No Fury Like That

by Lisa de Nikolits

  I climb back into bed and gesture for the reporter to plug the cables back into the wall, which she does. Do you want a picture? I write on my notepad and she nods.

  I get to choose which one. She nods again.

  I pull the top of my hospital gown down to show my bruising, and I tilt my head back slightly to show the full extent of the damage to my neck. My hair is tangled and wild but this will be good for the shot. I stare into the camera with all my hatred and bloodshot ugliness and I hold that pose while the photographer fires a series of shots.

  When he is done, I reach for the camera and flip through the shots. I find a perfect one. I look frail, ravaged and full of anger.

  I pick up the notepad and write: Use pic 334. Hed: “I will press charges” former ad exec vows after strangling attempt. “He will not get away with this. He tried to kill me.”

  I write this on two separate pieces of paper and I have the reporter and the photographer sign and add their telephone numbers and I wave them away.

  I want to go home. I unplug the cables and pull the IV out of my hand. I dig around in the bedside table and find the clothes I was wearing when I got fired, along with my shoes and my purse. I take my phone and grab my clothes and I go to the washroom where I take selfies of all the damage, making sure I get every angle.

  I get dressed and I ease on my crystal-embellished platform Miu-Miu sandals, wishing I had flats instead. I pick up my purse and I walk to the elevator and no one notices me at all.

  I take the notepad and pen with me and I hail a cab and write my address down and show the driver.

  He drops me off and I take my shoes off and slowly climb the stairs. I stop midway. I don’t think I can face the landing where Junior tried to kill me but I have no choice and I force myself up the remaining stairs. The shattered pottery fragments of an empty pot plant holder lie scattered on the floor. I must have kicked it when I was fighting to breathe.

  I open the door and head straight for the sofa. At that moment, I wish I had asked for liquid painkillers at the hospital and not left surreptitiously. I wonder if there is anyone I can call who will help me. I scroll through my phone and decide to take a chance on the copywriter who had been marginally more positive about me than the others. The only thing is, I can’t let her see my filthy apartment, filled with all the stuff I have accumulated.

  I send her a text. Margie, I’m home. Can I ask a favour? I’ll reimburse you, I need meds and baby food….

  Sure, the reply comes immediately and I send her a list, along with my address. I tell her she has to get liquid meds because I can’t swallow pills. If there’s no other choice, she’s to bring a couple of quarts of NyQuill, but liquid codeine would be preferable.

  I change into my favourite Alexander McQueen sweatpants and matching tribal print sweatshirt and I put fifty dollars into an envelope with Margie’s name on it and then, I wait.

  When she buzzes from downstairs, I stand outside my front door at the top of the landing, and I take the bag from her. I can tell she wants to come in and chat, but I have a note prepared. Can’t speak. Thank you. Must rest. She nods, takes the envelope, and leaves.

  I chug a generous swig of meds and feel relief as it burns its way down. I lie on the sofa and stare at the ceiling until I fall asleep.

  I don’t move and I am worried that I have died but then I realize where I really am. I am in Purgatory, watching myself. I am not there in my apartment.

  “I’ve made it stop for now. That’s enough for one day,” Cedar says softly. “In fact, that was too much, but I couldn’t see a way to break it off sooner. How are you?”

  I am speechless. “He tried to kill me,” I say and I am relieved I can talk, because in my mind, I can feel the raw, sandpapered pain of the woman I had been watching.

  “But you did email a picture of his inadequate private parts to nearly a hundred employees, some of whom saw fit to post it on social media where it went viral.”

  “Are you defending him?” I can’t believe my ears. “The fucker tried to kill me and—”

  Whoops. There I am, outside the door.

  “And he fired me,” I shout. “He fired me. He fucked me sideways, up and down and left, right and centre, and then he fired me. The fuck! And you defend him? Fuck you too, Cedar!” But I feel bad as soon as I say that.

  “I didn’t mean that,” I shout. “I’m sorry, Cedar. Let me in, so I can apologize.”

  The door opens and Cedar looks out. “It’s okay,” he says. “But that’s it for the day. See you tomorrow.” And he closes the door again.

  God expects spiritual fruit, not religious nuts.

  I glare at the sign, filled with the desire to vandalize something, anything. I take the letters off and rearrange them but life is nuts is the best I can come up with, and I throw the rest of the letters on the floor.

  I march off and when I reach the end of the hallway, I turn back to look at the sign. There is a new message. The letters silently rearranged themselves and there is nothing on the floor.

  Blessed are those who…

  And that is all. I give the sign the finger and as I do, Tracey appears. She laughs.

  “Having a good day I see. We’re in my kitchen. Eno nearly ate a whole batch of cookies. I had to make more. A good session with the Grateful Dead?”

  “Just spiffy,” I tell her. “As you can tell.” But I don’t elaborate and she doesn’t ask.

  We reach her kitchen and the warm, comforting smell of baking is like a hug.

  “Yo, Namaste, how’re they hanging, Mamacita? We got a fresh batch of dead people’s cookies coming up soon, I’ve been helping Trace bake.”

  “Hindering,” Tracey says with a smile. “Eating raw cookie dough isn’t helping.”

  “I am the royal tester,” Eno says. “Hey, Julia, seriously, you okay?”

  I sigh and sit down. “It seems that back on Earth, after I was fired, I emailed a picture of my boss’s miniature crown jewels to a hundred employees and they shared it and it went viral. And then he tried to strangle me to death.”

  There is silence. And then Eno bursts out laughing. “Whoa, let me not piss you off! But hey, how did you have the picture?”

  “We had an affair for two years. And he didn’t have the balls, small or otherwise, to fire me himself or even talk to me and I wanted to humiliate the gutless bastard.”

  “But how did they know it was his dick?” Agnes asks.

  “Because he wears these ostentatious monogrammed cufflinks and they were in the picture. He was holding himself and also, he’s a gingery blond and his pubes are that colour too.”

  Samia giggles, her hand to her mouth.

  “You got some henna done,” I say to her, noticing the lovely designs on her hands. “How come?”

  She raises her eyebrows. “Privileges for brown people. Some people get bowling, we brown ladies get henna, like for a wedding that will never happen. I’d rather have bowling privileges. I told Cedar but he said it’s not up to him.”

  The oven alarm sounds and Tracey removes the tray and she glares at Eno. “At least let these ones cool down.”

  He raises his hands in surrender. “I couldn’t eat one more thing.”

  “Well,” Jaimie says and he blushes. “I’m not saying I’m not well hung or anything but I can understand a man’s chagrin at being outed like that.”

  “He tried to KILL me,” I am outraged. “I was in hospital. If the pizza guy from downstairs hadn’t come up, I would have died. I had bruises around my neck down to my chest. The blood vessels in my eyes and my cheeks burst and I couldn’t eat or swallow for two weeks. And yet, you think what he did was justifiable?”

  “I said it’s understandable,” Jaimie says and Eno agrees.

  “Yeah. Julia, there are some boundaries that should not be crossed.”

  “Oh, bullshit,�
�� Agnes says. “He got what he deserved.”

  “I agree,” Tracey nods, rolling dough into buns. “He’d had an affair with you for two years, and if he didn’t know what you were capable of by that time, then he got what was coming. What did he think you would do? He was arrogant and he deserved it.”

  Isabelle doesn’t say anything. She is leaning against Eno, off in her own world.

  “You said he nearly killed you,” Eno points out. “If it was only nearly, how come you’re here?”

  “I don’t know. I haven’t got to that part yet, and I can’t wait,” I say. “It’s sure to be a barrel of laughs.” I take a caramel white-chocolate-chip cookie and bite into it but just as quickly I spit it out into a napkin.

  “What the fuck?” Tracey is furious.

  “My throat feels sore,” I say, and it does. “I’m sorry. I can’t swallow anything. I can still feel that pain.”

  She hardly looks mollified but the door opens and Beatrice peers in. “Smells good,” she says sniffing the air like an old bulldog. “You want a game?” she asks me and she comes in and takes a cookie.

  “Sure,” I say.

  Beatrice piles four more cookies onto a napkin and leaves.

  “Bye gang, see you tomorrow,” I say and I follow in Beatrice’s generous wake, preparing to do word battle and relieved to have a distraction from my woes for the moment.

  28. THE SECOND TIME JUNIOR TRIES TO KILL ME

  WHO IS THIS KING OF GLORY? “Fucked if I know,” I say and I immediately slam my hand to my mouth and resolve to watch my language. The door opens, and there stands Cedar, kindly, stern, and welcoming.

  “Julia! How are you?”

  “Ready to continue, thank you very much,” I say and I lie down on the sofa. I cross my hands over my chest and close my eyes.

  “I see. Fine. You had returned home and Margie brought you medicine and food and you were lying on the couch, and you fell asleep.”

  The Rewind starts and the scene unfolds before me and, yes, there I am, lying in a similar position to the one I’m in now.

  “Is there a fast-forward button?” I ask Cedar after we watch me do nothing for what seems like half an hour.

  “Tell me when to stop,” Cedar says obligingly, and he speeds up the passing of time. “Actually, you do it.”

  I give it a try and find it surprisingly easy. I speed through that night and the following week and I lie on the sofa for the duration and drink liquid painkiller and eventually I eat some Gerber puréed apple.

  The only time I leave the apartment is to collect Duchess’s urn and I pick up a few supplies at the pharmacy and grocery store and return home.

  “I’m hoping this gets more interesting,” I remark and I fast-forward to me starting to watch TV, with Duchess’s urn next to the sofa. Apparently I tap into Netflix and get into binge watching. I appear to be disinclined to change my clothes or bathe, or even look at my phone. I avoid news channels and I choose series with three or four seasons to them and I watch episode after mind-numbing episode. I’m not eating properly or keeping hydrated. “Do I die of malnutrition?” I ask Cedar. “Or, do I die from overdosing on TV?”

  I watch the bruising around my neck fade and still, I do not bathe and still, I do not change my clothing. I finish the painkillers and I finish the baby food and all the supplies that I have bought.

  “Surely I’ll pull myself together soon?” I ask. “This is deadly. I’ve been like this for nearly a month. And now I don’t have any food. I’ll have to go out soon.”

  But I don’t. I go online and order a bunch of stuff and get it delivered. Then I carry on watching TV, sleeping on the sofa and living off snacks and sodas. I can drink scotch again and I drink that too but thankfully only at night. I was worried I’d see myself downing neat whiskey for breakfast.

  “Wait,” I say, “back up a bit.”

  The View obligingly rewinds and I press play, real time. I am lying on the sofa and my phone rings. It actually rings. I pick it up. It is Junior.

  Junior.

  “What does he want?” I ask Cedar suspiciously. As far as I can tell, I’d received no other calls about his attempt to kill me, not even from the police. Maybe everybody just wanted it to go away. I had seen the picture of myself on the news, the one I got the photographer to take but that was as far as it had gone, and I hadn’t had the energy to pursue anything myself.

  “Hello?” my poor voice is still damaged and I sound like a hundred-year-old smoker.

  “Julia?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You don’t sound like yourself.”

  “You broke my voice when you tried to strangle me.”

  There is silence.

  “I’m sorry about that,” he says. “Look, I want to see you.”

  “I don’t want to see you. You fired me and then you tried to kill me.”

  “And yet,” he says conversationally, “I still love you.”

  I am gobsmacked. “You’ve got a weird way of showing it,” I say. “I never asked you for anything. Never. I thought we had an understanding. And then you fucked me over and hung me out to dry. And then you tried to kill me.”

  “I am sorry,” he says again. “What are you up to, these days?”

  “Nothing. I am resting. I need to rest after my ordeal.”

  “It’s been six weeks,” he says.

  “It was a big ordeal.”

  “Yeah. Well, can I come and see you?”

  “No, you can’t. Are you back at work?”

  “I can’t go back. You took care of that.”

  “Good.”

  “I did underestimate your … passion.”

  “My viciousness, you mean. Your mistake, buster.”

  “I know. Listen, I really want to see you.”

  “Dream on. I’m hanging up now. Have a good life.”

  I hang up and return to my TV watching.

  “Time to fast-forward again,” I say and the view speeds up.

  I watch more TV. I order more food. I finally, thank god, have a bath and wash my hair and launder my clothes.

  And then, I stop and stare at my front door.

  “Slow to present time,” I say and the Rewind obliges and I hear knocking at the door.

  “Julia? I know you’re in there.” It’s Junior. “I know you’re in there and I’m not going away. I need to see you.”

  “No,” I say. “I’m sorry I ever met you. I thought we understood and respected each other. You don’t know what the words mean.”

  “I’ve got flowers for you,” he says. “And a gift from Cartier. Come on, you love Cartier and this will match the emerald promise rings I bought you. Let me in.”

  “If you don’t leave, I’m calling the cops,” I say. “I mean it. Go away.”

  “No, baby, please, please let me in. I love you. I’m begging you.”

  “Go away. I’m not your baby anymore. Go away, I mean it. I’m dialing 911 now and I want my key back.”

  “What key?”

  “The key I gave you to my apartment.”

  “You gave me a key? I must have lost it. Listen, Julia, please let me in. I need to see you. Sharon’s kicked me out. I’ve lost everything.”

  “Yeah? Well, I lost everything too and you are to blame. Don’t expect sympathy from me. Sharon will take you back. For some reason, she’ll forgive you anything.”

  “Not this time. Come on, baby, let me in.”

  He’s lying. I know him too well. There are two dead giveaways when Junior is lying. The one is that his lower lip does a strange tiny sideways twitch and the other is that his voice changes. It’s almost as if he acquires a faint European accent of some kind, his intonations are different.

  “You’re lying, you fuck,” I tell him. “I know you. Your voice is doing that funny thing, you s
ound like a bad mafioso in a B-grade movie.”

  “What the fuck are you talking about?”

  “When we were pitching big and someone asked you a question and you replied with a lie, your voice changed. I never told you I noticed but I did. You never lied to me before but I can hear it in your voice now. There’s no way I’m letting you in.”

  There is silence.

  “Think you’re so fucking clever, you stupid bitch? Well, you’re right. I am lying. I never loved you and Sharon never kicked me out. She’s much more of a woman than you’ll ever be. And I want to come in so I can finish what I started.”

  “Get the fuck away from me, Junior,” I say. “Go now or I am calling the cops.” I am shaking and my body is drenched with cold, vinegar sweat. I press my ear against the front door. “You aren’t leaving,” I say. “I will hear the stairs creak when you go, so go.”

  I hear creaking noises. “Oh, for fuck’s sake, Junior, you’re walking up and down the top two stairs. Do you think I’m an idiot? Get the fuck out of here and make sure to close the door of the vestibule so I can hear that too.”

  “Julia,” he says softly. “This isn’t over.” And he pounds loudly down the stairs and I hear the door slam.

  I get the locks changed in case he finds the key I gave him all that time ago. I think about calling the cops but I figure no one will believe me.

  The next time I open the door, it’s to accept a load of groceries I have ordered, and I wait until I hear the guy’s familiar voice.

  “See you in a couple of weeks, Mike,” I say to the grocery guy and I give him a big tip.

  “Take care,” he says.

  More fast-forwarding. No more Junior. More TV. More sleeping on the sofa. More doing nothing with my life. More ordering groceries.

  Mike, back at the front door. “Julia? I’ve got your stuff. You want me to bring it in?”

  I sit up. He’s early. And more than that, his voice sounds odd. My paranoia is in full swing.

  “Leave it out there,” I say. “I’ll push the cash out under the door.”