Anna
My mind strays again and again to the danger of my situation. I don’t know all the details. I purposefully told Samson that I didn’t want them all. If I know exactly what he is going to do, I reason, I might get distracted, mess up the dance, and messing up the dance is not what good bait does. But now, as I go by routine through the moves, I wonder if I made the right decision. I have no clue what’s going on, in truth, only that I have to behave as though nothing is wrong, as though my life is not in danger, as though everything is all butterflies and rainbows, where in reality my heartbeat thumps in my skull and my hands tremble so badly I’m surprised I don’t drop my pom-poms.
Fortunately, my body knows all the moves. I imagine that I am any member of the crowd, watching the dance, and what I see isn’t a woman terrified for her life, for her lover’s life, but a woman who’s having the best damn time of her life. This woman—me but not me, seen through the hungry eyes of a Nicks’ fan—is sensational, glamorous. She captivates with her fluid movements and her bare legs and men nudge their friends and make sexual comments about her, speculate on what she’s like in bed, wonder how easy it would be to take her out for a drink. This woman has no worries, has never had any worries. This woman, this spectacular being who only exists within the mind of the crowd, is scared of nothing. Nothing can shake her, nothing can knock her off balance. She is the kind of person everybody dreams of being. Completely free from anxiety and fear.
The truth couldn’t be further from the façade. In reality, I am more scared than I’ve ever been. It’s not that I don’t trust Samson, but that I fear the situation will get out of hand, spin out of his control. After all, the arena is large and the seats are packed. River could be anywhere, her cronies could be anywhere. Perhaps somebody is aiming a gun at me even now. I fight the urge to flinch. The bullet will come—and I’ll drop like a sack of potatoes to the court. Samson won’t be able to do anything in the short time. He’ll only be able to avenge me afterward. But what good will that do me?
I force the thought away. Despite the tornado of worry that constantly spins in my mind, I never miss a step. My body moves through the motions of the dance just as easily as a big cat moves through the long grass of a plain. I don’t have to think. In fact, it’s easier not to think. I just let my body go, keep my smile plastered on my face, and dance to the rhythm of the music and the calls of the head cheerleader.
As I dance, I watch Dad and Samson. I wonder what they’re talking about. Dad is drunk, horribly drunk. I can tell that just by looking at him. His eyes are bright red and during the dance he has taken more than half a dozen sips from his hipflask. I try to look into Samson’s eyes but he’s preoccupied, constantly looking around at the seats, craning his neck and looking up behind him. Is one of them up there? I think, following his gaze and looking deep into the crowd. But my eyes aren’t trained to spot killers. I don’t know what I’m looking for. To me, it looks like a crowd and nothing more.
Dad’s presence angers me, and if it wasn’t for the fixed rictus smile on my face, I would bite down so hard my teeth would vibrate. What the hell does he think he’s doing? He hired Samson, he interfered with my life, and as I look at him my mind is once again filled with memories. So many memories, but they all boil down to the same thing, really. He’s never believed in me, not once.
I push down the emotions and wave my pom-poms like a good cheerleader, holding within me more pain than any member of the crowd would ever guess at.
###
When the dance is over, all the cheerleaders move to the side of the court so the game can begin again. The announcer starts screaming about the third quarter and the crowd erupts into a fresh wave of madness, clapping, cheering, spilling their drinks and roaring like animals. Elle nudges me playfully in the arm, and I turn and smile at her, still keeping my fake smile plastered on my face, still pretending that everything is okay. The players begin jogging from the changing rooms, and a steady boom-boom comes from the crowd as thousands of people stamp their feet. Elle says something, but the arena is too loud and I don’t hear her.
And then something in the announcer’s voice changes, calling me out of my fake smile and pretend happiness, and making me turn toward where Dad is sitting—no, was sitting.
“It looks like we have a particularly devout fan of the cheerleaders here, Michael,” the announcer says, his voice full of excitement.
“Oh, yes,” the other announcer replies. “It looks to me like he’s drunk on his devotion, if you ask me!”
It takes me a second to realize what they’re talking about. And then my gaze moves from Dad’s empty seat lower down onto the court itself. Dad stumbles toward the group of cheerleaders, saying from side to side. He makes it almost directly to us when a thick-built security guard charges out. He is mean-looking, and despite everything when I imagine him clubbing Dad over the head, a cold chill runs up my spine. I rush forward and touch the security guard on the shoulder. “That’s my dad,” I sigh.
“Oh,” he mutters. “Well, keep it off the court.”
He retreats and I meet Dad halfway between his seat and the cheerleaders. “Dad,” I hiss. I take him by the elbow and lead him to the side of the court, out of the way of the players who are now running into the middle of the arena. “What the hell are you doing?”
“I have to tell you something,” he says, voice thick with whisky. I’m used to his voice being thick with whisky, of course, but this is worse than I’ve ever heard it. It’s like his voice comes from far down in his belly, pushed with a great effort up his throat and out of his mouth. As he speaks, his hands tremble, and when he looks down at me, it’s with bloodshot eyes. “I—have to.”
“What?” I demand. “Tell me!”
I know what he’s going to tell me, anyway. He’s going to tell me that he hired Samson. But I want him to say it, to admit to it. I want him to, for once, admit that he did something wrong. Never before has he admitted anything even close to him being in the wrong. It’s always been his tirades, his excuses, his anger and his resentment. I just wish—for once—for him to stop playing the holier-than-thou man and just say sorry.
He swallows, an oddly loud noise in the ruckus of the arena. Over his shoulder, I see Samson, who glances over at us routinely, but only in between glancing at another half-dozen places. He’s busy, I know, too busy to watch us like a hawk. I guess that was what he was speaking to Dad beforehand, I guess he knows what Dad’s about to tell me, and he’s deemed it safe enough.
“I was the one who hired Samson,” he says quietly.
“I know that!” I scream. I’m glad that the game has started; the ball has been chucked up and now, on the court a few feet from where we stand, the players charge up and down the court. The announcer has forgotten about us. “Samson told me that already, Dad.”
“I’m sorry,” he mutters.
“Sorry?” I laugh, sounding mad and not caring. “Sorry, Dad? Do you think that cuts it? Do you think that’s all it takes? You can’t just say sorry and wipe away all the pain. All my life, you’ve tried to control me. All my life, you’ve put me down and made me feel small, worthless.” I was wrong, I think. Admitting it isn’t enough. But it’s a start, I suppose.
I see a flicker in his eyes, his old flicker, and for a moment I think he’s about to launch into one of his old tirades. It’s there, in his face, dormant, waiting, the desire to roar at me. But for the first time I remember, he forces it down. He reaches out and tries to touch my shoulder, but I step away, out of his reach, and he withdraws his hand, trembling.
“But that’s not all,” he says. “That’s not all. God help me, Anna, there’s something else.”
“Something . . . else?” I pause between words, my mind trying and failing to figure out what this something else might be. What else could there be? What else could be worse than this?
“Yes,” he sighs. “I . . .”
He pauses, bites his lip, and for a second I think he’s going to cry. And then he lets out a long breath, the air around his filling with the pungent odor of whisky, and he launches into his speech quickly, his words running together, and I know he’s talking fast so that I don’t interrupt him.
“It was me who hired River, too, to move the body. Wait, wait, I need to tell you why. I have to tell you why.”
He goes on, but I’m reeling. A pounding starts up in my head, a pounding like a thousand elephants stamping against the surface of my skull. I reach up and grab my head and try to steady myself, try to bring some semblance of calm to myself, but I can’t. I try to speak, to scream, but for the moment I’m too stunned. I can only stand there, watching, listening, waiting.
“I was angry with you for marrying him without my blessing, Anna. Don’t you see? I was so, so angry. And then I heard through some of my contacts that Samson’s ex-girlfriend was in town. I only chose her because I knew she was a good worker, good at what she does. I only chose her because I knew she would complete the job without messing it up. But I made a mistake, Anna. I heard that she was going beyond that; she was going rogue. And I didn’t want that. You have to believe me . . .”
The worst part about this confession is not what he did, but that he’s only making it, only allowing himself to reveal this much pain and emotion, because he’s blackout drunk. In the morning when he wakes up with little to no memory of this, he’ll probably regret what he’s done tonight on the court. I can tell that just by looking at him, like the rare instances growing up when he would get extremely drunk and tell me that he loved me, everything was alright, it wasn’t my fault, only to wake up the following morning and rant at length at me.
All of this, I think, mind spinning. All of this is his fault. The running and the fear and the gash in Samson’s side and disruption to both our lives and the derailment of my veterinary training. All of it, Dad’s fault, and why?
“Because you wanted to prove a point?” I growl. “Is that what this is all about, Dad? You wanted to prove a point and you thought the best way would be to completely fuck up my life?”
He stumbles forward, stands over me, glaring down at me. His face is still soft, almost caved-in with his drunkenness, but beneath the softness is the old anger, the old rage, the old indignation.
“You married him without my permission!” he snaps. “You just went ahead and married a man who wasn’t right for you, and just look where you ended up! I told you, didn’t I? I told you not to do it, to think, but you went right ahead and did it anyway! So I had to show you the mistake you made, I had to make you realize just how bad it was. I thought that when you saw him in the trunk of the car, it would come as closure for you. I thought it would enable you to move on. And he was going to kill you. Let’s not forget that.”
“I know,” I say. “I know that, but don’t you see? River is a wild dog and you let her off the leash. You set her on us.”
He waves a hand, and the transformation is almost impressive. One moment he’s sniveling, apologizing, the next he’s dismissing the entire thing with a cool wave of the hand. I know he’s still sorry, but I think now that he’s offloaded, he expects me to accept the apology and immediately move on. It’s characteristic of him, I know, to expect everybody else to get over anything he does quickly. If I ever brought up one of his rants in childhood, if he didn’t shout at me again he’d snap, “Are you still going on about that?” As though my feelings were secondary to his peace of mind, as though it was of no concern of his if I was still annoyed.
“I did it for you,” he says flatly. Perhaps the alcohol is losing its effect. He stands straighter and his words sound clearer. “If you can’t understand that, then you’re still the stupid little whore you were when you were a girl—”
I don’t think. My hand swings in a wide arc and smacks him right across the jaw, a loud slap sounding. He stumbles back, almost falls, but I don’t stay to watch.
I turn and march back to my place amongst the other cheerleaders, ignoring Elle’s questioning look. It’s only when I’m standing with them that I realize the crowd is cheering and clapping. I look up and see myself on the Jumbotron, the huge screen showing my angry face, and then moving over and tracking Dad as he paces down the aisle toward the exit. The camera returns to me, and I do what a good cheerleader should do under these circumstances I give them a smile.
The clapping of the crowd grows louder, and the announcer says in a cheery voice. “Maybe that old man got a bit too friendly with this particularly feisty cheerleader, Michael?”
Elle leans in and whispers in my ear. “What the hell was that about? That was your dad, wasn’t it?”
“Unfortunately,” I say, voice still shaking. The Jumbotron moves away from me, back to the game, and I let the smile slip from my face. “Don’t worry about it,” I go on. “It’s just family business.”
It’s then that my gaze turns to the opposite side of the court, the side I didn’t spot before because I was dancing. And there she is, sitting in a ridiculous wig and an even more ridiculous dress. My gaze rests on her coldly. I only know what she looks like from a photograph Samson showed me before we arrived here, so that I could spot her. But it’s unmistakably her, beneath the façade of an attractive young woman just here to enjoy an NBA game.
She must feel my gaze on her. She turns, faces me, and then a smile spreads across her face which would look more appropriate plastered to the face of a jackal. After a moment, I return the smile. This catches her off-guard—maybe she expected me to flinch—and she shakes her head.
I smile, thinking, don’t get too comfortable, bitch. You think you have us right where you want us? Big mistake.