Dance For Fools

By Lynn McMahon Anstead

Helen is a small, unremarkable woman who is happy to remain just that. Unfortunately she has a history of attracting men who find her air of fragility intriguing, believing her easy to dominate. Tired of being stalked, the tables are turned when Helen's years of suppressed rage finally erupt. She is surprised to find that the act of taking control makes her feel good about herself. She quits her job and sets about remodeling both the family home and herself. She becomes addicted to the feeling of being in charge, exercising her new found power over just about anyone who has the misfortune of crossing her path. She soon finds that the act of taking a life is the ultimate in control and Detective Connie Lambert must stop her before it gets out of hand.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lynn McMahon Anstead
• Release date: Mar 11, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310719370

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Dance For Fools

Lynn McMahon Anstead

Copyright 2013 Lynn McMahon Anstead

Smashwords Edition

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For my brother Peter,

Definitely one of the good guys.

CHAPTER ONE

God walked into the restaurant that night...well if not god then at least his gift to all human kind. He strutted through the tightly squeezed tables, not seeming to notice when he bumped and jostled people trying to cram their meals down in the little time work allowed for that ritual. Oblivious to anything but his own magnificence, he smiled benevolently to anyone who glared their displeasure at his intrusion, like the pope bestowing blessings upon the crowd. There wasn't a soul in that poorly-lit room who remained unaware of his entrance.

Panic started to flutter in Helen's chest as she watched him enthrone himself at a table in her section. She squeezed her eyes shut and mouthed the silent words of prayer.

‘Please don't let this be happening again. I promise to be good and do anything you want if you'll only spare me from having to deal with this awful man.’

After 38 years of disappointment, she still managed to stir up enough hope in the dust of her heart to believe the invocation might actually work this time. But when she slowly opened her eyes he was still there, larger than life, in his cowboy boots and faded jeans. There he sat, picking at his teeth with the edge of a matchbook cover and looking around for someone to come and wait on his every whim.

If she possessed anything that even remotely resembled a sense of humour, she might have chuckled and decided that next time she would pray for the exact opposite of what she really wanted, because that's how successful her prayers tended to be. But humour had never figured prominently in her life. In fact if there was a gene responsible for that particular attribute, it was one that had been over-looked when her emotional composition was being designed.

Sighing in resignation she picked up a menu, got slowly to her feet and moved reluctantly to the table where he was enthroned. She tried to put on her very best smile, which was stiff and cold at the best of times, but was unable to force even that amount of amiability. She rushed through her little speech on the day's specials and waited, practically trembling, her eyes on the carpet between her feet. She felt his eyes take their time raking over the length of her body and shuddered.

She didn't need to look to see the small, self-satisfied smile playing at the corners of his mouth. It would be there. She was well acquainted with THAT LOOK, the look that she seemed to provoke in a small but dangerous percentage of the male population…at least in the portion that took delight in dominating women who appeared weak and vulnerable.

What was it about men of that ilk? Or with men who had an overwhelming need to protect and smother? Why were they so irresistibly drawn to her? Normal men, if there were any such things, had absolutely no time for her at all. In fact they never noticed her, not even when she was serving them their meals. As far as they were concerned she simply didn't exist.

After what felt like an eternity, he finally told her what he wanted to order. He took his time even then, repeating everything twice and then making her read it back to him, like a child learning a lesson. He definitely enjoyed watching her squirm and his chuckle of delight when she finally managed to scurry away burned in her ears.

The rest of his visit went exactly as feared. Despite the meticulous care she took with his order, he managed to find dozens of reasons to call her back over. His coleslaw was stale, his beer was skunky, and his cheeseburger didn't have enough cheese. He even quibbled over the addition of his bill, laughing at himself when it turned out that she was right, as if he hadn't known all along that she was.

When he finally left, she wasn't at all surprised to find he had scribbled his name on the paper place mat and surrounded it with a large heart. Nor was she surprised to find that her would-be Romeo had tipped her only fifty cents for a nine dollar meal.

She crumpled up the grease and ketchup stained place mat, apparently Romeo was a messy eater, and quickly tossed it into the garbage before his name could become imprinted on her brain. Perhaps it was already written somewhere in her subconscious, but her conscious mind could not have disgorged it, not for any offered incentive or threat of torture. And that's just the way she wanted it.

If only the whole experience could be so easily erased. But the headache building behind her eyes gave her fair warning that it was far from over. She knew only too well that his kind wasn't satisfied with merely ruining one evening. He would be back.

Maybe she could go home and lock herself away for a week or three. By then he might be tired of looking for her and find himself another prey to torture. But the rent was due soon and she couldn't afford the loss of income. She couldn't even afford to go home early tonight. So she took a migraine pill and shuffled through the rest of her shift in a codeine-filled haze. Her headache continued its assault on the sweet wall of oblivion the drug erected, howling its frustration at having been blocked.

Somehow she made it through the evening without spilling hot coffee on any of her customers, or on herself for that matter. She had no memory of the trip home, but the fact that she was kicking off her shoes and throwing the security bolt on her apartment door was pretty good evidence that she managed to pull that off too. She couldn't have sworn that he hadn't followed her, but wasn't too worried about that, yet. It was too early in the game still. That probably wouldn't come until he asked her out and she refused.

She sank to her knees and released the tears she had been holding back all evening. Again her lips moved silently, this time praying that her instincts were wrong. Please let this sense of foreboding be wrong, don't make me have to go through this all over again. But this time she could stir up no hope at all. She crawled into the bathroom and vomited into the toilet, unable to summon enough strength to get to her feet.

The vomiting brought some release to the pressure that threatened to explode inside her head. Now, if she could get a decent night's sleep, the headache should be nothing but a dull throb by morning.

She was stretched out on the couch with a cold cloth covering her eyes before she finally noticed her cat. The poor thing was coming into heat again and her building need was evident in the plaintive tones of her cry.

God…tonight of all nights she was going to have to listen to that too. Now sleep would be impossible without the aid of another codeine pill. She struggled to her feet and threw one back with the dregs of this morning’s orange juice. While she could still function, she stripped off her uniform and tossed it into the corner of the room. Putting on her nightgown required supreme effort, but she couldn’t bring herself to sleep in the nude…it was far too shameful. Oblivion came with merciful quickness.

*

He couldn't believe his luck. In town only one day and he'd already found the perfect woman! He lay on the lumpy mattress in his cheap motel room, smoking a cigarette. A tacky neon sign blinked through the thin curtains but didn't register on his one-track mind as he thrilled over his discovery.

It was getting more and more difficult to find women like this, real women who knew a man was superior, in both strength and mind, women who had enough sense to remain quiet and subservient to their men, never questioning their actions.

Women like that never argued about who was the boss or who was in charge, they just knew. And if their man wanted to stay out all night playing cards or shooting pool with the boys, they made damned sure that there were clean sheets on his bed when he finally came home to get some sleep. So what if he came home smelling of beer and some whore's perfume? That didn't stop them from making sure his meal was waiting on the table. And if it bothered them at all, well, at least they knew enough to keep it to themselves.

It was a damn shame most women these days had forgotten the natural order of things, the way God had intended for things to be. They went to school and got their damn fool heads filled with ideas like...well like being equal with men. They thought they deserved to be treated with respect and have a say in the way the world was run.

Life was a lot easier 40 years ago, in his old man's time. Back then a man could find an honest day's work 'cause the women were in the homes raising the kids where they belonged. They weren't out stealing jobs from men and forcing them to turn to a life of crime to get by.

He took a long drag from his cigarette. He could feel his anger start to build, the way it always did when he got thinking about how the world had gone to hell. He took a deep breath, and tried to push those negative thoughts away, the way the social worker said to do. He didn’t have to worry about any of that anymore…he had found him his woman now. And with the right woman beside him, believing in him, life was going to take a turn for the better. Just wait and see; he was going to finally get what he deserved.

He thought briefly about the last woman he hoped would understand him and his temper started to boil again. Her betrayal hurt; there was no gettin’ around that. But that was one of them negative thoughts he wasn’t supposed to dwell on anymore. This one would be different. Hell, she was already smitten with him, he could tell. Why the poor thing was so moon-struck she couldn’t even look him in the eye without blushing!

Yes, life had definitely taken a turn for the better. Too bad she hadn’t worn a name tag. It would be nice to whisper her name in the darkness, try out the way it rolled off his tongue. But that was no never mind; it wouldn’t take long to find that out.

God knows he hated waiting, but he probably shouldn’t appear too eager. Didn’t want her thinkin’ she had that much power over him….might not get things off on the right foot. She might not have any respect for him if she thought he was weak.

No, it was probably better to wait a couple of days before going back to the restaurant. Give him enough time to find a job. Gonna need some money to buy his sweetie some flowers and chocolates… yeah, that was probably best.

*

The sunlight shining through her uncovered windows didn't disturb her, nor did the tortured cries of her cat. What woke her was the persistent ringing of her phone, a rare enough event in and of itself.

Who could it be? She had no friends to speak of, and it wasn't time for her mother's weekly call. Was that the right time? Had she really slept for eleven hours straight?

Maybe she should just ignore the phone. It had to be somebody trying to sell her something that she really couldn't afford. But whoever it was had no intention of giving up, and she was afraid the incessant ringing would start her headache going again. Just when it felt like it was beginning to fade too.

Hello. She was surprised at how hoarse her own voice sounded.

Well Helen, I always suspected you were a closet drinker. You sound like shit, but not nearly as bad as that cat of yours sounds. Her downstairs neighbour was phoning to complain about Jasmine, the same way he did every time she went into heat.

I'm not hung over; I had a migraine last night. I took one of my pills. She cringed at the defensiveness in her own voice.

Well it must have been a good one to allow you to sleep through that caterwauling your animal was making. If you don't do something to shut her up, I just might come up there and screw her myself. It'd be worth it to get a few hours of peace and quiet around here. He chuckled at his own humour.

Even though she had heard it many times before, she winced at his vulgarity, and immediately regretted her reaction. The sudden movement caused her headache to flare again.

I'm terribly sorry at any inconvenience Mr. Turner, but I don't know how to stop her when she gets going. Helen tried to placate him.

You stop her by having the damned thing spayed or let her get knocked-up. Jesus Helen, I don't need to explain this to you at your age. He was loving every minute of this.

I have every intention of getting her spayed. But I haven't saved up enough money for the surgery yet. These things are very expensive. Helen surprised herself by arguing with Mr. Turner. It was definitely out of character and they did have this discussion every time poor Jasmine went into heat.

Well you had better do it soon or I'm going to start complaining to the super. He was angry at her unusual show of defiance and slammed the phone down before she could say anything else.

Helen let her head sink back down on the pillow and contemplated this new problem. It certainly didn't look like she was going to get the quiet day she needed to help her lose this headache before her shift began at 4:00.

She should have known better than to try and stand up to Mr. Turner. He was a crabby old man who seemed to derive what little pleasure he got out of life from complaining. He was vindictive enough to call the super too, now that he'd gotten no pleasure out of complaining to her.

Poor Jasmine jumped up on the bed beside her and settled down, her haunches raised and quivering. Helen gently stroked the tortured animal, carefully avoiding the part of her that craved attention the most.

I know sweetheart, it's not fair. But I've got to tell you, it's no great shakes. You're really better off without it. All it does is bring you grief in the end.

Sighing, she forced herself out of bed, standing quietly until she gauged the condition of her head. It wasn't as good as she'd hoped but was better than she feared. She could probably get through the rest of the day without another pill. As long as he didn't come back into the restaurant tonight she should be able to get along just fine.

After her shower, wrapped in a towel, she stood in front of the mirror. She forced herself to conduct a thorough inventory of what he would have seen, what he could possibly have found so attractive.

If she had been asked to find one word to describe herself, she wouldn't need to search hard to find it. That word would be pale. Her hair was pale, almost to the point of being white; in fact it probably was starting to go white. There wasn't much different in the way it looked but some of it felt coarse lately, not as soft as before. Her skin was pale, with almost a bleached pallor, unrelieved by any blemishes or freckles. Her lips were pale too; so pale that it was difficult to tell where they left off and the rest of her face took over. Her eyes were the only part of her that had any colour at all and even that was a weak and washed out blue.

During her teens she had experimented for a while with make-up but found the industry didn't cater to women of her complexion. Anything she tried merely stood out in stark contrast, looking like theatrical make-up. It just made her look and feel even more ridiculous.

She barely made the five foot mark before she stopped growing, and her build was slight and delicate. She weighed in at only 97 pounds and it was this appearance of frailty that made her the perfect victim. Or so she had been told by the police officer who taught the self-defence course she had taken…that and the fact that despite her 38 years, she could easily pass as a high school student.

Staring at her reflection, she could find nothing she thought the slightest bit appealing. Why were men like him attracted to women like her? Women who wanted nothing more than to make it through life unnoticed. She shook her head in bafflement.

She dragged a brush through her hair, pulling it back into a ponytail and securing it while still wet. Not only was it pale to the point of being colourless but it was baby fine. It defied any effort at styling, refusing even to hold a perm, and Lord knew her mother had tried often enough to make that work.

Back in her bedroom she began to get dressed, pulling out a pair of old, faded jeans and topping it off with a soft blue t-shirt. Her taste in clothing also ran to the pale. Not because that was necessarily her taste, she didn't actually have one. But because anything more vibrant looked as ridiculous on her as the make-up had in her teenage years.

Her parents had tried so hard to make her appear more 'normal' when she was growing up. They had been really frustrated with her when it became evident that all she really wanted was to blend into the scenery and not draw any attention to herself at all. Her father never had any trouble expressing his disgust with her mouse-like appearance and personality. Meal times were frequently punctuated with her silent tears and his angry lectures. She could still hear his ranting; get a back-bone, talk back to him like a normal kid. There was no point in trying to explain that whenever she tried to stand up to him he only got angrier.

Afterwards he usually stormed out of the house, door slamming behind him. He never returned until well after midnight, cloaked in the smell and behaviour of a man deeply involved with the bottle.

Then her mother would meekly put him to bed and the night would echo first with the sounds of creaking bed springs and then his curses when his alcohol-soaked body refused to perform. The next morning her mother usually sported a black eye or a new bruise on her face and her sorrowful eyes would mutely accuse Helen of being responsible for those too.

She’d been so happy to escape from that place, to finally start a life of her own. Although it soon turned out that she hadn't improved her lot at all. She trembled as she thought about the man she’d married, a man whose sweetness and protectiveness had seemed too good to be true...and had been.

He had been so wonderful at first, so gentle…so unlike her father. He saw her frailty as something beautiful and pure, something that needed to be protected at all costs. It made him feel big and strong to have her on his arm and under his wing. But helplessness is only appealing for so long, then it just gets plain tiresome. Even children are expected to grow up eventually.

It wasn’t long before the frailty he once cherished began to disgust him. And her lack of enthusiasm in the bedroom soon lost its charm when it could no longer be attributed to inexperience.

It didn’t take a genius to figure out that instead of escaping from her father, she had simply married him. She wasn’t at all upset when her marriage finally came to an end. After three years of being the object of her husband’s scorn, she was as happy to escape as he had been.

The wailing of her cat brought her back to the problem at hand. She was going to have to do something about it soon, or that horrid Mr. Turner would make sure she either had to get rid of poor Jasmine, or find another place to live.

She noticed her uniform lying in the corner of the room where she tossed it the night before, and picked it up to throw it in the laundry hamper. The little spots of blood on the pristine white informed her that this was where Jasmine had spent the night. She quickly soaked it in the bathroom sink, fervently praying the stains wouldn’t set. All she needed was to have to buy another uniform on top of everything else. She just had too many expenses to cope with these days.

She spent the rest of the morning going through the phone book, trying to find a vet who would be willing to perform Jasmine’s spaying and arrange a credit plan. She finally found one who would agree to come to terms, but only if Jasmine’s immunization was up to date first. They wouldn’t expose the other animals in the clinic to one who wasn’t immunized.

Jasmine had always been an indoor cat so she’d never had any shots at all. Bringing her immunization up to date would mean an additional two veterinary visits, which would inflate the vet bills beyond an amount that already seemed outrageous. It was nothing short of highway robbery.

But because she was stupid enough to talk back to Mr. Turner, she no longer had a choice. She made the appointment to bring Jasmine in for her first set of shots that very afternoon. Although how she was going to get her there wasn’t clear yet; she certainly couldn’t afford to add cab fare to the already outrageous expense.

She could always ask her mother to help with the bill if it got to be too much, but that was an absolute last resort. She cherished her independence, and was reluctant to do anything that would give her father another excuse to rail at her for being a failure in life.

She dug around in the basement storage room and found a box that would suit her needs. Taking it back upstairs she poked some holes into it and shoved the complaining cat inside. Then she secured the top with duct tape, remembering to slip the tape into her purse for the return journey. If she left right now she should be able to make it to the vet’s and back and still be in time for work. Her stomach grumbled, reminding her that she hadn’t eaten anything yet, and she shoved a dry piece of bread in her mouth as she darted out the door to catch the bus.

*

He woke up feeling pretty good and incredibly horny. He had been dreaming of his little waitress and his maleness throbbed in appreciation of her charms. He quickly dispensed with his physical discomfort, grinning to himself when he was done. He wouldn't have to settle for these solo flights anymore, he'd soon have a co-pilot to take care of these needs, and in a much more satisfying manner.

He experienced the familiar drowsy feeling that usually came with such activity, but resisted the impulse to roll over and go back to sleep. He was a man with responsibilities now, no longer footloose and fancy free.

He dragged himself out of bed and jumped into the shower. The cold water was invigorating, just what he needed to get him going. He washed his hair with the bar soap provided by the motel and dried himself using the scratchy towel. A comb through his hair, a quick shave, and he was ready to face the day. He picked up the clothes he’d worn the day before and gave them a sniff. Yeah, they would do for one more day. His mouth still had that raunchy, early morning taste, but that would be gone as soon as he had his first cup of coffee and something to eat.

The first order of business, after breakfast of course, would be to pick up some toiletries. If he wanted to impress his sweetie he’d better get a toothbrush and some toothpaste. Women seemed to get hung up on things like that and he’d better make some effort to please her, at least during the courting period. He should also get some shampoo and hair cream. He had such wonderful hair but couldn’t show it off to its best advantage when it wasn’t being properly cared for.

He slipped his feet into his cowboy boots, his wallet into his back pocket and jauntily set out for the mom and pop diner across the street for their breakfast special. Today was going to be an important day. Today he was going to find a job. Once that was looked after, he’d go out and buy himself some new clothes, something flashy and bright to attract the female bird.

If truth be known, he’d much rather spend the day shopping than job hunting. But his money was starting to run low and he needed the security of knowing there would be more coming in before he spent the rest of his stash on new duds.

*

The trip to the vet's and back was every bit as stressful as Helen had dreaded. Jasmine complained for the entire journey and Helen's face burned with embarrassment as the noisy cat drew disgruntled looks from the other passengers on the bus. Jasmine had been sulking in the corner ever since they had gotten back…sulking, but by no means silent. An appointment had been made for the booster shots in one month and the spaying was set for a week after that.

Helen quickly scribbled off a note to Mr. Turner informing him of such. Maybe he wouldn't complain any more if he knew that the end was in sight. She slipped it under his door as she dashed off to catch the bus for work.

Her shift seemed to drag on forever. She found it difficult to concentrate on what she was doing, jumping nervously like a startled cat whenever the door of the restaurant swung open. Every time it disgorged someone who wasn't him she expelled the breath she wasn't even aware of holding and tried to focus on getting her orders right. She was so jumpy she was beginning to attract attention, from customers as well as from the manager. She knew she would have to get a hold of herself if she wanted to hang onto her job.

She got through the night without a repeat visit from Romeo. Maybe she had been wrong about his intentions after all; maybe her prayers had actually been answered this time.

She was surprised to find that her tips were higher than normal, almost double in fact. Her customers had noticed her nervousness and probably felt sorry for her. That could be why they had been so generous tonight. Her cheeks burned with shame but she pocketed the money gratefully, knowing that it would help cover some of Jasmine’s vet bills.

The trip home was uneventful, although she did find herself searching the faces in the crowd more thoroughly than normal, looking for him. She couldn’t believe that he was really through with her. But she made it to her door unmolested and Jasmine seemed to have forgiven her, although her heat was still in full flower.

She quickly did up the accumulation of dishes in her kitchen sink and then warily approached the soaking uniform in the bathroom. She was delighted to find that the blood rinsed out with no problem at all and decided to treat herself to a bubble bath. Maybe she had gotten herself worked up over nothing after all.

*

The angry thoughts were coming back and this time taking a deep breath, or even a whole army of deep breaths wasn't going to push them away. He had never been so humiliated in his life. That bitch at the employment centre had sent him out for an interview with a construction company, not exactly the kind of work that he would have chosen for himself. He hated being out of doors on a hot day like today. But work was work and he was going to have a family to support soon, so he went. But not until he made damned sure that she wasn't holding out on him with some peach of a job she was saving for one of her girlfriends.

When he got there, the supervisor had put him to work holding the god-damned sign that said 'stop' on one side and 'slow' on the other. He had spent the entire day in the blazing sun, wearing that stupid orange vest and watching the smug drivers in their air conditioned cars drive past him. They looked at him like they thought he wasn't good enough to get a better job, the stupid assholes.

It had really pissed him off to have them staring at him as if he were some lower life form, the same way they watched monkeys in the zoo. He tried not to get angry, he really did. But the air was so hot it hurt to take those deep breaths that were supposed to be so calming, and some of those assholes got really obnoxious. They blared their horns at him and rolled down their windows, shouting at him to hurry up and let them through. So what if he kept some of them waiting a little longer than he really had to? Most of them had gotten no more than they had asked for anyways. But then things had gotten worse.

How was he supposed to know that red headed bitch driving the white convertible, the one whose mouth was bigger than her tits, was the owner of the company? Who the hell ever heard of a woman owning a construction company?

When she tried to turn on to the site, he had stood in her way and when she started getting mouthy with him, he got mouthy right back. So she stopped her car, right in the middle of the road, got out and tore a strip off his ass, right there and then, in front of everybody. By the time she was finished there was a huge line of cars waiting to get past, most of them honking their horns in frustration, but some people actually leaning out their windows to cheer and applaud.

Well he didn't need to put up with that kind of bull shit. He tossed the stupid sign at her and marched off. It was hard to make a dignified exit with no car and people jeering at him as he stomped through the dust, but he had done the best that anyone could, under the circumstances.

And to make matters worse, he'd had to spend most of his stash on a pair of steel-toed boots and a helmet, just for the privilege of being humiliated that way. Now he was worse off than before he started. All he could say was he'd bloody well better get paid for the day that he did work, at least enough to cover the cost of his expenses. But he probably wouldn't get that without a fight, and what was he supposed to do in the meantime?

He was so furious he didn't even feel like eating, but he sure as hell felt like drinking. He grabbed a quick shower, washing his hair with real shampoo this time, and winced as he passed the soap over his sunburned arms. He looked down at the line where his burn ended and his sleeves had begun. Great, on top of everything else he now had a farmer's tan marring the perfection of his arms and looking stupid.

He grabbed the last clean t-shirt out of his suitcase and brushed the dust off of his jeans. Then he threw on his jacket and hat and went looking for a place where a man could be a man. It would be a good night to get himself into a little bit of a brawl or something, work off some of this anger.

He found the perfect bar, a strip joint in a seedier part of town. He drank until he was feeling pretty good but didn't have enough cash to drink himself into oblivion. He really wanted to get involved in the inevitable fight that broke out; no better way in the world to work out your frustrations, but that wouldn't sit too well with his probation officer. She'd have a fit if he got himself busted for fighting. The temptation was strong though, so he made himself get up and leave before his instincts got the better of him.

Walking back towards his motel room, he was pretty angry with life. He was drunk alright, but not nearly drunk enough. He reached into his pocket to light a cigarette and cursed when he realized that he'd left them sitting on the bar. For a day that had started so well, this one had sure turned sour in a hell of a hurry.

He walked past an all night variety store, and without even thinking, pulled his hat down over his eyes, turned up his collar and strode confidently into the store. He was careful to keep the surveillance camera pointed at his back; he knew all about that trick.

There was a teenaged boy alone behind the cash register with one of those sappy, eager-to-please smiles fighting for space among all the acne on his stupid face. Perfect, just like old times.

He faked a southern accent and asked for two cartons of his brand of cigarette. When the kid rang up the purchase and opened the register drawer, he leaned forward and grabbed the kid's shirt. He told him to empty the cash drawer into the bag or find out what it was like to have the acne carved off of his face.

The kid did what he was told of course and before he knew it he was back in his hotel room counting his take for the night; just over $500.00. That kid was going to catch it for keeping that much in the register and not putting some of it into the safe sooner.

He laid back and grinned. The day hadn't been a total loss after all. The down side was that he was going to have to give up his beloved cowboy hat and boots for a while though. They weren't too popular around these parts and would probably make him stand out like a sore thumb.

He felt a momentary pang of guilt when he thought about his little waitress. She probably wouldn't be too impressed if she found out his only source of income came from holding up variety stores. She'd likely get all worried he'd be caught and sent to jail, or somethin'.

Tomorrow would be a better day. Tomorrow he would find a job on his own, no more of that employment agency crap. That bitch was probably a friend of the redhead and had deliberately set him up. These 'liberated' women were like that; he was wise to their games. They had obviously recognised him for what he was, a real man, and had been threatened by that. He had let himself get drawn into the game for a little while there, but he was back in control now and he would make them pay.

*

The next two days went by without incident. Helen grew more relaxed with each day that passed without his reappearance. It seemed that she had gotten herself worked up about nothing, again. She really had to be more careful about these flights into fancy. Her manager hadn't been happy with her performance at all and she could tell he was keeping an extra close eye on her.

When he hadn't appeared by Saturday night she was able to finally put him out of her thoughts, which left them free to deal with a problem of an entirely different nature; Sunday evening dinner with her parents. There was even some small measure of comfort in that though. As unpleasant as it was, it was a familiar ordeal, one that she had more or less successfully negotiated every Sunday night for the last 38 years. And even it would be better than fending off his advances.

Her father picked her up at 4:00 p.m., on the dot. After she delivered a perfunctory kiss on his cheek, he made the 25 minute drive in complete silence. He always took the exact same route, every single time. He would not let himself be thrown off course for anything short of an earthquake and even then she wasn't sure. He was a man who liked his routines.

She could expect the exact same meal, no matter what the weather, and after it was completed she would be faced with the same probing questions. Those questions would then erupt into lectures when her answers failed to satisfy him, as they always did.

Helen breathed a silent sigh of relief when the car turned on to her parent's street. She could see that their driveway was empty, signalling the lack of additional company for this week's ordeal. Even after all these years her parents were still trying to set her up with some stray that her father dragged home.

At first they were the sons of his business acquaintances, most of them recently divorced like herself. Then over the years the sons were replaced by the fathers themselves, many of them recently widowed. Her father was determined to see her paired off. It was a humiliating experience, sitting there, feeling like a heifer being sized up at a cattle auction. She half expected them to reach over the creamed corn to pinch her flesh and test it for tenderness.

When she was found unappealing, not worth the bribe of a home-cooked meal, her father's anger would erupt as he drove her home. What was even worse though, was when one of them actually asked her out. Then she was forced to endure their unwanted advances at the end of a boring evening of listening to them complain about their loneliness.

It was amazing how many men actually believed that she should be grateful for their attention, that she should be flattered to fall into bed with them and spread her legs just because they'd bought her a cheap meal. A couple of them, angry at her rejection, had called her homely and boring. They growled that she should be happy to get laid whenever she could because the opportunity probably didn't present itself very often. After all, they were only offering to bed her out of pity.

She never knew exactly what explanations they gave her father for not taking her out more than once. But the extent of his anger and disgust at the next Sunday meal made it obvious that something had been said. She could probably guess what it was, if she cared enough to bother trying.

The first few times it happened she made some effort to defend herself and her choices. But arguing only made her father worse, so she would sit in resigned silence. She could tune-out his ranting by letting her imagination take her somewhere else, often staying there until it was time to flee back home for another week.

It had been several months since her father had invited someone home for Sunday dinner, and she hoped it meant he'd given up playing match-maker. But it was more likely that he'd simply run out of friends and acquaintances...for the time being. As soon as someone new and single joined the men's club that occupied his Thursday and Saturday nights, he would probably jump right back on his band-wagon, and the whole humiliating cycle would start all over again.

Until then the topic of Sunday evening battles would continue to centre on the gift certificate her parents had bought her for her birthday. It was for a complete beauty make-over at that new salon that had opened up in the shopping mall.

Every week he would interrogate her about why she hadn't yet used her birthday gift, and curse the waste of good money. She would lie and tell him that every time she tried to book an appointment they couldn't fit one in around her work schedule, they were just too busy.

She didn't have the nerve to admit she had actually made an appointment once but changed her mind when she saw the place and the type of sophisticated women that entered its door. It would be far too embarrassing to expose her paleness for them to see. The idea of letting those women actually touch her face and her body was totally repugnant. She would much rather endure her father's wrath than expose herself to the pity and disgust she would see in their faces.

The Sunday evening ritual seldom differed. After loading his system with cholesterol, her father would scratch his belly and retire to the den to smoke a cigar and have a few shots of whisky. Helen and her mother would clear the table and do up the dishes in preparation for the standard dessert of apple pie and ice cream. Over the years, these moments of shared domesticity with her mother were the only times of familial affection Helen ever had. Relieved from the domineering presence of her husband, Irene would sometimes run a tentative hand over her only child's forehead, brushing back an imaginary wisp of hair before turning to the sink full of greasy dishes.

Once, after a particularly brutal tongue lashing from her father, Irene had even leaned forward and planted a tiny kiss on Helen's forehead. In her whole life this was the closest her mother had ever come to apologising for her choice of a mate. Words were seldom exchanged because Ralph's hearing remained keen. He would bellow in anger if either of them disturbed his quiet time with unnecessary chatter.

Helen often wondered how her mother could stay with this man for whom she seemed to bear no affection. Helen had never seen the two of them touch, or even exchange a loving look. Instead Helen had borne mute witness to the bruises, the black eyes and swollen lips and, on two occasions, fractured bones.

Once, years ago, Helen had summoned the courage to ask her mother why. Why did she put up with the abuse? Why didn't she leave and start over?

Irene had quickly brushed aside her troubles. She didn't have it all that bad. He only hit her when he'd had too much to drink and she stepped out of line. She should know better than that, so it really was her own fault anyways. It was very clear that Helen had strayed into forbidden territory, ‘that of which we never speak’, and the conversation was quickly ended.

When her father got home from work that night, her mother had been nervous in greeting him, as if she had feared that his keen hearing had enabled him to eavesdrop on their conversation from miles away. She seemed fearful that she would be punished for the sin of even acknowledging that he might have faults. The great man could never be anything less than perfect.

After the pie was eaten, Helen brushed her lips over her mother's cheek and left her to finish cleaning up while her father drove her home. Neither of them ever spoke a word for the entire drive.

When he dropped her by the front door of her building she offered no kiss, nor would one have been welcome. She was only permitted to kiss him before the meal, when he still held some hope he would enjoy her company for a change. She didn't look back as his car pulled out, but rested her face on the cool glass of the door as she fumbled with the key instead.

Helen rushed into her apartment, pushed past her complaining cat, and dropped to her knees in front of the toilet. Her mother made a passable roast dinner but the tension throughout the evening ensured that it never stayed with her long. She washed her face with cold water and congratulated herself for surviving another week. Then she chastised herself for lacking the backbone to simply call an end to the charade and stop going...another weekly ritual.

*

He lay on the bed and stared at the chipped and cracked ceiling. He hadn't found a job yet, but he had hit a couple more