Deviation (12 page)

Frank bent over, his hands on his knees as he took
several deep breaths. “I hope not to do this again for quite
some time.”

Dianne put a hand on his back. “Me too. Thank
you so much for helping me.”

“You don't need to thank me. I'm glad to help.”

She looked around the area, still worried someone was
going to wander by. “You rest a minute. I'll cover him up.”

Frank nodded, still catching his breath. He watched
as she threw the bags of trash back into the dumpster, effectively
hiding the rolled-up carpet. She tore open the final bag and
spilled assorted garbage all over the top, discouraging anyone from
digging around inside. Then she wiped her hands on her shirt and
rejoined Frank.

“Shall we go back up?”

“Yes,” he said. “I'll require some
more of that beer.”

She smiled. “That sounds good. Too bad you
didn't bring any weed from the car.”

“Oh, but I did.” He straightened up,
patting his pants pocket. “A little something for later.”

Her smile widened. “Are you going to get me
stoned again?”

“Absolutely. But we have a bit more work to do
first, I'm afraid.”

“More?”

“Just the walls. We can't leave them the way
they are. It looks like a slaughterhouse.”

Dianne nodded. “Good point. I've got some
bleach and some rags up there.”

“Lead the way. Soon this will all be a memory.”

She led him back around to the front porch. She
almost didn't want to admit it, but she was having a lot of fun.
Frank made the few boyfriends she'd had seem banal and irrelevant.

* * *

Back in the apartment, Dianne got them each a fresh
beer. It would have been nice to sit down and rest for a little
while, but the furniture was all ruined.

Frank was searching the room and happened to spot the
little paring knife she'd used to kill Cliff. It was partially
hidden beneath the radiator. He bent over and picked it up. “Ah,
we can't forget this.”

The sight of it brought back a flood of memories from
the previous night, memories even the corpse and bloody walls hadn't
triggered. She remembered Cliff knocking it from her hands and
throwing her into the wall. She clenched her teeth momentarily,
feeling a savage satisfaction that he was dead; that she'd killed
him. It was wrong, she knew, but there was no denying she felt it.
“No,” she agreed. “It did serve me well, though.”

“Good.” Frank walked over and deposited
it into the trash can near the kitchen doorway. “We'll still
have to dispose of it, I'm afraid.”

“I'm glad you found it. I forgot all about it.”

They each took a drink of High Life, contemplating the
night before them. Dianne wasn't sure if they were going to spend
the night in her apartment and didn't want to ask. At least not
yet.

“I suppose I'll get the bleach solution made
up,” she suggested.

“It would feel a lot saner in here with the
blood removed from the walls,” Frank agreed.

She retreated into the kitchen and busied herself for
a few moments preparing a bucket of bleach and water and collecting
a handful of rags from under the sink. When she came back out to
the living room, she found Frank sliding one of the windows down.
It was the one he'd pushed the corpse out of. She set the bucket
down on the little table near where the couch had been and took a
long drink from her can.

“That looks good,” Frank said. He held up
his empty can and shook it. “You mind if I help myself to
another?”

“Please do. There's plenty in the fridge.”

He stepped past her, dropping his can into the trash.
“I'll get you another one as well. This is thirsty work.”

They spent the next fifteen minutes scrubbing the
blood off the walls and tables and lamps and anywhere else they
found it splattered. It was impossible to get it all; some of it
was dried into tiny cracks and crevices, or stained into fabric.
They did the best they could, drinking steadily as they worked, and
before long the room looked almost normal. The huge square missing
from the carpet was going to draw significant attention, but the
building manager wasn't likely to see it until long after Cliff's
body was in the landfill. Besides, his name wasn't on the lease.
He'd been staying there against Dianne's will, and the manager would
have no reason to associate the ruined carpet with his
disappearance.

Frank threw his rag into the bucket and took another
drink. The air in the room now held a strong odor of bleach. “I
think we've done all we need to do,” he said. “We'll
carry out the trash when we leave, and besides needing a new carpet,
the landlord shouldn't have much to be concerned with.”

“He can take it out of my security deposit,”
Dianne remarked. “I won't get it back anyway, because I'm
going to disappear without a trace.”

Frank smiled. “Indeed you are.”

They regarded each other in silence for a moment.
Dianne had a small buzz from the beer and felt like drinking some
more.

“Shall I get us a couple more beers?” she
asked.

“Please. And dump out this water.” He
reached a hand into his pocket. “I'll roll us up a little
something to celebrate a job well done.”

Dianne grinned. “That would be fantastic.”

When Dianne woke up the following morning, she was in
her own bed. She didn't have much of a hangover; if she remembered
correctly, she'd only had four beers. After that she'd shared a
joint with Father Frank. They'd gotten powerfully stoned and
discussed their travel plans, or lack of them, before turning in for
the night. When they did turn in, they did so together.

She rolled over in the bed, Frank's arm draped over
her naked midsection. He was still asleep, snoring quietly, his
face half buried in a pillow. She stared at him for a moment,
trying to decide how she felt about this new development.

Previous to this, Dianne had only been in three
relationships. None of them had been good. One of them, during
college, had been relatively pleasant, but even that had felt forced
and filled with a sense of impending failure. She'd never really
bonded with anyone on a meaningful level. She'd come to the
conclusion, during her time with Cliff, that she never would. She'd
felt destined to either be alone or forced to endure an unhealthy
relationship with someone she could barely tolerate.

With Frank it was different. Frank was insane, she
knew. In a sense it scared her, but at the same time she knew that
was also what excited her about him. She knew he'd never be boring
the way she found other men boring; she didn't think Frank was
capable of being boring. His psychopathy, no matter how intense,
was refreshing to her, and the passion of his delusional aspirations
inspired her to really want to live. For someone who'd spent most
of her life wishing she were dead, this was a very welcome change.

She thought she'd like to stick with Frank for as long
as she could and see where it led her. She had no idea how long
that might be, or where she might end up, and at the moment she
didn't care. For at least the next little while she was going to
enjoy life for a change.

She felt it was long overdue.

Frank stopped snoring and woke up rapidly, one eye
opening and peering over at her. He seemed a little bit surprised
to see her there.

“Good morning,” he said.

“Good morning yourself.”

He noticed his arm was across her abdomen. He started
to remove it and then stopped, leaving it where it was. “How
are you?”

“I'm fine. Yourself?”

“I can't complain. Nice bed you've got here.”

She smiled. “I'm glad you like it.”

“I do.”

“I could tell. Last night was... very
interesting.”

Frank studied her face for a moment. “I hope I
didn't cause you to do... anything you might regret.”

Dianne slid her hand under the sheet and wrapped her
fingers around him. “Don't worry, Father. You didn't.”

“That's good to hear.”

She slid closer to him. “Do you think we could
do it all again?”

“I think we could do anything, Dianne. Anything
at all.”

* * *

When they eventually got up, Frank took a shower while
Dianne scavenged around in the kitchen, preparing breakfast in an
attempt to use up as much food as she could. It turned out to be a
small feast consisting of scrambled eggs, frozen waffles, canned
fruit salad, toast, juice and coffee. They ate slowly, taking their
time, and then Dianne took a long shower and got dressed into clean
clothes. She offered to run Frank's things through the washing
machine in the basement but he declined, saying he wanted to get
going. He had more clothes in his suitcase, and he'd have time to
wash them later.

Before they left the apartment, Dianne opened up four
cans of tuna from the cabinet and made half a dozen sandwiches to
bring along. As she was doing this, one of the paring knives in the
drawer caught her eye. She took it out and studied it for a moment,
thinking that it might come in handy at some point. It certainly
couldn't hurt to bring it along. She brought it to her purse in the
living room and slipped it carefully inside. Then she packed
another bag, taking everything she thought she wanted to hang onto.
There would be no coming back, she knew.

They carried out the garbage and their new bags,
leaving behind the ruined furniture and apartment keys and a brief
note to the manager explaining that she'd had to leave in a hurry.
She apologized for the condition of the apartment, relaying most of
the blame on a mishap with a box of red wine and was careful to
leave no hint of where she was going or how to contact her. It was
easy to do, as she had no idea herself where she was going.

When they got in her car and she had the engine
running, she wasn't even sure how to begin.

“How about south on 94?” she asked. “Just
to start things off.”

“That would be fine,” Frank said. “But
I was thinking we might want to stop first at a liquor store. It
would be nice to have some supplies.”

“I should have brought down the beer from my
apartment. I still have at least a 12-pack up there.”

“Oh, we'll need more than that. Just drive to
your favorite liquor store and we'll treat ourselves to a full
variety of refreshments.”

Dianne put the car in drive. “Alright.”
She glanced at the dashboard clock, noticing it was almost noon.
She was supposed to be at work. She felt a degenerate little thrill
at the idea of never going back.

“Everything okay?” Frank asked.

“Fine. I guess I won't bother calling in again
today.”

“That's entirely up to you.”

She smiled, feeling herself slipping over a
psychological edge. “Forget it. I'm done with that life.”
She stepped on the gas and pulled out of her parking spot, making a
quick U-turn and heading towards Jerry's Liquors.

* * *

There were no shopping carts at the liquor store, but
if there had been they would have used one. Instead, Frank carried
two 30-packs of Pabst up to the counter and set them on the floor.
The clerk, a man in his early 20's with a goatee and round
eyeglasses, was standing there watching.

“All set?” he asked.

“Not at all,” Frank replied. “I'm
just getting started.”

The clerk nodded. “Okay. Let me know if you
need help finding anything.”

“I most certainly will.”

Frank stepped away and joined Dianne, who was admiring
the selection of rum. There was a surprisingly large variety, much
more than the liquor stores he normally frequented.

“Have a taste for spirits?” Frank asked.

She smiled and took his hand. “I'd kind of like
to try some fancy rum. I've been meaning to pick some up for quite
a while now.”

“Get something good. I want you to really be
happy for a change.”

The comment filled her with unexpected gratification
and she pulled Frank closer and kissed him. No one had ever cared
the least bit about her happiness before. “Thank you, Frank.”

“I should be thanking you, for accompanying me.”
He turned back to the selection of rum. “What do you say you
pick yourself out a bottle of the best?”

She studied the bottles some more. “I can't
seem to decide. What about this one?” She pointed out a
bottle of Bacardi Silver.

“That's fine, I'm sure.” His eyes
traveled down the shelf, taking in the prices. “But what
about this?” He bent over and lifted a bottle of Oronoco
Fazenda Reserva. The price was more than double. “Imported
from Brazil. Perhaps you deserve something a little more exotic
than Bacardi.”

She put the Bacardi back on the shelf. “You
think so?”

“Definitely.”

Taking the bottle from his hand, she studied it for a
moment. “Okay. You talked me into it.”

They moved over to the bourbon selection next and
Frank took a bottle of Wild Turkey in each hand. Dianne chose a
bottle of Jim Beam Black Label, and they carried their spirits up to
the counter where the clerk was just finishing up with an elderly
man who'd stopped in for a pint of vodka and cigarettes. They set
their bottles on the counter and began to step away.

“All set?” the clerk asked again.

Frank turned and acknowledged him. “No. We'll
let you know when we're ready.”

He nodded and began straightening the Slim Jim
display.

They spent another ten minutes carrying supplies up to
the counter, and when they were finally ready they had four 30-packs
and one 12-pack of beer, two bottles of wine, five bottles of
bourbon, one of rum and one of gin. Frank used his credit card to
pay for it all, not wanting to waste their cash. They had to make
two trips to the car to carry it all, and when Dianne finally pulled
away she was anxious for the day to move along so she could try her
new rum.

“It will give you something to look forward to,”
Frank said.

“True.” She turned south onto Oakland
Avenue and began heading toward the freeway. “I guess it's a
good idea to wait. You know, since I'm driving and all.”

“Probably,” Frank agreed. He turned in
his seat and tore open a cold 30-pack of Pabst, which he'd stashed
on the back seat. He removed two cans and handed one to Dianne.
“We'll stick to beer for now.”

She laughed, accepting the can. “Really? While
I'm driving?”

Frank opened his beer and took a long drink. “The
bible says to have a good time all the time. I believe we owe it to
ourselves to at least try.”

“The bible really says that?”

“I'm guessing it might. There's a lot in there
I haven't read.”

“Well, then. That's good enough for me.”
She opened her beer and gulped from the can. Then she set it in the
cup holder between the front seats, which had never before held a
can of beer. “It seems right, somehow.”

“It is right. In this new world of ours, we get
to make our own rules.”

The concept was entirely foreign to her. She knew she
could get used to it, however, and she wondered briefly why it had
never occurred to her before now to live on her own terms. Perhaps
Frank had been right about the brainwashing epidemic. She'd have to
be more careful in the future not to allow others to do her thinking
for her.

“Here's the entrance to 94,” she said.
“Are you sure you're ready to leave?”

Frank settled back in his seat and took another drink
of beer. “I'm sure.”