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"He’s not dead?” I said. “Whaddya mean?”
“He’s not dead,” Bill said.
We were on my stoop. It was summer, with the ice cream truck tinkling up the block. Kids running like mad to be first on line.
“A hoax,” Bill said. “My brother . . . faked his own death.”
Scottie was alive. My husband—who, ten minutes ago was gone forever—was breathing again.
Was somewhere preaching the word of God, sucking on lollipops…
Feeling up little girls.
Bill took my hand. “Too many people were after him.”
We were bonded in our hatred. Bill, ‘cos Scottie had tried shit with his daughter, Tara. She had claimed.
She, Scottie said, came on to me. And God didn’t like it.
Bill was a strong fuck. Had beat Scottie so bad, Bill spent that Christmas in jail. Scottie got off with like jack shit. Hearsay, his lawyer had said. Nothing happened. Can’t prove that it did.
I squeezed Bill’s hand.
No way my Sofia had come on to Scottie. She didn’t want him. She loved some curly-headed dope in English class. That Goth kid from South Park, he looked like. A vampire wannabe.
Still, he was better than Stepdaddy. If that Goth fuck had only popped Scottie’s throat, sucked every drop of...
“He’s not dead,” Bill said.
We were on my stoop. It was summer, with the ice cream truck tinkling up the block. Kids running like mad to be first on line.
“A hoax,” Bill said. “My brother . . . faked his own death.”
Scottie was alive. My husband—who, ten minutes ago was gone forever—was breathing again.
Was somewhere preaching the word of God, sucking on lollipops…
Feeling up little girls.
Bill took my hand. “Too many people were after him.”
We were bonded in our hatred. Bill, ‘cos Scottie had tried shit with his daughter, Tara. She had claimed.
She, Scottie said, came on to me. And God didn’t like it.
Bill was a strong fuck. Had beat Scottie so bad, Bill spent that Christmas in jail. Scottie got off with like jack shit. Hearsay, his lawyer had said. Nothing happened. Can’t prove that it did.
I squeezed Bill’s hand.
No way my Sofia had come on to Scottie. She didn’t want him. She loved some curly-headed dope in English class. That Goth kid from South Park, he looked like. A vampire wannabe.
Still, he was better than Stepdaddy. If that Goth fuck had only popped Scottie’s throat, sucked every drop of...
*** *** ***
When’d you find out? Bill had asked. And how?
Last year, cleaning out a closet. Tons of porn ‘zines were stored away, like buried treasure. Lately, Scottie and I hadn’t fucked much. Now I knew why.
Taped over every face was Sofia’s. Implanted bitches with my baby’s face. Bitches spreading their twat lips. “Sofia’s” face next to big, hard cocks.
Scottie was sprawled on the couch, watching the Mets game. Lollipop in mouth, smirking.
Him, I thought, and those fucking lollipops.
You fuck! I shoved the ‘zine at him.
We’re in love, he said, through the stick. Someday we’ll be married. You can’t come between us.
It’s God’s will.
Just in time, he spat out the stick.
I wasn’t strong, like Bill. Like a wildcat I scratched, and bit. Tasted blood. Grape, orange, every lollipop flavor he’d eaten that day.
Somehow, he fought me off. Then split that same day.
With no change of clothes, he moved down South. I wasn’t sure where. Maybe some state where you can marry a sixth-grader . . .
In the eyes of God.
He’s lying! Sofia sobbed. Nothing happened! Never!
I still wasn’t sure. But at least he was gone.
Then, suddenly . . . he was dead. Slumped over on his porch, with the lights gone out.
That’s what she’d said. The new chick. I pictured her: dark roots and three teeth in her head. “Your brother’s dead, sugar,” she told Bill, in a voice that had shed no tears. A voice that had its own baby girl.
Now . . . “She swears he’s alive.” On the stoop beside me, Bill clenched and unclenched his fists. “On his way back up here.”
To find Sofia, I thought.
“Who else knows?” I asked.
Last year, cleaning out a closet. Tons of porn ‘zines were stored away, like buried treasure. Lately, Scottie and I hadn’t fucked much. Now I knew why.
Taped over every face was Sofia’s. Implanted bitches with my baby’s face. Bitches spreading their twat lips. “Sofia’s” face next to big, hard cocks.
Scottie was sprawled on the couch, watching the Mets game. Lollipop in mouth, smirking.
Him, I thought, and those fucking lollipops.
You fuck! I shoved the ‘zine at him.
We’re in love, he said, through the stick. Someday we’ll be married. You can’t come between us.
It’s God’s will.
Just in time, he spat out the stick.
I wasn’t strong, like Bill. Like a wildcat I scratched, and bit. Tasted blood. Grape, orange, every lollipop flavor he’d eaten that day.
Somehow, he fought me off. Then split that same day.
With no change of clothes, he moved down South. I wasn’t sure where. Maybe some state where you can marry a sixth-grader . . .
In the eyes of God.
He’s lying! Sofia sobbed. Nothing happened! Never!
I still wasn’t sure. But at least he was gone.
Then, suddenly . . . he was dead. Slumped over on his porch, with the lights gone out.
That’s what she’d said. The new chick. I pictured her: dark roots and three teeth in her head. “Your brother’s dead, sugar,” she told Bill, in a voice that had shed no tears. A voice that had its own baby girl.
Now . . . “She swears he’s alive.” On the stoop beside me, Bill clenched and unclenched his fists. “On his way back up here.”
To find Sofia, I thought.
“Who else knows?” I asked.
*** *** ***
For once, I didn’t bitch when she left with the Goth Prince.
Tonight, I knew, was the night. No side-tracking for Scottie. No beer at the old hangout, to get all his ducks—or ducklings—in a row.
I could’ve done my homework: Twitter, Instagram, all that shit. “bloodlust16” was the password Sofia used most often. But there was no time.
On her bed, I lay, waiting. Memories . . . of meeting Scottie -in church- haunted me. That elfin grin he had, like a sexy leprechaun. Like he was the pot o’gold at the end of the rainbow, instead of a kiddie-loving creep.
Memories of my baby . . . when she was just a baby: innocent brown eyes, spit bubbling in her tiny mouth. Counting on me to protect her . . .
My neck hurt. Without taking my eyes off the door, I shifted the pillows behind me.
A lollipop, he’d given Sofia. A little one, ‘cos she was so little, then.
Those fucking lollipops.
The back door was unlocked. I bet that was his way. Sneaking in through the back…
I’d never had a cat. But that . . . sound . . . was like paws creeping up carpeted stairs.
Then there he was. Lollipop, and all.
“Scott!” I said. “You’re . . . alive!”
Smirking, he opened his arms. He was that cool, for rising from the dead.
"How?” I said.
The lollipop shifted, and I smelled cherry. I cringed, as he sat on the bed.
“‘Jesus wept,’” he quoted. “For his friend Lazarus. So he brought him back.”
The balls, I thought. The sight of him, that candy smell, made me almost puke.
“Where’s my girl?”
Keep talking, I thought, trying to calm down. Just keep . . .
“At my mom’s,” I said. “Down Keansburg. She goes to my old school. Made honors last semester.” All bullshit. Sofia hated school, and he knew it.
“Not my girl.”
God, I hated him. Why had I even married him? Half the time, he couldn’t get it up.
He missed the taste and feel of a thirteen- . . .
Downstairs, the door clicked open, then shut. Very quietly.
Scottie didn’t hear it. “She knew I wasn’t dead. All this time. It was all her idea, to say I was.”
Again, soft cat paws coming up the stairs.
“Sofia.” It came out so tenderly, I just stared.
Then he laughed.
I wanted to kill him. Crack him right in the lollipop, so it punctured his throat. Stop that laugh forever. The strength of a sledgehammer was needed, for that.
“You . . . fuck.” I started crying, ‘cos I wasn’t strong enough. ‘Cos I couldn’t . . . make... that happen.
But Bill could.
Once Scottie turned around.
Tonight, I knew, was the night. No side-tracking for Scottie. No beer at the old hangout, to get all his ducks—or ducklings—in a row.
I could’ve done my homework: Twitter, Instagram, all that shit. “bloodlust16” was the password Sofia used most often. But there was no time.
On her bed, I lay, waiting. Memories . . . of meeting Scottie -in church- haunted me. That elfin grin he had, like a sexy leprechaun. Like he was the pot o’gold at the end of the rainbow, instead of a kiddie-loving creep.
Memories of my baby . . . when she was just a baby: innocent brown eyes, spit bubbling in her tiny mouth. Counting on me to protect her . . .
My neck hurt. Without taking my eyes off the door, I shifted the pillows behind me.
A lollipop, he’d given Sofia. A little one, ‘cos she was so little, then.
Those fucking lollipops.
The back door was unlocked. I bet that was his way. Sneaking in through the back…
I’d never had a cat. But that . . . sound . . . was like paws creeping up carpeted stairs.
Then there he was. Lollipop, and all.
“Scott!” I said. “You’re . . . alive!”
Smirking, he opened his arms. He was that cool, for rising from the dead.
"How?” I said.
The lollipop shifted, and I smelled cherry. I cringed, as he sat on the bed.
“‘Jesus wept,’” he quoted. “For his friend Lazarus. So he brought him back.”
The balls, I thought. The sight of him, that candy smell, made me almost puke.
“Where’s my girl?”
Keep talking, I thought, trying to calm down. Just keep . . .
“At my mom’s,” I said. “Down Keansburg. She goes to my old school. Made honors last semester.” All bullshit. Sofia hated school, and he knew it.
“Not my girl.”
God, I hated him. Why had I even married him? Half the time, he couldn’t get it up.
He missed the taste and feel of a thirteen- . . .
Downstairs, the door clicked open, then shut. Very quietly.
Scottie didn’t hear it. “She knew I wasn’t dead. All this time. It was all her idea, to say I was.”
Again, soft cat paws coming up the stairs.
“Sofia.” It came out so tenderly, I just stared.
Then he laughed.
I wanted to kill him. Crack him right in the lollipop, so it punctured his throat. Stop that laugh forever. The strength of a sledgehammer was needed, for that.
“You . . . fuck.” I started crying, ‘cos I wasn’t strong enough. ‘Cos I couldn’t . . . make... that happen.
But Bill could.
Once Scottie turned around.
END
Free Hardboiled and Crime & Gangsters and Dames Fiction from DGP
MY MEMORY OF BILL
BIO: Cindy Rosmus is a Jersey girl who looks like a Mob Wife and talks like Anybody’s from West Side Story. She hates shopping, shoes, and chick lit. She writes noir/hardboiled/horror. She’s been published in the usual places, such as Hardboiled; A Twist of Noir; Beat to a Pulp; Pulp Metal; Thrillers, Killers, n’ Chillers; Mysterical-E; and Powder Burn Flash. Her stories have also appeared in the anthologies Hardboiled, Pulp Ink 2, and Kwik Krimes. She is the editor of the ezine, Yellow Mama and has published five collections of short stories.
A Yellow Mama veteran, “AJ” was both a wise and dear friend and mentor to so many of us. He had nicknamed me the “goddess of noir.” But this kind, knowledgeable man was himself “a noir god,” the kind of writer I long to be.
LOLLIPOPPED ⓒ​ CINDY ROSMUS --- PAGE DESIGN ⓒ DEAD GUNS PRESS
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