Animosity (8 page)

“Neat,” I said.

“Yeah! And you know what else he told me?”

“What’s that?”

“He said the Lord Jesus taught that we should be fishers of
men
.”

“Fishers of men,” I said. “Really.”

“Yep. It says that in the Book of Matt.”

“Mark, sweetheart,” I heard Burke correct her in the background. “The Book of Mark.”

My free hand clenched into a pale fist. A sick little snicker slipped out of me, and I tried to stifle it with a cough, but I knew it didn’t sound at all convincing. Without a doubt, that was the most peculiar thing about this whole mess with my adulterous ex and her new beau—the fact that Jason Burke claimed to be a devout “Christian.” In his spare time, he was a youth minister at the First Methodist Church across town. Every time I thought about that, I felt like laughing so hard I might rupture something inside of me. Because it was downright hilarious. I wondered what his precious doctrines said about infidelity? About fornication? With the exception of my wedding day and my father’s funeral six years ago, I had not stepped foot inside a place of worship for nearly three decades… yet I was quite sure I remembered a Golden Rule, maybe one of the Ten Commandments, which clearly stated, “Thou shall not covet thy neighbor’s wife.”

Fishers of men
indeed. Because Karen sure as hell swallowed Bible-Man’s bait and came swimming back for more.

“Guess what, Dad?” Samantha yelled in my ear, jerking me out of my reverie. “Jason already caught
six fish!
Can you believe that?”

“Did he now?” I said.

“Yep. He got four itty-bitty ones, a sorta-kinda medium one, and a real
whopper.
”

“Wow.”

“We’re gonna cook the whopper tonight and eat it.”

I said, “It sounds like you’re having a blast, Sam. I’m glad.”

“It’s pretty cool, I guess,” she said. “But, Dad…?”

“Yeah?”
“I really wish you were here. It’s not the same without you.”

Tears burned in my eyes. From Samantha’s end of the line, the sound of massive sails flapping and popping in the afternoon breeze taunted me like evil nylon laughter.

“I wish I could be there too, baby,” I said, my voice cracking.

“Maybe
we
can go fishing sometime, Dad. Just me and you. Wouldn’t that be cool?”

“It would be super cool,” I said. “We’ll do that.”

“Really? Promise?”

“Cross my heart and hope to die. Stick a fish hook in my eye.”

Sam giggled like that was the funniest thing she ever heard. “Owwwch!”

I sniffled again, but laughed with her.

“I heard them talking about you on TV,” she said then, catching me by surprise.

“You did?”

“Yeah. They showed a picture of your house, and even some of your books! Mommy wouldn’t let me watch it, though. She made me go to my room. What’s going on, Dad? Are you okay?”

“Sure I’m okay,” I said. “Nothing’s going on, pumpkin. The news was… um… they were just doing a little piece on my latest book. That’s all. Everything’s fine.”

“Oh,” Sam said. “Good.”

Lying to my daughter made me really want to stab a fish hook into my eye. As deep as it would go.

“Well, Dad,” Sam said a few seconds later. “I’m gonna go try to catch some more, okay?”

“Okay, sweetie,” I said. “You have a wonderful time this weekend, and I will see you next Wednesday?”

“I can’t wait,” she replied.

“I love you, Samantha.”

“I love you, too.”

And with a dull
click
, she was gone.

I couldn’t help it. The second I hung up the phone, I began to cry harder and louder than I had ever cried in my life.

I didn’t stop for at least an hour. Maybe even two.

At this point in my story, if my name were Benjamin Souther, I would undoubtedly conjure up some perfect quotation for the task at hand.

Perhaps I would recite the words of writer Henry Mencken, who said, “
It is hard to believe a man is telling the truth when you know you would lie if you were in his place.
”

Hank, old boy, I’m sure my neighbors would agree with you there.

Or how about this, from Winston Churchill: “
A lie gets halfway around the world before the truth has a chance to get its pants on.
”

I can vouch for that.

Or maybe I should quote none other than our esteemed sixteenth President, Mr. Abraham Lincoln: “
Truth is generally the best vindication against slander.
”

Right.

Honest Abe didn’t know shit.

***

In any event, I suppose I should quit stalling.

Here, now, is my truth…

I’m talking about the skeleton in my closet. My dark secret that I so foolishly believed I had put behind me almost two decades ago.

I should have known the sins of your past always come back to haunt you.

More often than not, with a vengeance.

***

In November of — I had just turned twenty years old. For the first year-and-a-half after I graduated from high school, I flipped burgers at various fast-food joints with no immediate plans for a more prosperous career in mind. Well, none that required I punch a clock every day. It was only because of my parents’ constant nagging that I decided to further my education at all. They insisted that a few courses at a local community or technical college would teach me some sort of trade I could use in the “real world,” and I had to admit—albeit begrudgingly—that Mom and Dad were right.

Problem was, I never possessed any desire to attend college. I did not think it was necessary, because for as far back as I can remember, there was only one thing I wanted to do with my life. And a fancy degree was not essential to making my dream a reality.

I wanted to be a writer. A best-selling novelist.

Ultimately, parental demands prevailed. According to my father, if I wished to continue “living under his roof,” I
would
find something “to fall back on.” In case “this writing thing didn’t work out.”

So at some point during those last few weeks of ——, I visited the local community college with my high school transcripts in hand, hoping to find a few classes that might sustain my interest enough to at least keep me from dropping out after only a couple weeks. Journalism. Technical writing, perhaps. Maybe a course on computer programming, which my high school guidance counselor had informed me was the “wave of the future.”

Hell, I would have enrolled in Basket-Weaving 101 if it got my old man off my back.

As much as I did not want to—I believed the time I wasted studying for classes my heart wasn’t even into could be better spent polishing up my first novel, in preparation for submitting it to potential agents—I did it to appease my parents. If I could just keep them happy until I received that first big publishing contract, I decided, everyone would win.

But then I took an unexpected detour on my road to success.

All my plans for the future were put on hold the moment I met Bridget Prescott.

***

I was headed back to the parking lot after paying my tuition in the main office when I spotted her. She sat on a bench outside the school library, her legs crossed demurely, her thighs barely covered (despite the season’s chill) in the shortest, sexiest miniskirt I had ever seen. She was lost in a book, oblivious to the chaos around her, to the din of students rushing back and forth across the campus courtyard.

Her hair was black as sin, so black it was almost blue, and it flowed all the way into her lap. It fell over her face as she sat there engrossed in her book, so all I could see of her features at first were her lips. They were full, red as rose petals. The kind of perfect, pouty lips you want to reach out and brush with your fingertips just to see if they’re real.

As I walked by her, I got a closer look at the title of the dog-eared paperback in her hands:
’Salem’s Lot,
by Stephen King.

I couldn’t help but grin.

Was she a kindred soul, I wondered?

“Kick-ass book,” I said, slowing on the walkway to stand above her. “One of my personal faves.”

Normally, I would not have initiated conversation with a woman so drop-dead gorgeous if my life depended on it. Throughout high school, I’d had a reputation for being extremely shy, almost but not quite a wallflower. But something told me to go for it. That this was right. Meant to be.

I should have run screaming. Should have told that something to go straight to Hell.

She marked her place in the book with one finger, closed it. Looked up at me and returned my smile, shielding the most beautiful blue eyes I had ever seen from the sunlight with her free hand.

“I like it a lot so far,” she said.

“I just finished reading it for the third time,” I told her. “I can’t get enough of King’s work.”

“My favorite so far is
Carrie
,” she said.

“His first one? Great stuff.”

“Yeah. And DePalma’s movie kicked ass too. Sissy Spacek
owned
that role.”

I had to remind myself to close my mouth. Otherwise I might have stood there for the next few minutes with it hanging open, collecting flies. I couldn’t believe my ears…

Holy shit.
She
was
a kindred soul! There was no turning back for me now.

Again she showed me a smile that made my heart flutter. But then, after a few more seconds, she brushed a lock of her raven hair behind her ear and gave me a look like she really wanted to get back to her book.

I quickly broke the silence between us by sticking my hand in her face.

Smooth…

“I’m sorry,” I said. “My name’s Andy, by the way. Andy Holland.”

“Hi, Andy,” she replied. “I’m Bridget.”

“You know… Bridget… if you like this kinda stuff, I oughta let you read the novel I’m working on sometime. I think you’d dig it.”

“You’re writing a book? Oh, now that’s cool.”

“I’m trying to, anyway. I started it in the tenth grade, but I’ve only been getting really serious about it for the last year or so.”

“What’s it called?”

“
Wolf Moon.
”

“I’d love to check that out,” she said. “What’s it about?”

“Werewolves.”

“Ooh… I think werewolves are sexy.”

“Hey,” I said, glancing off in the direction of the cafeteria. “If you don’t have anything better to do, what do you say we grab a cup of coffee or something?”

“Are you buying?” she asked.

“Of course.”

“Then I say that’s the best idea I’ve heard all day, Andy.”

I took her books, helped her to her feet.

And so it began.

***

We started dating pretty hot and heavy not long after that. For our first date, we caught a Saturday matinee of some cheesy monster flick I have long since forgotten. Later that same weekend, we rented
Misery
at the local video store, watched it while we snuggled up together on my parents’ sofa with a massive bowl of popcorn between us.

Throughout our burgeoning courtship I attended the classes in which I had enrolled, but sporadically. The majority of my time I devoted to my new girlfriend, much to Mom and Dad’s chagrin.

I should have known something was rotten in Denmark when I never saw Bridget on campus. On that first day we met, she had explained over her cup of coffee how she had also enrolled in some classes a few minutes before we crossed paths, but then in the weeks to come she claimed to have dropped most of them right after they began. Likewise, I should have known something smelled fishy when she made lame excuses any time I asked to meet her parents.

God, I was such a fool. I should have known nothing could be so perfect.

I never suspected that our entire relationship was a lie. That Bridget Prescott was a girl my friends and I—in another time, another place—would undoubtedly have labeled JAILBAIT.

***

We had been going out for nearly three months before we decided to take things a step further. With the exception of four or five awkward sessions of over-the-clothes petting in the backseat of my Mustang, we had not yet become intimate. Bridget admitted she was not a virgin, but she didn’t want me to think she was “easy.” Of course, I respected my girlfriend’s wish not to cross that line until the time was right. I assured her I would wait forever if that was what she wanted.

But I didn’t have to wait forever.

On the night of February 14, —, Valentine’s Day, Bridget claimed she was ready to give herself to me.