Get Morty

By Philip David

Marty Martinucci was a part-time stock car driver and a full-time limo driver who found finish lines and destinations a lot easier to find than a solution to love. You might say it all hinged on technicalities, like when a close race needed the exactitude of a photo finish to determine a winner. You see, Martinucci couldn’t decide if his step-sister (or his sister as others referred to her) was eligible for his love. There was the rub. What was she, exactly? It was a technicality for which there was no photo finish to rely on. Yet in the end it was a very close call—when love competed with a life or death decision.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Philip David
• Release date: Aug 11, 2014
• ISBN: 9780989242851

Philip David

If Elmore Leonard had known about me, he might have asked for a few writing tips. If the president had known me, he might have asked me for the secrets to world peace. If... is my life. What if...?

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Get Morty

By

Philip David

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Get Morty

Philip David

Copyright ©2014 by David Eubanks

All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Sycamore Books Press at Smashwords

Contact information: 630-791-9810

Chapter 1

Muriel Babka, sixteen years old, was lying in the dark attic of her home and could hear Aldo Martinucci, her stepfather, calling for her from downstairs. Muriel, sweetie, I’m not going to hurt you.

Several weeks ago, she was wondering what Aldo intended when he installed the new deadbolt locks on the front and back doors, the kind that required a key to unlock them from either side of the door. There had been break-ins in the neighborhood, he told her mother. Someone could break one of the three very small panes of glass which were decoratively arranged in a stair-stepped pattern near the top of each door, and reach in to unlock the lever type deadbolts they currently had relied on. That was too easy. They would be safer, he’d told them.

Now he assured her he wasn’t going to hurt her. She thought how only a man as drunk as he was could expect those words to be taken seriously. Only moments earlier Aldo had tried to gently explain that she was not his real daughter, and therefore sexual intercourse between them was not damned in the eyes of God. It was truly okay, if she wanted to. But she knew what was in her heart, he said, he did—he’d already seen the want in her eyes. There was no shame in it.

It started downstairs, in the kitchen where Muriel searched the refrigerator for cottage cheese. She was bent over when he placed a hand on her backside. She’d spun to face him and gave him a shove. He smiled a stupid smile and started towards her again. She had kicked him just above the knee as he came at her. Something she’d learned in phys-ed—basic defense maneuvers. It worked, to her surprise. He fell backwards, landing hard on his back. The air whooshed out of his lungs and he gasped as she gingerly stepped around him. She had to run, but where would she hide? The front and back doors were locked from the inside. The keys were gone, and she didn’t have one. Aldo kept the keys. There was no getting outside. She ran for the stairs to the second floor.

On the landing, she quickly ruled out the expected—her room, the bathroom, the closets—and pulled down the attic door in the hallway. She reached up to snag the dangling rope handle. The attic ladder unfolded reluctantly. She tugged again and again, like coaxing a stubborn mule. Terrified squeaks escaped from her throat with each pull, the sound of a wounded and small animal.

She got it mostly unfolded, cockeyed, but low enough to put one foot on the first rung. She scrambled up the shaky steps and with all her might hauled the stubborn door up and closed it behind her. It was black in the attic. She was panting and sweating. She looked around. It came to her that she was trapped. She looked for a way out, and made out a few thin strips of pale lights beaming from air vents cut in the soffits. Too small to fit through. Pitch black in any other direction. The air was dead, everything quiet.

She slowly stretched out, laying herself face down, her ear pressed to the door hatch in order to hear him. The scratchy cushion of fiberglass insulation enveloped her bare arms and legs as she squirmed to find a position. She rested her weight on a beam, straining to be motionlessly balanced and perfectly quiet.

She heard him coming up the stairs, limping—she’d hurt him, the syncopated rhythm of his hobbling steps distinctive—step-step, step-step. He spoke from the landing. It’s not wrong, baby, come on. I love you. His voice lilting with a sad song in it carried down the hall beneath her. She tried to control her breathing, but her pounding heart required too much of her. She fought it. She exhaled deeply then drew in a large gulp of air to fill her lungs, like going under for the second time. She closed her eyes and prayed he wouldn’t find her. What else to do but pray?

Her eyes came open with a start—her phone was in her back pocket. Now was the time, before Aldo made it down the hallway. She stabbed her fingers in her pocket and brought it out slowly; frightened she might drop it into the insulation, like dropping it into a well. She'd never find it if she did. She dialed Morty and pressed the phone to her face.

When he answered, she whispered as loud as she thought she could get away with. Morty, come quick, come get me. Please. It’s Aldo. He's after me.

What? Who’s this? Morty was at Zee’s apartment, drinking a beer and shelling peanuts on the coffee table.

Oh God, Morty it’s Muriel. Aldo is after me. You’ve got to come get me now, right now.

What do you mean ‘after you'?

"Morty, please, he wants to do me. Oh, please God. I’m hiding. He's so drunk. Come quickly. I’m in the attic."

Morty went silent.

Morty, please. Muriel squeezed her eyes shut as she pleaded.

Morty waited a few seconds. I’ll be there in ten minutes. Try to get to a window.

He’s here. She hung up. Aldo was directly underneath her. She could feel his presence somehow, his heat underneath her.

Muriel, it’s no use, baby. It’s our time.

She felt something crawling on the back of her calf. Oh, Jesus, oh, Jesus save me, she prayed in her mind. She tried to block the thought. Think it away. The crawling thing paused, then edged up to the back of her knee, tiny feet like tips of a feather finding their way.

******

Morty knew it wasn’t Aldo’s first advance. Muriel had told him. She had no one else to turn to, he’d figured. And he didn’t like what he’d heard. It started when she was about eleven or twelve, a few years after Aldo married her mother, she had guessed; she couldn’t be sure. But, it was around the time of his accident, at the track, Aldo was racing his old stock car when he broke his neck. He’d changed; lost his job, too. Morty noted how he was changing about that time too. It was why he was staying at Zee’s most of the time these days.

At twelve, she didn’t really know what to call what was happening. Butt pats became squeezes. He held just a little too long to be anything but purposeful. Around thirteen, he was still putting her to bed—unasked and started kissing her on the mouth, her head pressed into the pillow. By fourteen he was slipping just the tiny tip of his tongue between her lips, just for a flashing moment, like a frog. Too fast to probably count for anything, she thought then, though she did mention it to her mother who told her she was imagining things.

By fifteen her body had changed so much. Morty remembered how fast that had happened. Suddenly, she was a woman. She’d grown tall, five-foot nine, a hundred and thirty pounds. It was then she said he began making lewd comments in front of her, like when he had her alone in the car or at the grocery. She told Morty about the day he said a woman at the store had tits to keep a husband at home,—saying it quietly as though he were talking to himself, but he knew I heard him. Then he’d said something sounding apologetic, But you’re coming right along too, eh, Muriel? pausing at a produce bin and gave her a leering look. He looked straight at my chest and tells me, ‘You’re going to make a man reeeal happy someday, sweetie.’ Morty inwardly cringed at her words.

They were in her bedroom with the door closed when she told him all this. He took in the news stoically and gruffly told her she better not be lying. What else could a loyal son say? But inside, he hated the feeling he had that she wasn’t lying. It tore at him. She started to cry. That tore at him too. No one to believe her, feeling defenseless, he thought, and he reflexively pulled her close to him.

Something was exposed in him as he held her. He felt it, a sudden loss of equilibrium, an accusing spotlight from somewhere cast down on him, his scalp tingling with a current running through him, unforeseen and unnamed. As she cried harder, he pulled her closer, but he felt uneasy, her thin body pressing against him, the embrace lasting too long, the feeling growing too strong. He was alarmed. She was his stepsister. Was he like his father? He had pushed her away abruptly, feeling embarrassed and guilty.

******

Morty slapped Zee’s shoulder with the back of his hand. Zee was lying on his ragged sofa, headphones on. We gotta go—now. It’s Muriel. Something’s wrong.

They ran down the back stairs of their three flat and jumped in Morty’s Olds 442, a 1987 model his father had given to him on his fourteenth birthday. Something to work on. A project Aldo had never finished. Zee and Morty together had restored it, everything in perfect condition, powerful and ready, with a four-barrel carb, 280 horse, Hurst four-on-the-floor. Smoking hot.

He hit reverse and popped the clutch, bolting blindly out of the garage into the alley, depending on fate to give him clear access. Without stopping, he slammed it into first and fish-tailed down the alley and onto the street. He explained the situation to Zee on the way.

Morty made the twenty-minute drive in only ten. Typical. He killed the lights and skidded up to the curb one house away from Muriel’s. She’s says she’s in the attic. You stay outside. I’ll go get her.

Zee nodded. Leave the keys.

Morty put a hand on the door handle and stopped to think. Maybe I’ll try to get on the patio roof in back, see if I can get her out from there. It’s not a bad jump.

Remember, he’s got a gun.

Yeah. Drunk, too. Morty started to get out. Zee held him up.

Look, Morty, how about I wait on the ground outside? You might need some help.

Yeah, maybe an ambulance.

Morty and Zee made their way to the back of the house, crouching as they walked, though it was probably too dark for Aldo to see them anyway. The pressed their backs against the house, moving up the narrow walkway that separated Aldo’s house from the neighbors.

Morty took a ladder from the garage, leaned on the roofline of the three-season room in the back and climbed up. Once on top, he knew the window on the left, just a foot above the patio’s shingled roof, was Muriel’s room.

He moved on all fours on the canted roofline toward her room, staying low to the roof. The bedroom light was on. He got close to the sill and raised his head up to peek in. No one there. He pulled out his phone and dialed Muriel.

Muriel felt the buzz in her pocket and pulled out her phone. Morty, the screen said.

She answered. Yes? Whispering.

I’m on the patio roof. At your bedroom window.

Okay, whimpering softly now, I think he went back downstairs. I don’t hear him, but I’m not sure.

Doesn’t matter, there’s no way out of the attic but the way you went in. And your window’s locked, so I can’t get in. You’re going to have to get down and open this window.

Muriel put her phone back in her pocket. She raised herself up with her hands, then pulled her knees up to her chest. The fiberglass insulation raked at her skin, a thousand little knives. Her face was slimed with sweat, her hands wet and her breathing was hard, uncontrollable.

She swiveled her body and sat on a beam. She placed a foot on the door and pushed it down. The hinges squeaked. She stopped and held still, waiting for Aldo to show himself. She imagined his hands, eager on her. One thousand one, one thousand two, one thousand three…nothing happened.

She took a deep breath and pushed at the door again. A sliver of light from the hall came shooting in. She lowered her head so she could see part way down the hall. No one there. Legs trembling, she summoned the strength to push harder. The ladder groaned and unfolded until it was extended as far as it would go. No Aldo yet. She pivoted, facing her back to the opening, and began lowering a foot onto the first rung. She let her weight trust it. She took another step, easing her foot down, slowly as humanly possible. She held her breath. She found the rung and placed her weight on that foot, then very slowly began lowering the first foot to another step. Don’t’ panic; go slow, she told herself. Don’t fall. Don’t make a sound. Then she took another step.

Morty could watch her progress from his spot on the roof. A foot appeared angling from the attic opening, searching for the ladder, then her calf. He was sweating, thinking how dangerous it was going to be trying to get off the roof in the dark. Then the other leg appeared. Then another step. He heard the voice the same time Muriel did.

Let me help you. the voice came from nowhere—Aldo—his hand grabbing at an ankle. She screamed and pulled away.

Muriel clawed at the attic opening, fingernails trying to dig into the joists, trying to lift herself up. She screamed from deep in her throat, an animal’s shriek, and she kicked wildly at him with her free foot. The heel solidly caught him on his forehead. Aldo stumbled backwards. He steadied himself; hands outstretched against the hall walls and regained his balance. Muriel scrambled into the attic. He lunged forward and started up the ladder. Get down here now, Muriel. He was angry now.

Morty yelled excitedly for Zee. I need a brick. Get me a rock, something to break this window. In moments, a large stone landed on the roof, just out of Morty’s reach, and started to roll quickly down the incline of the shingles. He dove for it, got a hand on it, but then he started to skid too, heading headfirst towards the edge of the roof. He tried to dig into the roof with his bare hands and his feet. He was going over.

He caught himself at the roof’s edge with a stiff arm with one hand wedged in the gutter, stopping part of his momentum. But the momentum of his trailing legs caused his body to pivot toward the edge even as the skid slowed. He caught the gutter with the toe of his shoe and stopped his movement. His face burned, one cheek was severely chaffed. The coarse shingles had peeled away layers of skin in the slide like a rasp.

Zee shouted from below, Jesus Christ, Morty, you okay?

Fuck. Morty clambered at the roof, one hand raw and bloody. He turned himself around and scrambled towards the window, feet slipping, one hand clawing at the coarse roof, the other gripping the stone. He got to the window, closed his eyes and flung it, exploding shattered glass into the bedroom.

He saw Aldo’s body halfway into the attic, Muriel’s churning legs flashing into view, trying to strike at Aldo’s hands as he struggled to grab her.

Morty kicked at the hanging shards of glass, clearing his way into the room. Aldo staggered backwards. Muriel was fighting fiercely. Morty took one step back, then launched himself headfirst through the window and somersaulting forward, came to his feet and took aim at Aldo. He rammed a shoulder into Aldo’s stomach. They fell together onto the hallway carpet. Morty screamed for Muriel to get away. Go, now! Go, go, go! Aldo grabbed at Morty’s face, one hand pinching his raw cheek with clawing fingers. Morty howled. He felt a thumb dig into his eye. Rage subsumed him. He bit Aldo’s arm. He felt his teeth embed in his flesh. Aldo shrieked and let go.

Muriel leaped from the attic to the floor and came tumbling towards their twisted forms on the floor. Morty thrust the heel of his hand under