Graham Lewis’ voice sang in Clara’s AirPods, as she relistened to 154 by Wire for the umpteenth time. She wasn’t especially fond of riding public transportation, but circumstances had made that necessary for today. She had massive social anxiety in spaces like this and the nervousness she felt at the prospect of meeting her boyfriend Tommy Horvath’s parents for the first time ever only made it more difficult to cope with. So, she followed the advice of her therapist and put herself in the presence of something that was familiar to help her push through some of the discomfort (which, in this instance, was Wire). It provided a welcome distraction from the awkward self-conscious feelings of being in a public space like this and something about the band’s songs made her feel powerful.
“Excuse me, ma’am?†a voice asked. Clara saw a hand waving in her peripheral vision, and she pulled her out her earbud and looked up. A woman who looked to be in her mid-50’s sat across from her on one of the bench seats that lined the aisle of the bus. She regarded Clara with a concern that might be described as avuncular. “I don’t want to embarrass you…†she said in almost a whisper, “but you have a piece of tape stuck to the side of your pants.†Clara looked down. Just as this well-meaning stranger had observed, a stray strip of silver duct tape was indeed stuck to the side of her jeans.
Oh, fuck.
It had been a last-minute thing: She was all made up and ready to leave for the bus stop for her dinner date, but realized that she had about 30 minutes to spare to do some self-gagging before she left for Tommy’s place. She really needed to work on her impulse control, but the itch had been so powerful. And she'd had a difficult week at work; surely it wouldn’t hurt to indulge just a little. She slapped some of the wonderful silver duct tape over her lips and collapsed onto the couch, sighing in pure ecstasy. Clara felt both like a victim and captor as she hell the roll of tape in her hand. Powerful and powerless at the same time. She needed a little more.
CHRRRIIIIIP! RIIIIIIP! The duct tape roared as she wrapped it around her ankles and knees. She tried to move her legs apart and felt those intoxicating butterflies flutter up in her stomach as the tape held her firm. Clara started fantasizing about being a spy captured behind enemy lines, and imagined her captors interrogating and threatening her as they taped up her limbs and slapped some over her mouth.
We know who you’re working for, Agent Mazurek. You’d better tell us what we want to know, or else things will get unpleasant for you very fast…
Mmmmph! Lmmm gmmmph!
Didn’t get much better than that. When her little self-bondage session was over, she hastily ran a brush through her hair, grabbed her purse, patted herself down for the three essentials (wallet, phone, keys), slipped on a jacket and scarf, and dashed over to the nearest bus stop as quickly as her boots could carry her. She had been in such a rush that she neglected to check to make sure that no residual bits of tape were still visible. Why did she have to get so hot under the collar and lose all common sense? And then that damned voice of guilt echoed through her mind.
Oh Clara, what would Father Byrne say if he found out about this? Or your childhood Sunday School teacher, Mrs. Bernardo?
This hypothetical popped into her head every so often and would ruin her mood when it did. Her inner monologue lashed out in defiance:
IT’S NONE OF FATHER BYRNE'S OR MRS. BERNARDO'S FORKING BUSINESS WHAT I DO BEHIND CLOSED DOORS!!! GO AWAY AND LET ME BE!
“Ma’am?†the woman sitting across from her asked kindly, unsure if she had gotten Clara’s attention. Clara hastily ripped the strip of silver tape from the hip of her pants, crumpled it up and stuffed it in her pants pocket. She hoped there would be a trash can at her bus stop so she could discreetly throw it away.
“Thank you. Sorry about that,†Clara said and winced internally. She had an odd compulsion of apologizing after an embarrassing interaction with another person, even if she hadn’t done anything wrong.
“No need to apologize. Just thought I’d let ya know,†she said brightly. Clara gave an obligatory polite smile and nodded. “Ugly day today, huh?†the woman asked.
Oh no. A small-talker. Clara didn’t want to be perceived as rude or cold, so she sighed lightly through her nose and inserted her AirPods back into the white container that looked like a dental floss dispenser.
“Yeah,†Clara agreed, “That’s Minnesota for you. Can’t wait until April rolls around.†The woman was quite pretty, with slightly silvery blonde hair and an attractive face. In her mid-fifties, Clara guessed. She wore a stylish beige winter coat and black leather gloves rested in her lap.
“Better be patient. We’ve got a long February and March to get through, maybe more snow.†As nice as this woman seemed, there was a slight condescension in her tone that put Clara off a bit. There was another lengthy pause, and she thought that she could go back to her music. But before she had time to retrieve her AirPods from the case, the woman asked, “Do you live in Eden Prairie?â€
Clara realized now that this wasn’t just a small-talker she was dealing with, this was a talker. Outgoing, gregarious, sociable, the kind of person that she didn’t mesh with very well. Clara didn’t want to have any prejudice towards people with this personality and assume a reflexively adversarial relationship towards them, but they always made her feel like she had to perform and have something interesting to say.
“I actually live in Hopkins. But my car is in the shop and I had to take the bus across town to see a friend.†Please don’t ask for more details, this conversation already has me so drained… Clara’s inner monologue begged.
“Sounds wonderful! Hope you have fun,†she said, and the cheerful disposition of this woman made Clara feel so bad for wanting to be left alone.
“You betcha,†Clara replied. She waited. And then the woman pulled out her phone and fiddled with it. Hallelujah! The conversation had finally come to a close. But before she could return to her music, the compressed air from the bus brakes hissed and the vehicle came to a stop
“Last stop! Everyone off, unless you want to come back with me to the depot,†the bus driver said over the PA system with a chuckle. As her fellow passengers began to file out, Clara’s phone dinged and she saw that there was a text alert from Tommy.
I’m really sorry, but do you mind getting a Lyft to my place? I’m running late from work. I’ll pay you back. Clara sighed, but tried not to be too upset about; it wasn’t Tommy’s fault. But still, the inconvenience miffed her slightly.
Sure. See you in a bit, she replied curtly. She stood on the sidewalk and pulled up the Lyft app on her phone. Luckily, there happened to be a ride less than five minutes away and Clara picked that one. As she played the waiting game, she realized that it was a lot colder than she had predicted when she had first set out for the bus. Clara hugged herself and shoved hands under her armpits. Suddenly she felt a tap on her shoulder and turned to see the woman from the bus.
“Here, take these,†the woman said, and held out her pair of black leather gloves to Clara.
“Oh, no, I really couldn’t accept…â€
“Please, I insist,†the woman pressed, and Clara realized that it was probably easier to accept this random act of kindness. She smiled and took the gloves. The warmth took hold of her hands instantly as she slipped them on. The leather was cracked slightly, but they still felt quite snug over her fingers. Clara felt a slightly tingling sensation pass through her stomach; she absolutely adored wearing nice gloves like this. They made her feel elegant, like Grace Kelly or Audrey Hepburn.
Two cars pulled up to the sidewalk, one stopped in front of Clara and the other stopped next to her impromptu glove donor. She opened the door to the backseat and stepped inside, but before she could close the door, she caught one snippet of conversation next to her:
“Are you Laura Horvath?†she heard the driver call out to the woman standing outside right before the door to Clara’s Lyft clicked shut. Horvath?
***
Clara kept replaying that brief snippet in her mind. Did the driver really say Horvath? Had…. had she just interacted with Tommy’s mother on the bus? She kept trying to tell herself that there were probably plenty of people in the state with that surname.
Clara, don’t bullshit yourself. Do you really think there are many Horvath’s in Eden Prairie of all places?
Clara wished that her inner monologue had a corporeal form, because she desperately wanted to tape its mouth shut. She took deep breaths, in through her nose and out through her mouth. Her driver made no comment on this strange peculiar breathing routine.
She had made a note at the bus stop of the car which the glove donor had been picked up in, a gray Ford Explorer. She kept looking over her shoulder to see if it was following their route, and to her horror it was.
That woman on the bus was not Tommy's mom that woman on the bus was not Tommy's mom... she tried to reason with herself.
To the casual observer, all this mental handwringing the possibility of having given the most microscopic hint of her bondage interest to her boyfriend’s mother may have seemed excessive, which is an understandable reaction. But the threat of it was very real to Clara, as she had experienced it before.
She had moved on from it by now, but it was a memory that was still too painful for her to ruminate on. It replayed itself in her mind every single day, that fateful day when she had just been a little curious on the family computer and had carelessly forgotten to delete the "duct tape mouth" entries in the browser's search history.
“If this happens again, we’re going to have to get you some help.â€
Clara was going to remember that sentence for the rest of her life. Getting caught by your parents when doing things on the computer that you weren't supposed do was an exceedingly common experience, bordering on universal, but she couldn't shake off the feeling that this was somehow different. As if she had committed an especially egregious sin which could put her in jail forever unless she nipped this little fascination of hers in the bud right away.
...get you some help...help...help...
For the entire 15-minute ride to Tommy’s house, Clara continued to turn over all the scenarios in her mind which debunked the possibility that she had just spoken with Tommy’s mother. The theories ranged from simple (mishearing the driver) to the absurd (that there was some elaborate prank being played on her right now). She had always been one to give all theories serious consideration.
That driver could’ve been drunk or high and was just spouting off gibberish, and happened to say something that sounded a little bit like “Horvathâ€. That’s not too crazy a theory now, is it? Sure, he would have been putting his career in jeopardy and risked going to jail. But stranger things have happened, right?
And then Clara looked behind her. To her great relief, the Ford Explorer carrying the woman from the bus made a right turn and disappeared from her view within a matter of seconds. Clara felt a relief the likes of which she had never felt in her entire life.
When the Lyft dropped Clara off at her destination several minutes, she saw that Tommy was already outside sitting on the porch, and she ran up to hug him tightly.
"Well, not sure what I did to deserve this, but I'll take it," he said.
"Like I said before, I don't like bus rides. Just felt nice to see a familiar face."
“Makes sense," he said, "Thank you so much for doing that for me. Staying late today helped me to get some valuable brownie points with John. He thanked me, and I like to think that something nice is waiting for me just around the corner...." he added, with a quiet excitement. Another car turned the corner to their street and slowed to a stop. "Hey, there she is!†Tommy called out and gestured toward the passenger emerging from the Uber. Clara looked up and saw a gray Ford Explorer parked by the mailbox. Uh-oh. “Clara, this is my mom, Laura.â€
The driver was just taking another route, why oh why did I have to trick myself into thinking that I was really out of the woods with this. God, I promise I'll give up bondage forever if you just find a way to get me out of this mess...
"Hi! Tommy has…†the woman now known to Clara as Tommy’s mother began as she approached the both of them, and paused. Her smile didn’t disappear, but lessened in intensity somewhat. “…. he’s told me all about you,†she finally said, apparently at just as much a loss for words as Clara was. There was no doubt in her mind now that she had been recognized. The constant scream of what do I do what do I do screeched through her mind.
“Well, Dad says the meat is pretty much done, let’s eat!†Tommy exclaimed, oblivious to the awkward situation both ladies currently found themselves in (Clara always teased him about being a bit slow on the uptake). They walked through the garage and slipped off their shoes at the mat by the door leading to the inside of the house.
While slipping off her shoes, she felt herself enter a state of slow motion as a thick roll of silver duct tape hanging from a peg caught her gaze. The scrim lines on it could be clearly discerned, that almost always meant that it was extra sticky. On most days, she believed she did an admirable job of compartmentalizing this interest of hers in bondage away from her personal life. Did she love to mentally draft stories she wanted to write and scenarios she fantasized about when she was bored at work or doing chores around the house? Of course she did, but none of that ever interfered with her ability to function on a daily basis. But even so, whenever a big roll caught her gaze, she had to stop and look at it. Just for a second.
And suddenly she heard Tommy’s mother chuckle.
“Well, I might as well break this awkwardness. Clara and I are actually acquainted with each other, as it turns out….â€
***
“Tommy told me before, but what’s your last name, Clara?†Bill Horvath asked, as he poured a helping of thousand island dressing over his salad. The soft crunching noise of croutons and lettuce along with clinking silverware drifted over the conversation as Tommy and Mrs. Horvath dug into their meals.“Mazurek,†Clara said. “My parents are from Poland,†she added, as if she had the reflexive need to provide an explanation for her uncommon surname.
“Poland, interesting! Was not aware of that,†he replied. “I’m a first generation American as well, as it happens. My dad actually came to the US from Hungary as a young man along with his parents, right after the Revolution in 1956. Ferenc Horvath, he was called. But his friends and my mother always just called him Frank. Even my grandparents took to calling him that eventually.â€
“That’s… wow. That’s neat. Tommy didn’t tell me about that,†she said, as she began to cut some of her steak.
Neat? Why did I have to pick out neat of all words?
Clara found herself at an uncomfortable loss for words. She didn’t know anything about this event which he was referencing and wasn’t sure what to ask as a follow-up question. “Did he ever get to go back there?†she asked with some trepidation, and immediately began worrying after asking this following up question that she had touched a sore spot.
“He and I went over there for a visit a few years ago, not too long before he passed away. It was a bittersweet experience because we knew that he didn’t have much time left, but it was the trip of a lifetime for me. Budapest is a remarkable city.†Tommy had described his father to Clara as being “very much the quintessential Midwestern Dadâ€: he loved his Chicago Bears and Blackhawks, woodworking (he was a carpenter by trade), reading about the American Civil War and World War II, and owned at least three coffee table books on classic cars. For some reason then, it charmed Clara immensely that he was cultured enough to pronounce the last syllable of Budapest not as -pest but more like -pesht.
"Watched any good movies lately, Clara?" Tommy asked. He knew full well this subject was what she needed to emerge a bit more from her shell, but she was still a little too jittery to do much talking.
Heaven help me, if I have to be put in the hot seat many more times today, I think I'll burst into flames.
"I rewatched Lincoln the other day for the first time since college. Mid-tier Spielberg for me; the subject matter just doesn't translate that well to film, but it's got a murderers' row of good actors doing a bunch of good acting. So I can't really complain too much," she said, as she took a sip from her can of Diet Dr. Pepper. Okay, that wasn't so bad now, was it? she commended herself, feeling proud of how smoothly the words flowed from her lips in spite of herself.
"I bet you would have enjoyed it more if during a speech, Daniel Day-Lewis just started shouting I'VE ABANDONED MY CHILD, I'VE ABANDONED MY UNION!" Tommy joked, doing his best impression of Daniel Plainview (which wasn't very good, but still made Clara come dangerously close to coming down with the giggle fits as she downed her drink).
"Tommy, what have I told you about quoting There Will Be Blood at the dinner table...?" Mrs. Horvath said with mock sternness.
"Sorry, Mother," Tommy said, as bit off a chunk of his Texas toast.
Thankfully, Mrs. Laura Horvath hadn’t mentioned anything about seeing duct tape on Clara’s pants on the bus. She had only mentioned meeting her on the bus, and had either thought that other little detail not important enough or wanted to be tactful and allow Clara to save face there. Crisis averted, now she could enjoy the evening with some peace of mind.
“This salad is fantastic, Mrs. Horvath,†Clara complimented, finally beginning to feel herself more at ease.
“Thank you! Not a very complicated recipe; hard to go wrong with lettuce, tomato, celery and dressing. But it gets the job done,†she said. “And please, you can call me Laura. We’re all friends here.†And with that said, though it would undoubtedly take some getting used to for her, Mr. and Mrs. Horvath would now be known to Clara as Bill and Laura. She liked the sound of that, it had a nice ring.
It turned out to be a perfectly lovely evening. The conversation around the dinner table meandered from one amusing subject to another: Bill bounced off of Clara's critique of Lincoln with a retelling of the humorous anecdote from history of 11 year-old Grace Bedell convincing Honest Abe to grow a beard in a letter she wrote to him ("I have yet got four brothers and part of them will vote for you any way and if you let your whiskers grow," she wrote), to which Tommy bounced off with a lamentation that he could never grow a beard worth a damn, to which Clara told him that he would just look like a beatnik anyway, which elicited a hearty laugh from Laura. And so on.
It quickly became apparent to Clara that Laura Horvath's loquacious disposition was not strictly reserved for strangers she met on the bus. It wasn't that she was nosy or invasive with her questions, it was just that she asked a lot of them. Where did you go to college? What did you study? Where do you work? Do you like it there? You said your parents are from Poland, have you ever been there? Do you speak Polish?
Clara wasn't mad or upset about it, but there was something that still stressed her out so much with interacting with these kinds of people. Even though she had only known for known her for two or three hours by now, she could tell that Laura was an effervescent presence. Again, it was that feeling of having to perform and the constant worry of her answers not being interesting or witty enough. Thankfully, dinner events always offer natural breaks in conversations, and Laura paused from her grilling of Clara to begin serving up helpings of Oreo trifle for dessert around the table.
“Man, I just can’t get over that you two talked to each other on the bus. That’s too funny,†Tommy remarked. Clara would have much preferred to move on from this subject, but as long as it didn’t veer into tape territory, she supposed she could be a good sport about it.
“Tommy even showed us her picture at a few times, and you’re telling me you still didn’t recognize her?†Bill asked incredulously, taking a sip of coffee.
“Guilty as charged," Laura chuckled. "I still can't believe it myself. I actually wouldn’t have spoken to her at all if I hadn’t had seen that big strip of duct tape hanging on the side of her pants,†Laura said.
Clara had a strange reaction to hearing people say "duct tape". Recently, she had learned that this was due to a phenomenon called selective hearing which, put simply, is where the brain has a more potent reaction to the things it's really interested in hearing (this was her layperson's understanding on the subject, at least). This often occurs when a person hears their name called, or when they hear a subject in which they hold a keen interest invoked in conversation. For Clara, that included subjects pertaining to duct tape.
Possibly unique to her life experience, hearing these magic words could also startle Clara. So when Laura said this as Clara was sipping on her coffee, it caused her to go into a brief but intense coughing fit.
"Did you forget to add cream or sugar, Clara?" Bill asked, as Tommy gave her a hearty pat on the back as she coughed.
"No. It just looks like I'm working on setting a record for Most Times Losing Face in One Day is all," Clara said with a self-deprecation which she earnestly hoped would steer this conversation in a different direction away from tape.
"No need to feel embarrassed," Laura reassured her. "I actually work for 3M, so I often find that I notice tape in places where it isn't supposed to be."
"3M... as in, the Minnesota Mining and Manufacturing Company?" Clara asked, her curiosity now piqued.
No no no, Clara! Are you nuts? You nearly got caught today, you can't seriously be thinking about probing deeper into this and drawing more attention to yourself.
"The very one," Laura affirmed. "In fact, I supervise some of the ad copy made for our various tape products."
"What's that like?" Clara asked without even really thinking about it, almost as if it was a reflex.
"Oh, there's not much to tell. Lots of it just involving typefaces and fonts, boring stuff like that. Good old silver duct tape is always in demand, so the advertising pretty much writes itself."
Good old silver duct tape... those words kept echoing throughout her mind.
"I don't think anyone has ever has me this much about my job, Clara. Are you a frequent buyer of our products?" Laura asked as she scooped a helping of Oreo trifle onto her plate.
"Yeah... just from time to time, here and there," Clara said. Later on, she thanked her lucky stars that Laura had no follow up questions to this particular question.
***
“I think she knows," Clara said as Tommy drove her home.
“What?†Tommy asked, his eyes focused on the road ahead. A light rain was beginning to fall outside.
“I think your mom knows I’m into bondage. The strip of duct tape on my pants was a dead giveaway,†she clarified. Clara saw that Tommy looked puzzled, but then a smile sprouted on his face and he chuckled.
“Oh, that!†he laughed. “Clara, it’s nothing to worry about, really. That kind of thing happens all the time, like stepping on a piece of gum and getting it stuck to your shoe. Or accidentally leaving your fly unzipped. I'd be surprised if she hasn't forgotten it by now.â€
“Meeting your son’s girlfriend on the bus without being aware of it isn’t exactly something you forget very easily, barring a case of amnesia,†she countered. “And this instance really isn’t comparable to accidentally stepping on a piece of gum or dog poop. I was doing self-bondage before I came over and left it stuck to my leg by mistake.â€
“Well…†Tommy began, and paused, evidently unprepared for this line of reasoning. The rain began to fall more steadily now. “Is there something else bothering you?†he asked. Clara considered this carefully.
“First off, let me say that your mom seems like a really, really lovely person. But there’s something about her that… makes me nervous?†An awkward silence passed between them and Clara worried that she had just said something drastically wrong. "I guess it was just all those questions she asked. I felt like I was being interviewed or something. I think I feel like I have this obligation to impress and be interesting to people I've just met. And for some reason, people of your mom's particular disposition seem to amplify that. I don't know, does any of this make sense?" she asked. Another silence fell between them, Tommy sighed audibly through his nose. Clara began to feel terribly anxious.
“I think I get what you mean,†he finally said. The rain was beginning to come down harder now, and turned up the wiper speed a notch. “But if it helps you any at all, I’ve told mom all about you, and she loves you. Like, really loves you. Believe me, she doesn't get that chatty with people she doesn't like. Other than you getting a little more curious than a person would be expected to be about her working at 3M, I didn't notice anything weird about your behavior tonight."
"Yeah, you're probably right," Clara agreed, "it's just my brain being weird as it so often is." She held the black leather gloves Laura had given her on the bus. She had asked her if she wanted them back, but she still insisted that Clara keeping. Surely that had to mean something, didn't it?
“I’m really sorry that you felt embarrassed though and hope it didn’t ruin your night,†he said apologetically.
“No, no, no… not at all,†Clara said, “just a little flustered from such a close call, I guess.â€
Tommy turned into her subdivision and reached her house shortly thereafter. He put the car in park and looked her in the eye.
"I don't want to throw hollow platitudes at you, but if you'll allow me to repeat the eight famous words of that wise old red cardigan-wearing children's TV host: I like you just the way you are."
It didn't rid Clara of her anxiety, but the fact that he was trying and showed concern was enough for her. She opened up her arms for a hug and Tommy gladly reciprocated. She didn’t want to get swept away in the throes of romantic attraction, but she adored how he still gave her butterflies.
“Get that promotion soon so you can move in here and help me out with this damn mortgage,†she said, and gave him a peck on the cheek. Even through the noise of the rain, she could hear Rusty barking his head off behind her front door.
“Trust me, I’m working on it,†Tommy said, and gave her a kiss in return. Clara dashed out the passenger door and began to run toward to her front door. But then a thought materialized in her mind and she tapped on the window before he could drive away. He rolled down the window and looked at her, puzzled.
"You know I was just kidding about that last part, right?" she asked Tommy, now thoroughly soaked by the falling rain. "About getting the raise... I really do know that you're working hard."
"You can fool some of the people all of the time, Clara Mazurek, but you can't fool all the people all the time," he said with a wry grin. She was confused for a moment, but then smiled as she comprehended his little half-riddle, knowing exactly what he was talking about.
***
With the rain coming down in sheets by now, Clara saw little point in putting Rusty up in his crate for the night (he knew that the sound of rain often preceded thunder and didn't like that one bit), but didn't want him upstairs and getting hair all over her bed. So she figured they'd both camp out on the couch for tonight.
Her bones were now warmed by a hot shower, TCM was playing on the TV, her Australian Kelpie companion was bouncing his tail against her feet, and a warm blanket enclosed her body. The possibility of Laura Horvath knowing Clara's secret couldn't be further from her mind at this moment. Indeed, life actually felt pretty grand right now. And to top it off, Double Indemnity was being broadcast tonight, her favorite film noir and one of her all time favorite movies.
"How could I have known that that murder could sometimes smell like honeysuckle?"
Even though she had seen the movie a number of times, something about Fred MacMurray's line delivery unnerved her as she sat here alone in a dark house during a rainy night. Clara emerged from her blanket cocoon and dashed over to the front door to make sure the deadbolt was engaged. It was, but she decided to unlock it and lock it once again for good measure. And then a third time. And you know what? Maybe a fourth time, too. And then she was finally satisfied.
She walked back over to couch, illuminated by the glow of her flatscreen TV, and saw Rusty laying his head against the armrest. Her dog's face carried a rather puzzled expression.
"I know you've got me covered on the security front, Rust, but I've just gotta be on the safe side, ya know?" she said, and gave his ears a scratch. He gave her a quizzical look which seemed to say, As long as I get a dog biscuit at the end of the day, you can lock as many doors as you want.
Clara laid back down on the couch and felt her eyes grow heavy. She didn't even bother to set the sleep timer on the TV; it would make a good substitute for a nightlight anyway. This had been a good day. It had been a bit scary doing this, but she was glad she did. And Tommy was probably right, Laura had more than likely forgotten the whole tape thing which had initiated their meeting on the bus. She couldn't wait to see them again. There would be a next time, wouldn't there? Yeah, she felt pretty sure there would be. A smile formed across her mouth as she nodded off, and it remained there as sleep took her.
At least, for an hour or two.
***
Words and images floated across Clara's mind's eye in a haze, immediately evaporating from her memory as quickly as they materialized in her head.
I don't want to embarrass you...
“If this happens again, we’re going to have to get you some help.â€
Clara and I are actually acquainted with each other.
I actually wouldn’t have spoken to her at all if I hadn’t had seen that big strip of duct tape hanging on the side of her pants....
...just the way you are.
...murder could smell like honeysuckle...?
WHEN I GET MY HANDS ON EM I'M GONNA KILL EM GODDAMMIT I'M GONNA KILL EM'!!!!
The verbal explosion jolted Clara awake and she put her hands up in a defensive position to shield herself from the physical attack she believed was coming.
Nothing happened. No, the voice wasn't in her immediate vicinity but outside, roaring with a primal fury.
GONNA FUCK YOU UP SO BAD I'M GONNA KILL YA YOU'LL Wish you hadn't never bee–....
And just as abruptly as it began, the screaming faded away in a decrescendo.
Her stream of consciousness roiled through her mind like rain water into a sewer gutter, formless and without mass. Something wasn't right, but it was the kind of not-right-ness that she didn't know how to identify, which made it worse.
(Pssst, this is your conscience, Clara. Let me give you a hint: in your whole life, have you ever heard people shrieking like a bunch of maniacs outside of your bedroom door in the middle of the night.)
Hang on, now some things were beginning to crystallize. How did she get here anyway? And then something caught her eye: she could see pure, white light seeping through the crack of her bedroom door. Light didn't look like that, not even the more eco-friendly fluorescent bulbs. Clara's eyes were beginning to grow used to the darkness and it finally began to dawn on her what exactly was amiss.
It was as if she was viewing the world through a filter with the saturation settings dialed all the way down to zero. Clara wondered if it was just so dark that it merely created a false perception that the color had been drained from the world. In fact, she had once gone on a hike around Lake Smetana one winter night and the reflection of the full moon off the water was bright enough to create this sensation.
Clara fumbled around the bedside table that she could barely discern in the dark and felt around for a lamp. Her hunch was about this all being a simple trick of the eye was promptly invalidated as soon as she found the lamp switch and flipped it on. The light it emanated wasn’t the usual yellow-orange but a brilliant, vibrant white. In the millionth of a second it took for the room to become fully illuminated, she saw that the color spectrum of her surroundings was simply grayscale.
She was seeing the world in black and white.
She observed her surroundings. A scratched dresser, a small closet with its accordion doors open, a messy pile of clothes. Perfectly mundane, even a bit depressing, but something about this lens made it startlingly beautiful to look at. It was like viewing the world through a camera operated by Sven Nykvist or Robby Müller.
She rushed to bedroom window and adjusted the blinds to see what the world looked like through this newly acquired sieve. In a very brief period of time, the fear she felt had dissipated and was replaced by wonder and excitement. Like a child rushing to their bedroom window to see if it was a snow day, Clara rushed to her own window to see what her world looked like now.
As she approached it, she could see that a fire escape stood just outside her window, and Clara knew that the sight which awaited her couldn’t be good if that was any omen. But an invisible string continued to pull her along and she felt compelled to see anyway. It was impossible to see through the window as the small panes of glass were coated with a veneer of dust and grime. Using all of her strength, she pulled the window up, which emitted a hideous, shrill squeaking noise that sent an unpleasant shiver down her spine. The sill was old and shabby, with the paint flaking off of it. She took in the view through the filter of the steady rain and her brain refused to believe what she was seeing.
“No, no, no….†she droned absently at the sight which greeted her and shook her head in disbelief, as if attempting to appeal to some invisible higher power to free her from this nightmare. She had visited Minneapolis and St. Paul numerous times and couldn't recall either city looking like this. And it sure as hell wasn't Hopkins either.
What she saw was an urban jungle. It looked like the Los Angeles of Blade Runner without the flying cars. She was in the upper level of what she presumed was an apartment complex, but even from this high up (at least five floors) she could see little specks of people wandering the sidewalks below. Sodium-vapor lamps illuminated the streets with a hazy white light, giving the city an ethereal appearance, as if she was occupying some other plane. She could see a long street which ran perpendicular to her room, and it seemed to stretch on forever. Buildings as far as her eye could see; tall, dark, hulking obelisks, which stretched to heights higher than she was able to comprehend.
A siren screeched as a police car whizzed by. Wait... police! If she could only find a phone, she could dial 9-1-1. But then she realized, what exactly could they even do to help her here? Give her free money to move somewhere that wasn't some nightmarish hellscape? Free her from poverty?
Clara's hair became dampened by the falling rain and she pulled herself back inside the seedy garret she currently found herself inhabiting. She suddenly felt her fear replaced by confusion. Something felt off about all of this. It was something akin to amnesia that she was feeling. Didn't she have a pet or something? What was its name– something starting with an R... Robert, Ronnie...? Oh, she was so confused, it frightened her. How did she ge–?
(Steel Haven, that's where you live, don't you remember? You're a machine operator at one of the textile mills. Tommy never got that promotion to be able to afford moving in with you. He promised he'd keep trying, but you got laid off from your job and fell behind on the mortgage. Your house got foreclosed and you had to move somewhere cheaper. It's been this way for a long time, how could you forget?)
It all came back to Clara in a flash. The disappointment, the failure, the despair, she felt imprisoned by those feelings. She pulled at her hair and paced the room frantically. The hopelessness was too much to endure.
"Somebody help me!" she screamed into the void. Lightning flashed outside, and for a half second the room lit up. She now saw that she stood in front of a dresser with a large mirror hanging over it. And in that half second, she could see the reflection of a second person in the room with her. A person wearing a trench coat and hat.
Before she could turn around to confirm her suspicions, thunder boomed with a monstrous crash, and Clara felt herself tumble and fall onto the lumpy cushion that served her mattress. A knee forced itself against her upper back and pushed her against the bed, with the kind of strength characteristic of someone in the military. A cold hand gripped her jaw and then clamped itself tightly over her mouth, and another hand yanked her wrists behind her back.
"No one's coming to save you, my dear," a voice whispered into her ear with a quiet, perverse glee. Clara then heard an abrupt ripping noise and felt a cold piece of tape being stretched over her lips. With a swiftness she could barely comprehend, duct tape bound her wrists behind her back.
"Hmmm mmmmph! Plmmmmm smmmmpph hmmmmph!" Clara yelled through her sealed mouth. She felt as though she no longer possessed a mouth. It was as if this metallic gray rectangle had now been permanently grafted onto the space it had once occupied. The pair of hands roughly grabbed her underneath her armpits and sat her up on the bed.
"Tommy was right, Clara. You can fool some of the people all of the time, but you can't fool all the people all the time..." the voice mocked her. She knew that voice, blindingly certain of it. But from where? Why didn't she know who it belonged to? And then her assailant sat her up and moved the bedside table lamp so her face was now fully illuminated. Clara saw, and had no idea why she hadn't recognized that voice to begin with. "And you certainly can't fool me," Laura Horvath said, as she removed her hat and her long, silvery blonde hair spilled out.
***
Clara put up the good fight, no one could take that away from her, but it just wasn't enough.
From the shoulders down, Clara was duct taped as thoroughly as a person could be without being mummified. To further secure her arms to her sides, Laura had wound the tape diagonally around Clara's torso many, many times. She felt the tape vibrate as it was violently ripped away from the roll, which gave her an uncomfortable tickling sensation. By the time she finished, she looked and felt as if she was wearing one of those five point safety belts that pilots and race car drivers wear. Her white cotton shirt was completely shrouded in the sticky silver tape. She felt that tingly, butterflies in the stomach feeling when her stomach was taped; she felt especially vulnerable there. Her legs hadn't been spared either, with multiple layers locking her thighs, knees and ankles together. Her mouth had been spared from more tape, but that hardly seemed to matter, as it continued to hold a ruthless seal over her lips.
Laura pulled up a chair with a worn out French cane seat. She sat down casually, as if this were just a meeting between two friends. She wore a trench coat that looked to be from the 1940's, and her hat sat in her lap. The pure white light of the lamp and the deep black shadows cast across her face made her look like Barbara Stanwyck or Rita Hayworth. Her face looked like it belonged to someone in their mid-50's, but paradoxically there was a physical beauty to it which Clara could describe as eternal. Like one of the elves from the world of Tolkien.
Her captor pulled out a pack of Chesterfields and shook out a cigarette. She stuck it in her mouth and pulled out a lighter, but then paused.
“Do you mind if I…?†Laura asked from the side of her mouth. Clara didn’t even bother with making any kind of silent gesture to indicate her consent or disapproval; she simply glared. Laura gave an ugly smile, knowing full well that Clara couldn't voice her consent or disagreement on the matter. She flicked the lighter with a sharp shhkk! noise. Its bright white light illuminated the dimly lit room briefly. She took a deep drag of the cigarette, the lit end of it glowing faintly, and blew the smoke out in an elegant plume.
“You put on a good act, I'll give you that much, kiddo. You may have fooled those saps at the dinner table, but as soon as I saw the tape on your leg, I put the pieces together pretty quickly,†Laura said. "I'm really proud of the touch I came up with about working for 3M, if I may say. As soon as you took the bait there, I knew what you were." Clara tried to remain poker-faced through this, but was finding it difficult now. Her captor took another drag of the cigarette and blew the smoke in a graceful puff. The smoke was beginning to form a dense cloud and would take a long time to evaporate (even with the window partway open), and the aroma was almost too much for Clara to bear as it filled her nose. She began to hold her breath for as long as she was able. Breathplay freaked her the fuck out and she never explored that fetish much, but she almost would have rather have had her nose sealed shut with the duct tape right now than have to endure that awful stench.
"Sorry, I know this is a filthy habit, but the nicotine makes it a hard one to kick. You're being a good sport to indulge me like this," Laura said. She paused for several seconds, simply enjoying the atmosphere of this smoky room. Finally, Clara had to let go and allow herself to take a breath.
"Fmmm ymmph," Clara mumbled, surprised at her sudden boldness. The acrid stench of the tobacco filled her nose and she wanted to cough.
"You're a spirited one, I can tell," Laura observed, taking another drag of the cigarette. The midwestern lilt Clara had once heard out of the woman's mouth was gone. It had the same timbre, but it also had a quality like sandpaper. Rough but yet also smooth somehow. And that reminded her, where did she know this woman from? She waited for her memory to kick in and provide the vital context necessary for all of this to make sense, but it never came.
Suddenly, screaming broke out in the hallway.
GET THE FUCK OUTTA HERE YOU PIECE A SHIT!!!! I'M GONNA BEAT YOUR FUCKIN' ASS IF YOU DON'T SCRAM RIGHT FUCKIN' NOW!!!
A loud crash of a heavy object being hurled against the wall and breaking made Clara jolt in her tape bindings.
"We won't need to worry about being bothered tonight. The neighbors seem pretty occupied." It was impossible to say if Laura was saying this in reaction to the noise or if she was just making an idle observation. She gave the cigarette one final drag and dropped the butt on the dilapidated hardwood floor, and crushed it out with the heel of one of her lace-up boots. The roll of duct tape laid at her feet. Despite the fact that Laura had used so much of it on Clara, it was still very full, giving her the freedom to use more in the future if need be.
"So I'll just cut right to the chase: You're being kidnapped," she said. Clara's blood ran cold. She was too paralyzed by fear to respond in any meaningful (albeit limited) way. "I've been following you for a long time. Every website you've visited, every roll of duct tape you've bought from the hardware store, I know it all. Now, I'm a lone wolf, I don't answer to any feds. But I still consider myself something of a public servant, and my goal is to keep innocent folks out of harm's way. Harm which, unfortunately, includes you," Laura said regretfully. Clara felt her eyes go wide. She didn't know where she fell on the whole God and afterlife question, but this had always been her fear: that after she shook off this mortal coil there would come the dreadful day of judgement, where every one of her sins would be read out to her. Every sinful word, thought and deed.
Laura wondered over to the bedside table and observed a picture frame that Clara hadn't noticed earlier. She held it in her hand, and even in the dim light, Clara could recognize the photo: it was from a road trip she and Tommy had taken with some friends to Cedar Point in Ohio. They were standing arm in arm on the shore of Lake Erie. Their friend had timed the picture perfectly so that a wave was crashing right behind them right when the photo was snapped. It had been such a lovely day. It was the day when she realized that she wasn't just caught up in the endorphins of carnal attraction, but felt more sure than ever that she was really and truly in love. She had been forced to wait nearly thirty years to experience it for the first time, and every second of that wait had been totally worth it.
And now that was all being snatched away from her forever. The very last thing she wanted was to give this vile woman the satisfaction having a helpless damsel in distress in her clutches, but hot tears began to stream down her face and over the silver tape which silenced her. She sniffled, and Laura gave her a look that almost seemed to contain genuine compassion.
"Aw, chin up, sweetie," Laura said, as she set the picture frame facedown and grabbed Clara's chin and tilted it upward. This physical contact gave her the first semblance of comfort since this ordeal began. "It's not all that bad. If you want my opinion, "Clara Mazurek Horvath" wouldn't look that great above a Facebook profile picture anyway," she teased. That just drove the knife deeper. Clara could have killed this woman if she had half the chance. She tried to channel her pure incandescent rage into a strength that would break her free from the tape, but it held her fast like the toughest iron chains. Her lips were sealed so tightly that she couldn't move her tongue through them to attempt to lick the duct tape away. This frustrated her so much that she gave a primal muffled roar through her taped mouth
She grunted ferociously and scowled in spite of the tears streaming down her face. Suddenly, there was a soft flick noise and Clara felt cold steel against her face. She could see from her peripheral vision that it was an old fashioned straight razor, the kind often used as the murder weapon in those Italian giallo films that Tommy had tried to get her into.
"I'm going to say this nicely only once: Knock. It. Off." Laura said with utter ice in her voice. "Here's what's going to happen. You and I are going to take a walk. If you do anything unwise, I'm not afraid to use this. I know where the jugular is just from muscle memory and can disappear in the night faster than a ninja. We clear on that score?" she asked, and gently turned the blade on Clara's cheek so she could feel the edge. There was an unreality to everything unfolding right now, but that razor's edge against her face felt very real. Very very real.
Clara nodded noiselessly. Laura once again gave her that perverse grin.
“Then let’s get you bundled up, pretty girl. You’ll catch your death out there if you aren’t prepared.†Laura ran the razor through Clara's leg bindings and sliced through the like a hot knife through butter. After shaking off all the residual strips of tape, she walked over to the closet and pulled out a raincoat not too unlike the one she was currently wearing and draped it around Clara like a shawl. It was one in the style of the one's you'd see in movies from the 1940's. Laura did the buttons down to Clara's waist so that none of the tape could be seen. It became clear now what was in store for her.
But Laura wasn't done yet. She pulled out a scarf and wrapped it around Clara's face, hiding her gagged mouth. It was old and scratchy, like something her parents would have brought back from Central Europe. Laura wrapped it so tightly around her face that it almost felt like another gag being layered over the first. Laura bent down to grab the roll of duct tape and stuck it inside of her handbag. Then she opened up the drawer of the bedside table and pulled out a pair of black leather gloves.
"I'm afraid I'll need these back. Sorry about that, love. Hope you can understand." The leather creaked slightly as she slipped them on. They lent her a much more sinister appearance now. Laura grabbed Clara by the arm and helped her up. "As long as we're not out too long, you probably won't get a case of frostbite."
Clara found that her balance was much more precarious than she suspected, with the way her arms were bunched up behind her back with all the duct tape. Once again, Laura gently grasped her by the arm and guided her to the front door. She could feel her leather gloved hands even through the two layers of her cotton pajama shirt and trench coat. As they walked, Laura began to quietly sing to herself. Clara could recognize the tune, "Cheek to Cheek" by Irving Berlin.
This was punctuated by the sound of another object being hurled against the wall and a violent argument breaking out in the apartment next door, which made Clara jump out of her skin as she was guided through the door by Laura, who led her out into the hallway. She didn't seem to notice it at all, she just went right on singing to herself.
