“Sharon. What did you do?” My voice is a raspy whisper.
“You remember the antique meat hook you and John cleaned up and mounted in the kitchen by the stove?”
“Yes. The one we got from the swap meet.”
“Right. Well. We struggled for a while. It was hot, and I was slippery from the bath and managed to pull one of my arms free. I was reaching around for something, anything I could grab to use as a weapon, when my hand found the meat hook.”
“No…”
“Yes. I took hold of that handle and, as hard as I could, brought it all the way down in front of me for momentum, then swung it straight back with every ounce of strength I had…”
“What happened?”
Sharon sits upright confidently. “Severed his spinal cord right at C6-C7. It was instant. Sucker wasn’t going to take me out without a fight.” She looks impenetrable, like a fortress made of iron daring anyone to challenge her strength.
“Sharon, you’re kidding! Then what did he do?”
“Dead. Instantly. He collapsed where we stood. I slipped right out of his arms.”
“Sharon!” I’m incredulous, immobile except for my eyes that won’t stop blinking in disbelief. “What… How…? What did you do with the body? I mean… how…?”
“It was a mess. Bled like a stuck pig… everywhere. What do you think I did? I made a phone call.”
“To who?”
“Big Tom. He… well, his guys… came and picked the poor sucker up within an hour.”
“What did they do with the body? Did they know who it was?”
“I didn’t ask. I was told not to worry, to assume it never happened. I thanked them and said that was fine. I never wanted to talk about it again. I just wanted him out of my house. Became another John Doe, I guess… and that’s that.”
For a fleeting moment, I can’t believe what Sharon has just revealed. I remember the traumatic fear of a sniper’s bullet when John and I were on the run—the sinister feeling I got when John ran into that hit man at the Stardust in Vegas. Somehow, back then, I thought Sharon was safe. John must have diverted my fear more than I knew. Then I think about all those years of suffering and beatings I endured at John’s hand, how many times I was sure he was trying to kill me—and I realize how, as a consequence of his actions, Sharon was almost killed too.
My childish impression of Sharon, always impervious to John’s bad behavior, dissipates and I see her true vulnerability behind her detached armor. She is, as I am, a survivor. “I’m glad you’re all right, Sharon. That probably freaked out the people who sent this guy after you. You sure gave them something to think about. What else happened? I mean, anyone else come looking for you?”
“Nope. I sent the fear of God through them, though. Imagine finding out your hit man is in the LA morgue with a meat hook in his neck. And John… well… I told you, I will never forgive him. I vowed as a nurse to never take a life, and that bastard took the one piece of identity that meant everything to me. He is the one who didn’t deserve to live. He was the scum… and he is right where he belongs.”
“Sharon, it was self-defense. You had no choice.” I attempt to console her, but she doesn’t respond. “Well, it doesn’t matter anymore anyway, does it? He’s dead now, and that’s the end of it.” I envision John in the hospital bed, thin and ravaged with the symptoms of AIDS, and I wonder if his family, his mother, was really there when he died, as I read in the newspapers. I wonder also if his mother prayed for him. That would have been a blessing, I think, warmed by my kindled faith in God that began in Asia. I feel an unexpected stab of sadness and pity imagining John’s last breaths on earth and am torn again by the anger that festers inside me.
My thoughts shift suddenly back to Sharon, and I remember another piece of information I read in the paper. “I understand that he was remarried. Is that true?”
“If you want to call it that. Misty Dawn? Ah-hem! It was the closest thing he could get to you. I’m sure of it!” Sharon raises her eyebrows and dons a sly grin. “I have no doubt why he needed to get married before he died.”
“What do you mean?”
“He had to have somebody there to make sure… well, ah-hem… you know… that it was still intact!” She looks away, her face in a frozen smirk, to stifle a belly laugh. “You remember, don’t you? He was deathly afraid someone would cut it off… as a trophy or something!”
“Yes… I remember,” I reply. “He made me promise him never to let anyone remove it from his body. He was insane over the thought that someone might mount his fame and glory on their wall or something. Too bizarre!” Such insanity surrounded John. I’m repulsed that my youth was consumed by him.
I shake my head, and my mind focuses on the years, countless days and nights, after I ran from him.
In Asia, sitting in my small ta-ta-mi mat apartment in Tokyo, I am obsessed with visions of violent rage, hell bent on revenge. I hate him because the angry, mean days of him were open wounds and all I could remember. For years, any mention or memory of his name or face has triggered my anger anew, sending piercing daggers of death from every inch of my being out into the universe to impale my image of him.
I have pictured myself many times, like a Samurai… standing between John’s legs brandishing a gleaming steel sword while he lies helpless beneath me. “Afraid were you?” I say to him. “Afraid someone might cut it off? I promised you I would never let that happen. Now what do you think?” Oh, how I wish to see him squirm. I relish the fear in his eyes. “So, do you trust me now? Like I trusted you? Did you keep your promise to never hurt me, John?” I raise the blade high above my head and come down swiftly toward his nether regions. “Heeiiiii-ya!” I scream at the top of my lungs into a blackness that, thank God, won’t let me go any farther.
I snap out of my bitter fantasy and think for a moment that I’ll tell Sharon about my fierce visions of vengeance. I stop… and change my mind. “I was really mad at him, Sharon. Mad for years. He took away my innocence, my trust… my heart!” Tears form in the corners of my eyes. “How could he?” Now a sense of self overwhelms me. “I survived him, Sharon, and survived a dangerous, lonely life after him. I struggled in Southeast Asia. My dad was there, but he wasn’t a lot of help. He made promises he didn’t keep and, well, let’s just say he gave me bad advice… and basically left me on my own. I managed, though—drank a lot of alcohol to get through it. But I did some amazing things too. I climbed Mount Fuji and sailed down the Malacca Straights in a monsoon. I speak Thai and Japanese well enough to travel comfortably among the locals. In Japan, well, some terrible things happened and I almost lost myself, but I found a connection with God and learned how to pray. Now, that saved me!” I stop myself, noticing the uncomfortable squint in Sharon’s face and remember how angry she has always been with God. “I have a certificate in gemology, Sharon! It’s not a big deal, but it’s an education!” Waves of raw emotion spill out as the floodgates of the last six years are released.
“Well, I always told you you had a brain.” She smiles kindly.
My heart is still audibly pounding as I exhale. “He never wanted me to grow up, did he, Sharon?”
“No. He was already threatened by you before you even turned eighteen!”
I shudder and look away. “Why?”
“He didn’t want to lose you… so he had to keep you… ahhem… below his level.”