Everybody Loved Roger Harden

by Cecil Murphey

  “I don’t want any more,” she said after the fourth drink. “Please, Dana. My head is spinning.”

  “It’s not spinning enough,” he said. “I know your tricks to avoid having a good time. I like to drink, and I want to share all the good things in my life. I enjoy living this fine life and—”

  “You call this enjoying life?”

  “It used to be fun.”

  “Used to be?”

  “Yeah, it was until I married you.”

  “I didn’t force you to marry me,” she said. She set her drink on a table and staggered from the room. She had to get outside and into the air. The room, filled with people, loud music, billows of cigarette smoke, loud talking and laughing, made her feel trapped.

  She walked over to the patio door, and she had to hold on to the building to retain her balance. The early evening sky had changed from gold to apricot and orange. As she watched, shards of gray streaked through the flaming colors as if to say, “The night has almost come.” She watched the clear lines of the hills fade away. The landscape seemed ready to sleep. She inhaled the fragrance from the nearby magnolia tree. If she could stay outside long enough, perhaps the dizziness would go away.

  She had no idea how long she stayed on the patio. She closed her eyes and tried to shut out everything. After what seemed like a few minutes, although it may have been longer, she heard someone come up behind her; she didn’t turn around.

  “Don’t be that way, darling.” Dana stood behind her and ran his fingers across the back of her hand. “I’m sorry. Sometimes I do dumb things.”

  Julie didn’t move or say anything.

  He wrapped his arms around her. She wanted to lean back and let him hold her as he’d done so many times, but something was different. Perhaps it was the way he held her. Then she realized what it was—he also tapped one foot.

  Afterward when she thought about it, the moment seemed ludicrous. While he begged her to forgive him, he tapped his foot impatiently as if to ask, “How long is this going to take?”

  Without turning around, she asked, “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing you can’t change,” he said gruffly. “Just loosen up. This is party time. We’re supposed to be the guests of honor. This is a party my friends set up for us—to celebrate our wedding. Get it? To celebrate? That’s what we’re trying to do, and you desert everyone.”

  “I doubt that anyone has noticed—”

  “I noticed. That’s what counts, isn’t it?”

  “How can you change so quickly from warm to cold?”

  Dana laughed. “Maybe that’s part of my charm.” He kissed the back of her neck. “Now I want you to take my arm and smile, and let’s go back inside and I’ll give you a fresh drink.”

  “I’ve had enough,” she said.

  He whirled her around so that she faced him. He gripped her left arm. “Listen to me and listen with your full attention. I’ve put up with you for a long time. I’ll tell you when to stop drinking. You want to spoil every party and every fun time. No more, babe. No more. Got that?”

  “You’re hurting me,” she said.

  He tightened his grip, grabbed her other arm, and squashed her against his massive chest. “I’ll hurt you more unless you do what I say.” He pulled tighter.

  She tried to push away, but he pinned her arms to her side. She could hardly breathe.

  “Will you do what I ask?” He pulled her tighter still.

  She nodded as she gasped for breath.

  Slowly he released her, and she took several deep gulps of air. She tried to look into his face, but it was too dark on the patio to see his features. “What is going on? This isn’t the Dana I married, or is this the real Dana?”

  “Just shut up. Get back inside. I expect you to enjoy yourself as much as I do. Got that?”

  He turned and walked back into the party. A full minute later, one of their hosts came out with a glass of red wine for her. “Dana told me to bring you a drink. Here it is. Nice and chilled.” She handed it to Julie and added, “If you want anything stronger, let me know.”

  Julie grabbed the glass and drank the contents in one long swallow and handed back the glass.

  She brushed past the woman, went inside, and drank another.

  Julie could think only of oblivion. She didn’t want to see the people or hear their mindless chatter or cough whenever someone blew cigarette smoke her way. A distinct odor drifted toward her. At first she thought it was some kind of spice, but it wasn’t one she recognized. It had a strong, sweetish aroma. She’d never used marijuana, but she spotted four people in the far corner. They smoked, and she heard words such as toke, hit, and joint. Classmates in college had used those words, so now she knew.

  What are we doing at a party like this? Who is this man I married? What is going on? He’s never been this way before. Is it because he’s drunk?

  A moment of reality slipped through the haziness. She dropped into a nearby sofa and closed her eyes. No, this is the real Dana Macie. The man I dated was an actor, an imposter. She closed her eyes. How blind could I have been?

  “Wake up!”

  Rough hands shook her, and Julie opened her eyes. Immediately she felt dizzy. Dana pulled her to her feet, and she held on to him so she could stand. “The party’s over and it’s time to leave.”

  “Leave?” she asked numbly. “Where am I— Oh, the party.”

  Dana pulled away from her and headed toward the front door. She tripped over an empty bottle and upturned an ashtray. She stumbled into a crystal serving tray, and glasses fell to the floor and shattered. A few feet away, a man lay on the floor, a stupid grin on his face as he sang to himself.

  Julie’s body felt fully relaxed, and she only wanted to sleep. But she had to move—and to keep on moving. She told herself, move your right foot. Move your left. After what seemed like minutes, she reached the door. Dana had left it open, and a cool breeze struck her face.

  “Ah!” She inhaled the blowing air. Not only did she detect the magnolia, but a scent of honeysuckle filled her nostrils. Ordinarily the cloying odors were too much for her, but tonight it rallied her senses. She stood straight and willed away the dizziness. She walked slowly down the five steps to the driveway. Dana had pulled their Mercedes convertible fairly close. Although she felt lightheaded, she was able to walk.

  The day had been warm but overcast, and now fog crept along the street. She felt as if it had thickened while she watched. She peered at the street lights that seemed to compete with the gathering murkiness. They were in Henry County, about forty-five miles from their house, in a low-lying area where they often received heavy fog before and after rain. She felt a few drops of moisture on her hand.

  “Will you hurry up?” Dana abruptly got out and came around to where she stood. He thrust the key into her hands. “You drive. I’m too mellowed out.”

  “I’m not fit to—”

  He grabbed her by the throat. His fingers dug deeply into her skin. “Maybe you didn’t hear me. You drive!”

  “Okay,” she said. She threw her purse into the backseat of their convertible and drove off. They had at least an hour’s drive to reach the southeast side of Atlanta.

  Dana fell asleep almost as soon as he got back into the car. He snored gently from his side. After they passed the vast houses in the wealthy community where they had partied, she drove along a long stretch of highway that would eventually lead to I-75. The fog grew denser as she drove. With her lights on, she could see only a short distance ahead of her and rarely more than twenty feet. She had started out at fifty-five but slowed to forty miles an hour. She eased up on the gas pedal until the speedometer registered thirty. Her hands gripped the wheel, and she felt the strain from leaning forward.

  Her stomach roiled, and bile snaked its way to her throat. Several times she wondered if she would have to stop and vomit. Her palms sweat, and she wiped them on her skirt. Sweat trickled out of her armpits and down her sides. The rope of nausea in her stomach kno
tted tighter.

  Julie slowed to twenty. At that speed her headlights barely illuminated the yellow lines ahead. For the next nine miles, the road curved badly. The yellow diamond-shaped sign showed the snake icon and said thirty miles an hour. That was the speed limit for good weather.

  She feared that she would run into a ditch. Another mile, and she realized that rain had come and gone in that area. The roads were shrouded with a thick mist, and the highway was silvery wet. Even going twenty, she misjudged and the right tire went off the pavement. She jerked the car back onto the road.

  Dana awakened, rubbed his eyes, and blinked at the speedometer until he could read the numbers. “I told you to drive, not coast down the road.” He scooted toward her until his foot reached the gas pedal. He kicked her foot aside and pressed on the accelerator. The car spun forward. She tried to stay in the middle of the road, but the fog was too heavy for her to judge properly. She crossed the double yellow lines on every curve.

  “Please take your foot off—” she yelled and realized that was a mistake.

  Dana pressed harder. “Don’t tell me what to do. I tell you. Now drive and shut your mouth.” He closed his eyes and swore at her.

  Julie leaned forward and tried to peer through the massive clouds of fog. She had no idea how long she drove. Three times the right front wheel went off the road. So far they hadn’t encountered any cars coming toward them.

  She had no idea where they were, and Dana’s foot didn’t let up on the pedal. They were down to less than a quarter tank of gas, and she hoped they’d run out of gas. But a quarter tank would probably take them all the way home.

  She may have fallen asleep; she may have only blinked. Julie would never know which. A sudden crash, and the next thing she knew, she lay on the ground outside the car. It took her a few seconds before she was aware enough to get up. Nothing seemed broken, but whenever she moved, her body ached in a new spot. She crawled to the front of the car and slowly pulled herself upright.

  To her surprise, the car lights still worked. The vehicle had climbed nearly three feet up a magnolia tree and hung there. Because of the impact, the tree leaned backward. She hobbled to the driver’s door. Dana’s body had fallen over on her side, the door was open, and he hung face down. His face was covered with blood.

  She felt for a pulse.

  There was none.

  Fourteen

  Julie didn’t know what to do. It must have been close to three o’clock in the morning by then. The fog slowly drifted away, and she could finally see the road. Ahead she spotted a sign that pointed Macon to the left and Stockbridge to the right. At least she knew where she was.

  She found her purse on the floor of the backseat and pulled out her cell phone. They were less than three miles from Roger Harden’s massive estate—it was huge, several hundred acres. Roger and her dad had been good friends when they were young and were classmates through high school. As a favor to her dad, she had called Roger when she first enrolled at Clayton University. Roger visited her several times, took her to dinner, and insisted she keep his number. “If you ever need anything—anything—just call me,” he said.

  Julie fumbled through the address book in her purse until she located his number. She didn’t know what else to do except call Roger. Her hands shook so badly she had trouble dialing and had to start over.

  Dana’s dead, her mind said. You killed him. He’s dead.

  “Noooo,” she cried and finally punched in the right number for Roger Harden.

  “I killed him! I killed my husband—I was driving and he put his foot on the pedal and I couldn’t see and—”

  “Calm down,” Roger said in a soothing voice. “Please relax. Tell me where you are.” He talked for at least two minutes, and she did calm down.

  “I’ll be there. Don’t do anything; don’t touch anything.”

  Roger arrived at the crash within ten minutes. Julie walked around slightly dazed, afraid that if she stopped moving, she’d lie down and go to sleep. Roger walked up—held up his hand, and said, “Let me look it over.” He stood at the side of the car and carefully took in everything. Finally, he said, “Dana was driving.”

  “No, I was—I told you—”

  He came up close and stared into her eyes. “Listen to me, Julie. Dana was driving. He was drunk, but he insisted on driving. Is that correct?” She tried to explain what Dana had done about the gas pedal, but he motioned for her to stop talking.

  “You have not been listening,” Roger said.

  He pulled Dana’s body over so it was fully in the driver’s seat. He opened the passenger door, applied pressure, and bent it so it wouldn’t close. He grabbed her purse and threw it on the ground on the passenger side. “Stand over here when the police arrive,” he said. Then he dialed 911.

  “So that’s the horrible story,” I said. “Roger covered it up for me. I was charged with nothing. I might have been acquitted anyway, but I don’t think so. I was driving under the influence, and Dana died. That is a crime.

  “Roger has held that accident over my head for the past seven years. He never wanted money—Roger wasn’t that kind of extortionist. He wanted power—he had to have control in my life. I didn’t realize until I got here that I wasn’t his only victim.”

  “I’m sorry,” Burton said.

  “In case you wonder, I’ve never had a drink since. And I have no desire for one—I didn’t before, but I drank just to please him. After Dana’s death, I learned a number of things about him.”

  “Such as?”

  “I learned he was into drugs—really into them. I found them hidden all through the house. He had more than fifty bottles of Ecstasy. I found several pounds—I guess you call them kilos—of marijuana. He had nineteen bottles of prescription drugs—all of them some kind of speed.” She laughed self-consciously. “I was so naïve, I had to look the drugs up on the Internet to know what they were.”

  “What did you do with them?”

  “I flushed them down the toilet. It took me exactly nineteen flushes to get rid of everything.”

  “You had no idea about his other life?”

  I shook my head. “None. I also began to receive phone calls—on his cell. People wanted a fix, or usually they’d say they wanted a little help. I told them to hang up or I’d call the police. After a few weeks, they stopped calling.”

  “I went back to my maiden name of West to get away from that whole scene and especially from Dana’s friends or customers or whatever they were.”

  “And Roger took care of everything with the police?” Burton asked.

  “Everything. He took over, and I have to say I was glad. He told the police he had been driving by, heard the crash, and rushed to our aid. He said he knew Dana, which he didn’t, and he also told them he had heard that my husband drank a lot, and he said that he had even observed him drunk once in public. In Georgia, the legal limit is .08. Dana’s was almost twice that amount. Worse, they found he had several prescription painkillers in his bloodstream as well as marijuana.

  “After Roger spoke to the police, no one ever questioned me. Roger brought me to his house. I stayed in shock for most of the next week. That’s when I met Amanda and Jason, and they were extremely kind to me. Eventually the police chief came to Roger’s house to see me. ‘Sorry, ma’am, that you had to be involved, but the world is better off without him.’ That was it. I never had anyone ask me anything else.”

  I filled in a few more details, but Burton had already figured it out. “Roger had taken pictures before he moved Dana’s body. He threatened to show the pictures to the police if I ever gave him any problems. ‘Murder has no statute of limitations,’ he reminded me.

  “ ‘But it wasn’t murder,’ ” I insisted.

  “ ‘It will be if you cross me,’ he said. He also told me that he could ‘enlist half a dozen people’ to testify to our fights and arguments and that I’d threatened to kill Dana on more than one occasion.

  “ ‘But there were no f
ights,’ ” I protested. “ ‘I never threatened him—not ever.’ ”

  “ ‘Perhaps,’ Roger said, ‘but I can assure you that no one will believe you.’ That’s when I realized he would do anything to keep me under his control.”

  “And what did he ask you to do?”

  I couldn’t look at him, because I was embarrassed to admit it. “I was a spy—like Dr. Dunn. He had someone show me how to break into the county mental health files. He also showed me how to gain undetectable access to the files of eight psychiatrists.”

  “And you reported—”

  “Only information that he demanded. I never volunteered. Roger didn’t know it, but I held back as much information as I could,” I said. “But yes, I did a totally unethical thing. I was one of Roger’s robots.”

  After I finished my confession, Burton and I stared at each other. I felt the sympathy pour from him, but he didn’t say anything. Finally, he took my hand, patted it, and said, “Please forgive me. I had no idea—”

  “It’s all right. I’ve held it in all these years, and I truly needed to tell someone. Thank you for being that someone.”

  Burton hugged me then. No kiss. No magic moment. Just a hug. But it was warm and tender, the kind given when we want to comfort someone who hurts. I’ve been out with enough men to know the difference. I felt as if he cared about me. I could have been a woman of seventy or a boy of fourteen and the hug would have been the same.

  As he held me, I realized that the demons of shame and embarrassment were—if not gone—at least greatly diminished.

  We sat next to each other on the sofa like that until my tears began. I had no idea they were coming, but it was like an unexpected eruption. I cried with a lack of self-consciousness and control that I hadn’t experienced since I had been a child.

  Burton released me, and I stared at his moist eyes. He had felt my pain. That brought even more comfort. No one had ever felt my pain before.

  Then the convulsive sobs began. I have no idea where they came from, but I couldn’t stop them. More tears came—tears I had not shed at Mom’s funeral, at Dana’s, or at any other time in my life. It felt as if everything came together at once. My body shook, and I wept until I thought I would never stop shaking with the sobs and the grief—and especially from the guilt. Wisely, Burton didn’t touch me; he didn’t need to. He provided a safe environment for me to focus on my pain.