Billie Girl

Chapter Nineteen

What a sad, snowy winter. There was no doubt when Tova went home and when Blake went home, that I felt like the Spring grass shivering under the white snow. We were all cheated out of a warm and cuddly Christmas all due to the fact that some psychopath had finally flipped his lid. I thought about Von with pity. Like the way that Tova thought about all the older guys that ogled her.

I sat alone in the kitchen. My mother was in bed. Inspired by the art theme of that night, I took out an old sketch pad and with a number two pencil sketched my own little composite of what the killer might look like.

I drew him with the jowls of that president from my mother's time whom they called "Tricky Dicky." I drew his owl-like eyes like someone who is deranged and cannot sleep. I imagined him to be heavyset. Let's say two hundred and fifty pounds on a five-foot-eight frame. I bet he had small hands. People with small hands are always insecure and scary to look at. I drew veins on his hands like cob webs crawling up his thick, hairy arms. His mouth was full as, say, The Hunchback of Notre Dame. When my rendering was complete, I realized that I had drawn an almost exact portrait of a singer named Anthony Newley that my father used to adore. Anthony Newley always seemed to me to be some kind of mad scientist's assistant with a microphone. And talk about corny, over-the-top delivery! He crooned like he was smashed off his ass and trying to get a fat girl to bed.

I drew my caricature and then I wrote on the drawing, "The Strangler of West Michigan." Then I scratched that out and wrote: "The East Town killer, then I crossed that out and scribbled, "The Hunchback of Wealthy Street." I laughed to myself and then put my hand to my lips and stopped myself from laughing. How evil of me! Three girls were dead and I was giggling over a caricature of a guy that for all I knew, was standing outside my kitchen window assessing my every move.

But then I gave myself a break. After all, I often laughed during blood-and-gut horror movies. Laughter was a way of alleviating pressure. It's a natural stress release. I was only human.

I became self-conscious about my breathing, and it suddenly became shallow. I felt like I had forgotten how to do something that was supposed to be automatic.

And then I went upstairs to my room. On the way, I stopped by my mother's bedroom and I listened to her snore and was happy she was still breathing and that I was breathing and that there was air all around us. I gently stroked my throat and thought about what it might be like to have two strong hands at my neck. I took a deep gulp of air and sighed, "No way!"

This was not my time. I was well aware that I was raw potential in the flesh. I was still incomplete. There were still parts of my personality that had yet to solidify. From what I heard, only after you turned thirty did your personality start to harden like plaster and you become set in your ways. For instance, If you prefer funny romantic movies by then, you will never like important academy award-winning dramas. If you are a heavy drinker, you will always be an alcoholic. If you are alone, then you will always be alone. I am sorry, but thirty seemed so damn old to me. Still, I wanted to get there. I wanted to know what it was like to know myself that well.

I wanted to see what it's like on the other side. Like in Sex in the City, I wanted to walk around New York City in heels and pumps. I wanted to sip Martinis with my cute professional girlfriends and talk about how we work at Cosmo or pose for that oversized magazine that Andy Warhol started.

Or maybe I would become a poet and succumb to clinical melancholy like Sylvia Plath or just wilt away like Emily Dickinson.