Goody Two Shoes (24 page)

Her back and ass were bare to the them now.  Just as she was gasping for air against the pillow, her head was forcibly turned to allow her to breathe.  They wanted her alive.

Desperately trying to see how many attackers there were, her eyes scanned frantically around; everything was deathly dark.  Suddenly a glow came over the room, a fiery red glow.  Every muscle in her body tensed, terrified beyond anything she had known.  She was trying to get as much information as she could under the circumstances.  Her eyes blinded by darkness she turned to her sense of smell for answers.  Besides the burning scent she picked up the smell of whiskey and cologne.  Her attackers were drunken men.

The flare burnt her skin with a deep scorching pain; Ellen’s entire body arched on the bed in an effort to escape from the fire pressing against her lower back.  She was screaming, fighting as best as she could against the hands held her to her bed.  They were going to burn her to death!  She had almost hoped for rape, but this was much worse.  Pain seared through her body, excruciating, burning, the smell of frying human skin filled the air of her room.  The iron poker was removed from her skin quickly; it had only lasted a few seconds.  She knew she’d been badly burned as she felt her skin still sizzling.  A face smelling strongly of Chanel came near her ear as she heard other steps leaving the room, “Ellen, you are a Tramp!”  The voice was almost familiar, definitely feminine; the perfume was worn by half the women in town.  But she had no doubt who voice belonged to.

Hands left her body, but the searing pain in her back wouldn’t allow her to move.  She lay in her bed sobbing in pain and humiliation as she heard her kitchen door slam.  Several car engines started and pulled away from the Island Retreat as Ellen lay in her bed crying.

Hours later, she tenderly climbed from her bed.  She turned on the tap in the bath tub to let it fill with cool water, struggling to see her injury in the mirror.  Catching her breath she realized that her burn was the size of a business card, just above the crack of her ass.  It was blaring red and stung like she had been assaulted by a thousand yellow jackets.  Her entire back was seething with the sting, but the burn was neatly held to one spot.  Suddenly she knew what had happened.  She had seen this in history books, in movies.  She’d been branded.

Easing into the cool water she could almost hear her skin crackle against the change in temperature.  The coolness stole the pain for a few moments, but her soul began to shiver within her.  Who would do this to her?  And why?  She knew both answers, but had been too bull headed to listen to the warnings.

She managed to call her office Monday morning, telling them she wouldn’t be in this week at all; she would send her column in on Friday by courier.  She was physically sick.  The pain spread to her entire body and she lay on her couch downstairs unable to face her bedroom again.  She’d found Evangeline’s old revolver and kept it close to her on the coffee table, and she’d scraped the floors moving heavy furniture in front of all the doors.  On Thursday, she managed to climb from the couch to her typewriter where she typed out her column.  It contained nothing but a menagerie of weddings, anniversaries and infant arrivals.

She was pouring herself a cup of coffee when the phone rang.  She crept across the kitchen and lifted the receiver from the wall.  “Yes?”

Her sister’s voice came through the phone, “Ellen? Are you okay?”

Not finding words or desire to tell her sister what had happened, she struggled to sound ill but on the mends.  “I’m fine Elise just a bad cold, why?”

“Oh, it’s nothing.  Just worried about you.  I ran into Cynthia Pringle.  Marcus told her that you called in sick the entire week!”

She seethed at the mention of Cynthia Pringle.  “Just a cold Elise, I swear.  How is everything with you?”

Her sister paused for silent consideration, but continued a moment later, “We’re fine.  Do you need me to bring you anything?  Soup?  We’d planned on bringing the kids out to the beach this weekend.  Did you remember that?”

Ellen thought for a moment, she did recall her sister telling her that she and Alan wanted the kids to spend one last Saturday on the beach before winter officially ended and the crowds started pouring back in.  “Yes I remember, see you Saturday then?”

“Well if you are sick we can do it another time.”

“No, no, I will be fine.  It’s just allergies, I’m sure.”

Ellen hung up the phone staring at it on the wall for a minute.  Something in her sister’s voice had seemed odd to her, as though she knew Ellen didn’t have a cold.

The answer at the moment is to drink heavily

Tara Townsend

~Tara Townsend

My Path to the Pole

30
^th
Anniversary

“Simmons?” I peek hesitantly around the door of our bedroom.  It’s Saturday morning.  I assumed he was playing golf, or at least on his way to the golf club.  That seemed to be where he spent the majority of his time lately.  At the club or working, there’s no in between.  But sometime last night, after reading, I began to consider the rules I’ve lived by all these years.  Life on the whole is about negotiating.  We negotiate with ourselves and others constantly until we find the answers we need.  It’s all a big mystery; it certainly has been for me at least.  I’ve reached a deal with my inner Goody you see.  And I’ve decided that I’m old and wise enough to set new limits for myself.  We can’t all go around so staunch in our beliefs that we aren’t truly living, just existing, bound by rules that no longer apply.  Take the word Vagina for an example.  Something about the word has a negative connotation.  As if it’s too brash and bold to be used any longer; too medical, too yucky.  But I use it now because of that reason, because it reminds me just how silly we’ve all become.  We have no idea where the negative connotation came from, we just don’t use it because we think it sounds embarrassing.  Although, that begs the question, is it more embarrassing to have a vagina or a pom-pom?  Or perhaps a tee-tee?  I don’t know where or why this word became so outrageous for us to use.  To me it reminds me of a foreign, far off land, like Virginia, and I like it.

Just like Patty had said that she was old enough for a tattoo now, I’ve decided that I’m old enough to stretch my legs a bit.  Get out and have some fun!  What’d she said?  It’s
play
time!  But the point here is to win my husband back, I must remember that.  I’d been having so much fun that I’ve forgotten my main mission.  He’s slowly becoming that roommate who you really don’t like, so you find yourself peeking around the corner of your bedroom door in hopes that they are already gone for the day so you can live in your house comfortably for a short time.  Only
this
time, my roommate is home and he answers me.

“In here, baby,” His deep voice comes from the kitchen but it’s his words that startle me more than the fact that he’s home at all.

Baby?  When’s the last time he called me baby?  Wow, that’s odd.  I slide a pair of shorts on beneath the tee shirt I’d slept in and wander across my house.  As I near the kitchen I notice the smells.  What is that bacon?  I speed up my trek as I realize he’s cooking in there.  Oh no!  There’d be a mess that’d take me all day long to clean.  I’d kind of hoped to spend this Saturday over at Patty’s, hanging out with the girls.  What in the world had possessed him to cook breakfast on a Saturday morning?  We haven’t done that in years.  Is the man starving to death?

But the kitchen isn’t in disarray, I pretend to head straight for the coffee maker but my eyes scan the room in detail for splatters, broken glass and small fires.  There’s no mess.  He leans over the kitchen sink washing an empty pot with a thin layer of burned grits stuck to the bottom.  I pour my coffee but watch him carefully, in case the alien inside him tries anything.  It’s not Simmons, that’s for sure.  My husband would never behave like this.

He turns from the sink with a wire scrubby in his hand, “Grab a seat.  I was starving when I woke up so decided to cook breakfast.”  And he begins carrying plates and platters from the kitchen island to the table.  Grits, eggs, toast and bacon.  Oh Lord, he’s getting ready to ask me for a divorce.  My knees buckle beneath me, but I find my way to the table and sit down quickly before I tumble onto the tile.  I’m being buttered up for slaughter.

“Here you go beautiful!” He places a plate, fork and knife on the table and sits down across from me.  I feel like I’m in the middle of a Twilight Zone episode, though I’d rather believe that a Tardis is parked on the back deck and this is a glimpse of us in the future.

My eyes shoot to the back deck.  There’s no Tardis there, but my stomach growls and breakfast looks amazing.  Might was well go down with a full tummy, I imagine, oddly starving.  I dig into the platters laden with food.  “So what’s this all about?” I ask ready to get on with the throat slashing… let’s get it over with.

But he’s in high spirits this morning, and he doesn’t wear the look of a man getting ready to leave his wife for some golf course bartendress.  He holds his hand up to cover his mouth, “Tara!  Don’t tell me you don’t know what today is?”

I chew toast lathered with Mrs. Sassard’s famous (and delicious) jelly, considering the date… Oh shit.  Just oh shit.  With the Club and everything I’d completely forgotten the date.  And it’s not just any day; it’s our Thirtieth Anniversary!

Thirty years has passed by since I was a skinny eighteen year old bride, standing in front of our church on a Saturday morning.  I was in love, and a strange voice was coming from between my thighs; the memory made me blush.  Suddenly I feel sad, sad that our marriage is so far gone that I’ve totally forgotten one of the most important days of our life.  “I ugh… oh… well… I guess I did forget,” There isn’t much I can do other than admit it, but do let me tell you that I feel like one hundred percent shit.  Did I mention I feel like shit?  Because I feel like saying it a thousand times so you’ll get my drift.

But his blue eyes glitter, “Well lucky for you, I didn’t forget!  I have a surprise for you!”

I smile with a mouth full of eggs.  Probably best not to talk right now.  Let him present me with my new crock pot and get this over with.  I have the great urge to hide; I’ve been so preoccupied with my own happiness, the new and improved Tara, that I’d forgotten the things that matter the most.  The man I always say doesn’t notice me, has been relegated to the back of my consciousness.  He looks excited and guilt forces me to indulge him.  After all, it’s the least I can do.

“You know how you’re always bitching about that old van?  Well, I decided you were right!”

What?  Wait?  He bought me a new car!
  I jump up grabbing a napkin to wipe my mouth as I race to the window.  He’s parting the blinds to look into the front driveway.  Oh that new Mercedes SLS is fine, but I’ve got my heart set on a restored 1967 Mustang Fastback… and I may or may not have left the listing for it up on his computer a few nights ago.  Well, a girl’s got to dream.  So which will it be?  I peer through the blinds like a kid on Christmas.  And there it is… my new car.

It’s the brand spanking newest model of the exact same van that’d carried our family around for the past seventeen years.  He’d gone wild and chosen the silver this time.  He leans down and kisses my forehead, “You like it, baby?”

I nod, tears are threatening to spill, and I don’t want that.  After all, he thinks he’s done something incredibly romantic, and that’s more of an effort than he’s made in over a year.  I should be grateful.  “It’s just beautiful Simmons.  Thank you so much!” And I reach around and hug his monstrous body tightly.  It’s the first time we’ve touched in almost a year.  Maybe there’s a prayer for us after all?  The scent of him takes me back to a time when we touched each other at every opportunity and I can’t shake the desire to pull him into me, kiss him with such passion that he carries me into the bedroom and plunges into me.

And he does lean down and press his lips to mine, but it’s only
my
desires that are fueled.  “Good, I’m glad you like it.  I figure you’ll want to take it over and show it off to Patty.  Hope you don’t mind I’m going over to the club while you do all that?”

I almost burst out laughing.  Can he really think that I’m itching to race over to Patty’s and pull my new van up beside her sexy sports car?  With a choke in my voice I manage, “Sure, that’s fine.  I can’t wait to show it to Patty!”  I need to get out of here before I laugh in his face.  Not a good plan for someone who desperately wants to save her marriage I suspect.