Countdown to Killing Kurtis Page 4

  “Oh wow, you work all night, huh?” Daddy screams. “Working the night shift at a diner doesn’t explain why you do absolutely nothing around here or that you’re drunker than a Baptist preacher at a high school dance all the time,” Daddy seethes.

  I smile. Daddy and I really are two peas in a pod.

  The woman is worthless.

  “You’re worthless,” Daddy screams as if he’s heard my exact thoughts.

  “I’m worthless?” Momma shrieks. “I’m the only one bringing in a paycheck so’s we have something to eat ’round here. What the hell do you do every day?”

  “Shut your mouth,” Daddy growls. “I’ve got something big coming down the pike—”

  Momma whoops with angry laughter. “Oh, yeah, Charlie? What’s it gonna be this time? You gonna build a mini-golf-course for the Queen of England? She gonna come play pitch-and-putt on your fancy course and make you a knight?” Her laughter is wicked.

  I don’t like listening to the sound of Momma and Daddy fighting, so I focus my attention back on my book to drown out the noise. I’ve been reading all kinds of good books lately for my education. Last month, I read one of my all-time favorite books so far—Lana, about movie-goddess Lana Turner from the Golden Age of Hollywood—and ever since then, it’s been my dream to go to Hollywood and get discovered just like she did.

  When Lana was sixteen, she ditched school one afternoon to go to a malt shop in Hollywood, and, just like that, Lana got herself discovered by a movie-man who happened to be standing there, buying himself a root beer float or whatnot. Just from being in the right place at the right time—and, of course, also thanks to her pretty face and blonde hair and big boobs, too—destiny found Lana that day in the malt shop, and she became a huge star overnight. And that’s what I want to happen to me, too. Just like Lana.

  As gorgeous as Lana was, life should have been sweet as honey for her, all day, every day, right? But it wasn’t. Because for some reason I can’t understand, she took up with this rat-turd named Johnny Stompanato who used to grab Lana and shake her and whack her upside the head. So, one night, Lana’s fourteen-year-old daughter grabbed a big ol’ butcher knife and stabbed Johnny dead right where he stood—or so the daughter said. In my heart of hearts, I know it was Lana who did the deed herself and let her daughter take the fall for her—which was the right thing to do, of course, seeing as how Lana was a big movie star and all. That’s what I’d do if I were a big movie star, anyway—just like Lana.

  I reckon it just goes to show, people will always do what the pretty people tell them to do, even if it’s killing someone—or, in this case, taking the blame for killing someone. And it also goes to show this, too: if some piece of shit man is gonna whack a glamorous movie star upside the head, then he best not be surprised when he looks down one night and sees a big ol’ butcher knife poking out of his chest, that’s for damned sure.

  “I’m warning you, woman, shut your mouth,” Daddy seethes in the back bedroom.

  “You make me sick,” Momma retorts, practically spitting the words.

  I hear a loud slapping noise, and Momma’s laughter abruptly stops.

  “Buttercup,” Daddy suddenly yells.

  I snap my head up from my book. I clear my throat, intending to holler that I’m sitting right here at the table by the sink, but my voice doesn’t work. I’m afraid to say anything. The hair on my arms is standing on end, but I don’t know why.

  Daddy bursts out of the back room, his nostrils flaring like a fire-breathing dragon. “Buttercup,” he says again. His face is red and his eyes are hard, but when he sees me, his mouth twists into what appears to be a smile.

  I half-smile back, but my stomach’s doing somersaults.

  Daddy’s eyes aren’t twinkling like they usually do. His jaw is clenched. Daddy rummages into his pocket and hands me three whole dollars—and in paper money, too, not even in coins. “Go on up the road to the 7-Eleven and get yourself something to eat,” Daddy says. “Your momma and I are gonna have a little talk.” He glances over his shoulder toward the back room. “In private.”

  “Yes, sir.” I take the dollar bills into my fist, tuck my book under my arm, and wordlessly scoot out the front door.

  It’s hard to read and walk at the same time, but I manage it okay. I’m kind of an expert at it, actually. The 7-Eleven is right up the road about a mile away and it’s hotter than blue blazes today. Whew! I couldn’t have asked for a better day to get some money from Daddy to buy myself a hot dog and a Slurpee. I’m so hungry I could eat the south end of a northbound mule. Gosh, my daddy’s always doing nice stuff for me at exactly the right time.

  By the time I reach Main Street, I’ve finished my book, so I decide to get a new one at the library before hitting the 7-Eleven.

  “Hi there, honey,” the librarian, Mrs. Monaghan, says to me when I enter the front door. “Is it still hot enough out there to peel the paint off your house?”

  “Yes, ma’am. It’s so hot, I saw two trees bribing a dog on my way here.”

  Mrs. Monaghan smiles and little lines pop up around her eyes when she does. “Well, honey, you ready for a new book?” she asks.

  “Yes, ma’am.” I hand her my finished book.

  “Fatal Vision,” she murmurs, reading the front cover. She scowls. “That’s an interesting selection. Why don’t I help you find a more appropriate book, hmm?”

  I nod.

  Mrs. Monaghan brushes past me and I catch a whiff of her pretty perfume. It smells like flowers. She leads me to the children’s section and I bite my tongue. I’ve never read a book from the children’s section before, but, okay, I’ll see what she’s got for me because I sure do like Mrs. Monaghan an awful lot.

  “Maybe we should find you a classic, hmm?” she says. “Oh, how about this one? This is a good one.” She hands me a book with two dogs on the cover called, Where the Red Fern Grows.

  I read the blurb on the back cover. It seems like a book for little kids. “No, thank you, ma’am,” I say politely. “I don’t think that’s right for my reading aptitude.”

  Mrs. Monaghan smiles really big at me, and I bite my lip in return.

  “Do you maybe have a movie star biography for me, ma’am? I sure do like those.”

  “Hmm,” she says, scanning the shelf. She runs her finger across the spines of several books. “Ah, this one.” She hands me something called The Secret Garden. It looks just like the one about the dogs. But I like that it’s about a secret. That sounds kinda interesting. And I sure don’t want to disappoint Mrs. Monaghan.

  I nod. “Thank you, ma’am.”

  She winks at me. “Let’s go get it checked out, my dear.”

  I take the long way home past the oil derricks over by the highway, sweating in the hot sun. By the time I return to our trailer, I’m already four chapters into my new book, which isn’t half bad, actually, though it’s definitely beneath my reading aptitude, and my belly’s crammed full of one extra-long hot dog and one extra-large cherry Slurpee. I’m full as a tick and feeling fine as wine.

  I stand outside our trailer for a few minutes in the blazing heat, straining to hear whatever’s going on inside, but it’s really quiet in there. I wish I could have heard whatever Daddy said to Momma after I left. Whatever he said—or did—to her, I reckon she deserved it. She’s worthless. And small-minded, too, just like those high-and-mighty Napoleon-types at the Department of Planning and teachers in classrooms handing out multiple-choice tests.

  Gosh dang it, I can’t hear a thing inside the trailer, not even the sound of Daddy’s boots on the linoleum. I wait a while longer, sucking up the last of my Slurpee and then sticking out my tongue and looking cross-eyed at my red-stained tongue.

  After a while, I put my ear to the door of our trailer again, trying to hear any sound at all. Nothing.

  I finally decide to head on inside.

  Daddy’s sitting at the little table by the sink, hunched over an amber-colored drink. That’s unusual. Daddy normally
doesn’t drink anything but water. “Don’t touch that stuff,” Daddy always preaches about alcohol. “You gotta stay dry as dirt and keep your mind clear at all times. You never know when you’ll need to make a snap decision that might affect the trajectory of your entire life.”

  When I shuffle in, Daddy looks up at me and motions to the other chair at the table. “Sit down, Buttercup,” he says softly.

  I look around. Nothing looks out of place or amiss. Where’s Momma? I glance toward the back room.

  “She’s not here,” Daddy says, reading my thoughts. “Sit down.”

  I do as I’m told.

  I reckon Daddy told Momma how the cow ate the cabbage. Well, whatever he said or did, she sure as heck deserved it.

  Daddy takes a giant swig of his drink. It smells like Momma’s whiskey.

  “Every man is born free and equal,” Daddy mutters. “If he gets married, that’s his own damn fault.” He sighs and takes another swallow of his drink. He looks me up and down. “You’re so damned beautiful, Buttercup.” His eyes flash with something I don’t understand. “And bright as a new penny, too.”

  I shift my butt in my chair.

  “Never settle for anything less than the best in this life.”

  “Nothing but the best for Charlie Wilber’s Daughter,” I declare, but I don’t shout it with my usual glee.

  Daddy smiles, but his eyes don’t crinkle when he does it. “I’m going away for a while.”

  I’m instantly panicked.

  “Calm down, sugar—for a while, I said. Just a while.”

  I’m slightly calmed by these words—but only slightly.

  “I met a guy who knows a guy in California.”

  At the word “California,” my eyes light up.

  “In Hollywood.”

  Now my eyes are ablaze. Hollywood. Just like Lana.

  Daddy puts his glass down on the little table and it makes a clunking sound.

  “I’ve got the chance of a lifetime waiting for me out there in Hollywood, Buttercup,” he says. “My buddy’s cousin’s best friend’s brother-in-law knows a guy out there that’s so rich, he buys a new boat when the other one gets wet. And when I go out there to California, I’m gonna get this Mr. Moneybags to invest in my mini-golf courses and maybe even my teleportation configuration system, too.”

  I lean back in my chair, taking this all in. This is amazing and horrible news, all at once. I want us to be rich, of course. But even more than that, I want Daddy and me to be together.

  “When this Mr. Moneybags invests in my mini-golf courses,” Daddy continues, “we’re gonna be so rich, I’m gonna buy us a big ol’ Hollywood mansion. It’ll be so big, we’ll need jetpacks to go from one end of it to the other. Shit, we’ll have a pool and a Jacuzzi in our backyard, too, and even a fountain with naked ladies and cherubs and a little cupid with wings.”

  All of that sounds really exciting. But why can’t I go, too? I want to go to Hollywood—but, mostly, I just want to be with Daddy.

  “I’ll go out there and get everything situated,” Daddy continues. “And the minute I get the mansion, I’ll come back for you, even before I’ve got the pool built or the furniture bought. That way you can help me decorate and decide what fancy curtains should go where and whether we should build a tennis court or a bowling alley, or both, and—”

  “Why can’t I go with you now, Daddy?” I blurt.

  “Oh, come on, Buttercup. I can’t homeschool you while I’m putting the deal together with Mr. Moneybags—I’ve gotta have laser-sharp focus. You gotta stay here with your momma, just while I get everything squared away. I’ll come back for you the minute I’ve got everything situated.”

  I exhale sharply and cross my arms over my chest. Of course, I’m bursting with excitement that we’re gonna live in Hollywood in a big ol’ mansion with a fountain with naked ladies and cherubs and even a little cupid with wings, but right now I can’t see past the fact that I’m going to be stuck here, all alone, with my drunk-ass mother. I don’t care if it’s only a week or two; being alone with Momma’s gonna be torture. She’s small-minded and lazy, nothing like Daddy and me, and dumb as a box of rocks, too. I can’t even talk to her about my books. She’s so dumb, if you put her brains into a bumblebee, it’d fly backwards. Dang it, I want to go with Daddy now. I try a new tactic. “If you let me come with you, I can be your personal assistant. I’d be as handy as a pocket on a shirt.”

  Daddy shakes his head. “You can’t come.”

  “But I can go to a malt shop out there in Hollywood and get discovered like Lana Turner, and then I’ll give you all my movie-star money. You can have it all, Daddy, every last penny.”

  “No.” His tone leaves no room for negotiation.

  I begin to cry. “But, Daddy, I thought I was your greatest invention. I thought I was your purpose in this life.”

  Daddy brushes the hair out of my eyes. “You are, baby, you are. Don’t you see? You’re the reason I’m doing all this. You deserve the very best of everything, and I’m gonna get it for you. How’re you gonna have the very best in this life, living here in a trailer? Hmm?”

  I shrug my shoulders and look down at the table.

  “This is my ticket to make a life for you, the kind of life you deserve.” He puts his finger under my chin and tilts my face to look at him. “Charlie Wilber’s Daughter deserves nothing but the best. You deserve a fountain with naked ladies and cherubs and a little cupid with wings. Getting that for you is my biggest dream.” He puts his hand back down on the table. “And nothing’s gonna stop me from making that dream come true.”

  I sniffle, but I don’t respond.

  “Because I love you bigger than the sky full of stars,” he says.

  “I love you, too, Daddy. Bigger than the sky full of stars.”

  “Good girl.”

  I blink the last of my tears out of my eyes. “Okay, Daddy,” I mumble. “I’ll wait.”

  “Good girl,” Daddy says again. “Nothing dries as quick as a tear.” He softly beep-beeps my nose with the tip of his finger.

  I reckon, if I put my mind to it, I can do just about anything to get to live in Hollywood with my handsome daddy—even wait a whole month for him to come back and get me. Because I love my dear, sweet daddy just that much. Bigger than the sky full of stars.

  Chapter 8

  18 Years 2 Weeks Old

  727 Days Before Killing Kurtis

  Kurtis laughs when he opens his front door and sees me. Maybe it’s the expression on my face that’s amusing to him because, holy hell, his house is a downright mansion. I’m not talking about a big house. I’m talking about a gen-u-ine Hollywood mansion, the kind of house you need a jetpack to get from one side of the house to the other. I’m literally speechless when Kurtis opens the door and I see the endlessness yawning behind him like the Great Plains.

  The minute Kurtis sees me, he steps forward and wraps his big arms around me, grunting and hooting with joy. “Oh my God, come here,” he shouts, squeezing me. “This has been the longest goddamned week of my life.”

  I back away slightly, creating some distance between our bodies, because my one-week-old boobs are still pretty sore. “Is this your house?” I ask, incredulous. “It’s as big as all hell and half of Texas.”

  Kurtis laughs. “I’ll give you a tour.”

  Kurtis takes me through each room of his house, and my jaw drops lower and lower ’til I swear he’s gonna have to scoop it off the ground with a spatula. The ceilings in Kurtis’ house are crazy-high, like I’m gonna get vertigo just looking up at them. And there’s a “foyer,” and a “laundry room,” too, and even a dining room with enough room to sleep six, if that’s what you wanted to do. And, best of all, there’s a huge backyard with a pool and a Jacuzzi and, even a “veranda” overlooking it all.

  “Well, what do you think?” Kurtis booms with excitement when the tour is finished and we’re standing in what he calls his “home theater.”

  “It’s a bona fide ma
nsion,” I manage.

  “Have you ever seen anything like it?”

  I shake my head. “I most certainly have not.” And, boy-howdy, that’s the truth. “Oh, Kurtis, you’ve got everything a girl could ever dream about ’cept a fountain with naked ladies and cherubs and a little cupid with wings.”

  Kurtis chuckles. “Honey, you make me laugh more than anyone I’ve ever met.”

  “That’s ’cause I’m a laugh riot.”

  Kurtis takes a step toward me and his eyes turn smoky with desire. “I haven’t stopped thinking about you all week long.” He presses up against me, and it’s easy to surmise just how happy he is to see me.

  I take a small step back.

  Kurtis smirks. “Have a seat, baby.” He motions to one of the chairs facing the movie screen. “I’ve got a big surprise for you.”

  “You do?” I’m hoping his “big surprise” is something more than what I just felt poking at me through his pants.

  “I sure do.” He pauses for effect. “I’m about to show you my favorite movie of all the ones I’ve ever made...”

  “Oh,” I say, deflated. “Isn’t that nice.”

  He beams at me like he’s spilling a big secret. “So that I can explain the kind of movie I’m gonna make—starring you.”

  I hold my breath and look at him, not sure I heard him correctly. Am I just imagining those two words—“starring” and “you”—in the same sentence because I want to hear them so badly?

  “Buttercup,” Kurtis says, flashing me a toothy grin, “I’m gonna put you in one of my movies.”

  Tears instantly squirt out of my eyes and shoot across the room. I knew Kurtis was meant to discover me like Lana Turner in the malt shop. I knew it. I leap out of my chair and smash my body into his, my sore boobs be damned. “Oh, thank you, Kurtis.” I throw my arms around him and nuzzle my nose into his neck.