Bonne Femme

Chapter 10

The Beating

June 11, the Cartier mall

         Richard hit the rental store at seven o'clock just as the doors opened, rented the tools he would need to set the deadbolts, and then went to Hardee's for breakfast, intending to read the paper while he gave Jill and Marta time to wake up.  Jill called to explain what she wanted to do while he was ordering.  He listened while fishing for change.

"Okay.  I've got the tools already, so I'll be right over to pick you up," he said.

He ate on the way to Marta's.

       The women were waiting outside and started down to the curb as soon as they saw him.  He leaned across to open the balky door.

"Are you sure you do not mind?" asked Jill as she got in.

"Just as long as you don't wreck it," he joked.  "Morning, Marta."

"Good morning, Richard."

"Just make sure to stay together," he said.

        "We are just going to the mall," said Jill.  "Marta wants to visit the clothing stores.  I do not know when we will return."

"Thank you, Richard," said Marta.  "Can I bring something for you for lunch?"

"A burger would great," he said.

 

When they got to Jill's apartment he handed her the keys.

"Come up with me for just a second," he said softly.

She gave him a puzzled frown, but nodded.

When they were inside he sliced open the deadbolt blister pack.

"I don't want to have your keys.  Take the deadbolt keys too."

"It is okay for you to keep one," she said.

        "No.  I don't want you to even wonder.  I need as much of your trust as I can get if we're going to do it this way."

 

193.

       "I trust you," she said.  "But I am not comfortable with the appearance.  I would rather not have people think that we are living together."

        "I respect that.  We can make it work this way.  Who knows, maybe he'll decide to leave."

"I want things to be normal, Richard."

 

        When he went to plug in his extension cord, he found that he couldn't.  The old house's wiring had been done decades before, and had only two-prong outlets.  He needed a fifty-cent adapter, but the nearest hardware store was at the mall.  Wanting to get the job done before they got back, he took wire cutters from his toolbox and snipped the ground prong from his extension cord.  While setting the locks he wondered what Jill had meant by "normal."  He was neither sure that he had heard her correctly, nor that it meant what he hoped it meant.

 

"Let us eat here," said Marta.  "I will pay."

        The Frisco Mill was a cubbyhole cafe specializing in gourmet coffees, assorted breads, soups, salads, sandwiches, and exorbitant prices.  Jill set down her share of Marta's packages.

        "We should put your packages in the trunk first.  I think I parked right out there," she said, nodding toward the exit.

        They emerged into bright sunlight, the morning fog having burned off.  As they approached the Cougar, Jill felt through her purse for the keys.  After putting things into the trunk, Jill turned and gasped in surprise.  Mic had approached unnoticed while they had bent to arrange the packages in the trunk.

        "Nice day at the mall, isn't it?" he said, looking around.  "Not many people here today.  Look at this parking lot.  It's almost deserted."

"I do not wish to talk," said Jill, starting to go around him.

He grabbed her wrist as she tried to get by.

"Is that anyway to treat an old friend?"

"Let me go," she said with clenched teeth.

 

194.

       "Maybe I'm not ready to let you go.  Maybe you're not ready either.  Remember how good we were together before Ricky got between us?"

Mic squeezed her wrist painfully.

"He should have never done that."

        Taking shallow breaths, she forced herself to maintain eye contact.  When he reached out to touch her hair, she tried futilely to wrench away.

"Release me or I will report you to the police," she warned.

His lazy smile never wavered, but he dropped her arm.

        To her relief, a young couple approached, an athletic young man in a sleeveless gray sweatshirt and a slender girl in a white halter-top and low- rider jeans.  As they neared Mic stared at the girl, pointedly directing his gaze at her breasts.

"What you think you're doing?" challenged her brawny escort.

"Just what she wants me to do, Kid," said Mic.  "Live with it."

        As the young man came forward, Jill noted his bulging biceps and that he stood a head taller than Mic and looked much heavier.  She didn't want to see a fight, but thought that if Mic provoked one he would certainly be sorry.

"She's practically falling out of that top, Boy.  You expect me not to look?"

"You shut your mouth!" the kid growled, shoving Mic against the car.

        One big hand pinned Mic's shoulder to the Cougar.  The kid balanced himself in a threatening pose, his right shoulder back as if he were about to throw a punch.

        "Now you get out of here or I'll take you apart."  Over his shoulder he said, "Get in the car, Lorrie."

"She like it when you do stuff like this to her?" asked Mic softly.

"What did you say?"

"Hey, I don't blame you.  I'd like to get rough with her myself."

 

195.

       The boy hauled Mic forward and threw a punch.  Mic moved inside the arc and half slipped the punch, catching only a glancing blow.  He laughed without trying to break out of the grasp.  He slipped the next punch neatly.  The enraged boy loosed his grip and swung again, and Mic avoided his huge fist without seeming to move more than a fraction of an inch.

        "Out of breath already?  Man, you got no more stamina than that, no wonder she's looking for a real man."

        Bellowing rage, the kid rushed him.  Mic stopped him in mid-charge with a fist to the solar plexus.  As the boy gasped for breath Mic landed a combination of short, solid left hooks and overhand rights.  It was all cool efficiency and merciless brutality.  The boy fell to his knees, but Mic grabbed him by the hair to hold him upright.  He braced himself and then planted four hard jabs directly into the boys face.  Blood squirted and cartilage cracked audibly.  The girl screamed.

        With a satisfied sigh Mic loosed his grasp and let the boy fall forward.  His face hit the pavement with a sickening sound.

Sobbing, the girl rushed forward and knelt over her unconscious boyfriend.

"I wish he hadn't made me do that," said Mic.

        Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth.  He wiped at it, looked at his hand, and then licked at it. 

"Some people just insist on learning the hard way, Jill."

He let his eyes travel up and down her.

"Ditch the sweatshirt," he said.  "It doesn't do a thing for you."

He winked.  Then he turned and sauntered away.

        When Jill was sure that Mic was really leaving, she turned her attention to his victim.  During the fight she had watched in stunned fascination, and now she chastised herself for not having done something to stop it.

        The sobbing girl cradled her companion's head in her lap.  She brushed the hair back from his eyes.

"Is he okay?" asked Jill, thinking immediately that it was an absurd question.

        She turned a tear-streaked face full to Jill.  A blood smear glistened on her bare right shoulder.  Her lips quivered inaudibly.

"Why?" she asked.

Jill could only shake her head mutely.

 

196.

The boy groaned and tried to sit.  Loosed from her shock, Jill knelt to examine him.

"Let me look at your eyes," she said, taking his bloody head in her hands. 

        His left eye was already swollen and beginning to discolor with an interior hemorrhage, but the pupils were dilated equally.

"I think there is no concussion," she told the girl.  "But take him to a doctor."

        "I'm okay," mumbled the boy, rising unsteadily, blood spattering in rapid drops to the pavement.

        Clearly in pain, the young man only wanted to flee his embarrassment at having lost the fight.  Following the masculine imperative to deny pain and injury, he struggled to his car with his girlfriend's help.  He, of course, insisted on driving.

"I will never understand men," said Jill as she watched him speed away.

"Machismo," said Marta with a shrug.  "It just is, hermana."

 

Richard knew immediately that something had happened.

"What's wrong?" he asked.

        "Mic was at the mall," said Jill.  "He beat a boy for no reason at all. I thought he would kill him." 

"Who started the fight?"

"Mic," she said quickly.  "He was talking to us at the car when it happened."

"Maybe the guy will file charges."

"He is too ashamed, I think."

"He was talking to you?  Tell me exactly what happened."

        Between the two of them they got the whole story out, revealing details that both dismayed and disappointed him.

        "You see what he's done?" he said.  "He goaded the guy into attacking him, and now he can use you two as witnesses that he only acted in self defense."

 

197.

         "I would not say that!" objected Jill.  "He beat him so viciously . . . he just kept hitting him and hitting him.  I can still hear that awful sound."

"Who initiated physical contact?" asked Richard.

        "The boy shoved him against your car because he was . . . ogling his girlfriend and saying lewd things about her."

        "Words don't excuse violence, although they could be mitigating.  What exactly did he say?"

"That she was asking for men to stare at her because of the way she was dressed."

"Would a normal man want to look at her?"

Jill grimaced at the question.

       "She wore a halter top and jeans, and she had the figure for it.  Of course he would look, but that is no excuse to be insulting."

"What happened after he pushed Mic against the car?"

"Mic said something to provoke him."

"What?"

        "I could not hear, but it must have been very bad because the boy became very angry.  That is when he tried to hit Mic."

"So he also threw the first punch.  How many times did he swing before Mic hit him?"

        "More than once.  Three or four times I think---is that right?" she asked turning to Marta.

"Yes," said Marta, nodding rapidly.

        "Then Mic . . .  it was horrible, Richard.  He hit him and hit him.  He fell to his knees but still it didn't stop."  She closed her eyes and shuddered.  "I heard this sound like something breaking.  And then he shoved him to the pavement.  His face hit."

"Did he kick him, bang his head on the concrete or anything like that?"

She shook her head, a far away glaze covering her eyes as she saw it again.

"No.  But earlier he held him up so that he could continued hitting him in the face."

 

198.

"No prosecutor in his right mind would charge him with assault."

"But he deliberately provoked the fight so that he could beat him in front of us."

"Of course he did, but no one can prove it."

 

        Another Decision

        After dropping Marta at her apartment, they went to get Jill groceries before returning to her apartment.  He parked at the curb and took one of the two bags up.  Jill could have handled both easily, but she didn't object. 

        "Did he do that just to scare me," she asked as she tried first one of the new keys and then the other to unlatch the deadbolt.

"Probably," he said.

        Richard thought about it.  Mic had staged the whole thing on the spur of the moment.  He had quickly thought out the whole scenario and then improvised brilliantly.

        "Jill, you see how dangerous he is now.  I'm not talking about how violent he is or how proficient---I mean the way he recognized an opportunity and took advantage of it without hesitation."

She paled.

"You no longer have to frighten me, Richard," she said.  "He did that sufficiently."

"Just don't underestimate him."

"I have seen him angry, but not like that.  He was elated today."

        Richard wanted to take her in his arms and comfort her.  If that were ever to happen, she would have to make the move, not he.

"He was.  But mostly he was showing off for you."

"If he thought it would impress me, he was wrong."

        "He didn't do it to gain your admiration," he said gently.  "He did it to make you feel vulnerable."

 

199.

         It was exactly how she felt.  Now, she couldn't imagine Richard being able to prevail against the relentless viciousness she had witnessed in the parking lot.

        "Jill," he said as if divining her thoughts.  "He can't do to me what he did to that boy today.  Trust me on that."

She turned away, shaking her head and carried the groceries to the kitchen.

"What's wrong?" he asked softly.

"Do not fight him.  Even if he provokes you, you must walk away.  Promise me this."

"I won't let him bait me."

"If he says something about me you must ignore it."

"No.  But I won't let it come to a fight unless he attacks me physically."

         "If your offer is still open then maybe I will stay your house," she said as she bent to put food in the refrigerator.

        "I do not want to do this," she said tearfully as she began retrieving the groceries from the refrigerator.  "But I cannot be alone.  I would ask Marta, but I will not endanger her also.  I will stay with you . . . until this is over."

Although he hated to see her in such distress, he was relieved.

"Okay," he said.  "But tell me if I do anything to make you feel uncomfortable."

        "Comfort no longer matters," she said dismissively.  "I only want to feel secure again.  Perhaps this is good.  Yes.  We will protect each other.  He will do nothing to me if you are present, and you will perhaps do nothing foolish if I am present."

 

        Questioning Mic

        Mic dressed his knuckles with peroxide.  His hands hurt, but it was a good hurt because it reminded him of the feeling of cartilage crunching in the boy's nose and skin splitting over sharp bones of his eye sockets.  He chuckled, remembering the surprised look on the kid's face when he realized what was happening.

"It just went on and on, didn't it, kid?" he said aloud.

 

200.

       He went to the bedroom for the book and two different pens.  After reviewing what he had written previously, he sat down at the kitchen table, twisted open a bottle of San Miguel, and began crafting more sentences, striving to make them sound spontaneous.  He had just started when there was a knock at the door.  Mic put the diary away and went to answer it, finding a uniformed officer at his door.

"Are you William Boyd?" asked the man.

        "Yeah.  What's this about?" he asked, thinking that the college puke had filed assault charges.

        "I'm with the Lake County Sheriff's Department," said JR, showing him his identification and badge.  "We're looking into a missing persons case, Annette Roseanne Ford.  I understand you know her?"

"Not very well," he said as he realized where the connection had come from.

"Can I come in?"

Mic rocked back on his heels, arms crossed.

"I don't have to let you in," he said.  "But what the hell."

He stood aside.

        "You know, until you mentioned it, I couldn't remember her last name.  I assume your talking about Rose Ford.  I never heard that funky first name.  Annette, you say?  And you say she's missing?"

JR took out his notepad and slid a pair of reading glasses onto his sunburned nose. 

"You didn't know then?  It was all over the local news."

"News is depressing.  I don't pay attention."

"I hear that the two of you had a regular relationship."

        "No.  She came on to me, so I bought her a drink.  I thought maybe we'd get it on, but it never came off.  After about a week, I got tired of it.  Look, man.  She was just this woman I met at the bar, and, to tell you the truth, she kind of paled in comparison with this French chick I just broke up with.  Now she was hot.  Rose What's-her-name didn't stack up."

"Okay, so you kept company with Miss Ford, for ‘about a week.'  When was that?"

 

201.

"Maybe a month ago."

"Did you ever take her anywhere?"

        "Like a date?  No.  The only time we even talked was in Tonto's.  I know.  Ask the barkeep if we ever left together."

"Did she ever say anything to you that might give us an idea of where to find her?"

"Like what?"

"Like a friend she might visit, a place she liked, plans she had."

"She didn't confide in me much---just kind of flashed her stuff, you know."

"She didn't mention anything that might help us find her?"

        "What can I tell you?  After a week, we were still strangers.  She wanted me, and she was okay---a little past her prime, but okay, you know.  It never worked out."

Mic smiled thinly.

"Hell of a way to talk about someone who may be dead, but the truth's the truth."

        JR removed his glasses, wiped them with a handkerchief, and placed them back on his nose.

"Why do you assume that she's probably dead?"

        "Because she was coming on to strangers in bars, and now you can't find her.  She probably ran into the wrong guy, but then again, maybe she was asking for it."

"You're one of those strangers that she ran into while she asking for it, as you put it."

        "I didn't mean she deserved it," said Mic.  "What I mean is that a woman ought to have better sense than to pick up strangers in a bar.  That's how she was asking for it.  I'm telling you, she ran into the wrong guy."

        Boyd's body language bothered JR.  Discovering that they are suspects in a homicide tended to make people nervous.  Boyd was way too cool.

JR flipped the notebook closed, and slipped it into his shirt pocket.

 

202.

       "Thank you Mr. Boyd.  I think that's it for right now.  If you think of anything that can help us, could you call the sheriff's office?"

        "Sure thing.  I hope she turns up.  She was kind of pathetic, but . . . if she's dead, she didn't deserve that."

He lingered in the doorway until the deputy drove away.

"Nice move, Ricky?" he said.  "But I ain't that easy to get rid of."

 

        A half hour later, Mic closed the cheap diary in which he had been writing and slid it to the center of the kitchen table.  He lit a cigarette and then held the crumpled sheet of rough drafts to the lighter.  As the flame licked toward his fingertips, he thought about Richard and Jill leaving Cartier unexpectedly.  The prospect of searching the entire southwest for them had not been appealing, but he would have done it.  Sooner or later they'd have used up their cash and started leaving an electronic trail.  He dropped the paper and ash into the ashtray.

        The idiot brought her back.  It's just like hunting rabbits.  Jump one and set the dogs on it, and then you just wait until it circles back right into a gut shot.

        He tried to picture Rose, but her face wouldn't stay focused.  It morphed into Jane What's-her-name's, and then to the trashy blonde in West Virginia.

All the same.  Interchangeable parts.

 

Moving in

        The Chagall and Matisse prints stacked atop her eclectic blend of furniture, made him realize that he wasn't just transferring belongings to a different house.

"I'm taking you from your home to a dump," he said.

The clumsy but perceptive remark bled away some of her resentment.

        "One must make adjustments," she said.  "You are not forcing me this time.  It is my choice."

 

203.

       Clothes, blankets, pillows, and linens provided padding for the computer, TV, lamps, china, and glassware.  After unloading it they went back for her living room assemblage, which she had purchased secondhand to augment the meagerly furnished house.  Before they left, Jill insisted on sweeping the entire place and cleaning the refrigerator. 

        She had him stop at the landlords to drop off the keys.  As they spoke on the stoop the elderly lady looked toward the truck and shook her head almost imperceptibly.  Jill opened her purse and took out her keys, apparently explaining about the new locks.  The old lady nodded and then looked back at Richard again.  Finally, the women embraced and then Jill came down to the truck.

"What did you tell her?" he asked while she buckled her seat belt.

"A small lie," said Jill.

"About me?"

       "About the new locks.  I said that I thought I heard something one night, but that it was probably just my imagination.  I said that my .  .  . that you changed the locks for me."

"Did you discuss your lease?"

        "Yes.  It runs through January.  She says that she will terminate it when she had another lessee."

"So she's holding you to it?"

"Of course.  She needs the income and it is what I agreed to."

"Don't you have any faults?" he asked.

"I am pathetically naïve."

He laughed, but saw immediately that she hadn't meant it as a joke.

"About me or him?" he asked.

"I do not wish to dwell on it."

        A moment later she said, "Stop there.  I need household supplies, or do you have the things I will need."

"Like what?"

 

204.

"Your floors need a thorough cleaning.  Do you even have a mop?"

"No," he said as he pulled into the lot.

"Then I will buy one," she said.

"No.  It's my place and if we need a mop then---"

Jill cut him off firmly.  "But it is my idea.  I will do my share."

"Your share?"

        "Yes.  You said that I would be living in your apartment, not living with you.  So, I will pay my share, and that means half the rent also."

"Jill, you don't need to do that."

"Yes, I do.  You wish to protect me?  Fine.  But do not try to control me."

When she got out, he started to follow her inside.

"Stay please.  I do not want someone to steal my things."

        Jill came back with essentials that single men seldom think of:  window cleaner, soft scrub for pots and pans, washing machine additives, and floor cleaners.

 

"Where do you want this?" he called from the front room.

        Jill poked her head through the bedroom doorway, still holding an armload of clothes on hangers.  He held the computer monitor.  She frowned as she surveyed the room.

        "Try that table by the window.  I see a phone jack there.  I will contact the server people."

        The atmosphere was chilly.  Obviously she needed the emotional space, so he decided to forego any attempt to share tasks.  While she put away her clothes and divided the closet and dresser space in the bedroom, he set up the computer.  Then he carried a box of utensils up from the truck and took them to the kitchen.  As he ran a glass of water from the tap, he heard her come in behind him.

 

205.

"Just put those things in with yours wherever you think is logical," she said.

        "All I have in here is a can opener and couple of frying pans.  Why don't you arrange the kitchen to suit yourself?"

"Because it is your apartment."

        "I know, but . . . well, these are your things, and . . . you're being forced to move from your home, and . . . "

"Just leave them then.  I'll put them away later."

        "Look, I want you to just rearrange the place to suit yourself.  Please.  It'll make me feel better."

His awkwardness made her uncomfortable.

"Have you ever had a roommate?" she asked.

"About sixty for a while," he said with a smile.

        "Yes, but have you ever shared your apartment?  I mean . . . if you . . . well, it is none of my business and has no bearing on . . . on our arrangement.  What I am saying is that, if you have not, there are many adjustments such as . . . different preferences, schedules, things like that."

"Have you?" he asked.

        She busied herself aimlessly moving things around the kitchen, avoiding eye contact while she spoke.

"Actually, no . . . but I am okay with it."

        "Jill, I won't forget that you are only staying here out of necessity and because of extraordinary circumstances."

        "Very extraordinary."  She nodded as if deep in thought.  "But you cannot do that---I mean say something like . . . qualifying a superlative and . . . I am babbling."

        "Hey," he said without approaching her.  "Let me tell you about extraordinary circumstances.  I saw plenty of them in the Marines.  You get used to them after a while, and if nothing happens, they become routine and things get more comfortable.  I'm going to make sure that nothing happens.  That is all I will do."

"Yes," she said.  "As long as nothing happens we will be fine I think."

Thunder rolled, causing him to look outside.

 

206.

       "I'd better go roll up the windows on the truck," he said as he grabbed the keys and headed out.

        When he came back inside, he heard her in the bedroom.  He went to the kitchen and fixed sandwiches and instant iced tea, and then went to the bedroom where he found her trying to put one of the suitcases on a high shelf in the closet.

"Here, let me get that for you."

He grunted as he took it from her and heaved it up to the shelf.

"No wonder you were having trouble with this thing.  What's in it?"

        "Winter clothes.  There is nowhere to put them.  I left a chifferobe at the apartment.  Can we go get it, or do you wish to wait until tomorrow?"

        "I only rented the truck for today and it's due back in about an hour.  I've made sandwiches.  Can you eat in the truck?"

"Of course."

 

She put off calling Marta until Richard was in the shower.

        "I should have told you," she said while trying to explain.  "We're engaged.  My Aunt Mirabelle would not approve . . . because it was so hasty, but we . . . we are committed to each other and so . . . that is why."

Jill rolled eyes at her clumsy words.

"I am happy for you," Marta finally said.  "When will you be married?"

"We have not decided.  I mean there are no definite plans . . . as to the date."

"I see.  Why did you not tell me what was happening with you?"

"It just . . . happened so quickly."

"Yes, very quickly---but I am happy for you."

.