Nine Minutes, Page 3

  Without saying a word she walked over to me and just stood there. She didn’t meet my eyes, but looked at the ground. I looked to my right where Monster was sitting. He wasn’t even looking at me. Sometime during the last ten minutes (or had it been an hour?) he’d gotten a beer and was sitting there with his head thrown back, chugging it. To his right was the man called Froggy, the one who tried to help Willow. He was looking down at the broken lawn chair. Maybe he was trying to see if he could fix it. I don’t remember anyone else, although I know they were all there that night. Sitting around the campfire, watching, waiting, obeying.

  I stood up and Moe slowly walked toward the motel. I clutched my bag to my chest and looked straight ahead as I followed her. Without turning around I knew with certainty that those mesmerizing eyes would watch me until I was behind the closed door of room number four.

  Chapter Three

  I followed Moe as she approached the unit with the fading number four on the door. There was a noisy air conditioning unit that made sounds similar to human coughing and sputtering. At least it would be cooler inside. I hadn’t realized it, but I’d been eaten alive by mosquitos.

  When we approached the door, I noticed two huge black dogs for the first time. They were lying on the sidewalk, one on each side of the door, and they raised their heads inquisitively as we passed them. When they determined we were not a threat, they went back to their naps. I didn’t know it then, but those two creatures would become my jailers and eventually my protectors. They were large black Rottweilers named Damien and Lucifer.

  I had an idea of what the inside of unit four was going to look like, but I couldn’t have been more wrong. It was like walking into a different world. Where there should have been a dilapidated old bed, worn carpet, ancient furniture and the smell of decay, I found instead a totally modern living area. It looked like two rooms separated by a small kitchen. It was clean, cool and tastefully decorated. Was this some kind of dream?

  Apparently, two units, maybe even three, had been remodeled to offer the occupant some modicum of comfort. I didn’t have to guess as to who that occupant was.

  My first thought was to find a phone. But Moe must have been reading my mind. We both spotted the phone on the kitchen counter and looked at each other at the same time. She just shook her head slowly. I sized her up. She was little. I wasn’t too big myself, but I was strong and I was pretty sure I could take her down if I had to. I would save that for later if I needed to. I decided to try to warm up to her. Get on her good side. Get her to feel sorry for me. To want to help me.

  “Wow, it’s really nice in here. Are all the rooms this nice?”

  She didn’t answer me but gave me a look that said “Are you kidding?”

  I sat on the edge of the small sofa. She sat on the edge of an oversized recliner and just stared at me.

  “So you’re supposed to get me settled in? What exactly does that entail?”

  No answer. She got up and walked to the small kitchen area. Opened the refrigerator and took out a can of soda. She popped the top, walked over and handed it to me. I thanked her and sat it on the little coffee table without taking a sip. On second thought, my mouth was as dry as the desert. A sip would probably taste good. So I sipped my drink.

  I guess she noticed me scratching at the mosquito bites because she got up again and passed through the kitchen into what I assumed was a bedroom with a bathroom. She quickly returned and wordlessly handed me a bottle of antiseptic and one cotton ball. She nodded at my arms and I realized she was trying to offer some kind of comfort for the bites. My immediate thought was, “Okay, so she’s not a horrible person. Only a nice person would be concerned about some stupid mosquito bites.” I don’t think it ever occurred to me that she was being nice because there would be hell to pay if she wasn’t.

  I continued with the small talk as I dabbed at the bites with the medicine-soaked cotton. Moe still refused to answer me no matter how hard I tried to engage her. I’d never seen someone so loyal to her leader. There must have been some unspoken rule about not fraternizing with the prisoners.

  Oh man, I hadn’t thought of that word before, but that’s exactly what I was. A prisoner. Held against my will. I had to get to that phone. I had a plan. Not a good one, but if I acted casually enough I might just pull it off. Who knows? Maybe I’m not really a prisoner, I reasoned to myself. Maybe I’m overreacting. This isn’t real. This is the kind of thing you see in the movies.

  I chugged my soda. When the can was almost empty I casually stood and said, “All done, thanks. Is the garbage can in the kitchen?” Without waiting for her answer I walked to the small area pretending to look for the trash. I walked to the sink and started to pour out what little soda was left in the can. With my left hand, I casually reached for the phone on the counter. Before I could lift it off the receiver I felt her behind me. I stopped dead. One hand on the receiver, one hand still dangling the soda can over the sink. Tiny, quiet little Moe was holding a knife to my neck.

  “Whoa, Moe, no need for that. I just wanted to make a call. Let my parents know where I was. They’ll be worried and all.”

  She removed the knife and I turned around and saw that she was giving me the same look she gave me when I asked if all the rooms were this nice. No, little unassuming Moe was no dummy. She was small and she was quiet, but she had my number. Heck, maybe she was me a few years back. I didn’t know.

  I stammered an apology. “I’m just scared. I don’t know what’s going to happen to me. Do you know? Why won’t you say anything to me? If you could just tell me what’s happening or what I can expect I think I could handle it better.”

  She was shorter than me, but we were standing so close I was able to get a really good look at her face. She had pretty eyes, even with all the makeup, and I could tell she had beautiful skin. I hadn’t seen her smile yet so I couldn’t comment on her teeth.

  She showed no emotion as she stared back at me. I was lost. I was alone. This little would-be friend was not a friend. She was doing her job.

  She opened her mouth slightly as if to say something. Finally, maybe an answer. A word of comfort. Anything.

  It was then that I noticed Moe didn’t have a tongue.

  Chapter Four

  For the first time in my life, I uttered a word that had never before crossed my lips: “Mom.” I wanted my mother.

  I was born on Valentine’s Day 1960. My mother named me Guinevere Love Lemon. Yes, that’s my real name. In order to understand how I got that name you would have to understand my hopelessly romantic, hippie mother, Delia. And before you consider judging her for giving me such a ridiculous name, know that my name is what would ultimately lead to the fall of Satan’s Army.

  Delia Lemon got pregnant with me while living in a commune and never cared to try to identify my father. She met my stepfather, Vince, at a war protest when I was around six years old, and they were married three years later at Woodstock. Oh yeah, I went to Woodstock. I say they were married, but I don’t know if it was legal. She continued to use her own last name, Lemon.

  She was way too cool to be a mom, so I grew up calling her Delia. Delia Lemon was quite the character. I like to compare her to the mother from the Jeannie C. Riley song, “Harper Valley PTA.” You know the song—the PTA sends a note home to the little girl’s mother saying they objected to how she was raising her daughter. That mom goes to the next PTA meeting and basically rips everyone a new one.

  The problem with that comparison is I think the mom from that song cared more about her daughter and her reputation than Delia cared about me. Delia wasn’t a bad person. She was just indifferent to rules. She truly didn’t care what people thought. She was the ultimate flower child. She would just go with the flow.

  I still remember my first grade teacher’s horror when she discovered I didn’t call my mother “Mommy.” I called her by her first name. Always had. I remember asking Delia once who my mommy was, because all my friends had mommies, and she brushed it off
with a laugh explaining she didn’t believe in labels. I was too young to understand what that meant.

  Delia worked at a health food store before health food stores were popular. She grew her own herbs and her own pot. She took in stray animals. She never wore a bra and her wardrobe consisted of tank tops, tube tops and long, billowy skirts with stretchy waistbands. She went barefoot as often as possible. She had dirty blonde hair parted down the middle that she always wore in two braids that almost reached her waist.

  She made sure I was fed and always had clean clothes to wear to school. Well, most of the time. Wrinkled, but clean. That was the extent of her mothering.

  Our home was filled with plants hanging in homemade, elaborate macramé hangers. Scented candles and incense were always burning. Despite working in a health food store, Delia smoked a pack of cigarettes a day until Vince finally convinced her to quit. I used to light the candles to cover up the smell. Later it became a habit I continued long after she quit.

  Vince drove a beer delivery truck. He had the same job for as long as I can remember. He was an okay guy. I can’t say anything bad about Vince.

  Delia and Vince never beat or abused me. I don’t remember them ever yelling at me or punishing me. They just didn’t care enough. I wasn’t loved or nourished emotionally.

  I guess they mostly ignored me. I have no memory of Delia or Vince helping me with homework. I don’t remember them ever attending any school pageants or volunteering for fundraisers. I do remember always taking care of myself, even at a young age. I still recall standing on a kitchen chair so I could reach the stove to boil water for macaroni and cheese. That was one of my favorite things to make. Unfortunately, I had a few too many meals of the same type, and to this day I cannot stomach macaroni and cheese, tomato soup or any kind of cherry-flavored drink mix.

  By the way, Vince and Delia were serious alcoholics. Thank God they weren’t mean ones. Waiting for them at Smitty’s Bar after school felt normal to me at the time. It was the routine. This was back when Fort Lauderdale felt smaller and people knew each other. That’s where I grew up. Fort Lauderdale, Florida.

  When I was in grade school I was what people called a latchkey kid. I walked home every day from Parkland Elementary School. I would let myself in and lock the door behind me. Delia didn’t even require a phone call from me telling her I made it home okay.

  I was a loner but never lonely and was an excellent student. I buried myself in my books. I showed a real talent for working with numbers. I loved numbers. I still love numbers. I love how they never lie. They always fit. There is always a constant.

  By the time I was thirteen I had completely taken over the family finances. Believe it or not, both Delia and Vince would cash their paychecks, keep what they wanted, and give me the rest. I rode my yellow ten-speed bike to the local bank every week to make a deposit. I paid all the bills, forging Delia’s signature on the checks. I reveled in feeling like I was an integral part of something. I liked to play chief financial officer for our small family.

  I really felt important, too, when Vince would ask me, “Hey Gwinny, my boots are wearing out. Think I can keep back twenty for some new ones? You gonna have enough to pay the bills?”

  It was a small empowerment, but it was better than nothing, and the fact that I was managing a family budget gave me confidence and a feeling of importance. I mattered to this family. I had never felt that way before.

  I was Gwinny when they were drinking, which was most times. But by the time I was ten I’d started to insist that instead of Gwinny, I be called Ginny. I felt like Gwinny was more suited to one of the stray kittens Delia adopted. It was a baby name and I didn’t like it.

  Eventually, Ginny was shortened to Gin. Yes, Gin, just like the alcohol. Some things are just plain ironic, aren’t they?

  Chapter Five

  Moe smiled. I couldn’t tell if she was amused that I noticed she had no tongue, or embarrassed by it. Just then the door opened and the man they called Grizz walked in.

  My first instinct was to pelt him with questions. But something held me back. I didn’t have any experience with men, but my inner voice was telling me to keep my mouth shut. I wondered if that was why Moe didn’t have a tongue; did she say something wrong and it was cut out, or was she born that way? For the life of me I couldn’t remember ever hearing about anyone born without a tongue.

  Without saying a word, Grizz strode to the small coffee table and picked up my backpack. He turned it upside down and emptied it onto the sofa. The heavy library books landed on top of everything else, so he tossed them aside and picked up my birth control pills. He tossed them aside too. Then he moved his hand over the rest of the contents. When his fingers brushed over one of the two tampons I said in an unnaturally high-pitched voice, “I have my period. And I’m only on the pill because I get bad cramps. They’re not for birth control.”

  There. I put a couple of things out there, but truth be told, I wasn’t sure if they would help or hurt my cause. Who wanted to rape a girl who had her period? I had no earthly idea what motivated a rapist. Or in this case, what might deter one. And second, I tried to let him know that I was on the pill because of period cramps. That was true. I was not sexually active. But what if he wanted a virgin? I had no idea where I stood with him.

  He didn’t comment, but picked up my wallet. He opened it and spotted my Florida driver’s permit.

  “Guinevere Love Lemon?” he asked with a smirk.

  “Gin. I go by Gin,” I retorted.

  He didn’t look at me. “You will never go by that name again. Got it? You tell nobody your name. Ever. Is that clear?”

  I didn’t answer so he flashed a quick look at me. I nodded yes. But I wouldn’t let the moment go. Deep down, I was defiant to the core. Just because I was playing it safe while being scared out of my wits didn’t mean I was okay with my predicament. I didn’t want my defiant nature to show, but I think it did.

  “Well, now Moe knows,” I said with just a little attitude.

  He tossed my wallet back on the pile of my few belongings and slowly walked toward me. Don’t shake, don’t shake, don’t shake. Look him in the eye, Gin. Head up. Not too bold, but don’t be a wimp either.

  He was standing so close to me that I had to tilt my head up to continue looking him in the eyes. That’s when I noticed the color: a clear, bright green, and even more compelling in the light of the motel room than around the campfire. He raised his right hand and softly caressed my cheek. I was in shock. Even though I didn’t flinch, I’d been prepared for a blow.

  In almost a whisper, he said, “And who’s she gonna tell, huh? Last time she ran her mouth she paid for it.” After a brief pause, he added, “You don’t look surprised, girl. You already figured out why Moe doesn’t talk?”

  “Did you do it?” I whispered back.

  “Yeah, I did it. So any more questions about your old name?”

  “What are you going to call me?”

  “Nothing, for now.”

  He walked back over to my pile of personal possessions. He picked up my wallet with my I.D. and four dollars in it and tossed it to Moe.

  “Burn it.”

  Chapter Six

  It didn’t take long for me to acquire a new name. I wasn’t addressed much by the gang anyway; when I was, it was usually Willow referring to me as “the ugly bitch.” That didn’t last long, though.

  I had only been there a few days and was starting to know some of them by name. One afternoon, a few of us were sitting at one of the rundown picnic tables eating. Well, I wasn’t really eating. I had no appetite for obvious reasons. I was sitting on Grizz’s left, and Willow was on his right.

  That’s how it had been the last couple days. I was always with Grizz. Never out of his sight except to use the bathroom. Willow couldn’t stand for me to always be with him and she made the most of every opportunity to be near him, too. She would’ve slept in his room on the floor if he’d let her.

  So we were eating a
nd Willow started to say, “So, ugly bitch, when you gonna—”

  Grizz backhanded her so hard she would’ve flown backwards off the bench if Grunt, who was on her other side, hadn’t stuck his left arm out to catch her.

  Grunt was the youngest of the group. He didn’t appear to say much and I couldn’t gauge his age, but he had to be only a little older than me. I always felt like he watched me, but when I would look at him he wasn’t looking at me.

  Willow’s hand flew to her mouth. When she pulled it away, she was holding her left front tooth. Blood was running out of her nose and mouth. It wasn’t a casual slap. Grizz’s hand had been curled into a full fist, and the blow had been powerful enough to knock out that tooth and maybe even break her nose. If I thought Willow hated me before, then this only upped her level of animosity.

  A couple of the others laughed. Moe just stared expressionless, but I thought I caught a hint of a smile before she lowered her head back to her plate.

  Chicky, who was sitting across from Willow, said, “Gee, Grizz, you going all soft, sticking up for your ‘gift’? Since when do you care what Willow calls her?”

  The instant she said it I could see regret in her eyes. But apparently Grizz didn’t react the way she thought he would, because after a few seconds she looked relieved. He finished chewing his food, and after swallowing it he casually said, “Just tired of hearing it.”