John Locke - Box

“Two weeks ago.”

“And here we are?” he says.

“Yup. Here we are.”

Dr. Box looks like he swallowed a bad hot dog.

“What’s wrong?”

“I’m having a hard time picturing you and Darrell.”

“In what way?”

“To be honest? Sexually.”

“You’re still hung up on us bein’ kinfolk?”

“I’m odd that way. Are you aware you just asked if I was hung up on that issue?’”

“It’s just an expression, Gideon.”

“So is hanging around. And brotherly love. But in this town those expressions take on a whole different meaning.”

I frown at him.

He says, “Even if I could erase the mental image in my head, I find it hard to believe you ever found Darrell attractive.”

“Why’s that?”

“His size. Shape. Features. Attitude. Complete lack of intelligence.”

He turns his palms upward, frustrated. Seekin’ an explanation.

I say, “When you’re fourteen years old, comin’ of age in a small town, proximity is more apt to turn a girl’s head than looks, charm, or brainpower.”

We look at each other a long moment.

Dr. Box looks sad. Like an old man with heart trouble turnin’ down the Tuesday night all-you-can-eat steak special. He wants the steak, but thinks it’s bad for him.

I’ve seen that sad steak look in a man’s eyes before.

I say, “You’re gonna leave, aren’t you.”

He nods.

“You’re not gonna take me with you.”

He sighs. “No.”

“Why not?”

He shakes his head and gestures at the room in general, but his meanin’ is clear. It’s all too much for him.

“I know I look like hell right now, but my face will heal. And when it does I’ll be pretty for you for a lot of years. You don’t know me that well, but I’ll make you a wonderful girlfriend. I can cook, sew, take care of kids and critters. I’m fun when I’m not banged up, and not opposed to grantin’ sexual favors. And those favors will belong only to you, Gideon.”

“Trudy-”

“I’ll be polite to your friends. I won’t complain if you drink or stay out at night, long as you treat me with respect.”

“I’ll marry you, Trudy!” the policeman shouts out from the back of the room.

“Mind your own business, Clem!” I scold. Then turn my focus back to Dr. Box. “I see good inside you, Gideon. I’ll make you happy.”

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I can’t.”

I put on a brave face and sigh.

We look at each other a minute, and I say, “I hope you find what you’re lookin’ for.”

“Thanks,” he says. “You too.”

He leans over, kisses my cheek, then starts to leave.

“You sure you don’t want to hang around town a little longer?” I call out to him.

He turns, sees me grinnin’, and smiles.

Then says, “Trudy, it’s been an honor hanging out with you.”

“Have a good life, Dr. Box.”

“You too, Trudy.”

He opens the door, walks through it, closes it behind him.

I stare at the door a while, hopin’ it’ll suddenly open.

But he’s gone.

I start to cry, which makes Clem nervous.

He says, “I can stand outside the door if you like.”

I nod.

Clem heads for the door, reaches for the handle, then stops and says, “You’re better off without him, Trudy.”

I cry some more.

“He’s old and weird. You’re young and beautiful.”

He starts to leave again, then pauses to say, “And somethin’ else, if you don’t mind my sayin’. It ain’t right the way that man ejaculates. Our first thought was a half-dozen baboons had a contest to see who could make the biggest mess, and the answer was, all of them. My personal opinion? There’s witchery in it.”

I cry harder, and he finally gives up and leaves the room.

Now I can finally read the note Dr. Box passed me when he leaned over to kiss me goodbye just now.

He’d used his body to block Clem’s view, and placed a small, folded up piece of paper in my hand that was heavier than it should be.

I open it, and a small key falls out.

I smile through my tears.

It’s the key to Daddy’s handcuffs. He must have stolen them from Daddy when he went back in the barn to get his money and cell phone.

The note gives a phone number with a two-one-two area code. Then says, Trudy, I’d run off with you in a heartbeat if I thought you wanted me half as much as you just want to get away. But you can do better than me and we both know it. Last night when I cuffed you to the fence you asked if you could trust me. You can. When you’re feeling up to it, call this number and speak to Robert Bothwell, my private banker. I’ve instructed Robert to wire ten thousand dollars into your personal account every month for the next two years. Now you have a big choice to make: you can finally get out of town, or you can buy your own monster truck! Love, Gideon. PS: I’ll never forget our wild and crazy night!

Dr. Gideon Box.

Putting the Starbucks County Hospital in my rear-view mirror, I work my way to the four-lane highway that leads to Ralston, Kentucky.

I’m not breaking the law.

Sheriff Carson Boyd left me a text message, saying I could go on about my business. It read: I spoke to your boss in NYC, Mr. Luce. He says you’re easy to find if I need you. Plus I want you the hell out of my town. So go on about your business. Somewhere else.

So that’s what I’m doing.

Taking my business to Ralston, Kentucky, to meet Faith Hemphill.

What can I tell you about Faith you don’t already know?

Very little.

I barely know the woman.

It’s a two-hour drive, so let’s start with what I’ve learned from the dating site.

If her profile’s accurate she’s my age, forty-two, recently divorced, with a daughter in college. She lives on a ranch. If the photos she posted are actually her, she’s attractive, or was at the time they were taken. She’s a custom saddle-maker, which sounds interesting, doesn’t it? I mean, she works with leather, right?

Riding crops?

Bondage collars?

That’s sexy, isn’t it?

I’m not sure. But it’s an angle to explore.

I try to picture her naked, on all fours. I’m riding her, whacking her fanny with a riding crop.

Wait.

Riding her?

I’m having trouble with the mental image.

I can’t picture how to hump her and smack her ass at the same time. I’m not sure it works anatomically. And anyway, I don’t like the idea of hitting a woman.

I know what you’re thinking.

I didn’t have any problem hitting Trudy last night.

Good point.

I’ll admit there was something amazing about beating Trudy up last night. I think it had to do with her insisting that I hit her, and knowing I had to hit her, and the certain knowledge that hitting her would benefit both of us. It’s like the world’s biggest taboo, hitting a woman, but we both knew it had to be done.

It was like getting a free pass.

I have no doubt that given the opportunity, Darrell would have beaten her half to death. Or all the way to death, since he was furious about the divorce, and the judge’s ruling, and the thought of losing Trudy forever. At the very least he would have done serious, and possibly permanent, damage to her face, nose, eyes, or teeth.

But I ran him over before he had time to do that.

Then I punched Trudy’s face and torso.

Hit her hard and often.

Big man, right?

I did it the safest way possible, but feel weird reporting it wasn’t half as unpleasant as I would have expected. Maybe it’s because beating her up solved all our problems. It kept me out of jail. Ensured her divorce would sail through the court system. Allows her to get a restraining order against Darrell. Puts him in line for a jail term, which could very well save his life.