Seven Days in June(10)

“Oh, girl, he’s past the point of God’s forgiveness,” she’d said, all breezy with her movie-star smile. “You like to be clothed and fed?”

Genevieve had nodded, teary-eyed but almost numb.

“Well then. Be nice. Be good,” she warned, still smiling. “Besides, you’re too clever to be prey.”

Unlike me was Lizette’s implication. When it came to men, her mom was, indeed, not clever. Every time one of her terribly dysfunctional relationships imploded, she was confused and stunned. And then with fresh hope, she’d fling herself at another jackass. Hope was Lizette’s greatest downfall. She was like a kid at one of those toy claw machines at Chuck E. Cheese. The claw never actually picks up a toy, no matter how strategically you aim—the game is obviously rigged. But you try every time, because the hope of it finally working, just this once, is such a thrill.

“You’re pretty,” the guy said, the whites of his eyes gone splotchy red. “Just like your mom. Lucky you.”

“Yeah,” she said dryly. “It’s worked out so well for me.”

Genevieve eyed this fool—his insane hairpiece, his wedding ring—and, not for the first time, wished she were a boy. If she were a boy, she’d knock him into his next life for the tone alone. And again for being married. And then again for letting her mom drink on the job because he knew that was the only way she’d agree to offer off-menu, high-priced services to VIP customers.

Be nice. Be good.

“But are you?” he asked.

“Am I what?”

He stroked the shiny fabric on his meaty thigh. “Are you just like your mom?”

“In…what way exactly?” Genevieve was buying time, trying to figure out how she’d defend herself if it came to it. “You mean, like, in terms of hobbies and interests? Astrological signs? Favorite Ying Yang Twin?”

He bark-laughed again and shook his finger at her. “You’re a smart-ass.”

He hoisted himself out of the foldout chair, ambled toward Genevieve, and stopped about a foot from where she was standing. Despite her thrumming sense of unease, she tried to look tough.

“How old are you?” he asked.

“Seventeen.”

“You look younger,” he said, moving a bit closer to her.

Jesus, he’s one of those, thought Genevieve, her mind racing. He had one hundred pounds on her, but he was also drunk and sluggish—and she was fast. Desperately, her eyes darted around the tiny kitchen. There was nothing hard she could hit him with, like a pan or a teakettle. There was nothing but Honey Bunches of Oats, plastic forks, and Capri Suns.

My pocketknife’s all the way in the bedroom.

She wanted to hurt him before he hurt her. But then there was that old hesitation. Her mom needed this guy. He’d found them this shitty apartment. He’d given her mom a job. He was supporting them. She and her mom were a team.

Be nice. Be good.

“How old are you?” she asked, stalling even more.

“Fifty-eight.” He leaned a bit closer, unsteady on his feet. His after-hours club stench was pungent. “But I got stamina.”

Grinning, he slapped his clammy palm down on her forearm. And then the Lizette-wired part of her brain clicked off. She went completely still. Eyes narrowed. Senses sharpened.

“Wanna hear a joke?” she asked abruptly, with a sweet smile.

“A joke?” He was caught off guard. “Oh. Okay, I like jokes.”

“What did Satan say when he lost his hair?”

“I don’t know. What?”

She chuckled a bit to herself. “How bad do you wanna know?”

“Stop playing. Tell me!”

She glanced up at the rug atop his head. “There’ll be hell toupee.”

His mouth dropped open grotesquely. “W-what? Oh, you little cunt.”

He lunged at her. Genevieve dodged to her left, eluding his grasp. Knocked off-balance, he toppled drunkenly and then crashed to the floor, a cumbersome, slow-moving vat of lard. Momentarily paralyzed with shock, she just stood there, breathing heavily—and then he grabbed her ankle and yanked her to the ground. She fell down hard. Her head exploded into a thousand shards of razor-sharp glass.

“Fuck! You!” she wailed, clutching her face. And then, purely out of pain reflex, she reared back and power-kicked him in the ribs.

While he roared, she scrambled out of the kitchen on her hands and knees and then sprinted into the bathroom. She slammed the door, locking it with badly shaking hands. Grasping her face with one hand, her head thundering, she grabbed a bottle of Percocet from the sink drawer, climbed into the tub, and snatched the shower curtain shut. And only then did she breathe.

Through the cheap hollow-core bathroom door, Genevieve heard the guy screaming Lizette’s name. And then there was the gossamer pitter-pat of Lizette’s feet as she ran down the hall to the kitchen, hollering bewildered nonsense.

From experience, Genevieve knew to wait this out in the bathroom. She popped two pills into her mouth and chewed them dry. (They were prescribed by her Cincinnati doctor—who, like the countless frustrated docs before him, solved her unsolvable problem with opioids.) As Lizette and her man starred in their own chitlin circuit revival in the kitchen, she curled up on her side, waiting for relief.

Lizette had stopped the hysterics. Now she was cooing. Then Genevieve heard footsteps heading toward the master bedroom—Lizette’s Tinker Bell toes barely touching the ground, his steps heavy, labored. Genevieve knew this was her mom’s way of protecting her: luring him away and locking the door. Of course, it never occurred to Lizette to kick him out. Break up with him. Call the police. Be single for a minute, for that matter. Get her own job. Finance her own life. Save the day herself instead of depending on horrible men to do it for her.