Chapter 7
Learning Companionship
The police were notified, and Kevin Vittmen's Missing Persons Report was filed. All Lucille Saxe could do now was pray. She slept by scraps and ate meagerly, far too stressed to have much of an appetite.
Personal hygiene and going to work regularly became an enormous challenge; she was so distracted, exhausted and depressed on the job that she was often mixing up table orders and spilling drinks. Her boss had been informed of her situation, but was not as understanding as he could have been, and scolded his waitress' klutzy carelessness whenever he caught her.
Lucille was an only child and identified as a lone wolf. Her best friends were Kevin and her older cousins who lived in another city further upstate Oregon. Her dad was a deadbeat whose whereabouts were unknown since mid-'63 when she was five, and her mom lived an hour away in the trailer park Lucille grew up in. She had been with Kevin for over two years and her love for him was so profound a day didn't pass where she didn't envision herself in a wedding dress and announcing vows, a pastor at their side. It was sensible that in her misery she smoked through the remainder of their stash of pot, which they'd went easy on, especially Lucille, who preferred to stay coherent the majority of the time. They would sometimes get high when having sex or going to a carnival or zoo. Everything, from colors to smells, would be so evocative and provoking to their senses in their ecstasy. But now that he'd vanished out of the blue, she lit up to put her sobriety on hiatus and distract herself from her grief and panic for his sake.
Intoxicating herself was a habit nowadays, and she tended to snap at the often perverted patrons who'd hit on her, whereas before she'd merely quip at or ignore them. Just the prospect of forgetting all about Kevin and hooking up with somebody else caused a blow of dizzying grief to wipe through her.
Hope wasn't to be drained yet, however, not as long as his body wasn't located limp and decaying somewhere. To her, he was still alive and breathing, but trapped.
As foreseen, Jake wound up apologizing for Mama's behavior, the unsavory dinner and the uncanny untidiness of the shack even four days after Ramona's visit. She, of course, repeatedly reminded him that she wasn't perturbed by the home, their dinner, his mother or his brother at all. Truthfully, the interior and exterior of the building gave her the heebie jeebies, but nobody would ever know that. Her true feelings were locked away in her cranium where she'd bring them to her grave.
Late on the night of her visit, hours after she'd gone, Francis and Jake lounged in their living room where the second TV was. Slouched in his worn armchair, Jake spoke of how shitty the dinner went and Francis returned laughs which he thought were appropriate.
"Ya should let me play with her till Lucille caves," the bespectacled brother had the balls to say in his inebriation, five empty beer cans littered around his feet.
Jake, not too wasted, bolted upright in his chair, gritting his teeth. "She's mine, you greedy loser," he muttered, clenching a fist that pushed Francis into a slight cower against the end of the couch.
"You scored yourself a damn fuckin' beauty, Jake," Francis complimented with an edge in his voice. "Why aren't ya ramming yourself into those chubby boobs yet? Or screwing her into the mattress, or getting her down on her pretty knees-"
"That's enough," Jake breathed out, the graphic images Francis was animating in his head frustrating him. "She's a shy donna. Probably she's never had her cherry popped."
"Goddamn, a virgin? Oh, now I'm really envious," Francis sighed, flipping through channels. "When ya gonna show her who's in control? At the pace you're going at with her she won't be giving ya a measly handjob for months."
"I wouldn't mind that," Jake said, for the hundredth time sniffing the hair tie that fell out of her dress' pocket sometime during her stay, her very indistinct scent on it still driving him mad. "To keep her, I must see that she's always comfortable with me. She will run away from me if I neglect her, and I'll not have that. Can't have that."
Francis, hammered as he was, deduced a big and deep message behind Jake's words. He sneered, "Jake, are you fallin' in love with this broad?"
Jake didn't hesitate for a millisecond in his answer. "I am."
With every ounce of strength Francis had, he refrained from ogling Lucille. Only stalking perves and creeps stared where they weren't welcome to, he had to remember. In spite of Francis being a legitimate and hardcore stalker, perve, creep, and murderer, he would do everything in his power to prevent Lucille from knowing any dark truths about him. He was an artisan for her, just your average joe who loved football, hot wings and crafting with wood. She would see him as an exterminator of spiders, pesky house flies and rats, not people, and he certainly had nothing to do with the disappearance of her boyfriend, Hindrance.
For once, Francis was doing as Jake advised. He had to befriend Lucille, and when their companionship developed, they'd graduate into dating. Unfortunately, befriending people had posed as an obstacle since his childhood. The only 'friends' he'd ever made were Ma and Jake, if they, as family, even counted. Simply speaking, Francis was too insensitive and inhumane to socialize with others to the extent of them being worth anything to him. No, Francis didn't have buds, cronies, pals, mates, familiars, whatever the term. He protected and gave a billion shits for his mom and he got along adequately with Jake. That was it.
Now, some personality adjustments were mandatory from here on out, but this shouldn't have been onerous, not if Lucille was going to be his desired woman and mother of his child or children.
As it was crucial that he not gawk at her with hungry lust like he previously would, his blue eyes instead landed on a washed-out ginger-haired stripper in six-inch stilettos she was shockingly graceful in, with a jiggling pair of double D's and plump red lips. He'd dream of a nude Lucille swirling around a pole, beautifully exposed and carefree. He'd also imagine those long, smooth legs locked around his back, and she'd be screaming his name for God to hear.
"You're here a lot."
Francis whipped his stare off the stripper and placed it onto the blonde barmaid at his table. Lucille's appearance differed sweepingly from their last encounter. Today her hair was frizzy, looking as though it hadn't gotten along with the hairdryer that morning. Her posture was slumped, and eyes droopy and clean of makeup, indicating, to Francis, that she sure missed Hindrance.
"Don't have a ton better to do," he said with the realest smile he could present, choking back his will to flirt. "This joint's aura relaxes me. The dim lighting that contrasts that spotlit stage, the music, the globs of pathetic lowlifes crowding the corners jerking-off, pouting that they'll never have women of their own 'cause they're too fat, ugly and lacking in charm."
Francis frowned when she did.
"How are you any classier or less of a lowlife?"
"My hand isn't down my pants."
"But their hands aren't down their pants either," Lucille said matter-of-factly. "We have a code of conduct and one of our rules forbids patrons from openly doing that or else they'll be escorted out by the bouncer."
"Lighten up, would ya? I'm just pulling your leg," he purposefully checked her name tag, "Lucille."
"What would you like to drink?" she sighed.
'You,' he thought lewdly, but said aloud, "The usual."
"What's that?"
"You just said I come here a lot, so don't ya know already?" That wasn't polite, but the words spilled out before he could stop them.
"I serve many people, though." Impatience made its arrival known.
"Just grab me a few shots of whiskey, thanks."
She was off and back momentarily, balancing three shots brimmed with a murky liquid in her palms. He thanked her again when she placed them down, then he, on impulse, asked her how she was doing, the question taking her aback somewhat.
"Fine," she croaked.
"Ya sure? Ya seem kinda distressed about something," he said carefully.
"...I lost something," she mumbled.
"What?" he asked confidently. He observed how fragile she was becoming, and the mighty and substantial demon inhabiting his core was thrilled to see her crumble, but the tiny, speck-sized goodness floating about his being felt sorry.
"I'll find it," she answered, suddenly bolder. Her stomach churned at the manner he was looking at her. His impassive profile hid his true response. She couldn't read him too well, but whenever he was here, a chill reserved for him specially sparked down her spine. Why this was, she couldn't figure.
"Well, I bid ya luck with that," he said, the smirk forming on his stubbly face numbing her kneecaps.
"Will that be all?"
"Yeah." He didn't blink once as his eyes were fixed on hers.
"I'll get your tab."
A minor tingle of accomplishment settled in Francis, for their small talk was headed somewhere. All he'd have to do was bear through her whining whenever she came around to confessing who'd evaporated from her life. His shoulder would be hers to cry on.
He paid for his drinks and tipped her a thirty, much to her dismay. "You trying to bribe me for something, sir?" she asked, skeptical, not pocketing his tip.
He put on his common smirk. "Can I buy your acquaintanceship?"
She scrunched her nose up and glared down at him. "I'm not selling any of me to you."
"Hey, I dunno what your deal is, or what's got ya into a tizzy, but I think you could use a friend, just someone to vent to. You already told me you have a boyfriend, so I'm not hitting on ya." He stood and held out a hand. "My name's Francis Fralo."
She glanced at his hand, not moving to shake it. "I've got a lot going on right now," she said, her voice low and etched with sadness. "A lot of weird bullshit. I...am going to have to disappoint."
His arm dropped to his side. "Yeah, okay, I got ya. Well, I'll be around. If you ever get off your shift sometime and wanna talk, feel free to come my way."
"Maybe," she said quickly. She gathered the tab but left his tip alone. "Goodnight."