MISSZ-SPARROW: The farmhouse/Shooter thing actually was a dream Layla was having. Sorry for leaving it so open-ended, I probably should have been more specific about that! That's all I'm gonna give away though…just keep right on being suspicious. :)
Chapter V: Preventing A Cursed Union
"If I don't find a way to ease my mind and leave all this behind, I'm gonna go crazy without you, baby." – Montgomery Gentry
…
He pressed his ear to the door, which only served to pack handfuls of the most concentrated salt into his wounds. He could better hear her now, the noises she made on the other side of the thin wooden slab; a mixture of laughter, gasps, and moans. As hard as he tried to ignore the sounds of the other man in the room with her, still loud but never matching hers in intensity,
…
Mort paused once again. He wasn't quite sure where to go from here. It had taken him two hours to write this much, barely even a paragraph. Of course, he had done a fair amount of backspacing in all the time before that. Maybe combined, all his inane, useless typing would add up to a story, but in the end, it was just the same old song. Everything he wrote seemed somehow flawed, at least in his eyes.
(You were on a roll the other day, with the Layla-based vignette. I don't understand what the problem is.)
He shook his head, eyes bleary. He hadn't gone to bed that night. Too afraid of what he might dream. And staring at a computer screen non-stop since then was causing one killer migraine. "I had plenty to base it on."
(I'll bet you did. Stevie Baby had a story like that, right? I remember something about a ladder…and some chick who falls off it, and then she jumps off a building…)
"Doesn't sound like anything King would write. It doesn't…does it?"
(More importantly, where'd you get the part about the barn from? Sure, the Tristans were Southern-based, but they didn't live anywhere near a damned barn, let alone had one in their yard. Maybe you got input from somewhere…)
"Maybe ah'm jus' in a Suth-un state o' mahnd these days," Mort drawled, launching into a near-perfect accent.
(...just where the hell did THAT come from?)
He sighed, removing his glasses and rubbing his tired eyes. It was beyond him why his inner voice sounded so alarmed, when he was making light of a situation for once. "Where did what come from? Do you have something against rednecks?"
(Never mind. Just know that you're scaring even me.)
"Should I be proud of that?"
(Sure, go ahead and get a sense of accomplishment from it. If it'll make you feel better.)
"You're too kind…too kind you are," Mort yawned, slipping his glasses back on.
(Seriously though. What made you inject the barn bits into that puppy? There were plenty of other ways she could've killed herself. Why did it have to involve a barn?)
He drank down what was left of his Mountain Dew before smacking his lips and squinting at the screen again. "Is there something you'd like to say? Or rather, accuse me of?"
(You know you've lost it when you start answering the questions you ask yourself with more questions.)
"I thought everyone did that."
(I can see I'm not going to get a straight answer. Not from YOU anyway.)
Mort blinked, vaguely perturbed. He didn't understand where this was going, nor was he sure that he wanted to understand. "Who else would you get a straight answer from then?"
(I would be careful if I were you. Keep those reins tight, pilgrim.)
"Yessiree Bob," Mort feigned a salute. He looked over his paragraph one last time before deleting the whole thing. Now he could start over, fresh slate.
(This time, try writing a story about something other than infidelity. Just a helpful hint. You're going to get repetitive. There's plenty of other subject matter out there.)
Scowling, he retorted, "When I decide to stop writing what I know, I'll let you take the reins. But until then--"
(No no no, YOU hold onto those reins, best you can. Oh, by the way, you might want to keep it down. Your mind-trickin' cousin's on her way up.)
He had been so engrossed in his conversation with himself that he didn't realize that Layla was making her way up the stairs. Rather slowly and clumsily, from the sound of it. Hung-over, probably. Was it already time for breakfast? It was all too obvious what she was coming up to ask him; the same thing she asked every morning. Today, he wasn't quite sure which excuse to use. He couldn't help feeling awkward, after speaking his mind last night. The last time he had cried in front of his cousin was at their grandmother's funeral, when she was five and he was eleven. He wasn't sure he wanted to divulge any more about Amy to her. It wasn't anything personal. If he was forced to talk about Amy to somebody, he would surely pick his cousin. But if he didn't have to talk about his ex-wife, that he much preferred. Some things are better left unsaid and better kept inside.
As she emerged to the top of the stairs, he turned in his chair to face her. Feeling another yawn coming on, he nodded to her. "Morning."
She didn't even attempt to be polite. Forget about a cure for hangovers. Hangovers were a cure themselves: for anything resembling a good mood. "Touché," she responded morosely, looking to be in a bit of a daze.
"I believe the expression is 'ditto'." he joked half-heartedly. It had probably hit her this morning, about Frank and his bride-to-be. She only talked about 'letting it go' last night because she was too emotionally drained to even think about taking action, revenge, against him. But now she probably wanted retribution in spades.
She frowned deeply, gazing not at Mort when she spoke, but at some place above his head, on the wall. "I'm referring to you leaving the 'good' out of 'good morning'. A most effective point."
Oh yeah. She was in one of those moods, using anger to cover up heartbreak. A nice ploy, one he used most often. "Yeah well…thanks," he mumbled, unsure of what else to say. By now, he would have expected the tantalizing scents of breakfast delights, fit for any patron of a four star restaurant, to have reached the loft, but there was nothing. "So, uh, about breakfast…I—"
The frown turned to a scowl. "Oh, don't worry your pretty little head about it. The kitchen is closed," she retorted petulantly. Without any more explanation, she swayed over to the retro-looking orange and brown chair close to the wall, and Mort saw for the first time that she had been transporting a fresh bottle of Jacky Dee with her, a moderate amount of the amber liquid drained out of it. The day was young and already she had gotten herself liquored up. Mort felt like saying something about it, telling her it was too early in the day to start up, but far be it from him to lecture someone on when to drink.
He eyed her curiously, looking bewildered. "Wait…what?" He watched her plop down in the chair, slumping low into it.
She rested the bottle on her lap, fiddling around with her hair, untying it from the messy bun she had managed to pull it into earlier. "Why should it matter to you? You never eat my cooking anyway."
"Well…" He paused before saying more, wanting to carefully word this. It was true he didn't have a leg to stand on. "It's just that…I want to make sure you're eating something."
Tapping her fingernails on the neck of the bottle, she glanced up at him irritably. "Are you implying that I'm lazy?"
He blinked, scratching at his neck, "Um…no…Layla. The thought never crossed my mind. We're still talking about breakfast, aren't we?"
"I mean, what, am I lazy just because I decide not to cook one damn meal? Christ Mort, it sounds like something Frank would've said."
Mort just stared at her, truly at a loss now, as well as insulted. Whiskey, he decided, was too powerful to be put in the hands of humans. It turned them into animals…among other things. He glanced over to Chico, who was curled up on the chair to the right of his desk, his usual hangout. Chico was staring in Layla's direction, from where he could hear the clinking sounds the bottle made whenever her nails tapped the glass.
"Okay, um…new subject, Layla. As long as you're up here, how about a new subject?"
Layla didn't answer. She was too busy staring at Mort's desk. He followed her gaze, seeing that she was looking at the deluge of Doritos bags that covered his desk. "You've been eating potato chips this way for thirty years," she affirmed. When he opened his mouth to speak again, she reiterated, "For thirty. Years."
"I really don't need this, Layla. I'm having trouble enough..." Suddenly, a lightbulb switched on in Mort's head. "Tell you what, I'm having a little writer's block. Maybe you can help me think of an idea for a story. I know you've got that dream journal. I'll bet it's a goldmine of ideas."
She raised an eyebrow at him, ceasing her tapping. "Aren't you beginning to think Todd Downey was right? I am."
"Todd who?"
"Don't bother looking through the book. I'll just tell you my dreams."
He nodded, surprised to be feeling enthusiastic about something. "Okay then. I'm all ears. Let's start with…well, whadja dream last night?"
For a moment, she kept quiet as she remembered the night before. The farmhouse out in the country…the man at the typewriter…and all that followed… "I'm not telling you," she murmured, an edge to her voice.
He cracked his jaw, a little too hard, and grimaced at the pain that shot up through his mandible. She was testing his patience. "Was it that bad?" he demanded.
"I didn't say that," she now spoke very softly, to the point where Mort had to wheel over to her in his chair to hear her. Her eyes had taken on the look of flashlights in a fog, a soft muted glow obscured by the murkiness. "The bad part was waking up."
Mort sighed. This was hopeless. Forget it. He wasn't going to get anywhere with this, not when she was in this state. "I see…"
She brought herself to look at him again, carefully uncapping the whiskey and swigging it down, watching him over the rim of the bottle, as though wanting him to react. So he did. He yanked the bottle away from her lips, a few of drops spilling onto the leg of her jeans. "No more whiskey for you today," he said firmly, making sure she was still looking at him when he said it, wanting her to understand. He almost started waving his finger in her face, but decided that was too juvenile. "I mean it."
She crossed her arms over her chest, pouting like a child who's just had their favorite toy taken away, "Fine. Fine. I'm going back to sleep anyway."
Mort wheeled back over to his desk with the bottle, setting it down beside the word processor. He would save it for himself, for later. "Didn't you just wake up?"
"Well, yes. But I want to see if I can have another dream. Just like that one."
By the time he turned over his shoulder, to try asking her about the dream again, she had already drifted off, her head low to shield her eyes from the sunlight spilling through the secret window.
…
Layla looked up from the kitchen table as a stiff knock came at the door, breaking her concentration. A familiar, muffled voice called out, "Mort? Mort, are you there?!"
She was about to answer back, when Mort came shambling down the stairs, removing his bathrobe. "Who is it?" he asked, glancing to her first.
"Sounds like Tom Greenleaf to me." She looked out the window next to the kitchen table, but his truck was nowhere to be seen.
Mort quickly ran a hand through his tousled blonde-streaked hair, then opened the door, obliged to plaster on a fake smile for the elderly man. "Hello, Tom. What's the rumpus?"
Right away, Tom started gushing about his truck. "Oh Mort, it's the strangest damn thing. My truck started acting up when I was on my way back into town. It broke down about a mile from here. Don't know what's wrong with it, and I ain't got tools to fix it anyhow. Would you mind givin' me a hand?"
Mort nodded, still smiling affably. "I'm not much of a car man, but I'll see what I can do. I think I've got some tools somewhere around here …Give me a minute, I'll be right out."
He shut the door, traipsing into the living room to get his tuque. Had this been somebody else, he would've viewed this little errand as something of a nuisance. But he liked Tom. He was a kindly oldtimer who always had plenty of interesting drinking stories. So this wasn't a terrible bother to him. "Layla, would you mind checking for some tools under the sink? It's in a red metal box. Tom's car has—"
"Yes, I heard," she called out, already having grabbed out the red toolbox from under the sink. She walked over to Mort, handing the heavy box to him, while he slipped on his black tuque.
"I won't be too long," he assured her, as he was heading out. He hesitated a moment, glancing towards the kitchen table, where only an ashtray and the infamous dream book were sitting. "Promise me you'll eat something while I'm gone."
"Of course. I was…just about to have a snack," she said, giving him a strange look.
"And no more whiskey!" he reminded her.
"Sure…Mort…" she replied, her puzzled expression intensifying. He must have been kidding. After the hangover she had this morning, the last thing she wanted to do was knock back a few shots.
Mort noticed the look, but he wrote it off as a look of annoyance at him being overprotective. As soon as he headed out the door, Layla returned to her place at the table.
She didn't know what Mort had meant by those remarks. No more whiskey? She hadn't touched a drop of alcohol all day. Eat something? She'd eaten plenty. Hell, she'd even fixed herself the traditional steak and eggs, a much more opulent breakfast than what she was used to. In truth, she had chosen that menu to tempt Mort into eating breakfast with her for once. However, when she went upstairs to ask him, he was passed out cold at his desk, somewhere in Sleepyland. That big breakfast was probably the cause of the stomachache she had now. Or maybe it was just the sick feeling she got thinking about Frank's oh-so-wonderful new life with Natalie. She no longer tried to hold the tears back anymore. If they came, she let them fall, unashamed.
Parking herself in her chair, she looked back to her current entry page, which was littered with a great deal of cross-outs. No way could she describe that dream. Words did no justice. Rather, she had attempted to show what the dream was like, sketching the man. She even depicted him in the black hat she had seen beside his typewriter. It always came out wrong, though. No artiste was she. The man would end up looking sinister, not at all what she intended; and then, when she tried to imagine him in her mind's eye, concentrating as hard as she could, she only succeeded in causing the memory of him to fade away. But then, that's how dreams are. They just don't stick around.
Frustrated, she at last gave up, laying her pen down. She took one last drag from her cigarette before laying her head on the table, on top of the dream book, her tears wetting the pages. Once again, sleep sounded like a damn good idea. However, she wouldn't let herself go into a deep sleep, zonking all the way out. It would just be a little catnap, until Mort returned. Slowly, she let her eyes close, immersing herself in the sheer realm between consciousness and unconsciousness.
From the porch window, she gazed out at the storm. The sky had taken on a foreboding greenish tinge and the rain had begun spattering the roof so hard, it sounded more like hailstones. She smiled as she gazed out at the sporadic lightning, as she listened to the booming thunder that threatened to shatter her eardrums. There were few things she could think of which she considered to be as amazing as a storm. He was one of those things.
But where was he? She told herself he was probably tending to his milkers, putting them up in the barn. They were bound to be spooked in this weather. He would be back soon. She wasn't worried. In ten minutes, she would worry.
Ten minutes passed, but she started worrying before then. Five more minutes passed, in which the power went out, the only light source coming from the silvery moon overhead. She pressed her face to the glass, trying to search him out, but the combination of the darkness and the sheets of rain kept her from even making out the fence. These fears were ridiculous, but she couldn't stop herself from wondering if he was trapped out their somewhere, with no one knowing where he was. Gathering up her fortitude, she felt her way to the closet to grab her coat, determined to go search for him. But then, she heard the back door open, the volume of the storm outside increasing fourfold, and then the door closed behind him.
Delirious with relief, she stuck her hands straight out in front of her and began stumbling hurriedly and blindly towards the back door. As she passed through the kitchen, she ended up bumping her knee hard on the edge of the table, making her cry out. "Dammit," she muttered through gritted teeth.
"Darlin', are yew alright?" she heard him call out.
She smiled, the joy at hearing the sound of his voice overpowering the pain, "I'm okay."
"Weyll stay put, yer jus' gonna hurt yerself agee-in, walkin' 'round in the dark. Lemme find yew instead."
She did as she was told, resting one hand on the red-and-white checkered tablecloth. Before long, she heard his footsteps nearing closer to her, then felt his hand brush hers in the dark. She grabbed hold of it tightly, and he reciprocated.
"Where were you?" she asked breathlessly. "I was worried…I thought you were lost in the storm or something…"
"Naw, ah was jus' fine. Yew doan need to be worryin' 'bout me. Ah can handle mahself," he assured her. "But ah'm sorry for makin' yew scared fer me lahk thayt."
"It's okay…I know that you're alright, that's what matters." She looked up at him, wishing she could see his face, just once more. "What were you doing out there?"
She heard him sigh heavily, "Weyll…ah was takin' care o' somethin'. Fer yew."
"Really? What was it?" A vociferous crack of thunder outside made her jump and she pressed against him tightly. His clothes were soaked through with rainwater. "Aw hon, you're all wet. We really ought to get you out of these clothes."
The suggestive undertones of this made him laugh out loud. He hugged her tightly and caressed his hands over her back, transferring moisture onto her. "If yew thank so, ah've got no complaints. An' ah thank yew ought to follow suit. Hadn't even been out in the storm, and yer gettin' jus' soaked to the damn bone!"
She laughed, not having meant the remark that way, but she wasn't about to correct herself. "I will when you tell me what you were doing out there. Will I be…pleased?"
Even in the pitch black, she could sense his guilt. "That, ah doan know. Ah hope so, anyhow. Yew know ah'd never try to hurt yew, right?"
She wasn't quite sure about that, being that she barely knew this man, but given the situation, her best option was to put his concerns to rest. "Of course. I know that."
"Awright then. It's jus'…there's plenty o' reasons ah did it…" he admitted, running his hands through her copper mane. "Maybe ah should've asked yew first, made shore it was okay, but ah couldn't help it." His voice took on a feral edge, and she couldn't help but be daunted by it. "The sonuvabitch. He done hurt yew too many tahmes, an' ah wasn't goh-na allow it anymore. Him an' that hussy o' his weren't goh-na get away with it."
As she ran her fingertips over his neck, her flesh met with a foreign substance, wet to the touch. It certainly wasn't rainwater. It was much thicker than that. And warm. The realization of what he had done floored her and for a moment, she couldn't speak. She wouldn't have known how to react if someone was directing her. Drawing in her breath sharply, she laid her head on his chest, staring blankly out into the darkness.
"Was ah wrong in doin' that, darlin'?" he asked her nervously, his hands still entangled in her hair.
She waited for the tears, but to her astonishment, they never so much as welled up. What she felt was the equivalent of a great weight being lifted off her shoulders, an immense debt being paid. "No, baby. You did the right thing. I should be thanking you for it."
She could tell he was smiling then, pleased with her response. "They-re's no need. Jus' performin' simple justice, that's awl. Ah knew you wawnted it, deep down insahd. The only real solution to these tahpe o' problems is to cut 'em out o' yore lahfe. Jus' like a cancer. An' that ex-husband o' yowrs was the worst kind o' cancer. Ah thank he woulda been the death of yew eventually."
"Yes. I know he would've," she murmured thoughtfully.
"Weyll, it sounds lahk the rain's beginnin' to tayper owff," he observed, glancing out the miniscule kitchen window. Indeed it was. "But stee-il no power."
"I don't think we need it," she commented, running her hands down his shoulders. She just kept repeating to herself in her head that Frank was gone, gone forever, and the contentment that welled inside of her couldn't be kept at bay. "Now," she murmured, with a faintly seductive tone. "…about these clothes…"
"We'll get to those soon enough, darlin'," he whispered before enveloping her in a kiss. He leaned against her, pushing her back against the kitchen table, and in doing so, coaxedher to lie down. She obeyed his request and pulled him down with her, their kisses beginning to reach a frantic pace. The rain outside may have all but ceased, but the lightning and thunder still raged, and it seemed to spur on the amorous couple. As her fingers deftly began undoing the buttons on his denim shirt, he gently detached his lips from hers and began applying light kisses across her neck, up towards her earlobe. Meanwhile, his hands roamed free over her delicate curves, tracing over them, and he felt a shiver of exhilaration course through him each time she sighed or moaned. He began whispering to her, his heavy breaths warm on the soft flesh of her neck.
"Ah'll be a free man in due tahm…and we'll be together…just yew wait…"