Correspondence courses, Jenny thought now. Yeah, right.
She’d let it go for a long while after that, years, pouring her heart into their home and her dreams of motherhood. They didn’t discuss it again until shortly after her last miscarriage. And ironically, Jack was the one who brought it up. Kim had started junior kindergarten that fall and Jenny mentioned to him one morning that with Kim in school, she had no idea how she was going to fill up her time.
“Why don’t you get back into photography?” Jack had said. “Take a couple of classes a week.”
So she had.
And that had been the closest she’d ever come to cheating on Jack. The instructor at the Algonquin College photography course had taken an immediate interest in her work. And, more gradually, in Jenny herself. Flattered by his attentions, she’d met him once outside the classroom, a hasty tryst in the parking lot of the Bayshore Shopping Center, but she’d been so terrified Jack would find out that she had quickly nipped it in the bud. She attended two more classes, but when the instructor persisted in his advances Jenny dropped out and continued her studies on her own.
After months of experimentation, she settled on black and white. She liked the starkness of it, the challenge of capturing mood without color. She shot whatever appealed to her: the old cast-iron street lamps along the Rideau canal, the tarnished copper spires of the parliament buildings, the hump-backed willows along the shores of Dow’s Lake. But her real love was portraiture, and with time even this narrow interest became more focused.
She happened upon a drowsing wino one afternoon in the park, a harmless looking tramp sunning himself in a drift of autumn leaves. Perhaps unethically, Jenny took advantage of the man’s snoring stupor and shot two rolls of film. The old boy shifted a lot during the half-hour session, striking new and interesting poses, and afterward, Jenny was amused to discover he’d been aware of her presence all along.
“When you’re in my kinda shape, lady, you learn to get bombed with one eye open. There’s always some other bum tryna get what you got. Say, you got a dollar?”
Jenny gave him ten dollars, but not before wringing a solemn promise out of him: weather permitting, he was to meet her again tomorrow—same time, same place—and bring along as many of his confederates as he could muster. Ten-spots for everyone.
That was the beginning of a quiet pursuit, a quiet passion. By the time Kim was in grade school Jenny found new subjects for her eager shutter. Again at Jack’s suggestion, she became a part-time volunteer at the Children’s Hospital—and it was here that some of her most heart-wrenching portraits were conceived. In many cases Jenny’s photographs were all that remained of tiny lives that had never known a moment’s joy. She had portfolios full of the stuff.
“Hi, lazybones.”
“God, Jack, you startled me.” He was leaning in the doorway behind her. “How long have you been standing there?”
“Not long,” he said, coming into the room. “What were you thinking about?”
Jenny felt her face redden. “Nothing special. What’s new?”
“Ryan had a death in cardiac today.”
“Oh, no. What happened?”
“Equipment failure. The guy was a friend of Ryan’s, too. An M.D.”
“That’s awful. It wasn’t his fault, was it?”
“No, but try telling him that. I took him out for a drink after work, let him talk it through. He’s pretty thick skinned, though. He’ll be okay.”
Jenny’s feelings for Ryan were corrupted by a bitter pang. Sometimes Jack’s capacity for compassion surprised her. She wished he’d bring more of it home.
She said, “When do you want to eat?”
“Half hour. I want to try out my new baby first.”
“Not another gun.”
Jack smiled. “A real sweetheart.” He sat on the edge of the tub and began stroking her swollen belly, tracing heart-shapes in the light film of suds.
“What is it this time, a Howitzer?”
“Cute, but you’re not far off.”
“Boys and their toys.”
“Don’t knock it babe. We’ll be the only ones on the block ready for the yellow horde when it comes. And believe me, it’s coming.”
Jack’s tracing finger moved to Jenny’s right nipple. The pigment there had gotten deeper and the skin was supersensitive. His touch aroused her instantly.
“My boobs have gotten bigger,” Jenny said with a trace of pride. She was small breasted and knew Jack liked ’em large. “Have you noticed?”
“You bet I have.”
She touched his teasing finger. “We’ve got a while...why don’t you climb in here and—”
Jack took his hand away and stood. “Save it, kid.” He smiled and left the room.
The rejection burned in Jenny’s face like a fever. It’s always when he wants it. Only when he wants it.
A few minutes later she heard the dull, repeating thud of Jack’s new toy three stories below. She climbed out of the tub and wrapped herself in a robe. Her pot roast should be just about ready.
* * *
The main reason Jack had purchased their home was the thick-walled bomb shelter its original owner added to the idyllic canal-side site. A full thirty feet long and twelve feet wide, the never-used bomb shelter had converted quite neatly into a sound proof target range.
Jack took aim with his new snub-nosed .44, the preferred dispatching tool of Son of Sam, and squeezed the trigger. There was a tremendous explosion, perceived by Jack only as a dull concussion through his state-of-the-art hearing protection, and a hole as big as his fist appeared through the heart of the man-sized silhouette twenty feet away.
Jack squeezed off four more rounds, all head shots, then removed his goggles and examined the smoking sidearm. It was a balky little mother, but he was getting the hang of it. It was all in the squeeze.
He reloaded and adopted a shooter’s stance.
“Dad?”
Jack’s body jerked and the gun went off, the shot going wild. Furious, he swung on his startled daughter.
Kim stood in the doorway to her father’s inner sanctum with her hands over her ears, her round face scarlet from shouting his name.
“Jesus,” Jack said. He pulled off his earplugs. “How many times do I have to tell you? Never—never—disturb me when I’ve got a loaded gun in my hand. Do you want to get shot?”
“No, Dad. I’m sorry. Mom told me—”
“I don’t care what your mother told you. I told you never to bother me while I’m shooting. Do you think you can remember that?”
“Yes, Dad.”
“All right. Now what do you want?”
“Mom says it’s time to eat.”
“Tell her I’ll be right up. I’ve just got to clean this gun.”
9
ON WEDNESDAY MORNING AT EIGHT o’clock, Will Armstrong began a list of ear, nose and throat cases with Dr. Harry Katz. Even at the best of times Will could barely tolerate the man, and today was not the best of times. Not by a long shot.
When he got home from work last night, tired and hungry, Nina had come prancing down the stairs in a black, low-cut dress he’d never seen before and announced she was going out.
“Don’t you remember? My meeting with Stan?”
”Yeah, Stan. The fitness franchise guy. Dressed like that. What about supper?”
“There’s a casserole in the fridge, the boys’ favorite. Just pop it in the microwave.”
A kiss on the cheek and she was out the door. So Will fed the boys, watched a cartoon dinosaur movie with them, bathed them and tucked them into their beds. The thirst hit him hard after that and he sat on the couch with a bottle of scotch, waiting for his wife to get home. The twins woke him there at six-thirty this morning. He found Nina in the kitchen, humming to something on the radio, getting breakfast ready for the boys. He shut the radio off.
“What time did you get in?”
Nina said, “Late.” Giving him attitude.
&nbs
p; “Why didn’t you wake me up?”
“I tried.” She opened the cupboard under the sink and fished the empty scotch bottle out of the trash. “Is this how you look after our boys when I’m out?”
“What kind of meeting goes on until the middle of the night? And what kind of message are you sending Stan the fitness prick in a dress like that? Did he ask you how bad you wanted to manage his place? Did you show him?”
Nina was pouring milk on the boys’ Cheerios and spilled some of it. “Shit,” she said, reaching for a paper towel. “I’m not going to get into this with you, Will. Not now. You’ll just have to trust—”
“Mom?”
The boys were standing in the kitchen doorway, frightened by the raised voices. Nina started to go to them and Will shouted, “Go up to your rooms, right now,” and the boys ran off in tears. Things went downhill from there.
“...bucking, Will.”
Will blinked and shook his head. “What?”
Katz said, “The patient is bucking.”
Will looked at his patient, a thirty year old male with nasal polyps. The guy was hacking on his E-tube. Will cranked the anesthetic up a notch.
Fucker, he thought. Lie still.
When the patient settled, Will went out to the phone in the hall. As the door swung shut behind him, Katz glanced at Stacy, the circulating nurse, and shook his head. “What’s with him?”
Stacy leaned forward on her stool. “I could tell you, but then I’d have to kill you.”
“Yeah, right. What’s the buzz?”
“I think his wife is...you know. Stoopin’ for the troops.”
Katz said, “No way. Where’d you hear this?” He dipped a steel polyp snare into the patient’s right nostril.
“From him,” Stacy said. “He’s on that phone all the time.” She mimicked Armstrong’s booming voice. “‘Well, who’s there with you, then? How come you didn’t answer when I called ten minutes ago? Why are you breathing so hard?’” She crossed her legs briskly. “He doesn’t seem to care who’s listening—” Stacy’s mouth snapped shut with an audible click.
Will came back in and stood over Katz. “You done?”
“Almost,” Katz said. “Just got to lop off this last one and take care of the bleeding.”
Will went back to his chair. Katz lassoed the polyp and thumbed the plunger. There was a brief, wet snap! and Katz withdrew the instrument. Hanging from its tip was a globular yellow mass the size of a robin’s egg. Blood welled from the patient’s nostril, pooling in the socket of one eye.
Stacy said, “That is so gross.”
Katz waggled the specimen in the air. “Had lunch yet, Stace?”
“I mean it, Katz,” Will said from his chair. “I haven’t got all day.”
“Excuse me,” Katz said, his face above his mask turning beet red. “We were just—”
“Just finish.”
Katz glanced at Stacy, then set about controlling the bleeding. The silence is the room was palpable.
When the case was finished, Will dropped the patient off in the recovery room and went to the nearest phone. On the fortieth ring—he counted them, each unanswered buzz dialing his rage to a hotter setting—he slammed down the receiver. Where was she now? He’d talked to her not ten minutes ago, listened to her exasperated bullshit about him driving her crazy phoning all the time, and finally elicited her plans for the day. “I’m staying right here, in our home sweet home.” He hated it when she took that tone with him. “I’m going to vacuum the rugs, then sweat my way through the Buns of Steel video. If I should need to take a pee in there somewhere, shall I give you a call?”
Livid, Will hung up on her; but a few minutes later he felt foolish, paranoid, contrite. He called back this time to apologize, but all he got was dead air.
All right. This time I’ve got you.
He stalked out of the anesthesia office, almost bowling over a cleaning lady, and headed for the parking lot at a brisk jog.
* * *
Dr. Katz said, “Where is he?”
Stacy said, “I don’t know. We’ve been paging him for the last fifteen minutes.”
Katz checked his watch. “I’ve got a rhinoplasty at the Civic this afternoon. How am I supposed to get through a list like this with all these delays? Where is the son of a bitch?”
“I have no idea,” Stacy said, thinking, Why don’t you go track him down yourself, tough guy? People only bad-mouthed Dr. Armstrong when he was well out of earshot.
Katz huffed and stalked away. Stacy went back to her magazine.
* * *
Will drove with both fists clamped to the wheel. He was in a state of rage that had been building for months, and all he could think about was murder. And if he did kill the cheating bitch, what jury in the country would convict him?
Crime of passion, baby. Crime of passion.
He parked in the alley behind the house and started with the basement windows—dim views of the rec-room, laundry and furnace rooms—but could see nothing out of the ordinary.
If she’s fucking him in our bed, he thought, climbing the flagstone steps to the main level, I’ll make her eat his balls.
He peered into the dining room, his office, the guest rooms, and again saw nothing unusual. Then he climbed onto the deck, crawled on all fours to the living room windows and looked inside.
He could just see the top of her head beyond the sectional sofa, bobbing up and down. There was music blaring and something playing on the TV he couldn’t quite see.
But there was no doubt in his mind about what she was up to. He couldn’t see the fucker she was with...not that it mattered. Whoever he was, the jig was just about up.
Will backtracked to the steps, walked through the breezeway to the front door and let himself in with his key. As he entered he realized his cock was almost painfully stiff. It felt like a club against his belly.
“Honey,” he said. “I’m home...”
* * *
Nina didn’t hear him, wasn’t even aware of him until she looked up and saw him in the archway. She had the stereo cranked up to the two o’clock position—rap: tough, plaintive voices; a bassy, hard-driving beat—and when she let out a startled cry she could hardly hear herself.
Will was wearing a scrub suit, the pants loose at the waist, and his penis was out. It was a fierce purple color and rock hard, pointing at the ceiling in an angry salute the likes of which Nina hadn’t seen in years. She was momentarily stunned by the sight of it.
She was alone, doing her aerobics, stretched out in a split she was very proud of. She hadn’t managed one this deep since her majorette days. When Will looked in through the window she was bouncing herself deeper into the split.
“Where is he?” Will howled over the music.
Nina got her legs under her. “Who?” she said, moving toward the stereo. The notion that Will had come home to make amends and the prospect had given him this hefty hard-on vanished when she saw his face. The man was wild, red eyes flashing around the room.
Nina turned the music off. If she had to scream—and every instinct told her it was coming to that—she wanted at least a reasonable chance of being heard by someone outside. She said, “There’s nobody here, Will. I told you that over the phone.”
He was edging closer, eyes still darting around, and Nina realized she was cornered. Deck windows on one side, wall unit on the other.
“Fix your pants,” she said without much hope.
Will grinned. “Nope. Uh-uh.” He flicked his penis with a fingernail. “Blue steel, sweetie. That’s what you want, isn’t it? Well, come get it.”
“Will,” Nina said, tensing. “You stop this right now.”
Will made a grab for her and Nina side-stepped, nimbly darting past him. Cat-quick, Will stuck his foot out and tangled her legs. Nina fell in a sprawl, hitting the rug hard, the wind knocked out of her.
Will turned the music on again. Turned it on loud. “Now,” he said, grinning. “Where’s your little frien
d? Maybe he’d like to watch.”
Gasping for breath, Nina said, “There’s nobody here.” He was standing in front of the windows now, backlit by the sun. “I’ve never cheated on you, Will, though I’ve had enough offers. Even from some of your so called friends. But I turned them down. Now stop this.”
Will dropped to one knee and caught her by the ankle. Nina kicked at him with her free foot, but he grabbed that one, too. Then her legs were pinned beneath his weight.
Will shimmied up her body and sat on her chest. Nina could hardly breathe.
“Wanna get fucked?” He grabbed her by the hair and slapped her hard. A thin ribbon of blood flew from her mouth, streaking the brushed white carpet. “Like it rough?”
He raised his hand to slap her again and Nina grabbed him by the balls, squeezing with everything she had. The crazed expression on his face vanished, changing to that of a man impaled on an iron spike.
Still clutching his scrotum, Nina squirmed out from under him, then let him go. Will roared and started to get up. Nina scooped a heavy potted cactus off the coffee table and brought it down on the back of his neck. The big pot shattered, sending dirt and chunks of cactus flying everywhere. Will grunted and slumped to the floor.
“Stay right where you are,” Nina said. She grabbed a brass table lamp. “Or I swear to God, I’ll cave your fucking head in.”
Dazed, Will blinked up at her.
“You’re out of control,” Nina said, jabbing the lamp at him, “and I can’t take this anymore. I refuse to take it.”
Will shook his head, the madness seeping back into his eyes. He started to get up.
And Nina ran.
“Where is he?” Will bellowed, going after her. “Where is he?”
Nina cut through the kitchen to the back door, outpacing him easily. She grabbed her keys off the counter and slammed the door behind her. She was backing out of the carport when Will appeared in the laneway, his penis still exposed, flaccid now, waggling in the sunlight. He hammered the roof of her Accord, denting it, as she accelerated past him into the alley.
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