Calamity

“No,” Tyler said, “her mother.”

* * *

Tyler and Paul froze. Somewhere a dog barked and car screeched to a halt. These sounds echoed to them from the other side of the lake, but no sounds emanated from the house. Maybe Sasha’s mother had left a few candles burning as some sort of witchcraft custom. She might be far off in dreamland right now while he and Paul were imitating mannequins in her front yard.

“What should we do?” Paul grunted in throaty gurgles.

“You brought us out here.”

“You wanted to come here.”

“You broke the railing.”

Paul hesitated, shrugged. “We might as well finish.” He shook the spray paint bottle and resumed his threatening, almost illegible, note. After a few letters, he stopped. “You going to do anything productive?”

Tyler glanced at the house, then off to the street and then back to Paul. He still held the bat in both hands.

“Bust the bitch’s car.” Paul pointed toward the driveway.

There was no garage, so any cars would have to be parked in the driveway, which was barely large enough for two vehicles. The only car parked there was Sasha’s Oldsmobile that was rusting in so many spots it looked like it had leprosy. Tyler turned back to Paul to ask if he really expected Tyler to do something to Sasha’s car but Paul had returned to his spray-painted note and was laughing at his own wittiness.

Tyler walked toward the car. He could just dent the door a little bit. That would get the message across (in case she didn’t notice her destroyed railing or the paint on her front steps) and not be too damaging.

But you need to be damaging, a voice told him. This girl thinks you raped her and now she’s pregnant. She’s trying to frame you. She wants to force you to love her. She’s lost her mind and she doesn’t care how much pain she causes you. She doesn’t care that Delaney is dead. Even if her mother didn’t cast some spell, Sasha is still out of her mind. She’s been going around school telling everyone you two are practically married. If you don’t get her to back off now, you will never be rid of her. SEND THE BITCH A MESSAGE!

Tyler’s hands had slipped down to the bottom of the bat and he held it out at his side like he was expecting a baseball to come flying out of the dark. He approached the car with sure-footed steps and nodded with every indictment from his mind. Sasha was crazy. She did need to be stopped. She was fucking up his life. She was a dangerous cunt-trap who needed to be stopped.

He brought the bat back and swung it forward so quickly he barely realized he was doing it. The meat of the bat bounced off the front fender, leaving only a minor dent. That’s nothing, the voice said. She won’t even notice that. Send a REAL message!

He brought the bat back again and swung forward with all his force. Halfway through the swing a different voice asked him what the hell he was doing and he screamed not out of rage but out of fear. He had lost control so easily.

Like when you raped her.

The bat crashed into and then through the windshield. The glass crumpled and shattered simultaneously. Tiny pieces of glass exploded in all directions. The bat bounced off the dashboard and Tyler stumbled backward. He dropped the bat and watched it roll under the car. What was he doing? What the fuck had he done? Nausea flooded his stomach and all his muscles cramped together as if on cue. He hunched over, grabbed his knees, sucked at the cold night air.

Paul stopped spray painting. “Nice hit, man. Didn’t think you had it in you.”

“We have to leave,” Tyler said through gasps.

“No shit.”

The light above the front door blared on and then the door swung wide. Instead of a long-haired witch dressed in black, Sasha stepped onto the porch dressed in pajama bottoms and a T-shirt. The shirt made her breasts look almost as big as he remembered.

What Paul had sprayed on the steps resembled the crayon doodles of a child. If there was a message in his painting (was that an “f” and maybe a “u”?) it had been completely lost somewhere between Paul’s brain and his hand.

“Tyler?” Sasha sounded small, like a child.

Neither Tyler nor Paul said anything. They resumed their mannequin postures.

“What’s going on?”

“We …” Tyler started and could say no more.

Her eyes expanded. “My car? What did you do?”

Paul stepped forward, jumped onto the bottom step, thrust the can at her, and yelled: “Fuck you, bitch,” and then sprayed black paint on her face.

The No! wasn’t even out of Tyler’s mouth before the paint hit her. She rocked back as if struck with something, tripped on the entryway ledge, and fell.

Paul stood in place for a moment, and then leaped off the step and scrambled toward his car. He screamed for Tyler to follow him, to come on and get in before the cops showed up but Tyler couldn’t move. Sasha wasn’t screaming—she was writhing on the floor and sobbing. It wasn’t supposed to go down like this. At least she’ll get the message.

Paul’s car rumbled to life and he screamed out the window for Tyler to come the fuck on already. Tyler shook himself out of his empathetic trance and ran to the car.

“It’s not my fault!” Sasha cried. “Not my fault!”

Tyler hopped in the car but didn’t shut the door. “Wait. We can’t just leave.”

Paul laughed. “Right. We can drive straight to the police station.”

“You shouldn’t have sprayed her.”

“She’s lucky I didn’t use the persuader. Shut the fucking door.”

Sasha’s pained scream grabbed Tyler with cold, invisible hands and squeezed his stomach. He stepped out of the car, shut the door. “I can’t leave her like this.”

“You’re as nuts as she is.” Then Paul’s car jolted forward and he peeled out, howling down the hill deeper into Trailer Trash Town. Only the two black skid marks from his tires remained.

Slowly, Tyler walked back up Sasha’s lawn. She was still laying in the open doorway, sobs pouring out of her. Her legs rolled back and forth with her sobs as if the physical expression of her pain was something experienced throughout her entire body.

I did this.

I caused this.

She deserved it, that other voice offered. Now you can make your move and get this bitch to do what’s right.

He walked up the steps. “Sasha, I’m—”

She sprang up, on all fours, screamed, and frantically tried crab-walking backward. In the light over the entrance, the black paint resembled a giant smudge like she had rubbed her face against a car engine. Her eyes twitched frantically: some of the paint had seeped into them. Would that blind her?

He approached her quickly, knelt beside her. “Sasha, relax, please.”

She stopped trying to back up, afraid perhaps she’d misjudge her direction and spill down the stairs. She shrunk away from him but her rushing tears prevented another scream. She gagged on a wad of phlegm and then cried even harder.

“Why are you doing this?”

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I freaked out, that’s all, and Paul, he’s nuts, this was … ah, shit, your face. I’m so sorry.”

“None of this is my fault.” She buried her face in the crook of her arm.

He wanted to touch her but he was afraid she might scream or try to get away. “Let me help you to the bathroom. Let me help you get cleaned up.”

Her sobbing eased. “Why?”

“Because I deserve to be arrested,” he said.