Bitch?”
“I did change!” Charlie screamed. “Please, you can’t do this to me. Give me a chance to prove I changed!”
“All right.” Jo seemed open to the idea. “You think you’ve learned so much about women. Answer this question for me: A woman has a knife in her pocket. Some asshole forces her to do something she doesn’t want to do. Tell me, why doesn’t she use the knife?”
“But I used the—” Charlie stopped talking.
He hadn’t used the knife on Salmeri. He’d used the knife on himself.
Why?
All he had to do was turn the knife the other way—stab Salmeri in the balls instead of slicing the blade into his own stomach. The thought hadn’t even occurred to Charlie. The only way he’d seen out of that situation was to punish himself.
Jo gave a slow, sad shake of her head. “It’s a puzzle, ain’t it? Treat somebody bad long enough, and guess what they start thinking they are?”
“I don’t—” Charlie had to stop to swallow. “I don’t know why you’re doing this to me.”
“Poor little Charlie. I know you don’t know why. That’s the problem.” Jo nodded toward the syringe. “Maybe second time’s the charm.”
“No!” Charlie couldn’t handle going back. Tears streamed down his face. “Lady, please, you can’t do it.”
“Tell that to Finkelmeyer. He’s been here for five years.”
“Oh, Jesus!” Charlie was crying for real now. “I’ve got a wife! A daughter!”
“A greedy girlfriend. A brother who’s a borderline rapist. A baby sister who got caught trying to steal drugs from a cancer patient.” Jo tapped her thumb on the plunger again. “Ready for round two?”
“Stop!” Charlie tried to sit up, but pain knifed into his back. “Please!”
“You know how to end it.”
Charlie was sweating. His whole body started to tremble. The plunger was going down.
Jo said, “That’s it, baby. Just relax into it.”
His eyelids fluttered. He saw his hands on the Buick’s steering wheel. He saw the ceiling above his hospital bed. He heard the heart monitor. He heard the car wheels thrum against the road. The Carpenters on the radio. “Please,” he whispered. “Please—just tell me what to do.”
“I’m only telling you because you won’t remember.” Jo’s mouth went at his ear. Her hot breath burned his skin. “It’s easy, Charlie. Just be one of those girls who lets him go deep.”
Necessary Women
I was fourteen years old when I watched my mama die. Her pale skin turned pasty as she clutched her throat, blood seeping through her fingers like she was squeezing a sponge instead of trying to hold on to her life. She was barely thirty years old when she passed, but my daddy had put age on her. Streaks of silver shot through her dark hair like lines on a blackboard, and there was a hardness about her eyes that made you look away fast, before you could be drawn into the sadness.
I try not to think of Mama this way now. When I close my eyes, I think of Saturday nights sitting on the floor in the living room, Mama in the chair behind me, brushing my hair so it would look good for Sunday services. Mama wasn’t particularly religious herself, but we lived in a small border town, smack on the line between Georgia and Alabama, and people would have talked. I’m glad we had nights like this, because now that she is gone, I can think back on it, sometimes even feel the bristles of the brush going through my hair and the soft touch of Mama’s hand on my shoulder. It comforts me.
Our house was a three-room rectangle made of cement block, which trapped heat like a kiln. Thankfully, pecan trees shaded the roof so most days we didn’t get the full intensity of the sun. In a county that routinely saw hundred-plus temperatures, this made a difference. Come summertime, we would pick the pecans, salt them, and sell them to vacationers on their way to the Florida Panhandle. Sometimes Daddy brought in peanuts, and Mama would boil them. I can still see her
“I did change!” Charlie screamed. “Please, you can’t do this to me. Give me a chance to prove I changed!”
“All right.” Jo seemed open to the idea. “You think you’ve learned so much about women. Answer this question for me: A woman has a knife in her pocket. Some asshole forces her to do something she doesn’t want to do. Tell me, why doesn’t she use the knife?”
“But I used the—” Charlie stopped talking.
He hadn’t used the knife on Salmeri. He’d used the knife on himself.
Why?
All he had to do was turn the knife the other way—stab Salmeri in the balls instead of slicing the blade into his own stomach. The thought hadn’t even occurred to Charlie. The only way he’d seen out of that situation was to punish himself.
Jo gave a slow, sad shake of her head. “It’s a puzzle, ain’t it? Treat somebody bad long enough, and guess what they start thinking they are?”
“I don’t—” Charlie had to stop to swallow. “I don’t know why you’re doing this to me.”
“Poor little Charlie. I know you don’t know why. That’s the problem.” Jo nodded toward the syringe. “Maybe second time’s the charm.”
“No!” Charlie couldn’t handle going back. Tears streamed down his face. “Lady, please, you can’t do it.”
“Tell that to Finkelmeyer. He’s been here for five years.”
“Oh, Jesus!” Charlie was crying for real now. “I’ve got a wife! A daughter!”
“A greedy girlfriend. A brother who’s a borderline rapist. A baby sister who got caught trying to steal drugs from a cancer patient.” Jo tapped her thumb on the plunger again. “Ready for round two?”
“Stop!” Charlie tried to sit up, but pain knifed into his back. “Please!”
“You know how to end it.”
Charlie was sweating. His whole body started to tremble. The plunger was going down.
Jo said, “That’s it, baby. Just relax into it.”
His eyelids fluttered. He saw his hands on the Buick’s steering wheel. He saw the ceiling above his hospital bed. He heard the heart monitor. He heard the car wheels thrum against the road. The Carpenters on the radio. “Please,” he whispered. “Please—just tell me what to do.”
“I’m only telling you because you won’t remember.” Jo’s mouth went at his ear. Her hot breath burned his skin. “It’s easy, Charlie. Just be one of those girls who lets him go deep.”
Necessary Women
I was fourteen years old when I watched my mama die. Her pale skin turned pasty as she clutched her throat, blood seeping through her fingers like she was squeezing a sponge instead of trying to hold on to her life. She was barely thirty years old when she passed, but my daddy had put age on her. Streaks of silver shot through her dark hair like lines on a blackboard, and there was a hardness about her eyes that made you look away fast, before you could be drawn into the sadness.
I try not to think of Mama this way now. When I close my eyes, I think of Saturday nights sitting on the floor in the living room, Mama in the chair behind me, brushing my hair so it would look good for Sunday services. Mama wasn’t particularly religious herself, but we lived in a small border town, smack on the line between Georgia and Alabama, and people would have talked. I’m glad we had nights like this, because now that she is gone, I can think back on it, sometimes even feel the bristles of the brush going through my hair and the soft touch of Mama’s hand on my shoulder. It comforts me.
Our house was a three-room rectangle made of cement block, which trapped heat like a kiln. Thankfully, pecan trees shaded the roof so most days we didn’t get the full intensity of the sun. In a county that routinely saw hundred-plus temperatures, this made a difference. Come summertime, we would pick the pecans, salt them, and sell them to vacationers on their way to the Florida Panhandle. Sometimes Daddy brought in peanuts, and Mama would boil them. I can still see her
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