Page 3 of The Bane Witch
3
Don
My eyes are not always green. They’re more gold really, a strange sort of hazel, like tarnished jewelry, the patina of brass or copper. The green comes and goes, following a cycle I can’t trace, showing up like iridescent June beetles at the right season, the glint of pond water when the light is just so. They were green when I bit the man. I remember him saying so, the way he bent over to look into my face, a sticky gleam in his eye like hard candy before he stood, his hand clamping on my shoulder, his thumb running down my trachea. And they were green when I met Henry, staying that way for months until after we were married, dulling eventually with the despondency of our life together, only to flare up at odd intervals, often when things were at their worst. Apparently, they are green now, precisely when I need to be at my least noticeable, like a beacon that gives me away. What, I wonder, are they signaling this time? It can’t be good.
I hobble several blocks in the sunlight, crossing to make my way into the lobby of the smart hotel, looking entirely out of place. The desk girl wears a neat suit and is surrounded by ivory columns, though she has limp brown hair and lipstick that is too orange for her skin tone. Her face is stony when she sees me. I try to slip past, duck toward the hallway with the elegant bathrooms, but she barks out, “Miss, can I help you? Are you a guest here?”
“I’m meeting someone,” I tell her. “At the bar.” I point a finger in its direction as if this is irrefutable proof.
Her eyes narrow with suspicion. It’s still morning. “Do you have a reservation?”
“For the bar?” I return.
I see her jaw grind. “Can I see your ID?”
I hesitate, then reach into my pack and approach the counter like it’s a judge’s bench, arm stretched out.
She plucks the card from my hand, studying it with hungry eyes. When she can find nothing wrong, she passes it back, a flicker of defeat across her lips. “We have a policy against loitering, Ms. Lee,” she says, voice tight.
“I’ll keep that in mind,” I tell her.
“See that you do.”
Smiling politely, I turn and head outside to the pool, passing the bathroom on the way, lugging my booted foot up a barstool. I order a glass of the house white because it’s the cheapest thing on the menu and still costs half of what I have left. It’s half past eight, but I figure I’ve earned this drink after narrowly escaping death. Beside me, a woman is tucking into her crab omelet like it’s the last meal she will get on this earth. The smell of Swiss cheese and fresh chives hits me and my stomach rumbles, but I can’t afford the food. When she gets up to leave, I slide an avocado slice from her plate and shove it in my mouth while the bartender’s back is turned. I’d steal another, but he quickly notices and whisks the plate away.
I drink slowly, letting my eyes crawl around the pool. A man in a fedora comes down and seats himself near me about ten minutes after I arrive. I try to make eye contact, but he’s uninterested, scrolling on his phone. Just as I rise to move a seat closer, he’s joined by a woman in a strappy bikini and short cover-up. Awkwardly, I double back, returning to my seat with my face burning. To make matters worse, the receptionist from the lobby keeps checking up on me. I raise my glass to her, and she slinks away. I’ll have to leave soon. She’s not likely to forget I’m here.
It’s not like this in the movies. In the movies, a pretty woman can sit down at a bar and be swarmed by interested, available men who will buy her breakfast and offer to drive her anywhere. Movies are full of shit. I count between sips to make sure I don’t drink too fast. Two women in caftans make themselves comfortable on the lounge chairs—they don’t look like they’re going anywhere—and a third woman in a sharp black suit asks for a seltzer water with lime. I smile at her, but she responds by slipping her AirPods in and taking a call.
My glass slowly empties, every drop like the sands in an hourglass. The bartender gives me a couple of sidelong looks, but I pretend not to notice. Before the wine is completely gone, I rise and move back through the doors, darting into the ladies’ room and locking it behind me. I slump against the porcelain sink with relief. But there’s no time to relax. That vulture of a receptionist will find me missing and question where I’ve gotten off to.
I pull the box of hair color from my pack and quickly mix tube one into bottle b, clamping a finger over the spout as I shake it furiously. I don’t part my hair in the neat little rows I remember my mother doing that time she decided to go red. Instead, I concentrate on the hair around my face, squirting the rest of the dye like a tangle of Silly String across the crown, rubbing it in with gloved hands. The instructions say to wait half an hour, but I doubt I’ll get that long. Sure enough, fourteen minutes in there’s a knock at the door.
“Just a minute!” I call, falling silent for the next five.
Another, more aggressive knock sounds.
“Hold on!” I bluster, hoping to buy a few more minutes.
But a third knock is followed by the sharp strike of the receptionist’s voice. “Come out, Ms. Lee! It’s time for you to leave.”
I turn the water on high and duck my head as far under it as I can, using my hands to splash it across my neck. The sink runs the color of Mississippi mud, deep and red and unforgiving. I hear the clerk calling, “I have security!” as I use the hand towel to dry my ends, wipe up the rim of the basin, the splatters across the wall.
When I finally look in the mirror, it takes a moment to adjust. I haven’t seen myself like this in nine years, having kept even my roots at bay with regular salon visits since coming to Charleston. My hair hangs like dark drapes parted over my face, glinting with copper threads, the color of my childhood. I am transported in time, old insecurities seeping in like gas under the door, that feeling of being unwanted, worse than being alone. Inside, something stirs, unpredictable and fierce, a part of myself I do not know but recognize. Beside my hair, the sunny color of my skin suddenly looks pale, and my eyes are greener than I’ve ever seen them.
I wad up the dye-stained towel and shove it into the bathroom trash can, opening the door just as her fist is raised to pound again.
Her mouth drops open in disbelief. “Why is your hair wet?” she asks. “And dark ?”
“No reason,” I answer and try to sidle past her.
She glares at me, moving to stand in my path. “You need to leave.” Behind her, a security guard hovers with his hands on his hips like a human barricade.
“That’s what I’m trying to do,” I say defiantly. “I only finished my wine a few minutes ago.”
Her eyes narrow. She crosses her arms. “You think you’re the first prostitute we’ve had in here? You a meth head?” She takes in my shirt and jeans, my booted foot. “Don’t deny it,” she barks at me. “James saw you.”
The bartender must have noticed my poor attempts to be friendly with the other diners. The only thing I want to proposition someone for is a ride, maybe an egg. I limp around her, jerking my arm away as she tries to grab me. “There’s no need for this,” I tell them. “I’m going.”
She follows me into the lobby, where the security guard leans over the counter and grabs a phone.
“What’s he doing?” I ask, clutching my backpack to my chest.
“He’s calling the police,” she snaps.
I round on her, needing to calm her down, deescalate. “No, don’t do that. Please. You don’t understand. No police.”
Her mouth turns down at the corners, and I realize I only sound more guilty. “Don’t loiter in the parking lot either,” she says. “We can see you on the cameras.”
My whole body goes cold. Desperate to leave, I limp rapidly toward the doors, floor slick under my walking boot, the jaunty beat of my stride impossible to overcome. Behind me, I hear the security guard call out as he hangs up the phone. Panicked, I slam into a mother with a preschooler in one hand and a suitcase in the other. “Sorry,” I apologize, stooping to pick up the book I caused her to drop, annoyed that I let it slow me down.
This penchant for dutiful niceness is what landed me with someone like Henry in the first place, that made it possible for him to creep over me like an invasive vine until I was buried, submerged in his will. If I were the kind of woman to flip the desk girl off or kick the woman’s book aside, I doubt Henry would have even tried. Even my mother, for all her interest in blending in, knew when to let others stew in their own juices. But I am forever trying to get gold stars, to be the good little girl it is impossible for me to be.
Outside, the parking lot is dotted with cars. I start across it, hoping to get clear of the hotel before the cops show up. The faint wail of sirens sounds a few blocks away, causing my heart to skip several beats. Even if I make it to the sidewalk, the police will be looking for a woman with this T-shirt and hair color and eye color, a giant boot on her foot. I’m in jeopardy wherever I go in this city, a walking billboard for anyone to read.
An older gentleman in a business suit is stuffing a leather and herringbone suitcase into his trunk. I shuffle up behind him and tap his shoulder, flashing my most nonthreatening smile. “Can I ask where you’re headed?”
He hesitates, taking in my faded shirt—the neck rimmed in Cinnamon Kiss—and canvas backpack.
“I thought if we were headed the same direction, maybe you could use the company?” I try to sound nonchalant, but my voice hitches as the sirens approach.
He emits a small noise. He doesn’t look scared, just surprised. People don’t do these things anymore, I realize. They don’t ask strangers for rides. There’s an app for that.
The receptionist from the lobby barrels through the hotel doors with her pet security guard, waving her arms at me angrily. “Never mind,” I say quickly to the man, ducking between his car and the next.
He leans toward me and takes a deep breath. His eyes shift to the shouting receptionist.
I back away, pointing to my boot. “It hurts to stand, is all. I didn’t want to wait.” Tears gather behind my eyes as I turn to limp away.
He exhales behind me. “I’m going to DC. I can take you as far as that.”
I turn back. “Are you sure?”
His eyes travel from my chest to my face. He clears his throat. “I’m Don. You in some kind of trouble?”
The blare of sirens is bearing down on us, and the security guard is stalking in our direction. “I need to get out of the city,” I admit. “Now.”
“Get in,” he says, unlocking the doors of his Toyota Avalon with the key fob. He climbs into the driver’s seat and starts the engine, backing out hurriedly after I close the door, before the security guard can stop us.
As we pull out of the lot, we pass a police car pulling in. I duck, pretending to dig through my backpack. When I sit back up, I let out a sigh of relief. We are zipping down the boulevard, the beaming rectangle of the hotel shrinking behind us. My fake ID isn’t meant to hold up against law enforcement or background checks. I have no social security number to go with this new name. No birth certificate.
Don leans toward me, and I smell the bourbon on his breath. He sniffs my hair and his lashless eyelids flutter. “I’m Don,” he says.
“You told me that already,” I remind him, my stomach twisting with sudden uncertainty. “I’m Acacia. I work at NYU. I came here to stay with a friend for the summer.”
“Sure you are, honey,” he tells me as we pull onto the freeway. “Sure you are.”
W HEN WE FIRST met, Henry gave me his four names and I gave him my one.
“I’m Piers,” I said, sizing him up—the silk tie and gold cuff links, those little round, tortoiseshell frames he was so proud of. Expensive nerd wasn’t exactly my taste in men, but my taste in men had gotten me nowhere. I was lonely. My mother had died only weeks before, taking too much with her to the grave—any hope I had of a reconciliation, the memory of that day when I was five, answers about what happened. Grief would sneak up on me in the most unexpected ways—in the middle of a movie, on the toilet, in line at the deli. I suddenly ached for her quiet hostility as dearly as one might a favored stuffed animal, that haze of fear passing over her when she looked at me. Instead, I found myself abruptly alone in the world.
At least he would impress my clients. They were all I had left.
I remember his smile went lopsided and his eyes creased. At the time, I thought he was just confused. Later, I would come to know that look. It meant he was displeased but not in a position to express it. It was a look that meant I had it coming.
“Piers what ?” he asked.
“Piers Corbin,” I said. “No middle name.”
He rubbed his chin. “Is that short for something?”
I’d grown used to the reactions to my name over the years. It seemed all wrong for me growing up. Boyish, British, jutting into the air like the sharp end of a knife. I never understood why my mother chose it. In my work, it had fostered a baseless impression of rarefied heritage, one I did little to refute, that lured my clients like honeydew. The murky void of my past as enticing as a rare textile, a silk brocade of their imagining, the emperor’s new clothes. But I didn’t want it to have the same effect on him. It would be nice, I had thought, to have one person truly know me.
“Not at all. My mother always wanted a boy,” I told him. “It seems I disappointed her from the very beginning.”
His smile broadened. “A condition I am most familiar with,” he said amiably. Leaning in, he added, “My mother always wanted a duke.”
Y OU CAN LEARN a lot about a person in six hours.
I have learned that Don is fifty-seven years old. That he’s a political consultant of some kind, married to a woman named Darla who has been fighting ovarian cancer, with three grown children, all boys. One is a dentist. One just got married. One joined the navy and is stationed in San Diego. That they have always owned Labrador retrievers. Their latest model is named Silky. She’s a parvo survivor.
I’ve also learned that Don needs to stop approximately every hour and a half to pee. That he keeps a thermos full of bourbon under the seat. That he is lactose intolerant and eats red meat at least once a day. That he and Darla have been sleeping in separate rooms for three years. That he hasn’t had a captive audience like this in at least a decade. That he pays for everything with an American Express Platinum Card, except gas, which he puts on a Shell card. That his passcode at the pump is 0909—his birthday.
Somewhere between his litany of complaints on the health care system and a recitation of his wife’s latest demands, I fall asleep. I must be out for two hours or more. When I wake up, we’re no longer on I-95.
“Where are we?” I ask Don, who has removed his tie and unbuttoned his collar. I notice his thermos is empty.
“Don’t you worry about that,” he says, patting my thigh with a thick, brutish hand, bloated fingers. He’s a large man, big in frame. His bald head nearly brushes the ceiling. Beneath the suit of fat encasing his body, there are muscles twice the size of mine. Sweat beads on my temples, dosed with epinephrine.
I move my leg over and his hand falls away. “I don’t recognize this road.”
“Taking a little detour,” he tells me, grinning ghoulishly. “The scenic route.”
“I’m in kind of a hurry,” I tell him. “Scenery doesn’t matter.”
Don’s yellowing eyes slide over me. There is a flash of rumpled sheets in my mind, dewy skin, a bruised knee tucked against her body as a man faces the hotel window, dragging his dress shirt over sweaty arms. You have the room till morning, I hear Don’s voice say. Enjoy it. When he leaves, she starts weeping.
“Watch the road,” I tell him, snapping back to the present.
“I think you know where we’re going,” he says. “We have a connection, you and I.”
I wonder if he also had a connection with the underage girl in the hotel. If I saw what I think I saw. “I needed a ride,” I say. “You’re just a way between two points.”
He grins, undeterred. “Come on. Don’t you want to have a little fun before we get into the city? Something to remember me by?”
My palms start to itch. I’d thought once we cleared Raleigh that I could relax. That he was a sad, disgruntled man in a sour marriage who needed a good listener. “Pull over.”
“What? Now ?” He looks confused, then his face lights up. “I was going to get us a room, but if you can’t wait.”
“I feel sick,” I tell him. “Just pull over.” It’s not a total lie.
The county road we’re on has a narrow shoulder bordering farmland. He slows down and rolls his car onto the grass. “Acacia,” he says, turning to me. “That’s pretty.”
I tug at the door handle, but it’s locked, and he’s pushed the childproof button. “Let me out,” I demand.
He scoots across the console toward me. “What’s your real name, huh?” he asks in a husky voice. “I bet it’s even prettier.”
“Just let me out here,” I repeat. “I can walk.”
But he’s on me before I can get all the words out, his hands everywhere—squeezing my breast, unbuttoning my jeans, pull ing at my shirt and face. “You smell good,” he whispers hungrily. “Like gardenia bushes in the summer. They used to grow by the house where I grew up. That was my favorite house. It’s gone now.”
I know he’s drunk because I smell like ammonia and river mud and because it’s an oddly specific description. I claw at his face and arms, but he hardly notices. Another woman streaks across my mind, a fat hand flattened over her mouth. Don pins one of my arms to my side, his weight bearing down on my broken rib, causing me to cry out. His other hand is inching down my panties.
“Come on, girly. I brought you all this way. I bought you those peanuts and that sandwich, all that bottled water. What’s in it for me? This is what you wanted, right? This is what you really wanted.”
I turn away and scream and he jerks my face back, mouth gaping over mine, bourbon-tainted saliva slathering my lips and chin. His tongue is as strong and as determined as the rest of him. In his ardor, he loosens his grip and I free my other hand, managing a weak punch to his throat. He draws back, surprised, but his grin only widens.
“Hard to get? Hardly seems right for a girl in your position, but I’ll play along.”
It’s the way his eyebrows fall, slumping over his eyes, that I notice first. Then his hand goes to his throat. “How hard did you hit me?”
He starts wheezing after that. His eyes bulge and his face purples and his other hand clutches his stomach that gurgles loudly. I flatten myself against the passenger door, unsure what I’m seeing.
“What did you do to me?” he wrenches out before the first spasm hits, every muscle in his neck and shoulders coiling over itself. His mouth clenches at a weird angle and his eyes roll as the seizure takes over. I see my moment and scrabble at the handle, but still the door won’t unlock.
Don grimaces and tears at his door, swinging it wide and vomiting all over the gravel. It’s a pained, guttural sound.
Frightened and desperate, I grab the key fob where he’s wedged it in the ashtray as he doubles over outside the car. I press at the buttons frantically until I hear the familiar click and jerk the handle. The passenger door flies open, and I tumble out backward, scrabbling away on hands and feet. The cabin light flares on and the car dings menacingly as Don contorts in another peculiar spasm. This time when he vomits, I smell the blood. And he collapses.
Getting to my feet, I take shaky steps around the trunk and find him lying face-first on the ground.
“Don?” I whisper, my voice hoarse. I nudge him with a toe. He doesn’t respond. “Don!” I pound his back and struggle to roll him over. When I finally succeed, his eyes are open and lifeless, his posture limp, his mouth still. No breath emanates from his nostrils.
Shit, I think. Shit. Shit. Shit. His vomit is the color oxblood at my feet.
Suddenly, I am five years old again. The breeze toys with the thin wisps of my hair as I squat down, poking a finger into the man’s shoulder. My toothmarks dot his forearm, the glisten of spit and blood in them. I don’t know to feel bad yet. There is a buoyancy inside me, something rising like heat, lifting me up. I smile and slip another berry between my lips, but I’m not hungry anymore. In the distance, my mother’s voice is calling, the pitch tilted and wrong, blemishing the afternoon.
Don, I realize in that moment, is very, very dead. And still, I feel scared of him. I taste the bourbon in my mouth and wipe my face again and again. If I leaned down now and pumped his chest, put my mouth over his and blew, would he hold me there? Would he come to and finish what he started? Would I be saving a rapist?
The shame within me stirs, a mix of regret and confusion. This is a bad, bad thing. Again. And I don’t know how it happened. I can hear my mother’s voice echoing from the past: What have you done?
I wish I knew.
The car dings, and I recognize that even if we are on an unpopular road, we are making quite a scene. If I stand here too long, someone will happen upon us. There will be police and an ambulance. I can’t risk it.
I step over Don’s body and reach into the driver’s seat to grab his discarded tie. I use it to tug his wallet from his front pants pocket. Nine dollars won’t get me far, and I can’t use his credit card without leaving a trail. Don doesn’t look like he’s hurting for much with his swollen belly, twill dress shirt, and eel-skin shoes, but he’s only got a twenty. Looks like plastic is the way he likes to play. I pocket the cash and Shell card and throw his wallet into whatever stalky crop they’re growing in the field next to us. Climbing into the driver’s seat, I drop his thermos on the ground before pulling the passenger door closed.
I should feel something, I think. Something more than panic at what this might cost me. Something more than displaced shame. A man just died. And I did nothing to save him. But I don’t feel sad for Don. I only feel relieved to be rid of him and grateful for his car. When I saw that policeman choke at the restaurant in Radcliffeborough, I wrapped my arms around his chest without hesitation, jabbing my fists into his solar plexus until he coughed up the chicken lodged in his windpipe. I remember the intense fear that something terrible was happening, how he might be lost. His life, however unknown to me, had a palpable weight, like gold bullion. He had a value I could taste in the room. Even after saving him, knowing he was okay, I was so shaken I couldn’t eat. That was before I learned he was an officer, before I saw the fury in my husband’s face, before the reporter showed up.
Watching Don die was nothing like that.
Maybe Henry has finally broken something in me. Maybe I’m no good for men anymore. Maybe I never was.