Page 54 of Good Days Bad Days
She makes a loud raspberry with her tongue, blinking her fake eyelashes rapidly, fighting off tears. “I didn’t push back. I’d broken therules and I knew it, and I couldn’t even blame Don. I’m his girlfriend and I’d been lying to him for months. What man wouldn’t feel betrayed?” she says with resignation.
She looks at me as though, as a man, she expects me to agree that Hollinger didn’t have any other choice. But I can’t agree with her or condone his explosive behavior. I’ve never had a serious girlfriend, but I’d like to think I could keep my head screwed on straight in a similar situation. I’d feel betrayed, sure, but would I raise my voice, get her fired, and single-handedly destroy her most prized possession? I hope not.
“Anyway, it took me a bit to change, turn in my uniform, and clean out my locker. I only got to say bye to a few of the girls before I was escorted out by Eddie. He looked like he could cry, I swear. He’s always been such a sweetheart. His wife works in the laundry at the hotel, and I’d bring them some of the baked treats from the set when our schedules lined up. I gave him my number and he told me he’d pass it on to Naomi. He locked the door behind me, and I walked off into the parking lot with no problems other than a lack of tissues.” She sniffles.
I offer her a clean, folded handkerchief from my back pocket, which only seems to make her cry more.
“Thank you.” She dabs at her cheeks and under her nose. “You always seem to be there when I need you.”
“Wish I’d been in that parking lot.” Instantly, the image of my fist slamming into Hollinger’s face flashes through my mind.
“What? So he could’ve beat you with that golf club as hard as he tore into my car. No.”
“With a golf club?” I echo, imagining the shiny steel reflecting the yellow overhead lights with each swing, the glitter of glass splashing through the air, the sickening clank of metal against metal keeping time.
“He’d done most of the damage before I got there, slashed my tires and bashed out my head- and taillights. He was hacking at my windshield when I ran up and tried to stop him, but he kept going as though I wasn’t even there. His friend was parked behind my car,hanging out the window, kinda like ... cheering him on.” She shakes her head a little like she knows how awful it sounds. “Finally, the two of them drove off and I ... I didn’t know what to do. So I found a public telephone and thank God you’re listed ’cause I had only one dime left in my change purse.”
Rage pulses and grows with every added detail until it burns like a molten ball of lava in my throat waiting for the right opportunity to spew out. But who could I direct my vitriol at? Betty? No, she’s been through enough tonight already. I could find Hollinger’s address in the phone book, go to his house, pull him out of bed, threaten him. But even though he’s at least half a foot shorter than me, I’m sure all his time in the gym would mean I’d end up in the same shape as the car.
“We really should call the cops,” I spout, clenching and unclenching my fingers around the steering wheel, craving some sort of immediate recourse.
“I told you. No police. You think WQRX will let me keep my job if I report him? I love our show. I can’t lose it ...” She sounds terrified.
I want to say “You won’t!” but she’s right. She’d lose the show, her only remaining job, all she’s worked for and deserves.
Betty begs me again to “let her handle it.”
And I respond with a muttered “Fine.”
“Thank you,” she says, and it’s the first time those words coming from her mouth make me ill.
As I drive, counting the yellow dotted lines down the middle of the highway to keep my murderous thoughts at bay, she rolls down her window, letting in the cool night air. I hadn’t realized how stuffy it’d gotten, and the fresh breeze is exactly what I need. I roll my window down, too, and inhale deeply, savoring the sweetness of the warm wind whipping through my hair.
Betty twists her legs up under her again and turns up the volume on the radio. We drive like that for a while, Betty’s head against the headrest, hair lashing around her face, her lips occasionally moving along with the lyrics coming through the speakers.
We soon reach the turn that leads back to Janesville. I slow to a stop, clicking on my turn signal. Betty sits up, rod straight, and puts her hand on the wheel.
“Stop!” she shouts, shaking her head, staring deep into my eyes. “He might be there, at my place. I ... can’t go back there. Not yet.”
We sit at the crossroads, exhaustion tugging at my limbs as the sweet saccharine lyrics of “Monday, Monday” play. My bed is only ten minutes away, fifteen if I count dragging my tired ass out of the car and up the stairs to my room. But as much as the comfort of my own home and my own bed calls to me, Betty’s tearstained cheeks and fine lines of worry call to the part of me that only wants to be with her.
“All right,” I hear myself say before I’ve even truly decided to give in. “Where to?”
“Kegonsa,” she says, licking her nearly nude lips, leaving a natural shine that turns the bare part of them a little pink. Kegonsa is another forty minutes away, just off 90 and east of Madison. I’ve seen the exit at least a hundred times while driving back and forth to UW-Madison for football games. It’s a tiny town in the middle of nowhere, corn fields and dairy farms with little else to brag about.
I flick off my turn signal. When the light flips to green, I shove my foot on the gas hard enough to make the engine rev and our heads whip back as we speed past Janesville.
“You maniac!” she shouts over the wind. I smash the pedal against the floor and she whoops, throwing her arm out the window, making me feel invincible.
“So,” I yell, adrenaline chasing away the exhaustion and heaviness, feeling like a bad boy for once in my life, “what’s in Kegonsa?”
She pulls her arm back inside, presses her head into the headrest, and closes her eyes like she’s submitting to the chaos of sound and air inside the car.
“Home,” she says. “We’re going home.”
Chapter 21
Charlie
