Eye for Eye

by J K Franko

  * * *

  After Susie stormed off the dock, Roy decided to give her some space. He retreated to his study, where he now sat brooding as he listened to the distant clunk and clang of Susie preparing dinner.

  He’d been in his study for over two hours. He wasn’t sure what he should do next. Part of him wanted to join Susie in the kitchen and try to talk to her. The other didn’t want to be anywhere near her right now. He was angry. Hurt.

  But, mostly, he was worried.

  He got himself a glass from the bar, poured himself a Macallan 18, and retook his chair, putting the bottle on the desk in front of him. As he gazed out the window, he saw a three-foot-long iguana slowly moving across the lawn outside. Roy envied the simplicity of the reptile’s life.

  Lucky bastard.

  He played Susie’s words back in his mind, her scene on the dock. He was pretty sure that she was proposing that they kill this Harlan kid.

  Oddly, that wasn’t what had Roy worried. Something else that Susie had said preoccupied his thoughts. Something more important.

  Roy knew himself.

  He had long suspected that he had a touch of manic-depression. He’d never sought any clinical validation of his self-diagnosis. To his mind, doctors are mostly idiots. Idiots following protocols. Glorified statisticians. There’s nothing a doctor could tell him that WebMD couldn’t.

  Roy had researched manic-depression. He’d read up on everything he could regarding his assumed condition, and even kept a journal of his various moods for the better part of nine months.

  He found that, about every sixty days, he would go into a funk that would last two to three weeks. His grandmother called it the “blues.”

  Roy told me that, growing up, he sometimes noticed that Grandma’s mood would shift. She would withdraw, play less. She would become quiet, listless. He worried about her. One day, he plucked up the courage to ask, “What’s wrong, Grandma?”

  After a few moments, Grandma came out of her stare into middle distance. She turned to him, and smiled, “Nothing, sweetie. I’ve just got the blues.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Well, it’s when you feel tired on no account. And, no matter how hard you try, nothing really gets you going. You just kind of... ”

  The old lady allowed the words to trail off. She could see that she wasn’t explaining herself well to the little boy. So, she tried again. “You know The Wizard of Oz?”

  Little Roy nodded.

  “Well, you remember all the beautiful colors, and the munchkins, and the Lollipop Guild, and the Yellow Brick Road, and the magical witches?”

  He smiled, nodding.

  “Well, that’s how life is most of the time, full of color. And that’s how it should be. But, there’s times when life feels like the beginning of the movie, all gloomy and in black and white. That’s the blues.”

  “Is that what’s wrong with Momma?” the little boy asked.

  “Something like that, honey, but don’t you worry.” She ruffled her grandson’s hair. “Everything’s gonna turn out alright.”

  It hadn’t.

  Roy’s mother all but killed herself. Suicide by vodka. She’d inherited the blues from Grandma, but not Grandma’s strength. Roy had inherited both, or so he believed. And for this, he felt indebted to her—not just for raising him, but for her genes.

  When he turned twenty-one, he legally changed his name from Roy Diaz to Roy Cruise, adopting Grandma’s family name. He did it partly as a thank-you to her, but also because he was older and shrewd enough to know that a name like Diaz was a liability if you wanted to succeed in Texas.

  While Roy may have inherited his father’s green eyes, he didn’t inherit his dark skin. When Roy was out and about with Grandma, who was also light complected like Roy and his mother, he was just another little white boy. The waitresses called him “young man.” The men tousled his hair and called him “little buddy.”

  On the few occasions that his father bothered to visit his son after the divorce, he’d take him out for ice cream. When he was with his father, who was darker skinned and had more “Latin” features, Roy was suddenly the “little Mexican kid.” This was the reaction, even though his father was actually Cuban.

  No free extra scoop of ice cream. No friendly chitchat with the waitress. They weren’t mistreated. No one was abusive. But they weren’t welcomed with open arms either. They were treated as outsiders.

  In Texas, there are no Peruvians, or Columbians, or Cubans. Only Mexicans. If you look “ethnically Latin” in Texas, you are Mexican. If you have a Spanish surname, you are Mexican. And, to the dominant Anglo culture, you are an outsider.

  When Roy showed his grandma the court order changing his name, her milky grey eyes filled with tears and she pulled him close. Roy knew what continuing her family name meant to her. To his mind, it was the least he could do for her, and it benefited him as well.

  He told me that he would never forget the look on her face that day and how good he felt. He was happy to be able to give something back to the woman who’d raised him. And it was thanks to her that, when Roy reached puberty and experienced his own blues for the first time, he wasn’t caught off guard.

  Right now—at this point in the story—he’d had the blues for a couple of weeks. It wasn’t anything to do with the anniversary of Camilla’s death. At least, he didn’t think so.

  It was probably why he’d been so quiet on the dock.

  This was one big downside to fighting with Susie. She understood him and, somehow, although he had no clue how, she managed to lessen the symptoms of his blues. She gave him life. Fighting with her killed the energy.

  But, when they were in sync, everything was amazing.

  It had been that way ever since they had met.

  Roy sighed and poured himself another scotch as he pictured Susie the day he’d first set eyes on her. It was in law school. She was wearing worn-out jeans. Stan Smiths shoes. A white v-neck t-shirt. And some kind of a jacket. Her hair was up in a ponytail. Dark, but streaked with highlights from the summer sun.

  She was tanned golden. Her eyes were jet-black and her face was lively. Animated. She was wearing little gemstone earrings—studs of some sort. She had fine bones and hands, thin elegant fingers with short, polished nails, and although she was petite, she stood out.

  Roy could feel her energy from across the courtyard. As though she was pulsating with life. Her eyes sparkled. Her smile beamed, lighting up her whole face.

  She looked to Roy as though she lived in Oz, in the land of color, like she carried it with her everywhere she went. When they began dating, he found that her energy was the perfect counterpoint to the world into which he sank at regular intervals, that black and white Kansas that he inhabited.

  Her energy had attracted him, and now it sustained him. He drew strength from her, and amazingly, rather than being diminished by him, she shone brighter as a result.

  They were the perfect match.

  When Camilla died, everything changed. At first, there was nothing. Susie was just gone. Vacant. Empty.

  There was no energy for him. There was no energy at all.

  Roy suffered through it all alone.

  As he thought back, he wasn’t sure if what came next had been any better. He remembered, as he sipped and savored the feeling of the scotch burning his throat. He stared across the study at the spot on the oriental rug in front of the sofa where he’d seen Susie at her worst.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  It had happened several months after Camilla died. Susie had slowly made the transition from silent depression to active accusations.

  In her mind, Roy was to blame. She had meticulously assembled a barrage of accusations, saddling him with blame and guilt for everything, which she would unleash with twisted zeal. She added to her list daily. Big and little things—his fault for bu
ying Camilla the car, for letting her keep her horse so far from the house, for moving to Miami—all the accidentals—any one of which, had he acted differently, could have saved her baby.

  Over the course of a few weeks, Susie’s attacks had grown in duration and detail. She was building up to something. He could sense it.

  It was her last attack, the one in the study where he now sat, that changed everything.

  He remembered that it had started out as usual—Susie attacking, and him passively listening. The by-that-point-familiar crescendo of screaming and accusations grew, Roy shaking his head at intervals, but not provoking. Just playing his role.

  Near the peak, when normally she would cry or add a few new insults or claims against him, she stopped. It seemed as if she’d come to a revelation. Like an opera singer getting to that final, climactic high note but not hitting it—instead suddenly stopping—and just looking out at the audience. Susie had just stopped and stared at him.

  Roy had gotten nervous—this was something new, and in his life of those last few months, “new” was always “bad.” He recalled shifting uncomfortably in his seat on the sofa.

  Susie had walked over to the bar in his study and poured herself a drink. Scotch. She never drank scotch. She claimed it made her sick.

  Then, she’d walked back to the center of the room and, in one graceful move, sat on the floor in front of the sofa Indian-style, and looked up at him.

  Roy remembered the moment as if it were yesterday. For the first time in weeks, she had been smiling. The deep creases caused by her angry expression of minutes before were gone, ironed out by the warmth of her beautiful eyes. He could still feel the chill in his soul as he thought back to her words.

  “You know what it is, Roy? Babe. It’s not you. I know that. And I’m so sorry,” she voiced the apology softly, holding her chest. “I’ve been blaming you. But it’s not you. I mean,” she swirled the drink in her glass and sniffed, looking around her, “I just... I think this has all become a bit of a habit. All the yelling. The blaming. I know it’s not your fault.”

  She’d looked at him, shaking her head and grimacing at the realization of what she had become.

  “It’s just, I’ve been feeling so fucking helpless. So useless.” She’d choked back tears. “And I can’t do... haven’t done anything.

  “But there is something,” she’d sniffed, and shuffled closer to her husband, taking a large swig from her glass, wincing at the scotch. “There is something we can do. As parents.” She’d paused. “It’s just a matter of equilibrium. Of balance. Things have to balance. They must always balance. And I think now I know exactly how to do that.”

  She had stared into Roy’s eyes and waited until he felt compelled to speak.

  “How?”

  “Think about it,” she’d said slowly, eyes wide as if she’d just discovered the secret to life itself. Then, she’d placed a hand on her husband’s knee. “What does it say, in the Old Testament?”

  Roy had tilted his head, curious.

  “The law of talion,” she’d said, opening the palm of her free hand, looking at it and offering it up as if it held something divine.

  Roy squinted. He thought he knew what his wife was intimating, but he recalled thinking to himself at the time, It can’t be.

  “An eye for an eye, Roy. An eye for an eye,” she’d confirmed for him, and then downed the rest of her drink with a grimace. She looked too happy to Roy, given what she’d just suggested. Her smile, in combination with the proposal, seemed maniacal. “The only question is,” she’d continued, licking her lips, “how do we do it?”

  “Susie. I don’t think... ”

  “Don’t think, Roy. Feel.” She’d stretched the word out. Feeeel. “You know it feels right. You know it is right.”

  “Susie. Even if it was, there’s a system. There’s a process.”

  “Fuck that, Roy!” she’d barked. “You know how the system works. If it works. You’re a lawyer. What? Negligent manslaughter? A year in jail, then parole? Community service?

  “That son of a bitch,” she said, and held out her arm, pointing, “going around giving speeches to a bunch of pimple-faced, fuck-tard high school kids about texting and driving? Fuck the system, Roy! I’m talking about self-help here.”

  “Suze, but... ” he had almost whispered, “you want us to kill him?”

  “You fucking bet I do.”

  She wasn’t angry. She was smiling and repeatedly running her finger around the rim of the empty glass and then licking it. He had never seen her like this.

  He felt uneasy, and something else.

  “Susie, even if we wanted to... ” He noted a cloud pass over her expression at his words, and quickly backpedaled, “No, I mean. I agree with you. I want to. But even if we contemplated doing something like this, we’d be the first people they’d look at as suspects.”

  “Not if the cause of death is natural,” she had said, tilting her head playfully from side to side. “Not if they don’t ever think to even consider it a homicide.”

  “Any investigation would start with us.” Roy paused as his wife looked at him, expectantly. Then he realized, “You’re saying, do it now? While he’s in the hospital. In a coma?”

  “Of course now!” She’d put the scotch glass on the floor, putting both hands on Roy’s knees. “Now. He’s in an induced coma, Roy. They put him in it, and they’re gonna pull him out of it. You heard. The prognosis is good, but anything can happen. He was in a head-on, after all... ”

  “He may end up a vegetable,” Roy threw back, weakly.

  “Not if he’s dead,” she’d smirked. “He killed Camilla, Roy. An eye for an eye,” she’d said, slowly.

  He’d taken a few seconds to allow the gravity of his wife’s words to sink in. Then, he’d stolen a glance around the room and out the window, the guilt at discussing murder causing him to confirm there were no witnesses. He’d looked back at his wife, or whoever the woman was that was inhabiting her body.

  “Why not wait until he’s out of it,” he had offered with a shrug. “Let things play out. He might even die of natural causes or maybe even end up living the rest of his life as a vegetable. That’d be natural justice.”

  “Justice? Justice, Roy?! Justice is what they preach at church to children and old women to make them feel safe. This isn’t about justice. This is about revenge, Roy,” she’d said, eyes blazing, “Fucking revenge.”

  That was the moment. The look in her eyes, the spite in her voice, and the curl of her lip as she spat out the word “justice,” and the sensuous, almost lascivious way Susie had mouthed “fucking revenge.”

  Roy’s wife, as he knew her, wasn’t sitting there anymore. Susie had disappeared. Gone. She’d been consumed by grief, and this malicious thing had taken her place. A primal alter ego. Someone he had never met before, but who had apparently been there all the while, lurking, waiting.

  But, here’s the thing. Though it wasn’t the Susie he knew, he remembered feeling just as attracted to the imposter as he was to his wife. She was terrifying, but seductive. A primordial creature that was undoubtedly capable of cruelty, but possessed of such a moral clarity about what she was saying that Roy couldn’t disagree. He was drawn to her. He needed her. He loved her.

  “And if we get caught?” he’d found himself asking.

  The question hung in the air for a while, each running through a mental trailer of what exactly that might look like.

  Roy’s heart had pounded against his ribcage. The thought of what they were considering had made him feel giddy.

  And then, his mind had gone to work. How could they do it? What exactly would it take? It was an insane idea. The fact that he was even considering it terrified him, but it also made him feel powerful. He no longer felt uneasy, but now he knew what the something else was that he had been feeling before. He’d felt arouse
d.

  Roy had understood back then that the burden fell to him. Susie and Camilla were his. His responsibility. Camilla was gone. Susie was in pain and had been for a long time. She needed this. He needed her.

  If he denied her this, what would become of them?

  He knew from his parents’ experience what the death of a child could do to a family. And he had already vowed that he would never let the same thing happen to his marriage.

  Susie had jumped to her feet, paused momentarily to pick up her scotch glass from the floor, and left the study.

  Roy hadn’t moved. He later remembered that all of his energy had been focused on fielding the tsunami of questions flooding through his brain. “What ifs” and “buts” and “hows.” If they pulled this off, it would change their life.

  He could do it.

  He could figure out how.

  He would.

  Susie interrupted his thinking when she came back into the study and returned the freshly washed glass to its home on a tray by his desk. She knew how much he needed order in his workspace.

  She knows you. She loves you. Do you love her?

  Suddenly, as if she had only been testing him, Susie said, “You’re right. It’d be too obvious. If either of us did it. It’d never work. It can’t happen. Not like that.

  “Goodnight, babe.” She’d bent over and kissed him on the cheek. “You know something? You’re a real smart guy.” She’d patted his hand lovingly and then left the room.

  They’d never spoken of that day or conversation again. They’d come close in Colorado. He’d wanted to, but she had put him off. Until today, on the dock.

  But he had thought about it. He’d thought about it a lot.

  Susie was right. It did feel empty. Bareto had left this world, but he had not been punished.

  This had been eating at Roy and it was why he’d brought up the subject in Colorado—an eye for an eye—the God of Abraham.

  They had done nothing.

  He had done nothing.