Something Odd, Like A Shiver

 

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Trigger warning

I find aspects of this story upsetting, especially given the way two of the characters deal with very sensitive material, like sexual assault and gender roles. You might too, so please take good care and consider if you'd like to read or not.—TVS

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You are very good at characterization. I found this disturbing mostly because of the crude way the characters talk about Jane, so I enjoyed the end when she reappeared. Creepy stuff! Your writing is punchy!

Something Odd, Like A Shiver

Dick Cramp’s his name. No one for the fucking life of them could figure out why he didn’t go by something else. Richard Cramp had some dignity to it. But then again, his father’s Richard Cramp. Granddad too. Great granddad even. He wanted to be different. Richie Cramp was too much like a comic book character or a Mayberry resident. Rick Cramp ground up on itself. No, Dickie Cramp was what it’d been until he’d grown up, then Dick Cramp.

And the last name? Well, they’re the Cramps of the Richmond Cramps. And before that England and probably some fucking primeval Germanic forest before that. But Cramps Grocery loomed huge on the James and was the source of his living, his standing, and his friends—none of whom had been at all impressed with Jane Iron.

Jane was the sort of girl that one fucks but not marries. She’s a master stylist—what his family called a hairdresser—and she grew up in Chesterfield. Her father’s a rep for a steel supplier that he started out hauling for, then went up to foreman, then went to sales. Her mother’s a homemaker and part time physical therapist who works out of her home.

Jane was curious and shy at a young age—or that’s what people said about her. She’s inquisitive but restless and often found alone staring down at her hands or the ground or at nothing. She told Dick the night they first had sex that she’d lost her virginity to a trucker friend of her dad’s. She told him some time later that he’d raped her. She told him later still that he’d been her uncle, not a friend of her dad’s. Then that it was her own brother. As far as Dick could tell, the trucker’s identity kept shifting, along with the details of the encounter. The tone, too. Sometimes it’s a violent forceful act. Others an exploitative act of minor consent, others a steamy romance gone bad. One thing’s for sure: Dick had no idea what the hell had actually happened.

When he’d asked about the current whereabouts of the trucker, Jane would smile and look down at her hands: “He’s on the road,” she’d say.

“Like an over the road trucker driver would be, yeah,” Jack said.

Jack Pender is Dick’s best friend since middle school. They went to the same high school as Aimee Mann and were about her age. Jack went out with her once and was always exaggerating the intensity of the romance when a new Aimee Mann song would come out. Dick didn’t know what to believe there either. But he’s sure that Aimee Mann probably didn’t even remember Jack.

“Sure, but, I dunno, bro … she just keeps bringing this guy up. Sometimes, like, when we fuck. It’s messed up.” Dick put back the rest of his whiskey and shook the glass in the air for more.

“Dude, that is messed up. Did you ever figure out what’s the deal?” Jack stared at the server’s tits as she approached.

“Nah. Never did. Who the fuck knows?”

“You think he really did rape her though?” Jack asked at full volume, like it’s the fucking basketball game or something.

Dick blinked and then looked at the server, a pretty girl not terribly unlike Jane at that age, who seemed to be trying hard to ignore them as she took the glass and refilled their waters.

Jack noticed the server, then asked, “Is our food coming this week, honey?”

She didn’t look up. “It’ll be right out.”

“Great,” Jack said. “You’re tips counting it down for you.”

“Don’t be an asshole,” Dick said.

She finished pouring and left.

“So is the sex good?” Jack asked.

“No!” Dick said. “I told you. It’s fucking weird man.”

“But you guys are still fucking right? Even though she’s moved out and you’ve got that protective order and shit? You’re still tappin’ that, right?”

Dick looked around. He had a paranoid side that thought his life was worthy of constant monitoring by detectives and press and concerned citizenry. But he had another side that’s confessional and that side’s stronger.

Dick leaned in and whispered to Jack. “Yes. But keep it fucking quiet please.”

Jack smiled and looked around at no one. “Who the fuck cares, man? She’s your wife.”

“Ex-wife,” Dick corrected. “My ex, man. That’s some shit that will light Facebook up and my life gets complicated quick.”

Jack shrugged. “Whatever. You got the house. You got the kids. You got the dogs. She got shit. Who cares?”

Dick leaned back and thought it over. Maybe Jack’s right.

“Maybe so. But I’m just trying to get shit together, you know? I’ve got my new car detailing shop opening in the West End. And I’ve got two more car washes in Virginia Beach being built this week. I’ve got a lot of irons in the fire, dog.”

Jack sucked on his ice and then spit it back in the glass. “Whatever man. Call of Duty tonight?”

“Of course,” Dick said. “We’re not animals.”

On the drive home, Dick had to force his way onto Chippenham the way he always did, making the hemi roar and angling his silver and red truck almost into the Kia that would not move the fuck over.

Oh they’ll move now, he thought.

And they did, but they never looked at him or acknowledged that anything had happened. They simply changed lanes and kept going.

His phone rang.

“Yello? This is Dick,” he answered.

“May I speak to Dick Cramp, please?” the voice asked. It’s placid and quiet.

Dick sighed. He hated that when he said his name—like he always fucking did-and people still asked to speak to him.

“This is him,” Dick said.

“I’m Rachel, I’m calling from RBHA about your wife, Jane Iron Cramp.”

He sighed again, this one much deeper. Wasn’t the first time the Richmond Behavioral Health Authority had called him about Janey.

“What’s happened?” he asked.

“She’s at MCV being assessed,” Rachel said.

“Suicide or homicide?” Dick asked.

“We found her on the Lee Bridge, Mr. Cramp.”

Dick nodded, even though he knew Rachel couldn’t see him. “You gonna keep her? Gotta TDO and all that shit?”

“The hospital would like for her to stay for a few days, yes, but we can’t find a bed.”

“We’ve got a place,” he said. “Winter Pines, up near Blacksburg. You know it?”

“Yes sir,” Rachel said. “That’s a private facility that does not accept insurance.”

“I know. It’s fine. That’s the one we use if the others are full. Just send her there, I guess.”

Rachel said nothing.

“I mean, is she cooperative?” Dick asked.

“Yes sir. She’s calm now.”

“I mean, is she going to go willingly? Or you going to order her? What’s the deal?”

Rachel was quiet.

“Hello?” Dick asked.

“I’m still here, sir,” Rachel said.

“Well is she going to go willingly or will you get a temporary detaining order?”

“She’s saying she is willing to go. But earlier she wasn’t, so …”

Dick put one hand in the air and asked, “So?”

“Well in these situations, sir, sometimes people change their minds.”

No fucking shit professor, is what Dick thought. He’d been through this twenty plus times with Janie since their first anniversary—the night of their first anniversary, in fact, when he’d gone out to get rubbers and come back to her lying on the hotel bed with her wrists cut open.

Lots more since then. Drinking nail polish on top of benzos. Cut her own throat once. She loved to threaten what she called the Sylvia Plath, but Dick kept explaining their oven was not gas, and it wouldn’t work. In any case, she’s never tried that. It was usually cutting and booze and pills. A lot of them ran together.

“Okay,” Dick said. “But right now she’s saying she’ll go.”

“Right now, yes.”

“And I guess you want me to transport her,” Dick said.

“We’d rather an ambulance do it, actually,” Rachel said.

“That’d be fine,” Dick said.

Rachel was quiet.

“What else you got for me, Rachel?” Dick asked as he exited onto Huguenot.

“That’s all,” Rachel said.

“Will somebody please call me when she gets there?” he asked. He knew they wouldn’t.

“Sure,” Rachel said.

“Write it in the record, please,” Dick said. “Write that the husband would like to be contacted please when Mrs. Cramp arrives.”

“Of course,” Rachel said.

“So you wrote it?” he asked.

“I’m writing it now, sir,” Rachel said. “Typing it, actually.”

He could hear some clicking in the background, but who knows what the fuck that was. Could be the goddam NSA listening in on them. What the hell was the country coming to?

“You got it yet?” Dick asked.

“Yep,” Rachel said.

“Thank you, Rachel,” Dick said.

“Thank you, sir,” Rachel said.

“Have a good night,” Dick said ‘cause you do.

“You do the same,” Rachel said.

It’s one of Dick’s pet fucking peeves. You do the same? It’s like sayin’ I wouldn’t have wished you well had you not me, he thought. Rude.

The kids’re at his parents place, thank fucking god. He loved his daughters more than anything, but fucking hell Christ, they gave him a big damn headache most nights. And his parents spoiled the shit out of them, a debt he knew he’d be paying off on Saturday. But Friday night’s fucking Call of Duty with the Wolf Pack.

The Wolf Pack was the self-applied name of Dick’s college roommates plus Dougie Anderson. Dick, Jack, Scott Purdue, and Mickey Ambersol were all in Theta Chi together at Mason. Dougie was kind of a nerd, but he and Mickey were tight, so he was always around. Scott had stayed up in Northern Virginia, Mickey moved to Honolulu, and Dougie lived in Fort Lauderdale. Dick and Jack had come back because they’re from Richmond and their families already had successful businesses—Dick’s the groceries, Jack’s in real estate law.

So every Friday the Wolf Pack would put on their headsets, get shitfaced, and go kill shit together.

Dick touched on the Xbox, then his 50’ flat screen. The pleasing tone rang out, like Pavlov’s lab, and Dick’s ready to get into shit.

He poured a Jack and coke and scratched his balls. One thing he could never figure out as a guy was how to gracefully scratch his balls. No way to do it, he thought. You’re gonna have to scratch, dog. Maybe even pick’ em.

No one was home, so he just did it, but he worried someone might be watching through the windows. Maybe someone was down on the river with a telescope on a boat or some shit.

She he drew the Venetian blinds closed and then put on his headset.

He felt something odd, like a shiver.

He set the drink down and grabbed the old Louisville slugger. He choked up on it and skulked around the house, trying to keep to corners like in the game.

Nothing.

Checked the bedrooms.

Nothing.

Checked the bathrooms.

Nothing.

He was a little nervous to turn on the garage light. But he did—brought the bat around as soon as he did.

Nothing.

Nothing in the kitchen.

Nothing in the front hall.

“My fuckin’ mind,” he said. Dick went back to the living room and picked up his drink.

He sat down on the couch and adjusted his balls.

“Anybody there yet?” he asked. He knew no one was there yet. They’d be on screen.

“What the fuck’s with everyone today?”

He checked his cell phone for the time.

It showed one missed call.

He didn’t recognize the number.

A text popped up while he’s looking at it.

“Hey baby, mama’s comin’ home,” it read.

He felt the feeling again, so strong he popped up and reached for the bat.

It’s in the fucking hallway, he thought. Fuck!

He looked around panicky, then …

“Hey baby,” Jane said. “Miss me?”

Her face had a long cut down the sallow skin and her capped teeth were chipped in places.

“Janey, what the fuck happened to you? You scared the shit outta me …”

She let her hand from her jacket with a long knife and let out a yell as she charged at Dick.

He stumbled back and tripped over the coffee table, but one arm caught the sofa and he pushed himself back up as she reached him.

 

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A bit more about this story

The stem for this idea came from Stephen King's book On Writing— in chapter 5 of the part that titled On Writing (found on p. 170, if you've got the Scribner trade paperback edition 2010).

I wrote it in a single sitting without revision in about an hour. To me, it feels like it just kind of stops. So I might revise or expand the ending later. Let me know what you think.—TVS

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