Escapement

by Rene Gutteridge

  “I’m cold . . . ,” Abbott said suddenly.

  Rosemary’s attention snapped to Abbott and she stood. He was shivering like we were in the Arctic.

  “I need to get him an afghan,” she said to me. “It’s right in that same hall closet.”

  “Fine,” I said, following her once my knees creaked to life. I had to keep an eye on her at that closet. I didn’t think she knew the gun was in the shoe box labeled “power cables,” but I had to be sure. She reached right by it and pulled out the afghan, neatly folded like the rich people do it. She took it back to the room and I settled into my chair, pulling out the watch, hoping against hope that all the numbers would be there. Alas, they were not. The second hand bothered me, though. It’s like it was growing louder, like it was the only sound in the room.

  I glanced up to make sure Rosemary and Abbott were still where they should be and gasped. I gasped so loud that I choked myself with the air inflow, coughing and wheezing while still managing to hyperventilate.

  Rosemary’s eyes grew wide. “Dear God, this is it . . . He’s having a heart attack!” she yelled as if we were in a crowded restaurant and there might be people around to help. “Mattie! Hold on! I’ve got you! I know CPR!”

  I halted her with one outstretched hand. “I’m fine,” I wheezed.

  “You’re not! You’re pale as a ghost! Let me check your blood pressure.” She didn’t wait for permission. Before I knew it, she was by my side, the cuff in her hand. But unfortunately for us both, it was too small to wrap around my arm. She dropped it to the floor and her fingers pressed against my wrist.

  But I was still staring across the room at Abbott—more accurately, at the really large Thomas Kinkade painting that lay across his body in the form of an afghan.

  Abbott was staring back at me. “What?”

  I couldn’t speak. Was it a sign? Had God just sent me a sign in the form of a brightly lit lamppost with snow on it and evergreens in the background?

  “It’s coming down,” Rosemary said, obliviously focused on this as a medical issue. “Whew . . .”

  And then, without warning in the fullest sense of the term, I began bawling hysterically. At my weight, you can just call it blubbering. I wailed like no man my size has ever wailed.

  “There, there,” Rosemary said, patting me on the back. “It’s okay. It’s okay, honey.”

  “What’s the matter?” Abbott asked, and I knew he meant beyond the scenario in which we all had found ourselves.

  I sobbed, “I think I just got a sign from God.”

  Abbott glanced around him, like he might spot an angel or something.

  “It’s the . . . the afghan,” I said, pointing.

  Nobody understood. How could they?

  But I felt something. I think it was guilt. Or maybe pre-remorse. Wasn’t sure, but suddenly the idea of slicing Abbott open or banging him on the side of the head didn’t seem like a good one.

  Then my phone vibrated to life. I’d completely forgotten it was there in the front pocket of my shirt. I hardly received phone calls these days. Most of my friends, who were also my coworkers, had stopped calling. And Beth was the only one I cared to see on the caller ID.

  It was a number I didn’t recognize. It wasn’t even an Oklahoma area code. It piqued my interest. Maybe this was another sign. Rosemary and Abbott watched me carefully as I stared at it, wondering if I should . . . or shouldn’t . . . or should . . .

  I answered, clearing my throat and trying not to sound like a serial killer or a blubbering idiot. “This is Matthew.”

  “Matthew Bigham?” the male voice asked, pronouncing my name correctly.

  “Yes? Who is this?”

  “My name is Detective Warren Caffield. I am with the McKinney, Texas, police department.”

  I froze. Beth had been staying in McKinney with cousins while we were separated. My heart burned with fear. “Yes? What’s the matter?”

  “Do you reside in Oklahoma, sir?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you live on Northwest Fiftieth Street?”

  “Yes, I do. Please, what is wrong?”

  There was a long sigh—a very long sigh . . . a regretful sigh—on the other end of the phone. My whole being seemed to slide right out my feet. I grabbed the armrest of the chair. Was Beth dead? Was that why they were calling?

  Then Detective Caffield said, “Mr. Bigham, are you sitting down?”

  “Yes,” I squeaked.

  “I have some troubling news for you, sir. I’m sorry to have to tell you that your wife . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “. . . tried to hire a hit man to kill you.”

  I gasped again, but this time it sounded like half of a hiccup. “Wha . . . ?”

  “Yes, she hired a man to kill you, but an informant told us of the plan. To say it plainly, sir, you should’ve been dead about six hours ago. We didn’t intercept the plan until after his first attempt.”

  I felt tears rolling down my face, but it was like I was out of my own body. “Are . . . are you saying my wife wanted me dead?”

  “She has already confessed. She was hoping to get insurance money and run off with another man, a Jeff Porman.”

  “Jeff . . . Porman . . .” Had never heard of him. I looked at Rosemary and Abbott. Both were covering their mouths, which made me realize this was really happening.

  “We’re going to have her extradited to Oklahoma City in a few days. And the man who was going to kill you is in custody. You’re totally safe.”

  Totally safe . . . The words seemed so cruel.

  “Sir, when do you plan to return to Oklahoma City?” the detective asked.

  “I . . . I, uh, I’m in an open-ended . . . in Wichita . . . I don’t . . .”

  “It’s okay. Listen, I’ll give you a few days and call you back. We’ll probably need to interview you at some point. I’m sorry to have to deliver such bad news by phone. We had some uniforms try to track you down in Oklahoma City to no avail.”

  “Good-bye,” I whispered. I slid the phone back in my pocket.

  Rosemary was crying. Why was she crying? Abbott looked more sickly than usual.

  “Mattie,” Rosemary said, reaching out her hand to me.

  I held up a finger. “I need a moment.”

  She nodded. I went to the hallway, opened the closet door, and grabbed the shoe box. The lid popped off and inside was a small pistol. I checked and it was fully loaded. I returned to the living room and pointed the gun straight at Abbott. Rosemary screamed.

  “Now,” I growled, “I really don’t have anything to lose.”

  I whipped around and pointed the gun at Rosemary as she stood, about to say something. She slowly sat back down, her face growing pale. I was glad there were six bullets because my hand was shaking so badly that even standing four feet from Abbott, I probably would miss at least twice.

  “Mattie . . . please. Stop and think. Tell me what happened. What was that call about?”

  Tears rolled down my face even though I wasn’t crying. It was kind of weird. “Well, it’s horribly ironic,” I said, gesturing with the gun. “Horribly, horribly ironic.” It was sinking in how unbelievably ironic it was. I blabbered on. “I mean, had Constant not come and told me I was going to die, I would’ve just been murdered in my condo. But instead I left and got an extra seven hours to do . . . to do whatever I wanted, so I chose murder. And now I’m here, and Beth hired a hit man to kill me, so that’s kind of wrecking me all up inside . . .” I was still waving the gun, and Abbott and Rosemary were flinching like they were having mini seizures. “And so I was going to die in the exact same way that you are going to die,” I said, cutting my gaze to Abbott. “But I was saved and you’re not going to be and I’m just suffocating with all this irony . . .”

  Trying to catch my breath, I collapsed into the chair behind me, the gun still shaking as much as my voice. “Beth was going to have me killed! For money!” My voice was all screechy and croaky like puberty had arrived.
“My own wife!” I broke down and sobbed while still pointing the wobbly gun toward Abbott.

  I wiped the tears but they kept coming. I could tell Rosemary was about to pop out of her chair, not to tackle me and the gun, but to give me a hug. She had hug written all over her face.

  “Mattie, I’m so sorry.” She could say no more. What was there to say? How do you comfort someone who just found out his wife was going to have him murdered?

  “I truly have nothing left,” I said. “Nothing at all.”

  “Me either,” Abbott said. He was so small and skeletal that it looked like he was sinking straight into the fabric of the chair. “Nothing at all.”

  Rosemary lifted her face, like something extraordinary was hanging from the ceiling, and began mumbling. Abbott and I both looked up. I couldn’t see a thing.

  “She’s praying,” Abbott whispered. “She does this a lot.”

  It was like she forgot there was a gun in the room. She was pleading and whimpering and making some pretty strong statements, imploring the daylights out of the ceiling . . . or something beyond.

  Then she looked at me. “Sometimes I don’t understand him.”

  “Who?” I asked.

  “God.”

  I raised an eyebrow at her. “I thought you were unshakably loyal to him.”

  “I am. It’s true. It’s just that sometimes I see what’s going on in the world and I wonder why so many people have so much unfairness to bear. Sometimes it just piles on and you wonder why it can’t be spread out a little more evenly.” She looked down at her clasped hands, then back at me. “Mattie, I don’t know what’s going to happen in the next—” she glanced at her watch—“thirty-two minutes, but if I can only say one thing to you, it’s that God loves you. And he forgives you. And there is something remarkably better on the other side.”

  “Rosemary,” I said, my face all wet and sticky with tears, “I wouldn’t believe it if it weren’t for you. You make me believe that ‘remarkably better’ exists.”

  There was silence after that. Abbott looked to be in pain again. Pain meds were doing him little good now. My knees were killing me. So was my heart. It broke into a thousand pieces, knowing the woman that I’d throw myself in front of a bus for hated me enough to kill me. I was worth only the insurance money to her.

  I slumped in the chair and waited.

  Then a numbness swept over me and the pain that was stabbing me through and through vanished like a mist. I pulled out the pocket watch because I was feeling so painless that I thought I might’ve died and not known it. But the watch was still ticking. Yet it was like someone had come along and scooped all the pain out of my heart. My head hurt with the knowledge but my heart sat peacefully in my chest, thumping according to its plan.

  I stood and slowly walked to the window, gazing out as evening was setting in. The sun was lower and the bright-green grass now had long shadows cast across it. An orange hue bled into the soft-blue sky. The wind had calmed and the leaves on the trees hung motionless. I replaced the watch in my pocket but held the gun against my chest like it was some sort of life symbol and watched the air for a long time.

  My life was literally running out. Either I had gone completely insane or I was actually going to die. Either way, my life was swirling around the sink, its substance sliding away in a vortex, slipping quietly into the drain.

  I could almost feel death nearby, like it was watching me. Waiting for me. What had made Beth turn into a monster? And how could I stop myself from turning into one too? All the vengeance in my soul was waiting for an answer.

  Abbott was watching me, his eyes hopeful. But for what?

  Mrs. Cavington came into view, walking by once again, her cane leading the way, her back hunched like a tree under heavy snow. Her bright-pink outfit was like a beacon against the cold stone of the sidewalk and street behind her.

  She looked peaceful but lonely. It was like she hoped that someone might stop and talk to her, that someone, just once, would notice her. She was so decked out for just a walk. She was even wearing pearls. And bright lipstick to match her outfit. Loopy earrings. A gold watch.

  But cars drove past without a second glance. Not so much as a wave.

  Suddenly she looked right at me as I stood framed by that enormous window, nicely visible without the glare of the sunlight. Her eyes grew wide, as if in anticipation that I might acknowledge her. I quickly waved, huge, so she knew that I saw her. I smiled broadly. That probably made her day.

  It actually seemed to. She stopped walking completely and turned right toward the window, watching my big wave. I did it again. Like I was flagging down a friend across a room.

  “Come on,” I whispered. “Crack a smile. I know you’ve got it in you.”

  But she didn’t smile and soon I gave up the wave.

  Mrs. Cavington drew something out of her pocket. A cell phone. She stood there watching me, not even a smile on her face, and—

  “Oh, heavens,” I said suddenly. “Oh, dear . . .”

  “What?”

  I looked down, realizing my mistake. I had waved all right. I’d waved with the hand that was holding the gun. So basically I was waving my gun at Mrs. Cavington. And by the way she was pressing her mouth so close to the phone that it looked like she was going to eat it, I knew she had called the police.

  “Oh no!” I yelled, causing Rosemary to jump up. I dropped the gun to the ground and quickly shut the curtains, but I knew it was too late. I already looked like a crazy maniac waving a gun and holding her neighbor hostage. “Oh . . .”

  Rosemary bit her fingernail as she put the pieces together. “Okay, we can figure this out. Why don’t I call the police and tell them everything’s okay?”

  “You can’t get involved, Rosemary. I won’t let you. You’re too nice to get caught up in this mess.”

  “Don’t you see? I want to help you, Mattie. I want to.”

  Distantly, I swore I heard wailing sirens. “They’re coming. . . .”

  I peeked out the window and Mrs. Cavington was hurrying down the sidewalk, dragging her cane, the phone still pressed to her face.

  “What do I do?” I turned to Rosemary and Abbott. “What do I do?”

  “I can call the police, tell them it was a big mistake!” Rosemary shouted. We were both shouting like we were trying to talk at a concert.

  “No, Rosemary! First of all, they’ll never believe you. They’ll have to assume you’re being held hostage and told what to say.”

  She nodded, understanding. “Then just run, Mattie. Just go. Run out the back door.” She grabbed my arm. “Run.”

  I put my hand over hers. “You are a sweetheart, but I don’t speak ‘run.’ I can’t even walk fast. I won’t make it down the back porch steps before they’re here.”

  I heard screeching tires. The peace that had overtaken my soul was gone, and sheer panic seized me, like it was literally squeezing me in its fist.

  “Mattie, sit down. Okay, just sit down for a second. You’re growing pale. I’m afraid you’re going to pass out.”

  “That might be the best thing for everyone,” I said, but I obeyed.

  Rosemary was taking my pulse again. She shook her head. “It’s not good, honey. Take some deep breaths.”

  “What’s the worst that could happen, right?” The sarcasm dripped from my voice. The room closed in around me, as my options did too. I didn’t have very many. I knew I wouldn’t kill Abbott. But now what? Get arrested? Spend the rest of my life in jail?

  The ticking of the watch filled my ear, even though it was in my pocket. The rest of your life? The rest of your life is right here and right now in this room, with these people. The voice was like a whisper, splitting all the noise of my head right down the middle—parting the raging waters, so to speak.

  I looked at Rosemary as the sirens grew loud outside. “Who is going to save me? Not even time is on my side.”

  Rosemary cupped my face and my two chins in her hands. “Time is on nobody’s s
ide, Mattie. Time just is.” She swept sweaty hair off my forehead. “But there is a place where Time isn’t.”

  I blinked and just let Rosemary hold my face. A place where Time couldn’t find me. Those beady eyes and that stupid hat and suit he was wearing . . . his words piercing me with truth and horror alike.

  “I’ve done such a bad thing coming here,” I said. Outside, we heard car doors shutting.

  “Jesus forgives all those who ask, even if it is at the latest hour, at the final second. There once was a thief who hung on a cross right next to Jesus, and Jesus said they would be together in paradise.”

  I looked at Abbott, who just moments ago had been that very thief to me. Now I was the thief.

  Tick, tick, tick.

  Rosemary seemed to sense everything I was thinking. She glanced at her watch. “Eighteen minutes.”

  “Do you think I’m really going to die in eighteen minutes, Rosemary?”

  Tears welled in her eyes. “I hope not. I don’t know. But I really hope not.”

  At that moment the house phone rang. We all jumped.

  “It’s the police,” I breathed, looking at the closed curtains. Red and blue lights flashed through the cracks.

  Rosemary stood. “I am going to answer it, Mattie. Okay? And I’m going to answer their questions. And you’re going to turn yourself in because that’s the right thing to do.”

  I nodded, now wondering if I were not better off dead. Abbott and I looked at each other, him half-dead himself, me on my way after a long string of extremely bad choices in the last seven hours.

  “Hello?” Rosemary said. She stayed in the kitchen but we could both still see her. “Yes, my name is Rosemary Goodheart.”

  Goodheart? That was really her name? I almost smiled at the thought. Almost. But I didn’t believe there was a smile left in me. Not one more smile. I didn’t realize it, that a human being could run out of smiles, that we only had so many and then they were gone.

  “His name is Matthew Bigham and he is holding two of us hostage.” She said it matter-of-factly, just like a nurse is taught in training. She might as well have been reading off my stats. There was a long silence as Rosemary listened. I stared at the gun on the carpet and decided to pick it up again. Abbott watched as I emptied the bullets and then set the gun on the table.