Regan Wolfrom - Catholic Guilt and the Joy of Hating Men

“You poor thing,” she said. “You must be freezing in that getup.”

Soon I was invited inside and lent a pair of sweatpants and given a cup of the world’s worst instant coffee.

They were a youngish couple, maybe early thirties, the husband a slightly overweight man dressed in hipster plaid. Their house was classic Vermont, with country french wallpaper and oil paintings of red barns and roosters, and a beautiful hardwood curio with a collection of antique tea sets. It’s the kind of look you can only pull off if you actually live over there.

The man seemed panicked, his hands shaking as he dialed the numbers on his cell phone; the woman was calmer, like she knew that her tranquility was exactly what I needed.

“Your friends will be alright,” she said. “The Sheriff’s Department is good at what they do.”

The man walked out of the kitchen with the cell phone, closing the sliding door behind him.

“It’s okay,” I said. “I’m not traumatized or anything.”

“You’re in shock,” she said. “But that’s good. You need time to process what happened.”

“Maybe…”

“It’s terrible what they did to you. I can’t believe that the Allens would do something like this. Their family’s been here for generations.”

“So that makes them less likely to own slaves?” I said. And then I felt like an ass. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay… we’ll chalk that up to the shock.” She smiled.

The man came back into the kitchen.

“They’ve been dispatched to the Allens,” he said. “They’ll send someone over here when they get the chance. They told me to make sure you eat something.”

“We have muffins,” the woman said.

“Wow,” I said. “You guys have quite the home here. Beautiful furniture and… uh… teapots, and fresh-baked muffins.”

“They’re from Costco.”

“Oh. Sorry.”

“Maybe just stop talking,” the woman said. She seemed to catch herself, and smiled again. “You know… the shock and everything.”

“So I’m going to go out and check on the chickens,” the man said.

“You guys have chickens?” I said. “That’s awesome. I’d love to see them.”

“Just shut up, already,” the woman said.

“Maybe I should wait outside.”

“Good idea. Mike… take her outside.”

“But I have to check on the chickens,” the man said. “I need to make sure they’re safe.”

“I can see myself out,” I said.

“No one cares about the goddamn chickens,” the woman said. “I hope they eat every last one of those filthy, stinking birds.”

“You don’t like chickens,” I said. “I can see that.”

She was sweating and her face was changing; the caked-on makeup was running a little, and I could see what was underneath. A scar that ran from the edge of her lips up to her right temple. You’d expect to see old stitches scarring around it, like some kind of Frankenstein’s monster cross-stitch… but it was just a gash, like something had cleaved open her head but she’d just stuck it back together with plastic cement.

“You’re staring right at it,” she said. “Don’t you have any manners?”

“I’m sorry… it’s just…”

She bent her head forward pulled back her hair. “Take a look… take it all in, sweetheart…”

She was missing her left ear.

“We don’t have time for this,” the man said. “It’s two AM already. We have to get started. Fallon will be back before dawn.”

“Shut up, Mike,” the woman said.

“You shut up, Kat.”

I stood up from my chair.

“Hold on,” Mike said.

“I’m going to try the next house,” I said. “You guys are busy.”

He grabbed my elbow. I wasn’t sure I could win in a fight.

“So you’re Kathleen Shannard,” I said. “Now I get why you hate me.”

“I hate you because you’ve insulted me since you arrived.”

“By accident, maybe.” I didn’t feel like apologizing. “So that wasn’t the Sheriff’s Deparment…”

“No, it was. You won’t believe how high this conspiracy goes. All the way to the top.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Yes. I am. Now go outside with Mike while I get dressed.”

Mike led me out the side door and took me into the garage. He pulled out his keys.

“Get in the trunk,” he said as he pressed the button.

I climbed in, making sure I knew where the inner release lever was in case I got the chance to run.

He slammed the trunk closed above me.

I listened to him walk around to the drivers side and get in.

He turned on the car and the stereo.

The garage door was still closed. The evidence was starting to mount that Mike was an idiot.

I waited a minute or so, and then I pulled the lever.

I climbed out of the trunk.

Mike didn’t seem to notice.

I walked over to the overhead door and pressed the automatic button. I looked over to see him watching me.

“Carbon monoxide,” I said.

He nodded.

I walked back to the trunk and climbed back in.

Mike didn’t bother getting out to close it.

“Why the hell is the trunk open?” Kathleen asked as she stepped into the garage. She glared at me before slamming it shut. “I’m driving,” she said. “You drive like an old Chinese woman.”

Mike didn’t say anything, but I heard and felt him awkwardly climbing over to the passenger seat.

Soon we were on our way.

“I called Davis,” Kathleen said. “Told him to get started without us.”

“We should head there first,” Mike said. “Deal with the Allens after.”

“And what if they leave?”

“We’ll catch them. You need to be there to load the trailers.”

“They’ve got the goddamn prods for that. If Davis can’t figure out how to get them loaded… ugh… whatever… try calling Cadance. Tell her we’re coming to help. Keep her there.”

“Her phone’s still charging,” I called out from the trunk.

“And then call Fallon again, find out when he’ll get there. I swear he knows something’s up.”

I heard the squeal of tires and the rev of an engine.

“Oh my god,” Mike said.

The slam of metal was louder than I’d expected, and I felt my head slam hard against the steel frame. It hurt like hell.

I heard the car doors open, along with what must have been the sedan’s.

“Shit!” Kathleen yelled.

There were boots scraping along the gravel shoulder, and then a gunshot.

I heard a woman scream.

I stayed in the trunk.

It was quiet for over a minute. Then I heard the sound of knocking, echoing in the distance. Three long knocks. Two short knocks. A pause. Two long knocks. Another pause.

I pulled the lever and slowly climbed out of the trunk.

The two cars had hit almost head on; it looked like Kathleen had tried to veer onto the shoulder, but whoever had been driving the silver sedan had reached us first.

I walked towards the banging, still tapping along in a pattern that made no sense. It was coming from the trunk of the sedan.

“Who’s in there?” I asked.

Two more knocks. Whoever it was couldn’t talk.

I ran to the open drivers door of the sedan and found the trunk release. By the time I’d reached the trunk again Cadance and Tiara were already climbing out.

“Why didn’t you say something?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” Cadance said. “I was trying to do ‘SOS’ or whatever.”

“Are you two okay?”

“We’re okay,” Tiara said.

“Good.”

I took a look at where her ear had been bitten off. Someone had done a pretty good job of bandaging up the area.

“That was Arty,” Cadance said.

“Arty?”

“The big Chinese guy. The one who took the shotgun and shoved us in the trunk.”