For A Good Time, Call... (22 page)

His
arm fell quickly, automatically. Shamefully. But then he looked at
his palm for a second before holding it up and out at me. There,
etched in the center of his palm, was a huge, raised scar in the
shape of a cross. And I realized with blinding clarity that I hadn't
been the only one to get punished that night when I was ten. When I
was carved into. I didn't even remember Isaiah crying out or coming
in bloody. But I had been slipping in and out of consciousness that
night and then in and out of hallucinations from an infection fever
for the week following.

“He
wanted to make sure I saw God anytime I even thought about...”

He
couldn't even say the word. That was how much of an influence our
father still had on him. “Masturbated,” I supplied and he
jerked back, wincing slightly. “That's the word,” I said.
“Masturbating. And it isn't bad and wrong and sinful,” I
said, then waved a hand out toward the dining room table. “In
fact... I left you a present there,” I said and watched as he
slowly walked over and saw the naked woman, her large breasts soft
and fleshy, her leg propped up on a chair to the side Captain Morgan
style so you could see right to her naughty bits. Isaiah's breath
hissed out of his mouth and he slowly sat down, his arms resting on
the table and unable to look away. “When you decide to leave
all this shit behind,” I said. “and you want to know more
about real life, you can contact me. Okay? I can ease you into it so
you don't get overwhelmed or, more likely, freak out the normal
people.”

He
looked up at me then, his green eyes intense. “Okay,” he
said.

“You
have my address,” I said and he nodded. “You can write.
Or even just show up. I'm almost always there.”

“Alright.
Thanks,” he said, nodding at me. “The funeral is going to
be the day after
tomorrow.
Grandmother is burying him in the plot on the other side of
Grandfather,” he told me, which went completely against my
father's wishes, but he was dead... he couldn't object. “Nine
in the morning.”

“Alright,
thanks. I'll see you around Isaiah,” I said, walking out the
door, the slam it made sounding somewhere deep in my soul.

I
was done. Finished. With all of the pain and the guilt. It was all
settled. I had said my peace to my father. I had found a piece of my
mother. And I had figured out that my brother, who had always seemed
spoiled and condescending toward me, had been almost as tortured as I
had. Which took away some of my anger at him. He would be alright. He
would need a few months to put himself together and figure out what
he wanted out of life. And then he would come to me. Some day. I was
sure of it.

Nineteen

In
the end, I had stayed for the funeral. It only felt right. I had
stood back from the ceremony that was already pitifully small, just
the priest and the distant relatives that were conned by family
obligation stood next to my grandmother and brother.

I
grabbed the next bus back to the city with a different kind of knot
in my stomach. Because he hadn't called. Well, that wasn't entirely
true. I had one missed call when I got back from the woods. Fucking
no reception out in the boonies. But there was no message and no
texts. I had called back three times but got nowhere and I couldn't
bring myself to leave a message.

If
he wanted to, he would call.

But
he didn't and I couldn't shake the awful feeling in my belly. I
needed to get back to the city as soon as possible. I needed to see
him. To feel him again.

The
bus ride felt five times longer on the way home as it did on the way
there. I sat silently, trying to concentrate on my mother's letters.
But Hunter's face kept invading my thoughts. I couldn't shake them so
I eventually gave up on the letters, tucking them safely back into my
suitcase and staring out the window the rest of the trip.

I
had to hold myself back from running into the building. It looked the
same as I left it: worn, old, shitty. But home. It was home. I let
myself into my apartment, dropping my things in the entryway and
going to make a pot of coffee. He would be there any minute. As soon
as he heard me there, he would come over and welcome me home.
Preferably with hard, punishing sex. The sexual tension I had built
up over the past few days had made me hot and antsy all the time.

When
I was done with my second cup of coffee and I still hadn't heard from
him, I went about putting my things away, taking a long hot shower,
primping myself up to look my best for him. I slipped into a bright
blue thong... and nothing else.

And
waited. And waited. And waited.

Before
I knew it, night was coming down fast and I still hadn't seen him. I
tried not to freak out. He was probably out. Maybe he had booked
extra work the time when he thought I would be away so he could take
me to bed for a week straight when I got back. Maybe that was the
plan. In which case, I couldn't be mad. I hadn't even told him I was
on my way back.

I
threw a shirt on and curled up in front of the television. But sleep
wouldn't come. Whatever hiatus I had from the bad thoughts and
nightmares I had had while back in my hometown, and around Hunter was
gone.

My
thigh was driving me crazy. The itchiness meant I was healing.
Physically. Scabbing over. The thing I never realized about cutting
was the addiction connected to it. Especially for someone who already
struggled with addictive issues. Your body gets used to that rush of
endorphins. It craves them. It needs them to deal with the bad
sensations.

But
I didn't want to cut into myself anymore. I wanted to heal. I wanted
to feel better, to treat myself better. I didn't want Hunter to have
to find me on the floor in a puddle of my own blood again. I didn't
want to have to wake up and realize I could have killed myself
without even meaning to. I didn't want that life anymore.

I
got up off the couch, slipping into workout clothes and going into
the basement to run.
It would
help. It would give me a surge of endorphins that my body needed. It
would exhaust me. And then I could sleep.

Tomorrow
I would see Hunter. I half expected to be woken up by the sound of
his hammer slamming against my wall. Because that would be a fitting
welcome home by him. It was exactly what I thought he would do.

I
showered, slid on a different thong, this one red and pulled out my
mom's letters. It was still dark out. And I was having trouble even
thinking about going to sleep.

Fiona,

Not
all men are bad. I want you to know that. I realize the only male
presence you have had in your life is your father and that he has
been your only example of manhood. And I wish I could have changed
that for you. I wish there were someone else, anyone else, you could
have met to show you. To prove to you that there are good men out
there. There are men who are kind and sweet, full of love words
instead of hate, men who would never think about raising their hands
to you in anger.

Maybe
you are wondering how I know that. Knowing at this point how my
father treated me. Knowing how my husband treated me.

But
there was a time... when I was seventeen, when I was still living at
home and enduring the punishments I was convinced I deserved... I met
a good man. My mother had convinced my father that I should volunteer
at the church for a year. For humility. To teach me to be selfless
for my future husband and children. I knew what the real plan was: to
show me the world outside. To show my the town so I would be familiar
with it when I eventually ran away.

The
church at that time was a revolving door of volunteers. Kids from the
catholic high school. Recently released convicts. Just plain good
people wanting to do good.

I
was there for four months. I was in the food pantry, organizing
donations when I heard shuffling behind me. And in walked a man, his
arms full of boxes from the truck. My teenage heart pounded at the
sight of him. He was older. In his late twenties with big, kind eyes.
He was a convict, Fiona. But he was a reformed man. He was sweet and
gentle with me. He made me see how good a man could be.

I
hope one day, darling, that you will know the touch of a man who
loves you. I pray you will know how wonderful that is. How rare and
beautiful. How godly. Even if it isn't within the union of marriage.
It isn't wrong. Nothing is more right.

So,
my precious girl, when I tell you that not all men are bad, I hope
you believe me. I hope you don't close them all out. I hope you give
yourself a chance to be loved.

• Mom
  

My
mother had been in love. With a convict nonetheless. So in love with
him that she was willing to ignore her father's orders and sleep with
him. I wanted to know more about him. What had he done to land in
prison? What happened to him? Were they separated because of her
marriage? The reality was... that was probably the case. One day she
was there, loving him. The next, she was dragged away to live with my
father. Without having the opportunity to explain to the man she
loved. With no final words.

And
then she was thrown into an awful loveless marriage, forced to endure
the touch of a man who despised her but used her nonetheless.

That
was the life my mother had lived. My heart hurt in my chest at the
idea. Twenty years in a life you hated. Twenty years clinging to the
memory of an old love to get you through the drudgery. Twenty years
knowing that you would never, ever see him again. Twenty years of
constant heartbreak.

I
fell asleep a long time later, tossing and turning in fitful dreams.
I woke up past ten in the morning, feeling restless and moody.

My
phone rang suddenly, making my heart fly into my chest as I stumbled
through the house to grab it.

“Hello?”
I said into the receiver, sounding way too eager.

“Get
on your knees,” a voice said. Familiar, but not who I had
wanted to hear.

There
was a sinking feeling in my belly as I reached for the closest
phallic-shaped object I could stick in my mouth for this. Which ended
up being a wine bottle I had never gotten around to recycling.

“Yes,
sir,” I said, falling easily into the role. I could do this. I
could throw myself into work.

“Open
your mouth and stick your tongue out you dirty little slut,” he
growled. This wasn't one of the doms who got me a little warmed up.
This one made me think of cruelty and debasement. But he was a paying
customer and a regular.

I
took three calls, showered, changed into yet another thong. Pink this
time. I dressed in a simple gray t-shirt dress, grabbed my keys, and
went next door.

Because
at this point, I was getting worried. Maybe something had happened.
Maybe he was hurt or laying unconscious or god-knew what next door
just waiting for someone to come by. I chose not to think of the fact
that if he was hurt, he would yell.

I
knocked.

And
knocked.

And
knocked.

I
called his name. I told him to open up. I went from lighthearted and
flirtatious to downright frantic in a matter of minutes. When I
finally reached for the knob, I felt it turn, unlocked, in my hands.

I
paused. I don't know why. Fear or nervousness. But I paused for a
long time, feeling my heartbeat pound frantically in my chest,
throat, wrists.

Then
I stepped in and my legs gave out. Literally gave out. I dropped
numbly to my knees right there in the doorway, the backs of my feet
still in the hall.

Because
his entire apartment was cleaned out. The dining room set he had
made, the coffee table, the couch, the television. Everything. It was
all gone.

Hunter
was gone.

The
reality of that broke through the shock like a bolt of lighting, too
bright, too powerful to ignore. Hunter was gone. Not just for a
couple days. Or weeks. He was gone with the intention of never coming
back. He was gone forever.

I
placed my hands on the floor and pushed myself up, willing myself to
look. I walked toward the kitchen, looking in the cabinets and the
fridge. There was nothing. Not even a leftover box of baking soda in
the back of the fridge. I moved down the hallway to the bedroom. His
giant bed with all its comfortable sheets and blankets was gone. His
clothes and even the hangers were gone out of the closet.

I
stood there for a long time in the empty space the bed used to
occupy. I missed it. I
missed
the softness and the memories. I missed the sex I had learned I could
enjoy there. I missed the nights I was able to sleep there.

I
took a long, slow deep breath and walked back into the living room.
And that's when I saw it. Sitting right in front of the sliding
balcony doors so it could get light and heat. The cactus I had bought
him. I walked over to it, getting on the floor beside it, touching
the skull planter it was in.

Then
I was crying. The kind of crying you only do when you know you are
going to be unobserved: loud, ugly sobbing. I pulled my knees to my
chest and rested my forehead against them, my body shaking more with
each passing moment. It was a violent kind of breakdown that was
almost scary. Because I couldn't stop it. I couldn't fight it. I just
had to sit there and let it wash over me.