Tag Archives: Shannon

Duck, Duck, Dead Duck; chapter fourteen, part one

“Father, please be with Linda as she makes her journey back home.”  The priest was droning on and on, and it was obvious that he hadn’t known Lydia as he spoke about her in the most generic terms possible.  Besides, she wasn’t a Christian, so I doubted that God would be guiding her anywhere.  Even if God were, perchance, to waive the Christian-only requirement, it was way too late to accompany her.  Her soul was wherever it had been going by now as she’d been dead for over a week.

The day was gloomy, which I felt appropriate for a funeral.  The sky was drizzly, and there were clouds covering the sun.  FunLand had been closed for the day out of respect for Lydia, and several of the employees were present at the funeral.  Phillip, of course, with Antoinette at his side.  It hadn’t taken her very long to switch her allegiances.  By the way she was clutching his hand, I’d say that she had found herself another sugar daddy.  Delia was there, too, which was sweet of her considering that Lydia hadn’t been very nice to her.  Stephen was there as well, but Tommy, of course, was not.  I didn’t know why I said of course as he was out on bail.  Turned out that he had important connections who had expedited his release.  He wasn’t allowed to return to FunLand, obviously, and I would have been exceedingly surprised if he’d shown up to the funeral.  There were also others whom I didn’t know.  I spotted the detectives trying to blend into the background, but they weren’t doing a very good job of it.

“You ok, Bet?”  Rafe asked under his breath as the preacher kept preaching.  I nodded, not trusting myself to speak.  I scanned the crowd again, spotting Brian and Mrs. Rodriguez in the front row.  While he was comporting himself beautifully, Mrs. Rodriguez was sobbing into a dainty hankie while clutching Brian’s arm.  I couldn’t help but notice how lovely she looked in her mourning dress—black, demure, but fitted—even in her state of extreme distress.  She was a beautiful woman, no two ways about it.  She made me feel positively dowdy in my own mourning black.  Even though I was wearing my best non-cocktail dress which was similar to Mrs. Rodriguez’s, I simply didn’t have the elegance she did in order to carry it off.  At least I wasn’t wearing the stupid sling any more.  I had one and a half functioning arms now, which was fifty percent better than what I had before.  Being free of the sling made me feel better about not being as attractive as Mrs. Rodriguez, though I still felt frumpy.

Continue Reading

Duck, Duck, Dead Duck; chapter twelve, part three

“The first time I met Brian, something zinged through me.  I could tell by the look in his eyes that he felt the same way.”  A faraway look came into her eyes and despite the serious circumstances, a smile tugged at the corners of her mouth.  “After that, we made excuses not to spend time together, but Linda insisted.  She wanted me and Brian to get to know each other, so we gave in for her sake.  Every time I saw him, I felt the same pull.”  Mrs. Rodriguez stopped.

“This is starting to sound like a romance novel,” I muttered under my breath.  Even though I wasn’t as pissed at her, I had to keep up my role.  “Can you fast-forward to the sex part?”

“One time, he came over because Linda knew that my furnace wasn’t working right.  He’s a whiz at those kind of things, and Linda insisted that he see to it.  I have no sons, you see, to do that kind of thing for me.  She thought she was doing me a favor.”  This time, the smile Mrs. Rodriguez produced was mirthless.

“When was this?”  I interrupted, wanting a timeline.

“Four months ago,” Mrs. Rodriguez said, clearly irritated that I kept interrupting.

“Can I take it that your furnace remained broken?”  I asked archly, baring my teeth.  It was amazing how easy it was to rile this woman, and I watched in amusement as she flushed.

“It got fixed,” Mrs. Rodriguez said through gritted teeth.

Continue Reading

Duck Duck Dead Duck; chapter ten, part four

I decided to check my email as I hadn’t bothered for the past few days.  I wasn’t one of those people who compulsively checked her email several times a day, feeling blue if nobody sent me anything.  I viewed it more as a nuisance than anything else—a necessary evil, if you will.  I sat at my mom’s computer and powered up.  It was slow going only using one hand, but I did the best I could.  I accessed my Yahoo! account and noticed that I had fifteen new emails.  Most of them were advertisements from Yahoo! which I promptly deleted.  There was a few emails from Liza who liked to email me during her workday when she got bored.  I opened them up and saw that they were forwarded joke emails.  She knew I hated forwarded emails, but she sent them to me, anyway.  I deleted them without even looking.

“What’s this?”  I had an email from someone who’s username I didn’t immediately recognize.  I hesitated, then opened it.

Bitch, do you think I’ve forgotten you?  Not a chance in hell.  You fucking ruined my life, and I’ll get you back if it take me the rest of my life.  You better watch your back, bitch.  I’m coming for you soon.

Ah, the gentle tone of Shannon.  There were two more from her, but I deleted them unread.  I knew they would be of the same ilk, and I had no desire to read any more of her ranting claptrap.  I didn’t think she was the one who stabbed me, but it was just a gut feeling.  I had nothing concrete to go on.  There was also an email from Aaron.  I debated about deleting it unread, but my curiosity was too strong.  Was it just the usual, ‘I want to fuck you’ note, or did he have something more important to say?  I opened it.

Trish, how are you doing?  It’s been a long time, hasn’t it?  I just wanted to let you know that I’ve heard from Shannon, and she’s serious about getting you back.  You might say she’s obsessed.  She’s already slashed the tires on my car and trashed the front of my house.  Be careful, girl.  I don’t want her to get you.  P.S.  How about getting together for old times’ sake?

I tapped my finger against my lip.  She slashed his tires?  Trashed his house?  It sounded like she was serious.  I wondered if I should tell the cops about her.  I knew that I should show them the note I had received with my courtesy stabbing, but I didn’t believe that it would do any good.  It was the generic kind of crap I got from time to time and for no other reason than I was a flashy Asian chick in a staid Scandinavian town.   It was hard for me to believe that in this day and age, there were still people who judged me on the color of my skin and not on my merit.  I had a hunch the police would take it more seriously than did I, but I still was reluctant to show it to them.  I had an irrational dislike of the cops which dictated that I stay away from them as much as possible.

Continue Reading

Duck, Duck, Dead Duck; chapter four, part two

“How was your day, dear?”  My mother greeted me as I knocked on the back door again.  Even though there were fewer reporters out front, I still didn’t want to deal with them.  I never understood people who talked to the media in the midst of a horrible tragedy.  The only thing I’d say to those vultures was, ‘Get the hell out of my face before I kill you’—otherwise known as, ‘no comment’.

“It was ok,” I said slowly, slipping inside.  I didn’t tell her about my strange conversation with Tommy as it would just worry her.

“Your Auntie Zelda called.  She’s worried about you.”  Zelda was my mother’s sister and an inveterate brooder.

“Of course she is,” I said, slipping off my shoes.  “Auntie Zelda worries about the depletion in the ozone layer, the deforestation of the world, the extinction of exotic species, just to name a few.  I’d be surprised if she wasn’t worried about me.”

“You know your cousin, Frieda, is a cop.  She told Zelda that the consensus in the department is that you were the real target.”  My mom followed me as I walked into the living room and turned on the television.  Taking the remote from my hand, she turned it off.  I refrained from sighing at her heavy-handedness and reminded myself that I was lucky she had taken me in.

“So, tell me something I don’t know,” I replied, plopping down in the recliner.  I pushed back so the feet section of the chair kicked out.

“This is not a joke, Beezus,” my mother said impatiently, squatting next to the recliner.  I waited to see if she could find a Ramona comparison but highly doubted it.  Murder was out of the realm of the Quimby family.  “Remember when Ramona got her own room and was afraid to sleep in it because of the gorilla book?”  I nodded, knowing that she wouldn’t go on until I had responded.  “This is the opposite of that.  You’re insisting on sleeping in the room even though there’s a live gorilla waiting for you.”  I rolled my eyes.  Even for my mother, that was stretching.  “I know you use humor as your defense, but this is serious business.”

“I know it is, Mom,” I said, closing my eyes.  “I just can’t think about it too much without freaking out.”  Before either of us could say anything else, there was a rap on the sliding doors.  Mom went to let in Rafe who looked about as tired as I felt.  His countenance brightened when he saw that I was in one piece.  He hurried over to kiss me on the cheek after inquiring how I felt.

Continue Reading

Duck, Duck, Dead Duck; chapter three, part four

I leaned against the wall, thinking about Shannon and Aaron.  They had been a couple ever since they met at the U ten years ago.  He had been a philosophy major; she, a fine arts major.  They were one of those couples who simply belonged together.  You could tell it when you looked at them and you envied them for it, but you didn’t get in their way.  I met them a year ago at a cabaret.  I had been performing—it was an Asian event, and I did a piece on the role of Asian women in American cinema.  I was in my element, mimicking all the stereotypes foisted upon Asian women by aging white males with geisha-girl fetishes.

Aaron and Shannon approached me after the performance.  While Shannon gushed about the intricacies of my work and the implications on the dialogue between the East and the West, not to mention the Diaspora of Asians born in America who have no place to call home, Aaron stood slightly to the side and just smiled.  He caught my eye immediately as he was an intriguing mixture of African American, Cherokee Indian and Mexican.  He was over six feet tall with a tight body and even tighter mind.  His dark brown eyes, slanted cheekbones and full lips made him look like a model—which he was.  As much as I tried to ignore him, I was instantly attracted to him.  I could tell by the look in his eyes that he felt the same.

Shannon blathered on, oblivious to the growing tension between Aaron and me.  Far from stepping back, Aaron subtly egged me on.  He would smile slowly, revealing even, white teeth, then dip his head in a nod.  He was leaning against a railing, his arms casually crossed in front of him.  He was wearing a leather jacket, despite the heat.  He would interject a trenchant comment now and then whenever Shannon took a second to breathe, which was once every five minutes or so.  She paid no attention to the side dialogue that Aaron and I were carrying out, continuing to dissect my performance.  I was surprised that she didn’t throw in her thoughts on oppression and slavery while she was at it, not to mention the Chinese prostitution trade when Chinese men were first allowed in the country. I pegged her as one of those liberal white women who were fraught with guilt.  Not my kind of person, but she was nice enough.

We became friends of sort.  I saw them once a month or so for the next half year.  Every time, Shannon would shoulder the bulk of the conversational burden while Aaron and I communicated without words.  We never openly flirted with each other as that would be disrespectful, not to mention breaking my moral code.  Instead, we relied on heavy eye contact to do our talking for us.  Any time my hand accidentally brushed against his, a tremor ran its way up my arm and jolted my brain.  I found myself invented ways of brushing against him whenever I could.

How did this sordid little story end?  With Aaron and me in bed, fucking each other’s brains out, of course.  I wish I could say it was just once, that we were both drunk, and that we both felt horribly guilty after, but nothing would be further from the truth.  A month after I met Rafe, I panicked because things were going too well.  Deep down, I believed that if my life was going smoothly, something catastrophic was bound to happen.  With Rafe, we were so simpatico; I went bonkers and fucked Aaron.  I put the moves on him; I initiated the whole thing—not to say he wasn’t willing—and it snowballed from there.  Aaron was fantastic in the sack, and I kept coming back for more.  We had a torrid affair for two weeks before Shannon caught us, at my place of all things.  I didn’t know—and still don’t to this day—how she found out about us, but it was an ugly scene.

Continue Reading