A Year Less a Day. James Hawkins
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is teasing her hair in the burnished stainless steel range hood as Trina hustles in.
“Oh, you are here,” says Trina as Cindy breaks through on the intercom.
“Sorry Ruth. Trina just ...”
“I’m here,” shouts Trina, slamming her hand on the “Talk” button.
Ruth turns from the mirror, guessing she’s been found out, and fluffs her lines. “I was just ... You know ... just ... um.”
“You’ve got a date,” breathes Trina, taking in the heavy lipstick and indigo eye shadow. “Is it Mike, that nice policeman?”
“No ...” starts Ruth, then changes her mind and apparently confesses. “Yes. All right. If you must know. But I don’t want you telling a soul. Absolutely no one, do you understand?”
“Don’t worry, Ruth. I don’t blame you, really ... although others might.”
“I was doing all right up ‘til now. I knew I should’ve locked that door. I knew you’d ruin it,” cries Ruth.
“Sorry,” coos Trina, sweeping the tearful woman into her arms. “Come on upstairs. Let’s do that makeup properly. You look as though you’ve had an accident.”
An hour later Trina stands Ruth in front of a mirror and proudly exclaims, “Ta-dah.”
“Where’s my glasses?” says Ruth squinting.
Trina picks up the glasses from the table, hesitates for a moment, then races for the door. “Don’t move,” she calls. “I’ll be back in a minute.”
“I can’t move,” yells Ruth. “I can’t see without them.”
Twenty minutes later Trina re-appears, out of breath.
“You said a minute,” moans Ruth, still standing.
“Sorry about that,” gushes Trina, “but look.”
“What? I can’t see ...”
“Oops, sorry,” says Trina, and she hands Ruth a funky pair of octagonal glasses with opal highlights.
“Mine are special ...” begins Ruth, but Trina stops her.
“Just try them.”
The overall effect is magical and Ruth peers disbelievingly into the mirror. She even pokes out her tongue a little just to make sure it isn’t a trick. Silent tears slowly appear like dewdrops on rosebuds, and Trina dashes to mop them with a tissue. “Hey, stop that,” she says, “You’ll ruin the mascara.”
“Sorry,” mumbles Ruth, but she takes off the glasses and hands them back. “Trina, I can’t afford these. How much do they cost, for chrissake?”
“Nothing,” lies Trina. “A friend makes them.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah. It’s still your old glasses—it’s an optical illusion. He just puts new frames over the old ones. He’s a sweetheart.”
Ruth’s “date” is still an hour away as she sits on Jordan’s empty bed trying to rationalize her planned exploit. You could’ve waited until he was in Los Angeles, she tries telling herself, though she knows that is just a delaying tactic. There’s got to be other ways ... Go on then—name one.
Ruth switches on Jordan’s computer and pulls up his last few sites. It can’t be that bad, she’s convinced herself, but as she scrolls through page after page of pornography she has to force herself to watch, and her heart sinks as she thinks of the loss Jordan has endured, and his pathetic attempt to regain his manhood through images on the Internet.
“You have thirty-seven new messages—Hard Drive,” pops up on the screen and she quickly turns it off, feeling she has already violated his final moments.
Ruth’s edginess has her dancing around the apartment like a teen before the prom, inspecting her face and hair again and again, until, with a quick check to make sure the alley is clear, she slips out the back door and walks three blocks before picking up a cruising cab.
The driver seems particularly familiar with the downtown address and drops Ruth at the side door. “Good luck,” he says, and gives her an appreciative whistle as he drives off.
Ruth stands back, surveys the old industrial building, and takes a deep breath. Running is still an option. It’s nippy under the clear evening sky, but walking to the aquabus terminal might sharpen her mind and enable her to find a better solution.
She inches forward. There’s a number on the door, but no name. She manages to ring the bell on her third attempt, and jumps at the sharp buzz of the intercom. The latch clicks open. “Come up—second floor,” says a man without query, and it takes her a second to spot the overhead security camera.
Ruth’s footsteps are slow as she clangs her way up the bare metal staircase. It’s not too late, she tells herself at each landing. Going down is much easier than going up.
“Ms. Jackson?” confirms the same man as she finally reaches the top. She nods and he waves her into a room with a couch and a couple of cameras on tripods. “I’m Dave,” he says, using his forefinger to click an imaginary camera in front of his face.
“Ruth,” she responds as she sizes him up: early twenties, pimply, with straggly hair, and the start of a cameraman’s hunched-back. Her pulse is racing and her hands won’t stop, but Dave looks harmless and she takes some steadying breaths, fights back the feeling that she is going to vomit, and asks, “Have you been here long?”
A door slams open and a tattooed English gorilla in studded leather ambles in.
“Jessica,” he booms, giving Ruth a cursory sweep.
“Jessica?” she echoes.
“Yeah. You gotta have a name—know what I mean? You look like a Jessica. I’m Mort.”
“Hi, Mort,” Ruth starts conversationally, holding out her hand, but he cuts her off, and she shrinks at the realization that he has nothing to shake with.
“First time?”
“Yes,” she mumbles, unable to take her mind off the shrivelled stump that should have been a right hand.
“Thought so. Well, take off your clothes, Jessica. Time’s money—know what I mean?”
Ruth is slow as she peels off her sweater and blouse, and Mort watches impatiently as he massages the truncated wrist with his good hand.
“C’mon lady. We’re on a schedule—know what I mean?”
“Yes. Sorry ... Should I take my bra off as well?”
“Everything, lady. Dave ain’t in kindergarten, even if he looks like a kid.”
Ruth stops with her bra in her hand, “I didn’t ...”
“Look lady, excuse the pun, but jugs aren’t as big today as they used to be—know what I mean? Guys want the whole juice machine today. That’s the only thing that sells—know what I mean?”
“Yes, but ...”
“Did you bring something to work with?”
“Tom didn’t say ...”
Mort waves her to stop with the stump and calls to Dave. “Get out a couple of dildos for the lady, Dave.”
Sweat’s running off her brow as Ruth starts to rise. “Tom only mentioned breasts.”
Mort throws up his arms. “Lady, please. Listen to me. This ain’t a debating contest. Do you need the money or not?”
“Yes, but ...”
“Good girl. Now take ’em off, jump up on the bed and