Rebecca Ch. 07

ARRIVAL IN THE STEEL CITY

The rolling hills of southwestern Pennsylvania yield suddenly to squalid hamlets as we drive north on Interstate 79. These boroughs and towns are the remnants of the communities that housed the industrial proletariat who supplied the steel that provided the infrastructure of twentieth century America as well as the armaments that destroyed the Axis. The now decrepit houses, presently inhabited by the African-Americans, Hispanics, and the white trash who displaced the unionized laborers of the 1950's and 1960's in these suburbs of Pittsburgh, once contained upwardly mobile moms and dads whose kids moved onto college and then into professions.

Nazis and Communists struggled for the allegiance of the oppressed masses such as those who lived in these places in the years leading to World War II. That neither triumphed would seem ironic to the protagonists in that struggle could they be catapulted into the early twenty-first century. Thus I wonder if Garth and I are simply anachronisms, the archetypes of the primal brute and the rootless Jewish cosmopolitan, destined to be locked in existential struggle as life bypasses us and establishes new paradigms to be tested and discarded.

"You'll have to tell me where the fuck you live," Garth announces over the noise of a lame country-western ballad that blares from the radio.

"I thought we were going to hang out at some motel."

"Why should we pay fifty bucks a night to some bastard for four walls and a roof when you've got a place all set up?"

Imagining what a fifty-buck-a-night room would be like, I see his logic. We get off the interstate and traverse the city until we reach my former domicile.

We travel through the city to the old Jewish neighborhood that was my abode. Garth parks near the rear entrance of the high rise in which I lived on the sixth floor. My manacle springs open, freeing my right wrist, as he turns the key to my handcuffs in the lock. He then tucks his pistol into the waist of his trousers as he gets out of the car.

"I hope no one saw that piece you packed away."

"I hope not either, because then I'd have to use it on them."

"You mean you'd shoot a seventy year old lady? I think I was the only person below sixty who lived in this place!"

"Then I'll just tell them that I'm your brother who's here to protect you from your ex-boyfriend."

"That would be pretty fucking ironic," I tell him as I get my keys out of my purse to open the back door of my apartment building.

"I've given you more pleasure than you ever deserved."

I then think I must be dreaming as he walks to the passenger door, and opens it, takes my hand, and helps me out of the car. We walk into my apartment building and then down a flight of stairs to the basement. Luckily, we're able to proceed to the elevators unnoticed.

"If there are any cops outside of your apartment, they're gonna die," he announces as we ride up to the sixth floor.

"Then wait here until I get a chance to see if the coast is clear. If you hear me talking to a cop, just ride down the elevator, get whatever you need from the car and disappear. I'll let you get a head start."

"You'd lead them right to me, if you were smart."

"I don't want anyone to get killed, including you."

The elevator doors open. I give Garth a peck on the lips and walk through the doors as my lover hangs back in the elevator car, lacking the swagger of a thug now that a showdown with the police might be in the offing.

I turn to the right and then to the left. Looking down the corridor, I see that it is empty, so I take a few steps toward the door of my apartment and find there is no yellow tape or any designation of a crime scene in the doorway.

I walk back to the elevator. The door is open. Garth is holding the pistol in plain view.

"Put that goddamn thing away before somebody sees it!"

"Is there anyone out there?" he whispers. For the first time I detect fear in his voice.

"No, but if one of the old biddies who live here even thinks you're carrying a gun, I'm sure they'll call the cops. And we won't know if they see us through a peephole while we walk down the hall."

He sticks the gun back into his waistband. "This better not be one of your Jew tricks."

"Be quiet!"

He trails me from the elevator and upon confirming that the corridor is empty as I promised, he begins to trudge down the hall. I catch up, take his hand, and place my index finger at a right angle to my lips. "Shush!" I caution him.

He slows down and lightens his steps. A moment later we are in front of my apartment door. I turn the key in the lock and open the door as softly as I can, trying to avoid the scrutiny of my nosy neighbors.

I look behind me and see only light coming through the peephole of the door across the hall and hear no stirring in any of the adjacent units. I walk across the threshold with Garth in tow and re-enter the place that I had until just a few weeks ago called home; finding no sign anything had been disturbed since I my forcible removal.

I close the door gently. Garth and I scan the room that bears witness to the struggle that led to my imprisonment. The empty bottles from the beer he consumed sit undisturbed on the coffee table. Crumbs from the bagel he had eaten lie still on the kitchen table. The odor of the rotten food in the trash can is nauseating.

"I'll help you clean up," he says sheepishly.

Amazed by his generosity, I begin handing him the beer bottles from the coffee table, which he then deposits in the trash.

I then tie up the trash bag and announce, "It will smell better in here after I get rid of this."

When I return, I see Garth sitting in front of my computer, waiting for the device to boot up.

"What are you doing?" I ask.

"I need to see something."

"To find out what's been written about the bank robbery?"

"Yeah, right."

He opens the web browser, and instead of typing the name of a newspaper, or 'bank robbery', he looks in my Favorites menu and goes to 'Personal". He selects 'Brokerage Account' and double clicks the mouse. A web page with my name at the top appears with an empty box in which to type in my password.

He pulls the gun from his waistband and undoes the safety catch. I watch him swivel around in the chair, grab my right arm, point the gun at me, and cock the trigger.

"What's the password?" he demands.

"So being nice to me was just a way to get my money? You ain't getting a fucking dime from me, you goddamn rapist!"

"Everything's alright with you Jews until it comes to money, isn't that the truth?"

"I thought you were a man! You're just a goddamn thief."

"Hey, you're the one that doesn't want me knocking off any more banks."

I break into tears. "I worked for that money. I was going to use it to pay for law school!"

"Hey, you can't go to law school if you're dead. But I can still knock off banks even if you don't give me your goddamn password."

I begin pounding on his chest with my fists. The gun drops to his side as he allows me to vent my anger. My hands begin to hurt as my fists strike his rock hard muscles.

Deep down, I know he is right. In order to remain invisible, neither of us can work. The only sensible thing is for us to pool our funds and live off the money until it runs out.

The safety clicks as he puts the trigger guard back on the pistol. I collapse on my knees and bury my head in his chest whimpering, "You bastard!"

He pats me on the back. I can't believe I am relishing his touch as I prepare to relinquish all that I've earned in my life to him.

"You can't leave me. You'll remember where this comes from," I plead.

"I ain't leaving you; you know too goddamn much."

"After all I've been through, if I ever catch you with another woman, you're getting a round in your head, or if I'm in a bad mood, between your legs."

"Yeah, sure; now what's the goddamn password?"

"Zion3417."

"What the fuck's that?"

"'Zion' is another name for Israel."

"That's a fucking weird password."

"Just type it in; go ahead, steal all my fucking money!"

"How do you spell it?"

"I don't fucking believe this."

I lean over and type in my password. Another web page with the details of my brokerage account then appears.

Our eyes dart down to the bottom of the page. In my account is about ten thousand dollars.

"This is chicken feed." He seizes me by the arm, releases the trigger guard, and points the pistol at my head. "You've got to have more goddamn dough than this!"

His grip on my arm loosens as he appreciates the incredulous look on my face.

"This is impossible. There was a hundred grand in that account when I last checked it."

"Someone's ripped you off then."

I break free of his grasp and go to the page on which my investments were listed.

"My stocks; they're worth almost nothing!" I shriek.

The major stock indices have fallen sixty percent since my abduction, hit by a crisis in financial services. My brokerage firm, a stellar performer in which I had invested most of my savings, has been acquired for pennies by a rival. All of the other stocks are down substantially, leaving only three thousand dollars in the money market fund and the balance in poorly performing equities.

"I ain't gonna bother with those goddamn stocks; never understood that shit anyway," he tells me as he transfers the three grand I have left in spending money to his PayPal account.

I begin sobbing again.

"Did you cry that much for your mother?" he inquires with a smirk.

I rise up, and he watches as my right arm moves across my chest. I backhand him across the face, screaming, "Don't you dare talk about my goddamn mother!"

His smirk replaced by a sneer, he stands up, and as I turn to run away, he seizes me by the arm.

"You'll pay for that, you kike bitch!"

He raises his arm and I watch as he balls his meaty hand into a fist. But he is holding me so closely that his groin is within reach of my knee. I will not be the victim this time. Before he can strike me, my right knee makes contact with his crotch, and he releases my arm as he doubles over in agony. The gun drops to the floor.

His hands clutching his scrotum, he bays like a wounded hound. I seize the gun and, though tempted to empty the chamber into him; I instead grab the barrel and whack him over the head with the handle. He crumples to his knees and then receives a blow to the stomach from my right foot.

He collapses to the floor and I pummel his ribs and abdomen with kicks. I am about to finish him off by stomping on his neck, when he holds up his hand, indicating his submission to me.

"I'll do whatever you goddamn want. You can have your money back. I'll turn myself in for the bank robbery."

I kneel down next to my beaten lover, release the trigger guard, and point the gun to his head.

"Please tell me-we didn't come here just so you could get my money."

He shakes his head no.

"How do I know you're telling me the truth?"

"If you don't think I'm telling you the truth, just kill me. I've nothing more to say to you."

I put the trigger guard back in place and place the gun on the computer desk.

"Garth, I'm fucked!"

"So you did this to me because you were pissed off at the stock market?"

"You don't understand; that was my life savings."

"Look. I'll let you have whatever I can afford. What I have will be yours, too."

"I lost about ninety grand!"

Garth turns over, wincing as he moves.

"I bet you broke some of my goddamn ribs."

"I'm sorry."

"You shouldn't be. You should have killed me when you had the chance."

"I don't want to kill anyone. That's the difference between you and me."

"Have I ever killed anyone?"

"I don't know."

"Well, I've never killed anyone. God, I've come close to killing you. You drive me crazy, and then you always bring me back from the brink."

"You wouldn't want it any other way."

"Goddamn right!" he says as he sits up. He winces as he breathes and holds the right side of his chest.

"We've got to get you to a hospital!"

"When they find out who did this to me, they'll charge you with assault."

"That would be better than being charged with murder if you die!"

"You'd beat the rap once you told them what I did to you."

"Garth, I don't want you to die! Let me take you to the hospital."

"Then why did you kick the shit out of me?"

"Because I was pissed off at you, but now I don't think you came here to rip me off. Garth, let me help you!"

"I think I'll live without seeing any goddamn doctors."

I help Garth to his feet and lead him to my bedroom. He lies down on the pristine white linen that covers my bed, and I fret over whether any detergent will eradicate his earthy aroma from my bedding. But as he labors for breath, my thoughts turn to the possibility of my tormentor's imminent demise.

"Can I get you anything?"

"Give me something to make this goddamn pain in my chest and head go away!"

"I'm afraid. I'm afraid you'll stop breathing."

He coughs and his face contorts into a grimace.

"Goddamn you, woman!"

"Garth, don't die on me!" I beg my lover as he pants for air. I sob as his agony becomes my own.

"I don't believe you don't keep nothing here for your goddamn menstrual cramps or migraines!"

"Let me call an ambulance. They can give you pain medicine at the emergency room."

"And I won't get out for fifteen to twenty. No deal. I'd rather die here. Give me the goddamn gun. I'll put a round in my head and it'll be over with."

"I've got some Percodan."

"What?"

"I've got Percodan. It's left over from when I had my wisdom teeth extracted."

Tears are streaming down my cheeks. I've gotten my wish by hurting him back. But I'm not happy. I just want things to be back to the way they were before we entered my apartment.

"Quit blubbering and get me the goddamn Percodan!"

I double-time to the bathroom, pleased to be able to help the one I've injured. My hands shake as I open the medicine cabinet and see the pill bottle containing the narcotic, grateful that my ex-boyfriend didn't find it before we broke up. Ten tablets are left.

I double-time into the kitchen, fill a glass with water, and find a straw. Feeling as if I am his nurse helps me to forget that I am the cause of my lover's pain.

Garth is holding his right chest when I enter my bedroom. I lean over and place two Percodan into his mouth. He turns his head and sucks some water out of the glass through the straw. I watch his larynx move as he swallows the pills and he smiles softly with appreciation.

"Garth, I'm sorry!" I plead for his forgiveness as I stand over the bed, surveying my wounded captor.

He reaches out with his meaty hand and grabs my arm. I stagger as he pulls me to the bed and I sit down involuntarily. His breathing is still shallow and I fret that he will succumb to lack of oxygen. His grip is strong and there is no escape for me. I ponder if he will let go even when he expires.

"If you're so goddamned worried, don't just sit there and do nothing!"

"Garth, I'm not a doctor! I can't fix whatever is busted inside of you!"

"You did it to me bitch!"

"I'm sorry! I don't want to see you this way. Please say you forgive me!"

"You'll get yours someday."

"I didn't mean to hurt you!"

"Yes you did. Now lie down."

"What?"

"I want to feel you next to me. Is that too much to ask?"

"Oh Garth!"

I kick off my shoes and immediately assume my position at his side on the bed, reveling in my new found favor. I softly kiss him on the cheek while taking care to avoid the places I have traumatized.

"There's nothing for me to forgive. I had it coming," he whispers.

"I'm sorry you're hurt."

"The Percodan will take care of that soon."

"It has one refill. I can get you some more when it runs out."

"Make yourself comfortable. Take some of those clothes off."

"You like seeing my body, don't you?" I inquire as I unfasten the zipper on my jeans. The bed shakes and he grimaces as I wriggle out of my pants.

"You've got a nice ass," he replies, ignoring the spasm of pain that had just hit him as he surveys the cheeks of my rump that have been left uncovered by my g-string.

"Thank you," I reply, as I remove my black camisole.

"Nice rack, too," he adds as he eyes on my bosom.

"I can make you some broth later on," I say, changing the subject as I attempt to play Florence Nightingale.

"With some whisky in it," he adds.

"Do you know what else I have?"

"My ex-boyfriend left some dope here."

"What?"

"Pot, marijuana."

"That shit's for hippies and niggers."

"After what I've been through today, I'd like to have some. And trust me; you'll like it, too."

"Shit!" he cried, hit by a spasm of pain.

"Do you know the story of Scheherazade?"

"I have no fucking idea what you're talking about."

"It takes place in Arabia. She was the daughter of a vizier. She married the king, whose habit had become to wed a new virgin every day after having the last wife beheaded. But Scheherazade found a way to stay alive. After they made love, she would tell him a tale so intriguing that he would let her live one more night just so he could hear another one.

"You can be the king and I'll be Scheherazade. I'll tell you a story, and if you're bored with it, you can kill me."

"You got a story to tell me?"

"Yeah. A girl was out on an errand and a lonely man from far away came upon her. He had been taught that the people who dressed like this girl were bad and never to trust them.

"The man was mad because nothing ever went his way, even though he always did everything he was supposed to do. When he saw the girl, he took her away and started hurting her just so she would be as miserable as he was.

"But the girl's people had taught her that life is what you make it, and he couldn't break her spirit. So the man's heart softened, and he started treating her nicely once in a while.

"No one had ever really loved the girl except her parents, and they had been gone even before she had met the stranger. The girl so wanted to be loved that she saw there was good in the man who had taken her away and fell in love with him."

"That is the stupidest fucking story I've ever heard! Your Arabian girl would have lost her head before dawn if she had used that one on the sultan!"

"But it's true! Don't you want to know how it ends?"

"She hits the mean guy over the head and kicks the shit out of him and then gives him a potion to make his pain better would be my guess."

"Great! You got the meaning of my story!"

"What do you think? That I'm some kind of retard? Of course I got your drift. And it's fucking stupid, like I already said."

"So it's stupid that I'm in love with you?"

"Of course not; I'm an Aryan. I'm better than you deserve."

"So you don't love me?"

"Against my better judgment, I've developed feelings for you. That's all I can say. Maybe now that I can be with my own kind of people, I'll have a healthier attitude."

"So then you won't have feelings for me?"

"I don't fucking know. Jewess, stop pushing me! You ain't going to get me to say that I love you!"

"What would be wrong with that? You'd have a woman that you'd satisfy every time you fucked her, I'd make money for you to spend, and I'd even make little Garths for you. What could be better than that?"

"It wouldn't last. We Aryans are going to take over. And guess what-being with a Jew makes me a race traitor. And they're going to catch all the goddamn race traitors and string them up.

"It will be worse for me than for you. At least you have the excuse of being born a Jew. I imagine there'll be some bleeding hearts among us who'll let some of you live as our slaves. But I have made the choice of corrupting the Aryan blood by copulating with a Jewess. The struggle will not be over until all the race traitors are purged."