Sandman

by Sean Costello

  “Jesus,” Jenny said with a grim chuckle. “You guys are all the same.”

  “Anything else on your mind?”

  And until that moment Jenny hadn’t thought there was. Nothing special. She opened her mouth to say as much—then sucked in a breath, the swift passage of air causing a pained sounding whistle in her throat. Her eyes opened wide, her hands flew to the curve of her abdomen and Paul sprang to his feet in alarm, tipping over his deck chair.

  “Jen, are you all right?”

  Then a beaming smile broke on Jenny’s face and she began digging her shirttail out of her jeans. When her tummy was showing she grabbed Paul’s hand and placed it over her swollen womb saying, “It moved...can you feel it, Paul? Can you feel it?”

  “I think so. Is this the first time you’ve felt anything?”

  “Yes, anything so definite.” A tear skimmed down her cheek. “I wish Jack could’ve felt it...” And that really got the tears flowing.

  Paul righted his chair and sat down.

  Composing herself, Jenny said, “I’m sorry. It’s just that I want so much for us to be happy. Me and Jack and Kim and the baby. That’s not asking too much, is it?” Paul agreed that it wasn’t. “I mean, so what if Kim isn’t ours by birth. She’s still ours. We brought her up. She believes she’s ours. So why can’t Jack love her, too?”

  Paul handed her some Kleenex. Jenny wiped her eyes with it, then gave her nose a brisk honk.

  “Better?”

  Jenny nodded. It was true. She did feel better. She’d opened a door just a crack, a door that had been straining bravely for more years than she cared to admit, and although she had every intention of opening it wider, for the moment she lapsed into sniffling silence. The surge of emotion had come out of nowhere, like a bolt of lightning out of a clear summer sky, and Jenny was annoyed with herself for the loss of control. It was...unbecoming. Jack’s word.

  She started to hand the soggy Kleenex back to Paul and snorted laughter. She tucked it into her pocket instead. “It must be the heat,” she said. “Or the hormones. Or the hormones and the heat.”

  Paul fell into his role. “Why don’t you tell me about it, Jen.”

  She started by telling him about how Jack had floored her last night by acting like the father she and Kim had always wished he would be. “They’re supposed to go out together tonight, just the two of them.”

  “That sounds like real progress,” Paul said.

  “But that’s just like him, Paul. I may sound cynical, but it’s all just part of the Fallon terrorist technique. Just when you think you’ve got him pegged, just when you’ve decided he’s a mean, selfish son of a bitch and he’ll be that way forever, he throws you a curve. He does something nice, something you never would have expected.” Jenny cocked her head. “But you can bet it’ll be something you want. Something you’ve wanted for a very long time.” She gazed out over the city, roofed in a noxious, static haze. “That’s how he does it. That’s how he keeps you off balance. I only have to entertain the idea of leaving him—and believe me, I’ve entertained it more than once—I only have to brush past the notion in the night, and boom, there he is with a dozen roses, a candle-lit dinner and the sweetest lovemaking you can imagine.”

  Jenny noticed that her last comment made Paul blush. The reaction struck her as absurd, considering his profession, but that door, that floodgate, was wide open now and there was no stopping it.

  “You know what I think sometimes? What I feel? I feel as though I’m a fixture, an appliance in the Fallon kitchen or the Fallon bedroom or wherever Jack happens to have a use for me. I think he married me because I looked fertile. Simple as that. A baby-maker who had a few social skills and enough wit to be trained.”

  Jenny picked up her sweating glass and took a sip of tea, then went on.

  “You know what escaped me for a long time, though, Paul? Why he bothered to stay with me when it became obvious I’d probably never have his baby. God knows, other women swoon over him all the time.” She gave Paul a knowing, sidelong glance. “I’ll tell you why. Because he had to punish me. As much as he wanted children from me, the need to hurt back was the greater one.”

  Perceptive, Paul thought. “But he’s never hit you. Has he?” Jenny shook her head. “And I’ve never heard the two of you having a shouting match. How does he punish you?”

  Jenny’s eyes narrowed. “Oh, he’s subtle. So much so I’m having a hard time putting it into words. It’s not so much things he does as it’s a process. Example: I don’t have a single friend who wasn’t Jack’s friend first. Look at you and Nina. And until I met Jack I had oodles of my own friends.” A brief, puzzled look crossed Jenny’s face. “Where are they now? And what about my photography? I could’ve had a gallery showing—a dozen gallery showings by now—but Jack killed all that with a glance. He looked at my work as if it were an annoying stack of junk mail. Do you know how that made me feel?”

  “Why don’t you defy him?” Paul said. “Why don’t you leave him?”

  “Because I’m afraid,” Jenny said, realizing this was the first time she’d ever said the words out loud, though she’d known it for years.

  “I’m afraid.”

  * * *

  Tracy strode briskly across the crowded campus toward its Fifth Avenue perimeter, Kim shuffling along behind her like an obedient pup. There were two guys standing over there in the shade of an oak tree, passing a cigarette back and forth. To Kim it looked like a joint. Tracy was always after her to try drugs, everything from weed to the prescription stuff she pilfered from her mother’s seemingly endless supply, but Kim could never muster the nerve.

  The guys had spiky, dyed-red hair and wore cleated leathers. As Kim drew closer, she realized they were members of a school punk band called Slap Hammer. Kim recognized the tall one as the lead singer and the short one as the drummer. The tall one had a gold stud in his eyebrow and a barbed-wire tattoo around one skinny arm.

  “Hey, Trace,” the tall one said. “Babe.” He held out the smoldering spliff.

  Frowning, Tracy closed the distance between them in three quick strides, slapped the joint out of his hand and crushed it into the sod with her heel. “Jerk,” she hissed. “I almost got busted Saturday night.”

  “That’s cool,” the tall one said, glancing at the ruined joint. “Plenty more where that came from.”

  Tracy smiled now, flashing those perfect white teeth. “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about,” she said, sliding between the boys, resting a hand on each of their behinds. “You guys wanna party Friday night?” She grinned at Kim and Kim winced, realizing too late that a trap had been set and she was its prey.

  “Fuckin’ A,” the short one said, high-fiving his bleary-eyed partner. He squinted at Kim. “Who gets Metal Mouth?”

  Tracy wrapped her arms around the tall one’s waist. “Who do you think, glue head?”

  “I can dig it.” He threw an arm around Kim’s shoulders. “Does she do any tricks?”

  Kim felt herself shrinking inside.

  * * *

  Jenny came out of the Doctors’ Building so rattled by her session with Paul she almost forgot her lunch date with Nina. She was halfway across the parking lot, keys in hand, when she remembered. She stopped short, checked her watch and decided to walk, hoping the exercise would ease her fraying nerves.

  She pocketed her keys and set off, trying not to think about it. But it was no use; her mind insisted on replaying it all in an endless loop. It amazed her sometimes, the amount of unexpressed conflict she carried inside. It was good to get it out like this, decompress, but at best it was a temporary measure. Nothing would ever get fixed until she found the nerve to confront Jack head-on...and she was just no good at it. It left her feeling trapped, helpless, and by the time she reached the Byward Market her stride had turned into a grim march.

  She spotted Nina from a half block away, already seated at one of the restaurant’s patio tables, fresh and cool looking in peach-colored slacks
and a white silk blouse under a fitted beige jacket. With the dark sunglasses she was wearing, the only imperfection in an otherwise tasteful ensemble, she looked like a celebrity trying to mingle incognito with her adoring public.

  Jenny scrutinized her own attire and sighed. Wash-faded Levi’s, a baggy white T-shirt and a pair of Zellers grab-table thongs. A victim of fashion she would never be. Nina saw her and waved.

  “I ordered us drinks,” she said as Jenny ducked under the parasol and sat down. “Virgin Caesar okay?”

  “Perfect,” Jenny said. “Been waiting long?”

  “Not at all.” She handed Jenny a menu. “This is a great spot. Have you eaten here before?”

  Jenny shook her head. Nina’s sunglasses were annoying her. They were opaque and Jenny couldn’t see her eyes. It was like talking to a mechanical head.

  She said, “Is the sun bothering your eyes?”

  “Oh, these.” Nina touched the rim of one lens.

  Jenny didn’t know why yet, but she was sorry she’d asked the question. And that same instinct told her she wasn’t going to like the answer.

  Head bowed, Nina lowered the glasses. Her left eye was black, swollen almost shut. Her right eye glistened with tears. She pushed the glasses back into place.

  “God, Nina, I’m sorry. I’m such a bigmouth. Did you fall?”

  Nina shook her head and Jenny thought, Way to go, Jen. Wanna try for three in a row?

  “It was Will,” Nina said. “My husband did this to me.”

  Jenny touched Nina’s arm. “Oh, no. Do you want to talk about it?”

  A tear rolled out from beneath one dark lens and Nina cuffed it away. “I don’t know what I want. Sometimes I think I want things to be the way they were, you know? He’s been a good husband. A little possessive, maybe, but that can be so flattering when it doesn’t get out of hand. And the kids adore him. But now, with all the boozing and mistrust, I just don’t know anymore.”

  “What do you think’s going on?”

  “I think he’s afraid,” Nina said. “I think he’s always been afraid. I’ve got this chance now, with this fitness franchise, and he’s convinced I’m going to meet some young beefcake and leave him.”

  A waitress came to the table to take their orders. Jenny told her they’d call her when they were ready.

  “I went to a high school reunion a few years back,” Nina said when the waitress was gone. “Will was away at a convention and I thought, What the hell? Might be fun. I ran into a guy there I’d had my eye on before Will—he’s a computer analyst now, Jonathan Field, still completely delicious looking—and I asked him how come he never asked me out. He asked me if I was kidding. He said Will shoved him into the lockers one day and told him if he even looked at me the wrong way he’d be walking around with one less nut. He said Will intimidated every guy who might otherwise have asked me out.

  “He wants me at home, Jen, where I can’t be seen. It’s the only thing I can figure, because until I mentioned this job, until I decided I wanted to be more than just a housewife, our lives were terrific.” Nina took a sip of her drink and said, “This is the first time he’s ever hit me. I was furious.” She smiled a little then. “I hit him back, you know. Really belted him.”

  “God,” Jenny said. “Do you think it’ll ever happen again?”

  “I don’t know. But one thing I can promise you: if it does, I’m out the door. Me and the twins. I’ll kill him before I let him punch me around.” Nina removed her glasses, her injured eye watering in the sunlight. Jenny studied it with grim fascination. “I’m not going to back down on this, Jen. It’s something I want and I’m going to have it. As far as I’m concerned, any woman who stands for abuse deserves what she gets.”

  She put her sunglasses back on, the gesture closing the conversation. “So. Shall we eat?”

  Jenny nodded, thinking, deserves what she gets, deserves what she gets....

  And over the course of their hour-long lunch, as the thought played over and over in her mind, the voice deepened and became Jack’s.

  * * *

  Jack finished his list of dentals at two-thirty. After admitting his last patient to the recovery room, he went down the hall to the neuro suite. He found Will hunched in his chair by the anesthetic machine, staring at his feet. A glance at the monitors told Jack the patient’s blood pressure was too low and his pulse was dangerously slow. The IV bag was empty and the Forane vaporizer, set a full percent higher than it should have been for a head case, was almost out of juice. Will was in the room, but he might as well have been sitting on the can at home. He didn’t even notice when Jack came in.

  “Will,” Jack said, acknowledging a grateful nod from the surgeon.

  The burly anesthetist flinched, saying, “Jack. What brings you to the coconut corner?” His eyes were puffy and red.

  Jack leaned over him and whispered, “I want you in my office. Right now. We have to talk.”

  “I’m in the middle of a case here, Jack. I know I owe you some poker money, but can’t it wait?”

  “I don’t want to embarrass you,” Jack said, “but I’m prepared to.”

  “Okay, Jack.” Will stood, glancing at his patient. “What about my patient?”

  “I’ll have somebody cover you.”

  Will said okay and trundled out of the room. When he was gone, Jack picked up the phone and called the lounge to find a replacement.

  * * *

  “So what is it, Will? What’s eating you?”

  Jack had adjusted the blinds in his office to a soothing glow, but Will refused to be soothed. He squirmed and shifted in his chair, bottled fury working in his jaws.

  “It’s that whoring wife of mine,” he said, springing to his feet with startling suddenness. “If I could just catch her at it...” He made a gesture with his fists, a man snapping a length of kindling in two. The fight seemed to run out of him then and he sat down again. “But she’s too clever. I’ve gone almost broke having her followed. I bet she’s blowing the detectives, too.”

  “You know what I think?” Jack said. “I think you’re imagining things. But even if you’re not, even if she’s doing everything you imagine and more—you can’t bring this shit to work with you.”

  Will nodded. He was on the verge of tears.

  Jack said, “If you can’t stay focused, you’re going to kill somebody. It’s that simple.” He waited until Will looked up at him. “Shape up, chum. In a situation like this, friendship only goes so far.” He paused, then said, “Don’t force me to take action against you.”

  “You’re right, Jack. Look, I’ll be fine.”

  “You want to go home? John Barkham’s babysitting your case; why not let him finish it up for you.”

  “No, I’ll do it. I’m on call tonight, anyway. Thanks, Jack. Thanks a lot.”

  “Go home,” Jack said. “Talk to your wife. Settle this thing before it gets out of hand. I’ll look after your call tonight. I’m on Wednesday. If you’re feeling better by then, you can return the favor.”

  A cornered anger flickered across the big man’s face, then dissolved into resignation. “I’m a good anesthetist, Jack.”

  “I know you are. That’s why I’d hate to see you fuck it up.”

  Jack let him walk to the door alone.

  6

  AT THREE O’CLOCK THAT AFTERNOON Jenny pushed her grocery cart through the automatic doors of the air-conditioned Billings Bridge Plaza into the damp, oppressive heat of the parking lot. She loaded the groceries into the trunk and climbed into the car, cursing her busted air conditioner and her suddenly reckless obstetrician, cursing the Lord on high. She belted herself in, started the car and buzzed open all the windows. Then she checked the lane behind her and started to back out.

  The crash was surprisingly violent, considering she’d barely gotten the car rolling when it came. She’d glanced again in her rearview, caught a flash of dark metal and jammed on the brakes—an instant too late.

  Jenny shifted into PAR
K and got out, noting with satisfaction that the vehicle she’d slammed into was a Porsche. A new one.

  Good, she thought. Stupid bastard.

  She marched to the driver’s door, jammed shut by her Chevy’s rear bumper, and tried to get a look inside. The windows were tinted and Jenny could make out only a motionless silhouette. She had a bad moment when she thought the driver was seriously injured...but at this speed? Then the window hummed partway open.

  “Where in the hell did you come from?” Jenny said, fuming. “I checked before I backed out, Mister, so if you think I’m going to pay...”

  What? Was the son of a bitch smiling? Sitting there smug and cool in his dented Porsche, gawking at her through a pair of night-black Vuarnets—and smiling?

  Then it struck her. The familiarity. There was only one person in the world with a smile like that. Those milk white teeth, dimples you could sip champagne out of, a smile that brought an otherwise plain face alive in a way that had always made Jenny’s heart jog just a few beats faster.

  “Richard? Richard Dickerson?”

  The smile widened. The glasses came off. The blue eyes twinkled, a little impishly.

  “The very one,” Richard said. “Good to see you again, Jenny.”

  What followed was one of those moments which, in retrospect, seem to have spurned the imperative of time; it spun out with a kind of lightheaded constancy, and Jenny forgot about the heat, her pique with Craig Walsh and her upsetting session with Paul. She even forgot she was pregnant. She stood there under the beating sun, staring at the man whose nose she would have cheerfully bloodied only a heartbeat before, and grinned like a heat-struck clown.

  “You okay, Trix?” It was a nickname he’d given her a long time ago.

  “Sure,” Jenny said, “I’m fine. I’m just so surprised to see you. How long has it been? And look what I’ve done to your car.”

  Still smiling, Richard climbed out the passenger side and strolled around the hood. He wore a strappy T-shirt with a spot of blue oil paint on the breast and wash-faded Lee jeans. Jenny couldn’t be sure, but she thought they might be the same pair he’d worn when they were dating, sixteen years ago.