Method 15/33 Read online

  “Panthy panther, you know what the brig was? Oh, of course you don’t. Although my brother wailed and begged, Daddy dragged him down the basement stairs, flung open a false wall, pushed him inside a jail cell we’d built the summer before, and locked the door. Was my job to bring ol’ dumb nuts his meals. I really put a lot of care into his food, panther. So, so important to stay healthy when you’re confined. Daddy’s lesson. I hope brother here is feeding you fine. Is he now? Giving you your meals?”

  “Yes, sir.” I didn’t look to my captor. I didn’t care to collect his approval.

  “If he doesn’t, I’ll step in and take over. So tell me, panther, for real, he’s giving you your meals, yes?”

  I don’t want you to step in. I don’t want to start my calculations over. Can’t start over with a new routine. Too late. I’m so close to execution day. No, I will not have you step in.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Sweety, sweetypie, just a’runnin’ a well-oiled ship,” Brad said and clapped like a wind-up monkey with cymbals.

  “Anyway, back to my story. Cranky-pants didn’t leave his cell for one full year. Released at exactly 0702, one year later on the nose.” Brad touched his nose. “Every day, Daddy made him write, ‘The devil keeps my time. He has me under his heel when I’m late.’ He filled up 365 notebooks, one a day, with that phrase. When my brother here was set ‘free at last, free at last,’ boy turns to Daddy and says, ‘Thank you, sir,’ which was the right answer.”

  My jailer had not released his stare-down on me. His menacing meditation had switched to some deeper level of evil, now that I knew the source of his darkness. Blink. Blink. Blink. His look said he would show no mercy because he didn’t want my pity—pity would mean he was weakened and his daddy was wrong. Blink. Blink. Blink. Pity said he wasn’t good enough, a lower creature. His blinking burrowed a bit of fear in me, something that took a solid ten seconds to bite back and switch off. And switch off again. Blink. Blink.

  Someone pushed my plate.

  “Eat your vegetables, pantheon, we need you healthy,” Brad said.

  “Eat your food because I’m about ready to carve that baby out of you,” my captor said.

  Brad did not rebuke him. Instead, he nodded his head in agreement.

  I took a sip of the milk Brad had poured me, wishing I could grab the steak knife under his upturned pinky and jam the blade into his scarf-enshrined neck. The red would blend nicely with the purple silk, I thought.

  When dinner was done and cleared, Brad pranced out and back in with a slice of apple pie, just for me. “Panthy pantherton, take this pie on up to your room. And thanks for having this little dinny-poo with me. I like to meet our product-keepers, here and there.” He flopped his free hand to and fro on the “here” and the “there.”

  Product-keeper? You mean, a girl-with-child? You mean, a mother? You’re so sick, I can’t even get mad. Sick. So sick it’s hilarious.

  When Brad lifted his hand to rub my earlobe between his thumb and index finger, I contemplated knocking him off his balance and using his forward motion by pulling and twisting his arm so he flipped on his back—all from his very own physics; then I would crush his windpipe with my heel, my physics. Just like my daddy-poo taught me. Once that maneuver was complete, I’d swiftly grab the fire poker at my left flank to impale my captor who would be standing stunned. But again, my condition dampened any chances of this obvious and easy solution, so I took hold of the apple pie as it was offered.

  I marched half-blinded, bagged again, carrying my Americana dessert up to my cell, my captor at my back.

  Normally he would have shoved me inside. This time he stopped, taking me in from his standing state. “You look at me like I’m beneath you, bitch. Since Day One, you don’t blink. Let me tell you something, I will gut you. You will not win. Don’t go grinning over that little story my brother told you.”

  He left me on this pleasant bedtime wish. Tucked me in with his twinkling, gnashing grin.

  I better behave so he sticks with his established patterns.

  CHAPTER NINE

  DAY 30 IN CAPTIVITY

  As expected, at 7:30 a.m., the smell of baking bread knocked me into my fourth Kitchen People cooking day. Along came the rattle of the shaking floor—the moving ceiling fan below—and the whirs and the churns of their spinning mixer. In my mind’s eye, the apple-green appliance whipped up a batch of brownies. A cloud of baking chocolate filled the room and lingered high in the rafters, making way for the scent of melting cheese and a buttery crust. My nose twitched, my mouth watered, my stomach grumbled. Oh, but to have been afforded a lick of the bowl and a quick nibble of the pie as it came out of the oven. I cowered in a curved position on my jail bed, not wanting to make one single noise. My captor coughed in the hall, his back against the door, which banged with his every wheeze. He’d shown me his gun again earlier in the morning when he threw me and the bucket on the bed. “Stay the fuck put, not one fucking sound, or baby gets a bullet today,” he had said.

  The barrel of the gun was on my navel, likely on my baby’s head. Asshole very well could have pulled the trigger for the freezing chill I felt even after he’d left. I didn’t even twitch, shuddering mentally at the thought of metal gorging through my child, a horrid hallucination that would not retreat, like the incessant buzzing of a mosquito.

  Sitting here seventeen years later, I have this quote I wrote to myself and taped above my desk: “Whatever you’re waiting for, be ready.” What I mean by this is, if you’re waiting for something, don’t really wait for it, take the steps to put it in place. One stone, one layer of mortar, another stone, one step at a time toward your goal’s pyramid. Emotion by emotion. Brick by brick. The quote is a constant reminder to myself to live as though whatever I am waiting for is absolutely coming true, regardless of doubt, laws of physics, or worst of all, time.

  Time, ticking time, like relentless water over a sharp rock, it dulls resolve. In the dip of the middle, when the seconds pound out their slow-witted mockery, one must think of any knot untied, any map not yet triple-checked, any shadow not yet measured, any task, any task, any, any God-loving task will do, so long as it is toward that one goal—whatever you’re waiting for.

  Many an afternoon of mine were almost comatic in the dip of the drip, drip trickle of time. I couldn’t think of any more tasks and I’d turn catatonic, staring at my rough-hewn, barn-board jail cell wall. The beams became tree limbs, the ceiling a white-cloud sky. Then a trumpet call crack of the floor and him moving beyond would rouse me to rummage my mind for a task. With none found, I’d turn to the only routine to give me solace: practice. Whatever I was waiting for required practice, then practice again, then practice ten more times, and to start over a thousand more times.

  I love Olympians. Especially solo Olympians who fight not for a team, but their very own souls. The swimmers, the track stars. And I’m a sucker for the back-stories detailing their grueling four a.m. workouts lasting to midnight. Like a Jack-in-the-Box, these athletes pop up and deflate, pop up, deflate, up, down, up, down, up, down, never lifting their feet firmly implanted in the box. At long last the bell blows, the gun fires, and off they go—muscles beating water, pumping over hurdles, splash they’re gone, flash they’re gone. Darting like a stingray past soggy competitors. Bolting beyond the speed of light. Whenever the expected champion wins, I literally scream my approval. They worked for it. They deserve it. Cream rises to the top, especially the self-stirring cream. Driven, determined, dedicated, death-defying, competition-obsessed—the game, they play, to win. I love every one of them.

  On Day 30, I lay on my bed, waiting on the Kitchen People to leave so I could resume my practicing and stop the circular daymare of bullets in babies.

  Around eleven, there was the familiar kissing-of-the-ass between my bakers and my jailer. As acid rose in my throat, I dry-heaved my displeasure onto my coverlet. But instead of melting somewhere else into the house like he normally did, as soon as the door shut, he
pounded back up the stairs toward my room. This was not part of the routine. I hated any shift in my daily plan. A warm sweat rose on the back of my neck. Acid burned my throat. My heart returned to the beat of a hummingbird once again.

  In he burst with his customary agitation.

  “Get up,” he said.

  I got up.

  “Put these on.” He threw an old pair of Nikes at my feet. They were two sizes too big. I put them on and tied tight. Asset #32, a pair of running shoes. Wait, where are my shoes? Have I been without them this whole time? How did I not notice?

  “Move,” he said, the gun at my back. We resumed the same gunman’s shuffle we had had the first night of our arrival, me in front, him behind, me not having a clue as to where we were going. The only difference was, I was not bagged or blindfolded this time.

  Oh God, please help me. Where are we going? Butterfly, you did not warn me. Why? Maybe you did. I was looking at the wall all morning. Why didn’t I watch the window? Where is he taking me?

  We went down the three flights of stairs but did not turn left, which would have brought us through the kitchen. We forged straight ahead to a back door that opened to a dirt patch, the grass having been worn away by people who must have once occupied a weathered picnic table outside the door. Cigarette butts carpeted the area. A break spot for employees? I yearned to turn around to see what the building looked like, but he heel kicked me forward, and I was not afforded even a glance.

  The dirt patch was about fifteen feet in circumference, then began a long stretch of unmowed grass parallel to the building we’d just exited; the grass strip was about four feet wide before tumbling over a ridge. He gun prodded me to the ridge. Over the edge was a steep hill leading to a forest behind. One narrow path, about a foot wide, led down the hill and through the woods. We took the path. It was the middle of the day.

  Where is he taking me? Is this the end? I’m eight months pregnant. If they had the equipment, the baby is viable. But would they risk Caesarean birth after all of this trouble? Where is he taking us? I rubbed my stomach with the fury of a castaway rubbing sticks to start a fire. This was when I realized something about myself: whenever there was a direct threat to my child, the fear switch in me turned itself on. I’d never had this trouble before pregnancy. Having realized this glitch, going forward, I was more self-aware—better at tempering, or tamping, the unwelcome, woefully useless emotion of fear. Interesting though, psychologically, medically, and perhaps even philosophically, at least to me. Sometimes I wonder if my baby’s emotions—his fetal fear—transferred to me in those moments. I was giving him life, but was he giving me life?

  It had rained earlier in the morning, and the cold spring wetness clung to the ground and to every leaf. The buds on the trees stalled in the moisture. Not one sign of life stretched to unfurl in such weather. The sun slept, unwilling to fight the chill in the air. Thick clouds were a wet blanket overhead. I shivered without a coat.

  “You’re worthless. Cheap. A whore. Look at you. Slutting up yourself. Banging in heat and pregnant with sin. You’re scum, you mean nothing, you mean nothing to this world,” he said. He kept the gun on my back and slithered his face around my neck, keeping his lips close to my cheek. After exhaling two hot breaths, he spit in my face and added, “Worthless bitch.”

  If I’ve taken responsibility, if I intend to work hard to make this work, is this not my journey? Yes, I am lucky to have resources, help, love, but do these benefits not make it my journey, still? A flawed and unique journey, but mine? Why is it up for universal discussion? Brought up by who, him? This criminal? Wait. Wait. This is not about me. Focus. This is about him justifying his depravity. Focus. Please. Focus. Breathe.

  I was not sure what I had done to deserve his sanctimony, except be a woman and get myself pregnant—and so young. But arguing about the morality of it all, apologizing to him, to the world? To God? The woods, the trees, the morphing molecules of right and wrong in the air? None of that would temper him. I had followed his every command so far; all he wished to do was harm me. I lowered my head, steadying for more of his sermon of judgment, which he seemed so primed to give. His saliva slid slowly down my skin.

  “Yeah, you heard me, you’re fucking worthless. All these other girls, they cry and they beg me to help them. What are you? Some fucking crazy bitch? You just sit there, like nothing. You don’t even want this baby, do you? You don’t give a shit.”

  Wrong. I wanted my baby more than I wanted to be rescued. Much more. Many a time I fantasized about the butterfly giving me a choice: would I choose to remain in the house of horrors and keep the baby or be rescued and lose the baby? Always I imagined this choice and immediately planned where I would place my born child on the bed while we slept in our eternal jail cell. My hand would cup his puffed belly, and I would kiss his sweet peach cheek.

  “I bet you’ll talk when we get to the quarry. Won’t be so brave then.”

  Why is he taking me to the quarry?

  “Yeah, I bet you’ll scream, bitch. What? What’s that? What?”

  I didn’t know how to respond. Here I was, walking in front of him on a thin, twisted path, which took all my faculties to maneuver without tripping, and he’s behind me asking What? Was this a rhetorical question? Sarcasm? How did he expect me to respond? Was he talking to himself?

  I stopped, my head bent, my body still forward, my right foot hugging a fist-size stone at the arch, my left flat upon a root. He slowly crept up and became flush with my body, angling his arm with the gun around my midsection as though he were my lover hugging me from behind. He seethed in my ear like a mad, hissing snake, “You answer my questions when I ask them, bitch. What, what do you think we’re doing today?”

  “I have no idea, sir.”

  “Ah. Okay. Well, let me tell you something. You’re going to climb this hill up there, a few more steps, yeah. And then you’re going to see where I throw all you bitches. I am sick to shit of you lounging like you own the place. I want you to know what’s coming to you and then maybe you won’t sit so smug up in that room of yours. Looking like you might kill me any minute. You’re such a dumb bitch.”

  His breath still smelled like shit.

  The warm sweat that had beaded up on my neck when we started this journey had cooled to freezing, but with his menacing breath now on it, the sweat warmed and flowed once more. A fever rose in me. I vomited. Bile spilled upon my right foot and the rock beneath.

  He backed away. “Move it,” was the only tenderness he gave to me being sick. He jabbed the gun at my back.

  I climbed the hill he had mentioned, and the path became no more. We came upon a series of huge granite slabs, natural rock mountains. Green moss and lichen-covered spots, puberty fuzz on a teenage boy. I walked, stooped at an incline, an angle made more dramatic given my top-heavy state and unsure footing in my too-big shoes.

  I slid backwards and into him once, but caught myself by planting my palms on the prickly lichen, which embedded and scraped my skin.

  “Get up. Get up. Move,” he said. He didn’t lend one hand to help me stand.

  At the crest of the crop of rocks, we arrived.

  We stood upon the top of a doughnut ring; carved in the middle was a hole filled with black water. Dynamited ridges cut vertical from the top of the rock wall into the water. So they mined this once. A quarry. The quarry.

  The quarry was about the size of eight aboveground pools.

  “They say it’s forty feet deep in some spots. You want to dive on down there and find out, bitch?”

  “No, sir.”

  “No, sir? No, sir! Is that all you got? You fucking little bitch. Come down here. You’ll cry once and for all.”

  So he has unraveled. He’s gone mad. All this sitting around, guarding me, being my food slave, has gotten to him more than me. He’s sick. He’s a sick man. Sick men are unpredictable. I can’t calculate events on this. Listen. Listen. Do as he says.

  I followed him before he could grab me b
y the neck and pull me.

  We walked the rim of the quarry and down a gradual decline to a puddle spilling off the lower edge. While keeping one arm extended with the gun in my direction, he bent to retrieve a coiled, wet rope.

  “Put your hands behind your back.”

  Once I did as told, he placed the gun on the ground and, like a practiced sailor securing a boat to a bollard, wrapped the rope around my wrists and took the long end to a tree at the edge of the quarry, securing me in place as though I were his junkyard dog.

  “Stand there and watch this,” he said.

  He reached from the puddle into the darkness of the quarry, searching with his hands the side of the rock wall. He seemed to unhook something. Another rope, a slack rope. He pushed past me and found a boulder behind which he sat, placing his feet against the boulder so as to form a cantilever out of himself. He pulled the rope, straining his biceps, his legs, his jaw, in an effort to extract what seemed to be a rather heavy object tied to the end of the rope.

  Panting, he took one break mid-pull and said, “I strapped this one to an expensive, competition-grade wakeboard, the kind for oceans, yeah.” His chest heaved as he breathed, yet he smiled, pleased with himself in providing these insane details. “On the bottom of the wakeboard, I tied a huge cement block. I pushed the whole thing, her on the wakeboard and the block, off the edge up there.” He arched his head to indicate the top of the quarry and paused to pant in his heavy breath before resuming his crazy speech and his pulling on the rope. “At first, the board tilted headfirst, with her on it, under water, but then righted itself as the cement yanked it down and down. Oh, but she floats just below the surface all right. You’ll see soon enough. Just as soon as I get this block off the bottom. Yeah, bitch, kept this one tied on in case I needed to convince one of you bitches of something. And wasn’t that smart of me?”