last night, I dreamed of someone taking me by the throat.” He claps a hand on her arm. “Was that real?” His gaze sweeps the street as if for enemies. “I guess if I wake up strangled tomorrow, then yeah, we’ll know it was real. And that maybe . . . just maybe, all this,” he sweeps out an arm, “is just sweaty shadows hiding what’s underneath.”