Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
Betty
Narrator: And through the woods, without a hug, Max trudges over broken tree trunks, under snow-laden branches, subtly tripping here and there but with one mission on his mind: to find out who this Betty, the niece of Dwight Yokel, really is and what her intentions are.
Because in his eyes, right now, she’s seeming like a real wench.
I slip my slippers onto my feet and then look at myself one more time in the mirror to make sure I rubbed in all my lotion.
I turn off the bathroom light and start to settle in for the night when I see a flash of light in the window again.
Startled, I pause where I’m at in the kitchen and reach into the fridge, pulling out another two-liter of soda, this time Coca-Cola, and I bring it up to my chest just as there’s a knock at the door.
Ready to attack, I shuffle toward the door, two-liter in position to take out a human, and I call out, “Who is it?”
“Atlas Maxheimer, without a crowbar.”
What is he doing here?
Didn’t he get the hint the other day at the farm that I want nothing to do with him?
Or this morning when I sprinted across the street to avoid walking past him?
“I promise, I come in goodwill. I’m not here to hurt you.”
Says the serial killer about to attack.
“How do I know that?” I ask.
“Because I’m not that kind of guy.”
“You were trying to break into my window with a crowbar. You are very much that kind of guy.”
“That was a misunderstanding,” he says through the door. “And if you’d give me a chance to apologize and explain, I’d greatly appreciate it.”
“How do I know you’re not just trying to get me to open the door so you can bash my head in with your crowbar?”
“Because once again, that’s not something I’d want to do. As much as it might seem that way from the two negative interactions you’ve had with me, I don’t like to spend time in jail.”
I think about it for a second. I mean, if I’m murdered, there will only be one person who gets called out for it, and it will be him. Given the freshly fallen snow and his footprints, all tracks will lead to him, so . . . I could possibly be protected.
Not to mention I’m curious about what he has to say and how he’ll spin his little breaking and entering story. And sure, curiosity killed the cat and all, but I seem to want to test my fate tonight.
So I say, “I want your hands up where I can see them, and you will do what I say, or else I’ll make sure the cops take your no-good keister off my property, understood?”
“No-good keister? What are you? An old-timey mobster?”
“Just answer the question. Understood?”
I hear him chuckle on the other side of the door, but then he says, “Understood.”
“Hands are in the air?”
“Hands are in the air,” he calls out.
I unlock the door and then fling it open fast, startling Atlas so much that he jolts backward.
“Jesus,” he says as I hold the Coca-Cola over my head, ready to throw it. When he sees what I’m holding, panic seeps into his face. “Hey now, easy there. Put the soda down.”
“What’s that in your hand?” I nod toward the bag.
“A peace offering.”
“What kind of peace offering?”
“Can I move my arms and show you?”
“Slowly,” I say, watching his every move.
He starts to lower his arms, bringing the bag forward, and when he begins to reach inside, I cock back, ready to throw . . .
And then, like a bat out of hell, the bottom of the bag falls out, and a loud clang sounds throughout the still night, while a pop of brown and white shoots up into the air like firecrackers, startling the shit out of me.
Screaming bloody murder, I chuck the bottle over my head and right into his chest before I slam the door shut and scream out, “I’m calling the police.”
I rush to my phone, pull up the SOS option, and I’m about to call for help when I hear groaning on the other side of the door, followed by, “Noooo . . . pretzels and popcorn.”
I pause . . . slowly turning in his direction.
Did he just say pretzels and popcorn?
Finger ready to dial, I shuffle toward the door again, but this time, I squat down low to the doggy door that was included in the cottage.
I unlock the latch that keeps it sealed off from the outer elements and then slowly lift it, focusing my attention on the ground, where I see an open Christmas can with chocolate-covered pretzels and popcorn scattered all over my welcome mat.
“Fuck, I think you cracked a rib,” he grumbles.
“What, uh . . . what’s that on the ground?” I ask. I don’t care about the pain he might be experiencing. I just care about the contraband on the ground.
“Fucking popcorn and pretzels,” he groans as I see him roll to the side. “A peace offering . . . like I fucking . . . said.” He groans more, and I feel myself wince.
Crap, I think I might have really hurt him.
Feeling slightly guilty, I stand back up, set my phone to the side, and open the door, slowly of course, in case he’s faking it. When I see him gripping his chest and writhing in pain, the Coca-Cola rolling off to the side, I feel that I’m safe . . . for the moment.
Stepping over the pretzels and spilled popcorn, I toe his leg and say, “Are you in need of medical attention?”
“I’m in need of National Guard protection from you,” he groans. He rolls to his side again but this time he carefully sits up, rubbing his chest. “Fuck.”
His eyes meet mine, and it’s the first time I’ve actually had a chance to study him.
For a burglar-predator, he’s actually quite handsome.
But that’s how they get you. They charm you with their deep-timbre voice and their carved jaws, which are lightly peppered in facial hair, and when you relax, that’s when they snatch you up. Well, not me. I’m prepared.
“I think you might have broken my sternum.”
“I’d say that’s being a bit dramatic.” I cross my arms over my robe-covered body. “If you were a wafer of a man, I’d say that’s a great possibility, but you’re not that.”
His brow raises as he looks up at me from where he’s sitting on my porch, looking incredibly pathetic in a jacket with a winter hat and . . . Are those mittens? A grown-ass man wearing mittens? Maybe I shouldn’t be as afraid as I thought I should be. “Are you saying that I’m a tall drink of water?”
“No. I’m saying that you have meat on your bones that would help absorb some of the impact from the soda.”
“So . . . you’re saying I’m muscular.”
I roll my eyes. “Do you have friends?”
“Huh?” he asks. “That’s a strange change of topic.”
“No, it’s very much on topic, because from the few sentences you’ve spoken to me, you’re coming off quite annoying—”
“Uh, are you forgetting about the harpoon stealer? You didn’t seem to find me annoying then.”
“Those are two different men: charming man on the sidewalk and creepy pervert trying to break into my cottage. Which brings me back to the thought . . . I wonder if you have any friends. Or maybe the reason you’re skulking around innocent ladies’ cottages is because you don’t have any friends and therefore are looking to eat the brains of the people you prey on because you’re mad at the human race. ”
“Jesus,” he says, scooting back on the porch. “You’re not quite in the holly jolly mood, are you?”
“I’m just calling it like I see it.”
“Well, you’re seeing it all wrong.”
“And how should I see it?”
He carefully stands from the ground, still holding his chest. When he straightens up, he says, “Maybe you could invite me in, and we could talk about it.”
“Ha!” I scoff. “As if I’d let you in my cottage.
I’m not naive. If you want to explain something to me, you can explain it to me right there, where you’re standing on my porch.
But hold on a second.” I shut the door on him and grab a jug of Arizona Green Tea from the kitchen.
When I open the door again, he’s back on the ground, but instead of wallowing in pain, he’s picking up the pretzels and popcorn.
When he looks up and sees that I’m holding a gallon of liquid, I see true fear cross his features.
Slowly, he backs away, holding his hands up and leaving the destroyed treats on the ground.
“Listen, I know what you can do with that liquid, okay? I’m not . . . I’m not going to hurt you. If anything, I should be the one on guard.”
“Best you know not to mess with me.” I gesture to him. “Now, go on and tell me why you’re here so I can get on with my night. I have a fresh ball of yarn waiting to be crocheted.”
He scratches the side of his head. “Well, I brought you some treats as a kind gesture, to show you that I’m not the animal that you think I am. But those, uh, those suffered a bit through a slight misfortune. And I was hoping to clarify what I was doing during both of our unfortunate interactions.”
I prop the tea on my hip like I’m holding a baby and say, “Proceed.”
“Well, the other night, I promise, I wasn’t trying to break into your cottage. I was actually trying to figure out who lived here.”
“With a crowbar?” I deadpan.
He grips the back of his neck. “Yeah, I know how that looks, but it was more for protection from murderous bears.”
“Murderous bears. Really?” I ask sarcastically.
He shrugs. “I have an active imagination. Anyway, I wasn’t intending to pry into your house. It was just a stupid thing I thought would protect me. And when I was looking into your window, I was just trying to see who lived here.”
“And why didn’t you just knock on the door and introduce yourself like a normal human being? Say, Hey, I’m your next-door neighbor? Instead, you chose to part my bush with your crowbar.”
He smirks a stupid smirk. “Part your bush with my crowbar, huh?”
My expression falls. I point at him and say, “Pervert. I knew it. I knew you were a pervert.”
He rolls his eyes. “Come on. That was so obvious. As if I could just let that go.”
“It’s called being an adult.”
“Yes, and as an adult, I can laugh at the fact that it was a funny slip of the tongue. I’m not a pervert. You can ask anyone in this town. I’m an upstanding guy. So maybe you should . . . I don’t know . . . unclench a little.”