Rhonda, some time the previous fall – day twelve, early morning
“What’s your name, honey?” asks Claire. She’s dressed in a powder blue “duster,” her name for a house robe, and her hair is put up in little paper rollers that her mother showed her how to make when she was a child. She can’t remember any of the other girls’ names, but it doesn’t matter, because they were just trash—especially the last one, the one with the black fingernails. This one seems decent enough, thinks Claire; at least she hasn’t got any tattoos or body piercings. She actually seems normal. Too bad. “My name’s Ronnie,” answers the girl. “What’s yours?”
“She’s Claire,” says Red, eliminating the need for his wife to speak. Rhonda supposes that this is how it usually goes in this household. “There’ll be plenty of time for us to get to know Ronnie later, Claire. But, right now, how about makin’ the girl some hot cocoa?” He reaches up, and rummages through the small pine cabinet above the stove, looking for the bottle of bourbon he generally keeps there. The cabinet is empty. “Where’s my bottle, Claire?” he asks.
“I ain’t seen it, Red. I swear to God.”
“Well, it was here just the other day. Did you throw it out, Claire? Did you?” Red’s hands are clenched into fists, and he appears ready for a fight.
Claire senses the danger, and rushes over to another cabinet alongside the refrigerator. Squatting down, she opens the door, reaches inside, and pulls out a small, amber bottle. “Here,” she says with a frightened smile. “Here it is, Red.”
Red yanks the bottle out of his wife’s hand, and quickly unscrews the cap, downing half the contents in one, long draught. “You moved it,” he barks. “If I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a thousand damn times. Never move my liquor!”
“I’m sorry, Red. Honest I am. I just thought it might be better if it wasn’t over the stove. I didn’t want it to evaporate. That’s all. I swear it.”
“Yeah, well…don’t be thinkin’ so much.”
Rhonda watches all this in amazement. What is it with men? Are they all like this? “So, uh, do you think maybe I could get that hot cocoa?” she asks with a nervous laugh, hoping to break the tension. “I really could use something warm.” Maybe she can just have the hot cocoa, and get on her way. Then, the two of them can fight it out without her. Red shoots her an angry look, and Rhonda instantly regrets her decision to speak. Okay, okay, just be quiet. Maybe they’ll really get into it, she thinks, and she can run out the door.
“Claire, why don’t you make our guest here that hot cocoa? Can’t you see she’s just about froze to death?” Red reaches out and puts his arm around Rhonda, who, at first, recoils in terror, but then permits herself to be hugged. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. Old Red ain’t gonna hurt you. I just want to warm you up a bit.” He gives her shoulder another squeeze, then lets go. A shiver runs up and down Rhonda’s spine, and it’s not the erotic kind.
A glance out the window tells Rhonda that it’s snowing again, and she worries that this might not be such a good time to leave after all. Suddenly, she feels that unmistakable pressure that signals her bladder is full and needs to be emptied. “Hey…uh…Claire; do you have a bathroom around here?”
“Sure, honey,” answers Red, once again denying his wife the opportunity to speak. “Come with me, and I’ll show you right where it is.” He feigns an awkward curtsy, and says, “Follow me. Right this way,” leading her down a narrow hallway to a door at its end. “There ya go, Missy. The light switch is on the right.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re more than welcome, sweetheart. Claire ought to have that hot cocoa ready by the time you come out.”
Rhonda switches on the light, and quickly closes the door behind her, locking it securely. As she goes about her business, she can hear the muffled sound of conversation coming from the kitchen. Mostly, the speech is whispered, but occasionally Rhonda hears Red raise his voice in apparent anger. At one point, she thinks she even hears the sound of a slap against someone’s flesh. It’s a sound she knows all too well from living with her mother and Howie. Suddenly, there’s no noise at all. Oh God; he’s killed her. Rhonda flushes the toilet, takes a deep breath, and then reaches to unlock the door, turning the little knob carefully to avoid making a sound. As she opens the door, she is startled to find Red standing just outside. “Boo!” says Red, catching her by surprise. Rhonda jumps back, with a scream, and Red laughs hysterically. “Jesus,” she says, “you scared the hell out of me.”
“Well, well, Missy,” he says, bending down and putting his face in front of hers. “All done?”
Rhonda can smell the liquor on Red’s breath, and pictures Howie on that awful night, causing her to shudder involuntarily; the specter of what may lie ahead rendering her speechless.
“What’s wrong?” asks Red. “Cat got your tongue?” This causes him to snicker, and soon, he is laughing so hard at his perceived cleverness that it starts him coughing.
I hope he chokes to death, thinks Rhonda.
At last, he manages to stop, and wipes his mouth with a handkerchief, saying, “Come on, Ronnie. Claire’s got your hot cocoa waitin’, and I think she’s even got some cookies.”
Rhonda follows Red to the kitchen, and is surprised to find everything as advertised: piping hot cocoa with whipped cream, and a stack of home made oatmeal cookies sitting on a napkin, beside the mug. Relieved, she pulls up a chair, and is soon sipping the hot beverage and nibbling away at the baked goods, her fears long forgotten. Thank goodness she didn’t run.
Thank goodness indeed.