Dead End Job (6 page)

I turned. He grabbed my arm and swung me back around.

“Whoa. Whoa. Whoa,” he said. “Hold on. I wouldn't want you to do something you'll regret. Not again.”

“What are you talking about?!?”

“C'mon! You know we both did things in the past that we're not very proud of. That's why I'm here! To patch things up. I thought if we had a nice little dinner, just the two of us, we could put bygones behind us. You know, make up. Move on.”

He pulled me in close like he was going to kiss me. I turned my head and pushed him away. He held on.

I said, “Trust me! I haven't done anything I regret! I meant everything I said. Now let go of me!”

I punched him in the chest. He barely flinched. I kicked his shins. He just said, “Frances, calm down!”

I went nuts. I screamed. I kicked. I pushed. I pulled. I slapped him. I had to get away.

He hit me across the face. I couldn't believe how strong he was.

My head flew back. My glasses rammed into my nose. I was stunned. No one had ever hit me before.

I stopped struggling. I couldn't move.

“Sorry, Frances,” he said and rubbed my cheek with his fingertips. “All better now?”

He looked me right in the eye, as if he was really concerned. As if I'd had a seizure and he only hit me because he had to.

My arm hurt where he held it. It dawned on me that I'd have a bruise the next day.

I tried to smile back. I didn't want him to hit me again.

I swallowed and said, “Devin, you better go before Mr. Abdul gets here. I'm not allowed to let customers in the back room.”

“Did you forget?” He laughed. “Mr. Abdul's not coming back tonight! We're safe.”

I wondered how he knew that. How long had he been there? How much had he heard?

I tried something else.

“Leo will be here soon,” I said. “He gets jealous. He's a big guy.”

Devin stroked my hair. “You don't have to worry about him, Frances. He knows about us now. He won't be bothering you anymore.”

“But…but there'll be customers. I've got to be out front for the customers.” My voice was shaking and I could barely keep from crying.

“You're right!” Devin said. “I forgot about that!”

He led me back into the store. He had his arm around my waist like we were in love. He stank of sweat and too much aftershave.

He locked the door and flipped the sign to “Closed.”

“There,” he said. “Now we won't have to worry about customers either. I'm sure Mr. Abdul won't mind you closing up a little early, this being a special occasion and all.”

I could feel myself filling up with panic. It was like someone put it in a needle and shot it in my veins. I was losing control. And hope.

I looked out the window. A car drove by. I threw my free arm up and waved wildly. I screamed, “Help! Help!”

Devin switched off the lights. The car didn't even slow down.

“This is kind of nice,” he said, “being alone in the dark. Now, c'mon, Frances. Our dinner's getting cold.”

The only light in the store came from the Highway Buyway sign. It made Devin's face look almost green. It reminded me of a horror movie.

“You don't know how long I've waited for this moment,” he said.

He took me back into the stockroom.

Devin pulled up a box for me to sit on. He lit the candle and sat down opposite me, blocking the way into the store.

I thought of the bathroom window. I'd have to climb onto the back of the toilet, then wiggle out. I'd never be able to do it in time.

“You look beautiful,” he said. He didn't seem to notice that I was crying.

“Champagne, dahling?” he asked. I didn't answer. He pulled a bottle out from somewhere and poured us each a wineglass full.

“To our undying love!” He raised his glass. “C'mon, Frances.” He made me lift my glass. “To us!”

He threw his champagne back in one big gulp. I took a sip. It stung, and I knew he'd split my lip when he hit me.

He said, “I have to apologize to you.” For a second I thought there was a chance. I thought he might let me go.

But he just said, “I don't have much money since I turned down that record deal. A number of publishers are interested in my photographs, but until I decide which one I want to sign with, I'm going to be a little short of cash. I hope you'll understand.”

He put his hand on mine. I didn't pull it away. I just tightened up inside.

“You deserve more than this,” he said. “Some day I'll make sure you have it. Until then, will you accept this as a token of my love?”

He put a gift on the table. I just stared at it.

“Open it,” he said.

I didn't move.

“Open it!” he screamed. Before I could do anything, he grabbed it and tore the paper off. He was like a crazy man.

“Look, I am trying, Frances! What more can I do? Is this not good enough? Is that the problem?”

He slammed a full set of charcoal pencils on the table. The plates jumped and rattled.

“I know it's not a diamond ring! I apologized for that! But I thought you'd like it anyway!” He glared at me.

“I do like it!” I said. I was whimpering. I had my head down. I couldn't look at him. “I do. The pencils are beautiful…They're the best…They must have cost a lot. Thank you very much. ”

“I hope you'll draw something for me with them,” he said. When I looked up, he was smiling. “Now how about some food?”

I nodded. He began to carve the chicken. I realized he could kill me with that knife.

Or I could kill him.

“More champagne?” I said.

“Of course!”

I filled his glass. He took a big swig and began to carve again. I watched him as he sliced into the breast, cut off a leg.

“White or dark?” he said.

“You help yourself.” I smiled. “I'll get my own.”

“No, no, no,” he said. “You're my guest. White or dark?”

He filled my plate, then served himself. I suggested another toast.

“To your big publishing deal!” I said.

He smiled and tossed back his glass of champagne. I went to refill it. I wanted him drunk and sloppy.

He stopped me.

“No more for me, thanks. I don't want to miss a moment of our night together.” He kissed my hand. “I have big plans for us.”

He gave me a slow smile. My skin crawled. I sucked in my breath.

“Don't be nervous,” he said. “We'll take it easy.”

No, I thought, no. I'm not going to let that happen.

I lurched across the table. I tried to grab the carving knife, but he was faster. He got it first.

“Now, Frances,” he said.

That's what I was thinking too, only to me it sounded like “
Now
, Frances!” Go for it!

I grabbed the chicken carcass and flung it at his head. He ducked. I missed. But it gave me a couple of extra seconds to get away. I jumped over the table.

Or tried to anyway.

I really am a spaz. My back leg hit the box on the way past and everything went flying. Glasses smashed. The candle went out. Devin swore. He lunged at me.

He caught the back of my sweater. He slipped on the chicken grease and pulled us both down. I kicked him in the head. I got away.

I ran blindly into the store, sliding in my greasy shoes, knocking cans onto the floor, ramming into shelves. I fumbled for the phone. I picked up the receiver. I could feel Devin right behind me.

I dialed nine, one…

His hand slammed the phone down.

“I hoped it wouldn't come to this,” he said.

He brought the carving knife up to my throat.

He had my hair in one hand and the knife in the other. He was pulling me back to the stockroom. He was saying something to me, but I wasn't listening.

I was praying. Not to God. I don't know who that is. I was just praying. “Please help me. Please. Please. Please.” Over and over and over again. I was hoping somehow that Dad or Leo or Kyla or someone would pick up my radio waves and come get me. With
the knife to my throat, it was all I could do. Hope.

I wanted to believe it would work, but I'm not that stupid. No one was coming for me. Mr. Abdul was at the hospital. Dad was asleep in front of the TV. Leo was…I didn't know where Leo was. I just knew he wasn't coming for me.

Once I realized that, the weirdest thing happened. I felt almost calm. Not calm in a happy way, of course. But calm, like the way you feel when you realize there's nothing more you can do. I think the word for it is “resigned.”

I knew it was all over.

I thought about Devin. I realized I should have figured him out earlier. That story about Tom Orser? If I'd done the math, I'd have known he didn't have time to have all those kids. The recording deal? I just had to look at Devin's clothes to realize he didn't have any money. Us choosing exactly the same book? Yeah, right. He'd been in the library, spying on me. I bet he saw what book I was reading and then went looking for the file number.

I felt sad that I hadn't been smarter.

It seemed like such a waste, to die at seventeen.

I felt sad for my mother. We'd gone through some rough patches, but we were still really close. I knew she was excited about me going to art college. I was getting to do something she'd always wanted to do. Now neither of us would go.

I felt sad for my father. He'd blame himself. He didn't like me working alone at a convenience store out on the highway. He'd tried to stop me, but I'd won. We both knew he didn't make enough money to pay for my college education. Somebody had to.

I felt sad for my brother, too. I should have been nicer to him. He wasn't that bad. All fourteen-year-old boys are irritating. He couldn't help it. Now I was going to die and really screw up his life. With me dead, there was no way my parents would let him do anything. They'd watch him like a hawk. They'd worry about him all the time.

I even felt kind of sad for Kyla. She was going to be all alone. No one else in Lockeport really got what was so great about her.

Devin pushed me down on one of the cardboard boxes. My back was against the wall. He stuck the tip of the knife under my chin. I had to lift my head so it wouldn't cut me.

He was still talking, but now tears were rolling down his face.

“I wanted this to work out so badly,” he said. “We have the type of love that only comes along once in a lifetime, but you threw it away! Like it was a wad of Kleenex you blew your nose into. Like it was something stuck to the bottom of your shoe! And why? I asked myself that over and over. You used to feel the love between us. I saw it in your eyes, right from our first night together. Then Leo went and poisoned your mind against me.”

He turned the knife. I felt a little pinch and then something trickling down my neck. He gently wiped the blood away with his index finger and shook his head.

“I thought I could help you. I thought if I just gave it time. But you're too far gone. I can see that. I don't have any choice.”

He twisted up his face to stop crying. A groan came out of him as if he was pushing
something really heavy. Or like he was in pain.

“I'm sorry,” I said. Believe it or not, right then I did feel sorry for him. No one loved him. That was the only thing I knew for sure about his life.

“Sorry's not enough, Frances. I need more. I need to have you.”

“You can't have me,” I said. I wasn't screaming or mad or anything. I was just telling him the truth.

He nodded.

“Then I have to kill you,” he said.

It was that word. “Kill.” It did something to me. It was so much worse than “die.”

“I
have
to kill you,” he said again. “Then I'll have to kill myself. I can't live without you.”

He shrugged.

“At least that way we'll be together for all time.”

He smiled at me, like a guy just trying to make the best of a bad situation.

“Do you mind if I have another drink first?” he asked.

I shook my head, but not too much. The knife was still there. I realized I didn't want it cutting me.

“Before I die,” I said, “there's something I'd like to do.”

“What's that?” he said. He was struggling to pour the champagne with one hand.

“I'd like to draw your picture.”

I could tell he was surprised. He stopped pouring and looked at me.

I took as deep a breath as I could without moving the knife.

“You're very handsome,” I said. “And…and you've done so much in your short life. Music…Photography …”

He chewed on his lip and studied me. It's like he wanted to see right into me. I tried to make my eyes smile.

“I know things haven't gone well between the two of us. And…and maybe it has to end this way. But that doesn't mean you should just be forgotten. There should be something to remember you by. Like a portrait,” I said.
“I know you better than anybody else. I think I could capture what's special about you.”

He pulled the knife away, but he was still hesitating.

“There are a lot of murder-suicides these days,” I said. “We'd probably just be another. But if there were a hand-drawn portrait of the killer…by the victim…that would be different. The newspapers might really pick up on it.”

He tilted his head.

“Maybe the TV stations too. With your music background, it could even interest
Entertainment Tonight
.”

There was nothing else I could say. I waited.

“You're right,” he said. “That might get some interest.”

He looked around.

“Do you have any paper?”

“Yeah, I've got lots,” I said. I didn't want to give him a chance to change his mind. I just tore a big jagged sheet of brown paper off a packing crate. I could tell he didn't like the look of it much.