My Darling Husband

by Kimberly Belle

  By now my right wrist is slick with spit, and the knot has rotated a good inch. Only a half inch more and then—

  Beatrix’s scream pierces the upstairs hallway.

  S E B A S T I A N

  4:27 p.m.

  Confession time. This Beatrix kid is a pain in my ass.

  Her little brother, Baxter, I can manage. That kid is just begging for some attention, which I pretend to give him while he rambles on about the pair of squirrels fighting over an acorn in the yard. Unsurprisingly, the big one won.

  But Beatrix’s scream was meant to piss me off and blow out my eardrums. And what a scream it was, one of those top-of-the-lungs, glass-shattering shrieks made for a horror movie soundtrack, loud and high enough to echo around my skull. The dull throbbing behind my mask is just painful enough to be distracting.

  And the remote, which I’d stuck in her hand after duct taping her arms to the armrests, she somehow manages to hurl across the room like a Frisbee. That’s what Baxter called me over for, to tell me the channel needed changing and Beatrix had accidentally dropped the remote on the floor.

  I take in the distance from her fingertips to the remote, lying upside down by the far wall. Eleven feet, maybe more, and pitched high enough to clear the coffee table. All that, with one flick of her wrist. I hate to admit it, but it’s impressive, really. Somebody sign this kid up for baseball.

  But still.

  That doesn’t change the fact that Beatrix is trouble. That stubborn act of defiance downstairs in the kitchen, the remote, her feral scream just now. She might be skinny, but she’s a spitfire with a vicious streak to go with that ridiculous hair. On a normal day, I bet she’s a handful.

  And that finger tapping. A constant and random rapid-fire drumming of her left hand. A nervous tic? Some kind of secret code? I check in with her brother, who’s staring openmouthed at the TV. Completely oblivious.

  Across the hall, Jade blubbers for her daughter, begging Beatrix to tell her what’s wrong, assuring her that everything’s okay. It’s a lie, of course. Jade knows that everything is not okay. Not even close. Not unless Super Cam can swoop in and save the day.

  “Beatrix, please,” Jade hollers from across the hall. “Answer me! What’s happening over there?”

  Beatrix lies on her plush leather recliner like a slug, her glare stuck to the ceiling. Chest heaving, limbs splayed, slack at the ankles and the forearms where they’re pinned down by multiple layers of duct tape.

  But at least she’s comfortable. I made sure of it when I put her there. I reclined the damn seat as far as it would go. I attached the tape to her socks and not the bare skin of her ankles so it wouldn’t pull the fine blond hairs. I even let the siblings sit next to each other instead of on opposite ends of the couch in case the little one got squirrely.

  “You gonna put your mama out of her misery?” I say, and Beatrix’s gaze whips to mine. “Sounds like she’s having some sort of panic attack.” I shrug like I couldn’t care either way.

  Beatrix gives me her best eye roll, then looks toward the door. “I’m okay,” she shouts, and her tone is begrudging at best. “He didn’t hurt me.”

  I settle my gun on a shelf at the far wall and pick up the remote, giving her my best stern-dad look. And Lord knows I’ve had plenty of practice. Gigi was a handful, too, but at least with her, I knew where the bad behavior was coming from.

  “Wanna tell me what this is about?” I wag the remote by my ear. “How come you threw the remote across the room?”

  “She dropped it,” Baxter says, taking up for his big sister.

  I ignore him. “Is this how you treat electronics in this house, like they’re disposable? Like they’re a worthless piece of trash? Are you really that much of a spoiled brat?”

  Behind me, the television blares a commercial, an annoying jingle for some kind of sugary cereal. I punch the mute button with a thumb. “Beatrix, I asked you a question. I’m going to need an answer.”

  Baxter looks at Beatrix.

  Beatrix glares at me. “To which one? That was three questions.”

  I almost laugh. Almost. This kid’s too smart for her own good, an added complication I need to figure out how to tame—and fast. Too much planning has gone into this day to let a sassy, spoiled kid ruin everything.

  “Hey, mister?” Baxter says, but I don’t look over. I don’t acknowledge him at all. Let this be a lesson to him, too, to not interrupt when other people are talking.

  “Do you know how much a remote like this one costs?” I say to Beatrix. “Hundreds and hundreds of dollars. And look here, you cracked the screen. These things don’t just grow on trees, you know.”

  She looks away, bored. Bored.

  I’d forgotten how impossible nine-year-olds can be. My fingers itch to spank her.

  I settle the remote in the bowl on the coffee table and sink onto the edge. “Look, if you and I are going to get through this afternoon in one piece, you’re going to have to do better. To be better. You told me downstairs I could trust you. Now I need you to prove it. And just so we’re clear, throwing remotes around and letting your mama get all riled up isn’t the way to do it. Don’t you hear her over there?”

  That breaks through the noise in Beatrix’s immature brain. She stops seething long enough to cock her head, to listen to her mother sobbing across the hall. I see the second she feels regret.

  “You did that,” I say, pointing a long finger at her face. “You made your mama cry. That’s on you.”

  Her angry scowl bleeds away.

  Baxter wriggles in his chair. “Mister, I really gotta—”

  “Zip it.” I hold up a hand in his direction. “This conversation is between me and your sister. You’re going to have to wait your turn.”

  “But it’s important.”

  A cramp. He’s cold. A dancing chipmunk on the windowsill. A cloud that looks like a question mark. Baxter believes that they’re all worth everyone’s attention.

  “Kid, you really need to learn the definition of important, you know that? Now pipe down. I’ll deal with you in a minute.” I turn back to his sister, working to soften my tone. “Hey, I’ve got an idea. How about you and I start over? Let’s just wipe this messy slate clean and begin again, how does that sound? You promise to be good, and I’ll promise not to hurt you or your br—”

  I stop. Sniff the air, at the exact same time Baxter empties his lungs. “The poop is coming!”

  C A M

  4:38 p.m.

  I stare at the broad backside of the fussy fortysomething lady blocking the teller’s window and will her to hurry the hell up. Twenty-two minutes and counting until the security guard locks the big glass door behind me and flips the sign to Closed, and this woman is standing here like she has all day.

  She leans against the counter, oblivious to the line six people deep behind her, and shouts into the bulletproof glass, “I really need that money today.”

  Yeah, welcome to the club, lady.

  I can’t see the teller from where I’m standing, but a tinny voice spurts from the speaker at the edge of the glass. “I understand that, ma’am, but the bank typically needs twenty-four hours’ notice for a cashier’s check. Did you place the order online?”

  The lady shakes her head, but her brown bowl cut doesn’t budge. From her shoulder, a wrinkly canvas bag says “Abs are cool but have you tried doughnuts?” in pink and purple rhinestones. “That’s what I’m here for, to place the order and get the check. That’s why I got in my car and drove all the way over here, because I need it today.”

  I shift to my other foot and sigh, loud and obvious, and I’m not the only one. Hushed curses and heaved sighs swirl from the folks behind me, all clutching their wallets and checking their watches. Another teller ambles by behind the window with a stack of twenties, looking everywhere but in the direction of the glass. A Next Window
Please sign stands propped at the other three teller windows, the blue canvas stools behind them empty.

  I look around for a manager, another bank employee, anyone I can ask to light a fire under this transaction, but if they’re here, they’re hiding. Even the security guard is gone, vanished behind the thick locked doors.

  “I can put a rush on your order, ma’am,” the teller is saying, “but there is an added fee, and we’ll still need time to pull the check together. And considering we close in...twenty minutes, I’m afraid the check won’t be ready until tomorrow.”

  Twenty minutes. The words hit me square in the chest, seizing my heart into a concrete ball, and I battle to catch a breath. My ribs feel like they’re packed in cement, the muscles locked up tight. The air can’t make it to the bottom of my lungs.

  My phone buzzes with an incoming call, and I yank it from my pocket, my chest deflating when I see the screen.

  Not Jade.

  Not Ed.

  I swipe and press it to my ear. “Hey, Mom.”

  “Well, don’t sound so disappointed. I was just calling to see how you’re doing.”

  No way in hell I’m telling her about Jade and the kids. Mom is a worrier. She’ll spiral and call me every two seconds. I love her, but I wish I hadn’t picked up.

  “I’m okay, but I can’t really talk right now.”

  “Aw, sweetie. Don’t take it so hard. I know the article was not the most flattering, but you can recover. Maybe you can get that PR person of yours to work some magic and have some of the worst parts retracted.”

  “What worst parts?”

  Mom keeps talking, her words tumbling over mine. “And maybe while you’re at it, you could talk to your attorney. I mean, I’m not saying you should sue, but they might be able to twist an arm or two.”

  “Mom. What are you talking about? What article?”

  “The one in the AJC. ‘The Joylessness of Cooking,’ that’s what that reporter titled the piece of trash. And don’t you worry, I’ve already written a letter to the editor complaining about journalistic bias.”

  I wince. Great. A letter from my mother, published in Atlanta’s largest newspaper. Just what I need.

  At the front of the line, the woman smacks her bag to the counter. The teller leans around her form and mouths, Sorry. I stare at the woman’s backside and try not to faint. Nineteen minutes and counting.

  “Sweetie, did you hear me?”

  “She actually used the word joyless?”

  Then again, maybe that’s what I get for letting the reporter, a peppy twentysomething food critic, shadow me for a day. She tagged along as I trekked from kitchen to kitchen, where I was careful to put on my best, most agreeable face.

  But I’ve caught enough flashes of my own sourpuss in the window, or shimmering in a pot of hot oil. I know how I look, which is why I can barely stand a mirror for more than a second or two. You don’t have to be a genius to see how miserable I am, how joyless my job has become.

  Mom sighs, long and loud. “Oh, honey. A whole bunch of times.”

  The woman in front of me stabs a stubby finger into the glass, gearing up for another argument, and my body goes electric. I tell Mom I love her but I have to go.

  “Jesus Christ, lady, come on,” I say, clutching the phone in a fist. “Just pay the fee and move on, will you? You’re not the only person here with business to do.”

  “Yeah,” the person behind me says. Another voice farther back, deep and male, grunts in approval.

  The woman takes it from the top, punctuating her argument with a finger stabbing at the glass, but I am no longer listening. Her voice bleeds away with a slicing pain in my side. A heart attack? My lungs’ last gasp for air? I press the spot hard with the heel of my palm and fan the credit cards in my other hand, comforting myself with the math. Three Mastercards and one Visa for a total of $26,000 in cash advances, plus a platinum Amex with a $10,000 line. That’s just over $35,000 in advances I can walk out of here with today, assuming this woman gets the hell out of my way. I eye the way she’s sprawled against the countertop, the hot breath of her tirade fogging up the glass, and my heart punches a hard, frantic beat. This woman is going nowhere.

  Stay and wait this out, or come up with a plan B? After all, the $35,000 is a drop in the ransom bucket. It’s not going to get me anywhere close to the $734,296 I need to save Jade and the kids. It won’t make even the tiniest dent.

  Especially if Ed doesn’t pull through.

  I scroll through my phone, checking the call log and emails inbox, swiping through my messages. Still no word. I pull up Ed’s contact card and fire off a text: Status?

  I stare at the screen and wait for a response. Tiny letters under the blue bubble tag the text as delivered. But there are no dancing dots, nothing to indicate he’s even seen it.

  I check the time—4:44—and try not to scream.

  There’s movement in my periphery, and my head pops up to spot the second teller slinking back into view. He stops at the first window, nodding at what I’m guessing are marching orders, his squinty gaze pinned at the woman holding up the line. He sighs and checks his watch, and I roll my eyes.

  Dude, we know.

  Just please, for the love of all that is holy. Hurry it up already.

  He sinks onto the stool at the second window, and I’m already there, spilling my cards into the stainless steel feeder before he’s removed the Next Window Please sign. “I need the max cash advance on these five cards.”

  He picks up the cards and arranges them in a neat line on his side of the glass.

  The rhinestoned lady shoots me a smirk, a serves-you-right curiosity burning in her eyes, and I clench my teeth and try not to slug her. She has no idea what kind of tragedy has brought me to this place, just like I don’t know what’s motivated her. People will do all sorts of things when they’re desperate for cash. Lie. Cheat. Steal hundred-dollar steaks from the freezer in order to feed their families. Max out every line of credit in order to survive.

  So fuck me and fuck this lady.

  I fish my license and another card from my wallet and drop both into the slot. “I need whatever’s on this account, too.” The Lasky account I use to pay bills and run payroll, the last twist to the noose around the Lasky windpipe. Another $10K, which means the payments I signed off on last night will be dead in the water. Emptying it out will be the death knell.

  With a finger, the teller slides the card next to the others. “So you want me to close this account?”

  I shrug. “Empty it, close it out, I don’t care. As long as you give me what’s in there.”

  He sticks it in the reader by his monitor and recites an amount that churns in my gut. “That’s $13,514.83.”

  “What about the payment to ADP, is there any way to stop it?” Taking back the money from payroll, that’s apparently the kind of asshole I am.

  The teller shakes his head, gestures to the cards spread out before him. “Do these cards all have a pin?”

  “Yes. Well, all but the Amex.”

  “Sorry, sir, but I can’t do anything without a pin.” He drops it back in the slot with a metallic ding that echoes in my bones.

  I grip the counter with both hands, fighting a wave of dizziness. “How do I get a pin?”

  “I believe you have to call their customer service.” He stuffs the Visa into the reader. “Enter the first pin onto the pad, please.”

  I tap in the pin, then flip over the Amex, dial the number on the back, and drop it back in the slot. “Do this one last. I’m getting a pin for it right now.”

  The process is excruciatingly slow. I cast an apologetic glance over my shoulder at the people in the line as the teller counts, then double and triple counts the Visa cash into a fat stack. With a Sharpie, he scribbles the total onto a paper label he uses to bind the bills, then clips the stack to the
card. We move slowly down the line, repeating the process for each card while I listen to canned music in one ear, occasionally broken by a woman’s soft voice: Thank you for calling American Express. All our representatives are serving other customers. Approximate hold time is...six...minutes.

  Six eternal minutes to think about all the ways I’ve messed up. All the wrong turns I’ve made, the questionable people I’ve chosen to partner with in order to expand the Lasky brand. That first bistro, in that tiny house in Peachtree Hills, feels like forever ago. A kitchen barely big enough for three chefs shoulder to shoulder and just enough tables to eke out a salary, but I loved that old rickety place.

  It’s a juice shop now, but I wonder: If I went back to that concept, if I traded the Lasky Steak empire for a tumbledown bistro in Peachtree Hills, would I be happier? Would Jade love me as much if I wasn’t Atlanta’s Steak King?

  What the hell happened? When did I lose my way?

  By now, the woman to my left is gone, and the teller is punching in numbers and counting out cash with an accountant’s efficiency. Before too long, it’s one last straggler and me, a man in dark blue scrubs.

  Approximate hold time...three...minutes.

  Keys rattle in my other ear, the security guard flipping the locks on the doors behind me, a jingling that alerts me to closing time. Five o’clock on the dot. I peel the phone away from my ear and check the notifications.

  Still no response from Ed. Goddammit.

  Images of Jade whiz by in my brain—tied to that blue chair, staring down the barrel of a masked madman’s gun. Helpless while the kids scream for her from across the hall. I wonder if she’s conscious, if she’s beaten and bloody, if he’s broken any of her bones. Why didn’t I ask? Why didn’t I insist on talking to the Bees? I consider calling her back, right after—