No One
A shiver rips through my spine. I roll over on the tiled floor, letting my fingers graze against the ridges of the connecting squares. Despite the ringing in my ears, I can hear, ever so faintly, the thrum of a lawn mower down the street, the delighted shrieks of young children. Though my legs twitch, though my blouse clings to my chest, slick with vomit, there are signs of life abounding in other places. I am glad for it.
I feel a movement behind me. A set of brown work boots appears near my head. The edges of my vision have since blurred, and a quickly deepening darkness is settling in. I stare at the mud-crusted lining of the shoes and wonder where he had gone to and for how long.
“Don’t try to speak,” the boots say. They are silent for a moment before turning away. Water begins to flow from a nearby tap. Bristles run back and forth across a hard surface, maybe steel. Something clanks onto a counter. I strain to hear the children again. Nothing now.
The open wound at the back of my head pulses and throbs, spitting out a stream of blood that seeps through my hair and lodges itself between the tile and my cheek. The stench of rusted metal overwhelms my nostrils. The boots return.
“There is no point, dear. Just relax.”
I can now see the deep blue of jeans. He is closer than before, lower to the ground. My lips tremble; I cough up blood, bile, and saliva. Finally giving in to the softness of his voice, I wonder what more he will do to me before the end. I wonder whether anyone will ever find me.
Saturday mornings at the diner were like a zoo. I scooped up a tray with three plates of still sizzling bacon, scrambled eggs, and a mountain of toast. The path to table number nine was partially obscured by highchairs, outstretched legs, and lingering diners. I maneuvered around these obstacles, careful not to drop the tray.
“There you are gentlemen.”
“Thanks, love,” the youngest of the trio said. His short brown hair was combed artfully to the side. An embroidered handkerchief peaked out from the breast pocket of his grey suit jacket. I could just barely make out the initials R.L. They were architects and regulars at the diner, coming in every Saturday morning before walking over to their offices in Liemert Park. The whole of Los Angeles was abuzz with talk of their Crenshaw Center construction project. It was sure to be the largest retail complex in California.
I slid behind the counter and went, mechanically, through the motions of making another pot of coffee. Trish gave me a sideways glance and a smile. She was a heavy-set woman with a shock of red hair. You’d hear her before you ever saw her; an intricate network of bracelets ran up the length of her right arm, jingling like bells at Christmas time.
“Oh, go away, Trish,” I laughed.
“Not until you tell me about last night, Miss Ma’am.”
“There’s nothing to tell.”
“I call horse shit!” She let out a booming laugh that turned the heads at the nearest table.
“Shhh!”
“Oh, Liz, honey, don’t go shy on me now. No one sent you to be going around town with a married man.” Her lips curled with disapproval. I rolled my eyes and busied myself with ringing out the rags in the sink. I had been seeing Mark on and off.
“He’s leaving her, Trish.” We let a silence fall between us as forks and knives scraped plates all around the diner and the swinging door let in a gust of wind.
“Right on time,” Trish muttered, looking up. As grateful as I was to change the subject, a chill crept up my back as I followed her gaze.
“I think it’s your turn to serve him,” I said.
“Fuck you, Miss Ma’am!” Trish disappeared into the back room. I could feel his eyes on me before I turned around completely. I managed to plaster a smile on my face, grab my notepad, and head to his table.
“Good Morning, what can I-”
“Coffee, black, and some toast.” His dark, beady eyes roved up and down my body. I couldn’t get away fast enough, relieved to be safely on the other side of the counter.
“How’s our favorite customer?” Trish whispered. Bright red marks appeared in bands along her fleshy arms. She never bothered to grab a tray, balancing five to six plates at a time with ease. I was yet to nail the arrangement. The servers passed around a nickel jar each time I dropped a plate. Trish would muse aloud that perhaps my pretty face kept me from getting fired.
“Some friend you are,” I whispered back. I returned to his table with the coffee and toast. He didn’t bother with a thank you. Instead, he kept his eyes trained on me as I hurried along.
“Liz.”
My face lit up at the sound of his voice. I’d come to look forward to Mr. Lennon’s visits to the diner. He was a handsome man – tall, broad shouldered. When he smiled, I felt as though it was with special consideration. A smile for me and no one else. I tried my best not to stare at the raised scar that curved along the right side of his neck.
“Hello, dear. How’re you holding up?”
“Another day at the zoo,” I said, conscious of our proximity and my breathlessness.
“And the acting? Any news?”
No one was better acquainted with my hopes for stardom than Mr. Lennon. Between my runs to other tables, we would talk about the latest films and Broadway shows. I had found in this stranger-turned-confidant a friend with whom I could share my doubts and fears. Trish meant well, but I could tell that she worked hard to suppress an eye roll when I spoke too often, or too long, about breaking into Hollywood. Like me, she was a small-town girl. Unlike me, she took pride in that. It amused me to think of how well she would get on with the family I’d left behind in Medford, Massachusetts just six months before.
Diners and servers alike frequently told me that I had the “Hollywood Look” – pale skin, slender nose, high cheekbones. As reassuring as this constant parade of compliments was, I could not muster up the other necessary ingredients: the self-confidence that was the trademark of virtually every actress, the bravery needed to embrace vulnerability, and the fortitude to withstand rejection. An audition was the first step; a daunting step.
A week later, I turned quickly around the corner and onto West 39th Avenue. If I walked fast enough, I could just make it to work on time and avoid any teasing – or questions – from Trish. Mark had been in a mood when he dropped me off at home. He was still sulking from last night’s fight. We’d met at the usual place, the Biltmore Hotel, at a quarter to nine. Before he could loosen his tie, I’d started in again about his wife; I was sick of waiting.
The diner was packed. It was the typical Saturday morning rush. I slid silently behind the counter and stashed my purse underneath the sink. Trish raised an eyebrow, but she made no further comment. The familiar, flat, black eyes were staring at me once I straightened up and tightened the bow at the back of my apron. I didn’t bother to plead with Trish this time.
“The usual?”
He nodded and smiled. It was a disconcerting, unnatural motion. The effort seemed to inconvenience him. The upturned corners of his mouth relaxed almost immediately.
I made a beeline toward the architects. They had finally broken ground at the site of the Crenshaw Center. The City had shut down Marlton Ave and Santa Rosalia Dr, leaving dump trucks and worker vans free to come in and out from dawn until dusk every weekday.
“You better believe Truman’ll get it done.”
“Like hell he will.”
“Have you already forgotten about the railroads?”
They quieted long enough for me to take their orders. I felt three pairs of eyes resting on me with a lustful adoration common among men long since bored with their wives at home. I was still getting used to the extra attention since arriving to Los Angeles. I tried not to squirm under the weight of admiring eyes. As I turned to go, the youngest and boldest architect leaned over and grabbed my wrist.
“Say sweetheart, up to anything tonight?”
“Yes. A movie with my boyfriend.” I yanked my arm back. His cheeks grew red as he settled back into the booth. I walked away before he could respond. I was certain that they were still watching me as they started up their debate again.
“What was that?” Trish demanded. The muscle in her jaw twitched and she looked at table number nine through the slits of her eyes.
“Leave it,” I warned. My wrist tingled where he had touched me.
Before Trish could argue, the entrance door blew open from the wind, revealing Mr. Lennon. The lapels of his dark brown trench coat flapped violently about him before settling down. He tipped his hat to me and strode over to his usual table.
“Now that’s what you call a man, Liz.” Trish stared after him. The milk she had been pouring flowed over the rim of the coffee mug and onto the laminate countertop.
“Trish! Come on, Miss Ma’am!” I teased, using her preferred pet name for me.
“Well he seems quite taken with you,” she sighed. “You birds get to have all the fun.”
“You were young once too,” I insisted.
“Oh, honey, I was born thirty-five.” Mr. Lennon signaled that he was ready to order. I left Trish to clean up her mess. He had a warm smile ready for me, and just like that, I’d forgotten all about the architects.
“There’s our star.”
I hated myself for the way I blushed and fumbled in his presence. He looked at me expectantly, his deep green eyes boring into mine. I wish I could see in myself what he seemed to see. I had no prior experience, no obvious talents. Still, he regarded me with a level of care and respect quite unlike any other man I’d come across – including Mark, including my absent father.
“I’ve got some good news for you,” he beamed. A white business card lay flat on the table beneath his fingers. “One of the secretaries at the firm is married to a Hollywood agent. A real big shot.” He slid the card over to me.
Despite its small size, the card felt heavy in my hand. Sam Jaffe – Sr. Agent it read. My mouth stretched into a silly grin. In seconds, I had transformed from a woman of twenty-two years into a giggling schoolgirl. “He…he wants to meet with me?”
“Yes. He’s a very busy man, but I was able to set something up for Thursday evening. You’ll meet him at the Crown Grill Cocktail Lounge.” My excitement turned to panic as I realized that he did not intend to accompany me.
“You won’t be joining us?” I asked.
“Oh, you won’t need me,” he chuckled. “You’re a star, my dear.”
I turned the card over and over in my hand. Mark had told me that he had a surprise waiting for me in San Diego next week. Of course, that was before the fight. My sister, Virginia, was also due to arrive from Boston that same Thursday. She would be upset if I made other plans. My thumb rubbed against the raised lettering. She’d have to get over it. How many chances like this would come again?
“Thank you, Mr. Lennon,” I said. His name caught in my throat. The air had shifted, transformed. There was a buoyancy that seemed to pull me upwards, out of my body, out of the diner. I was meant for more than Medford, more than waitressing. I wouldn’t struggle like my Mother had. This meeting was sure to change things. Everything, in fact.
Mark left me in the lobby of the Biltmore Hotel after our three-day trip to San Diego. He’d taken me to Sunset Cliffs. Just as the soft pink sun was setting over the water on our last night, he took my hand, slipping a 10k yellow gold promise ring onto my left ring finger. He was going to leave his wife in a few days, he told me. Just as soon as the children left for school. A wave of relief washed over me. And then guilt. I kept the ring in my pocket. I would wear it once he’d left her, I told him.
I was hoping to get a hold of Virginia, who had arrived in Los Angeles that morning and was staying with our father on the opposite side of town. I placed my finger in the telephone dial hole. I pulled round to the combination of letters and numbers that I knew by heart but never called. The line rang and rang. I left a quarter with the bellboy, scribbling the telephone number on a scrap of paper. He would try the number in a few hours and leave a message for my sister.
The cab let me out at the front entrance of the Crown Grill. I hesitated. I was on the verge of an opportunity perhaps better suited for someone else. Gathering my full, black skirt around me, I stepped through the wooden door frame. Billy Strayhorn’s Take the A train blared from the jukebox in the far-right corner. I scanned the smoke-filled room for anyone who looked like an important Hollywood agent. The red Vinyl booths that lined the wall to my left were filled with slick haired businessmen and well-to-do couples out on the town. A young bartender waved me forward. I took a seat at the bar, grateful for some direction.
“Miss Short?”
“Why, yes.”
“Mr. Jaffe will be with you very soon. I’m to get you started with a drink.”
“Oh, that’s lovely. Gin and tonic, please.”
I sipped on the drink and tried not to look too often towards the entrance. Mother would have had a fit to see me seated at a place like this – beverage in hand – unaccompanied. I brushed the thought away and chatted idly with the bartender as he flew up and down the bar. I made a game of watching the other patrons while I waited. I guessed at how many drinks they’d had and how many more they would order.
The bartender replaced my drink with another. He asked me questions about what I did, how long I’d lived in L.A. I told him that I was an aspiring actress looking for my big break. There wasn’t any reason to mention the diner. I took another sip and thought of Trish. I can’t say now when I’d begun to feel it – a blanket of confusion, haziness. The room seemed to be tilting; I couldn’t keep my eyes open. I can’t say how much time elapsed, but by the time I had come to, fully alert, I was somewhere else, surrounded by the black pitch of darkness.
There was no light, no fresh air. The dampness of the space settled on my skin like steam from a hot bath. My arms were sore, restrained. I was bound at my wrists and ankles, lying on a dirt floor. The ropes were wound tightly, too tight to break free. The scream that I let out seemed not to belong to me at all.
“There’s no use, Hun.” I jumped at the sound and jerked back. My head smacked against a wall. I blinked hard against the black, desperate to make out the woman addressing me. The voice had come from a couple of feet to my right.
“Who are you?” I was panting now, my heart rattling in my chest. “What’s happening?”
“Oh, I wish I could tell you. One thing’s for sure: there’s no use in screaming.” The woman’s voice was hoarse, hallowed out. It was this that made me sick with fear, this despairing and defeated voice.
“How long have you been here? Where are we?”
“It’s been twelve days for me and two for you. I don’t know about the others.”
“But how-”
“We listen out for the mosquito fogger every night. Only way to keep the time.”
“Wait. The others?” I waited for a reply, but she had gone silent.
I started to whimper, remembering that no one knew where I was. My message to Virginia had read: Important meeting with top Hollywood Agent. I will come see you tomorrow. I tried to piece together my last memories. Nothing. I had sat at the Crown Grill bar. Then what? I couldn’t recall having met Mr. Jaffe. Surely, I had.
A ripple of goose bumps spread across both of my arms.
I could hear heavy footsteps overhead. A door slowly opened. A tiny sliver of light splashed onto the opposing wall, illuminating a short staircase. Though the door shut seconds later, it was enough time for me to make out the figures of at least ten other women – bound in similar fashion and slumped along the walls of the basement.
Boots descended the creaking wooden steps and then stopped. I cowered uncontrollably. I opened my mouth to scream again, but no sound dared escape. The man’s faced was concealed until a flashlight clicked on. He wore a black ski-mask over his face and gardening gloves covered his hands.
One by one he shined the flashlight on the face of each woman before squatting down to shove something into their mouths from the sack that he carried. He turned the flashlight on and off, making it difficult for me to see what he gave them.
“You better eat whatever it is,” the voice whispered. “It’s our only meal of the day.”
I nodded, forgetting that she could not see me. The man was suddenly standing in front of me, shining the light on my face. I chewed on the warm ball of bread and cheese. It wasn’t until I swallowed it – until he had moved away – that I felt the dampness between my legs and around my skirt. I reeked of ammonia.
He arrived at the last woman. The light shone on her face for a few seconds longer than it had shone on the rest of us. Her eyes went wide, just as the light flicked off.
“Please. Please no. Please, please. Don’t do this.” Her begging was cut short by a loud crack that rang out into the dark room. There was no sound from the woman as the man dragged her to the base of the staircase and then heaved her over his shoulders. The sliver of light reappeared, briefly elongating the shadow of a wedged heel.
“What…where is he taking her?” Hysteria crept into my voice and wrapped around my throat.
“I don’t know, Hun. None of us do. He takes one every few days. Random order. One thing’s for sure: they don’t ever come back down.”
By my fifth day underground, he’d taken two more women, including the one who had been advising me. I hadn’t bothered to learn her name and she hadn’t asked me for mine. Terror had settled into the deepest recesses of my mind. There was no hope. There was no point in learning names, histories, thoughts. There was only the smell of damp wood, the rough gravel beneath us, the blare of the mosquito fogger each night.
Hardly a word was said aloud. Occasionally, a soft chorus of sobbing and groaning would erupt around the room, catching like wildfire from one woman to the next. What comfort could I offer them? To say that everything would be alright seemed like an unnecessary cruelty, a pointless lie.
The skin around my wrists and ankles were raw and enflamed. The long hours of hopelessness were broken up with brief moments of blind optimism. If I could just free myself from the ropes, I could untie the others, and we could overtake the faceless man upstairs. After straining and groaning, my body would collapse, exhausted, refusing to try any longer.
What happened upstairs? I’d conjured up every possibility. Though I did not know these other women, I was sure that they’d done the same. There was little reason to believe that there was anything better above ground, any improved reality. And yet, I indulged in the idea once a day. After the fogger would pass by, marking an additional day in captivity, I allowed myself to believe that someone was coming for me.
I would play the scenarios over again, adding layers. Maybe I’d had too much to drink. Mother had always said I took too many liberties for a young woman. Maybe the bartender had thought it best to call me a cab home, or someone had offered to escort me out. Maybe that’s when I was kidnapped.
I’d turned the possibilities around and around until I remembered that there were women who had been down there for weeks. No one was coming for us. I would not become a famous actress. I would not even remain a small-town girl from Medford. I would be nothing at all, no one at all.
By the time the light shone on my face on the sixth day, for much longer than it had shone on the others, I had accepted what was. Before the flashlight clicked off, before the steel bar came down on my head, the brightness illuminated the masked man. His eyes; they were familiar, but strangely cold. I took in his tall stature and his pink lips. I took in the broad set of his shoulders. And then I could see nothing other than the beginnings of a large scar, exposed between the bottom of his mask and the collar of his bomber jacket.
Photo Credit: Hans Vivek @oneshotespresso
