FIFTY-THREE
Today's Wednesday, and I'm hibernating in my office, pursuing my new pastime: staring at my computer's screen saver. It's been four weeks to the day since I first saw Sierra on that DVD, happily smothering Mason Booker with her delights. Twenty-eight days. Six hundred seventy-two hours. And lives are in ruins.
I heard through the grapevine that even after spending wads of her parents’ money for every kind of jackleg, syndrome-inventing therapist she could find, Sierra's started drinking anyway. She passed out at the wheel, crashed into a parked school bus, and nearly totaled her Lexus. Mercifully, no kids were on the bus, and she got out with only scratches. She was charged with reckless endangerment and nearly found herself behind bars … until the famed Montague clout stepped in and saved her.
The moment I heard, I rushed over to the house to see if Sierra was okay. I wasn't hoping to start a process of getting back together, but I was genuinely concerned. We'd both made mistakes, hurt each other, and mutually strangled our marriage. But I'd once truly loved Sierra and didn't want to see her come to harm.
Her sister, Samantha, answered the door. She was unusually cordial and encouraged me to go see Sierra out by the pool. I wondered about her smirk but squashed her from my mind. There were larger matters to contend with than hassling through her games. Then I stepped out on the pool patio and understood. Sierra was lying on a double lounger, snuggled up against another man. She saw me and sprang upright, her expression seized by surprise.
“I guess you're all right,” I said, then spun around to leave.
“Who's that?” I heard the guy ask.
She told him, and he replied loud enough for me to hear, “Just so long as he knows you've got a new man!”
I stopped, turned slowly around, and glared at him. “Denmark, don't start anything,” Sierra nervously warned. “This isn't the Brownfield District!”
Her new hero's eyes widened with fright, and he fidgeted. His obvious fear was pleasing to my eyes, and it took everything I had to keep from using the chump as a pool-cleaning tool. But I swallowed my anger and hurried out.
Just as I reached the front door, Samantha, standing at the top of the steps and smiling slyly, said, “Have a nice day.”
I looked calmly up at her and felt something oddly different. It wasn't anger, bitterness, or even irritation. It was more like … sorrow, not so much for what she'd just done to me but done to herself!
“Be sure and duck low,” I advised her. “That boomerang you just threw is going to leave a nasty knot.”
She responded with a puzzled frown. I left wondering about all the boomerangs that would one day come flying back at me, starting with the one from Inez.
Nelson finally cooled off enough to tell me that he's doing his best to get her released on bail, but the judge adamantly refuses. Nelson's glumly conceding more and more that Inez will probably do time until her trial. With the ugly mood of the courts concerning domestic violence, she might be doing time after that.
Gordon's been fired and his talk show scrapped. Plus he's being bankrupted by lawyer's fees, defending himself from all variety of sexual harassment allegations. Worse yet, he's got the Feds on his case about taxes. And the TV that was once his loyal mistress is now the powerful, all-invading eye that constantly hounds and harasses him so that he can't even take out his garbage without being swarmed by a mob of media storm troopers.
And Alice—her voice mail response to my message said: “Denmark, I knew you'd call. If you're serious about finding me, take a flight to anywhere. When the airplane gets high enough, jump without a parachute. I'll be on the ground, celebrating as you splat!”
My desk phone rings. “Speed Shift Auto Parts: Denmark Wheeler speaking.”
“Hello, Mr. Wheeler. I'm Dr. Giselle Hoskins, Harry Bancroft's speech therapist.”
I sit up straight and tall. Please don't let there be anything else wrong. “Yes, Dr. Hoskins. What can I do for you?”
She laughs softly. “Harry's been giving me quite a time. He insisted that I call you so he can show off his progress.”
I smile. “That's great! Go ahead and put him on.”
She lowers her voice. “He'll be out of the bathroom in a moment. I wanted to first warn you that his speech is still a little slow, so be careful to respond as normal.”
I grip the phone tight. “Tell me the truth, doctor. Will he fully recover?”
“Mr. Wheeler, at this rate Harry will be speaking better than you or me. He's getting a second chance.”
I slump back in my chair and exhale relief. I also think of the cross Hilda slipped into Harry's hand that day at the hospital. “I can't tell you how glad I am to hear … ”
“Okay! Here he is.”
She turns the phone over to Harry. “Den-mark?”
“I'm here, Harry. How are you?”
“I … I'm … fine!”
“The doctor says you're making great progress.”
“I… I told … her … this was … no-thing.”
I smile and wipe my eyes dry. In all the years I've known him, Harry's always chopped off words ending in “g.” But he just now placed a “g” at the end of “nothing.”
“Den-mark?” Harry calls.
“Yes, H.”
“The insur-ance says … they won't pay … for my …”
“Don't worry about it,” I interrupt. “H, I promise you, Mid-Cities Insurance is going to do the right thing. I swear it!”
I don't have the slightest idea of how I'm going to get them to do it, but I will. I think Hilda's still working to find a solution, but she's not talking to me, so I don't know how much progress she's made.
I've tried over and over to contact Amos Montague, but I've been repeatedly stonewalled by his corporate lackeys. I know that as the vice president of marketing for the Mid-Cities Insurance Company, Amos possesses enough influence to help Harry. But he'd be helping a friend of mine, which means he'd be helping me, and that's where everything breaks down. Either way, Harry's going to be looked after, even if I have to pay for his expenses myself!
I can feel him smiling through the phone. “Thanks … Den-mark. I … told them they were … wrong about … you.”
“Who're you talking about, H?”
“There were … some re-porters … saying things … about … you and Inez.”
My throat's drier than sandpaper. I try to speak but can only cough. “Harry, when all this is over, you and I have to discuss … ”
“I told them … that if … they were right … you wouldn't … be trying to help me … would you?”
“No, Harry,” I lie. “I guess not.”
“Den-mark … that's why,” he struggles for a moment then finishes with, “you're the … only one … I trust.”
I choke down a sob. “And I trust you, Harry. You're a great, good guy, and I want you to call me if you need anything at all.”
“Do you mean … that?”
My stomach tightens. Maybe he knows about me and Inez after all and is about to launch his own vengeance scenario. “Yes, Harry,” I hesitantly answer. “I mean it with all my heart.”
He chuckles. “Good! How about … getting me … some ribs!”
It's 4:12 p.m., eighteen minutes before I'm out of here and time for me to call Hilda. For the past few days, I've waited till this time to call her. It's when she's least likely to be busy. I dial, wait, and as usual get her voice mailbox.
I repeat the message I've been leaving. It's the message I'm going to keep leaving until I have a chance to sit down face to face with Hilda and explain.
“Hilda, it's me, Denmark. I've been going back to that park along the shoreline of Lake Erie, thinking of all the things you said and … I understand now. You were right, and I was wrong. I miss talking with you, Hilda. I miss … well, you take care.”
And like I've been doing for the last few days, I hang up and get ready to leave. There's shouting and screaming out on the retail floor. This can't be another
robbery!
“You can't go in there!” shouts store manager Keith Billings.
Something crashes against my office door. I rush to open it and see Keith sprawled on the floor and shaking his head clear. Standing over him is the spitting image of Harry, just younger and thinner. I can tell from the pictures Harry's always proudly shown that it's his son, Claude. He's average height but has his old man's bear-paw hands, horizon-to-horizon shoulders, and powerful legs that look like they could kick mountains into space.
For an instant I'm happy to see him, but he's not happy to see me. His eyes are narrowed, his jaw set, his hands balled into fists, and his chest heaving as he exhales angry snorts.
“I've been down to county lockup to see my step-mom,” Claude growls, stepping toward me. “She told me what you did.”
“Claude, listen. It was a mistake. I never meant for … ”
“No!” he snaps, cutting me off. “You listen.”
He walks up on me, getting in my face. My Brown-field District reflexes command me to drop him and stomp him, but I inwardly shout them down.
“It's because of you that my dad's in rehab playing the banjo with his lips,” Claude accuses.
“Claude, the therapist says that Harry's making a stunning recovery. He'll be back to normal in … ”
“You'd better watch your back,” he shouts, his voice quaking with emotion. “Day and night, twenty-four-seven, you'd better watch—your—back!”
He wheels around and pounds out of the store, shoving aside an entering customer as he leaves.
FIFTY-FOUR
I'm glad this day is over. All I want to do is go home, pour a glass of wine, sit down in the new lounger I recently bought, and lose my thoughts while staring at a burning log in the fireplace.
I leave the store, toss my briefcase onto the Corvette's front passenger seat, and start to get in until I hear a strong but elderly voice calling me. “Mr. Wheeler! Please wait!”
I turn toward the voice and see a plump older woman hurrying up the sidewalk. I close and lock the Corvette's door and walk briskly toward her so she doesn't have to labor so hard getting to me. She's dressed in a flower print dress circa 1985, has her beautiful silver hair pulled back into a bun, and is wearing a pair of thick, black-rimmed cat-eyed glasses that on someone else would look goofy, but on her they look elegant. She's also carrying a rather large thin, flat package wrapped in gift paper.
“I'm Denmark Wheeler,” I inform her, getting close. “Is there something I can do for you?”
She smiles and fans herself to cool down while catching her breath. “I was afraid that… I'd missed you,” she huffs softly.
A shudder bolts through me. I hope this isn't more fallout from all that's been happening. This sucks. How long will it take before the shock waves of what I've done finally dissipate? I've got a miserable feeling that it won't be any time soon.
The beautiful older woman extends her hand. I take it gently, and we shake. “My name is Lucille Herndon,” she says.
Lucille? I wonder if this could be the same woman who works for …
“I work for Hilda Vaughan,” she continues. “I stopped by to thank you and …”
I hug her tight. “It's a thrill to finally meet you!” I say. “How's Hilda? Has she gotten my calls?”
Lucille's surprised by my sudden exuberance, and she blushes. “Well, yes, I'm glad to meet you also. Hilda's doing fine, but I don't know about any calls. Please, I don't have much time.”
I collect myself and pay attention. “Mr. Wheeler, I just wanted to thank you personally for the kindness you've always shown to my husband, Robert.”
“Robert? I don't know anybody named … ”
“People on the street call him Burned-out Bobby.”
I stagger back a step. I'd never have connected Burned-out Bobby with this elegant, dignified heir of Africa's matriarchal excellence. And now that she's mentioned him, I realize that it's been a while since I've seen Burned-out Bobby.
“Mr. Wheeler, are you okay?” Lucille asks, arching one of her eyebrows in concern.
“I, I'm fine. What's that you were saying about Burned-out, ah, I mean, Robert?”
“I wanted to thank you for the kindness you've always shown him.”
“But how did you know that I even knew …”
“Hilda does pro bono work for the homeless, and she's been helping me look for Robert. He'd been missing for so long but was recently picked up by the police. Hilda ran across his case and put the pieces together, and he's back with people who love him, getting good help. He's often mentioned your name and your kindness.”
I shake my head, totally confused. Lucille clears things up. “Some years ago, Robert took our grandson ice fishing. He misjudged the conditions, the ice cracked, and”—she wipes away tears forming in her eyes—“our grandbaby drowned. Robert couldn't live with himself and withdrew. One day I woke up and he was … gone.”
She glances at her watch. “I've really got to go,” she hurriedly says. She pats the large, thin, flat, gift-wrapped package. “Robert wanted you to have this.”
“Wait!” I insist. “Where's Bobby now? Is he okay?”
She smiles softly. “He's doing fine. I did some Internet research and discovered a foundation that helps people like Robert. He's getting some of the best counseling and therapy possible at the Cleveland Clinic.”
She glances at her watch again. “I really must go. I eat dinner with Robert every day. We have so much catching up to do.”
She hands me the package. “Thank you, Mr. Wheeler. And God bless you.”
She turns and hurries down to a Ford Explorer that I recognize as belonging to Hilda. She gets in, starts the vehicle, and zips to the parking lot exit, waving at me as she passes. She waits for an opening in the traffic, then takes off.
I stand speechless, watching until the Explorer disappears into the distance. Then I look at the package. What could Bobby possibly have of value to give me? I open the package. It's a simple cardboard sign with a simple message: “God forgives.”
I'm finally home. It's gotten so that I really enjoy coming home. It's sane, safe, and my oasis from life's rigors. But that's what I thought when Sierra was here, so maybe I'm still delusional.
I cut off the car, close the garage door, and sit for a few moments in the Corvette before going into the house. The guilt of what I've done and all the people I've hurt weighs me down like an anvil. The reflection that once daily stared back at me from my morning mirror, urging me to take my revenge, is annoyingly silent. Now that people have been hurt and lives turned upside down, I'm left to bear the burden alone.
I go in the house, toss my briefcase onto the kitchen counter, and start a fire in the living room fireplace. I loosen my tie, get my glass of merlot, kick off my shoes, and park my butt in my new lounger. The log crackles. The wind chimes out on the deck tinkle. And I settle into the chair, grateful for the nothingness that rules the moment.
There's a knock on the door. I stay put. Maybe whoever it is will go away. They knock again, and again. I stay put. The knocks continue. This person clearly means for me to answer the door.
I grumble an expletive, creak to my feet, and slouch over to the door. I look to see who it is and nearly drop my glass of wine. It's Amos Montague!
“What the hell could he want?” I grouse.
I wait a few moments, pondering whether or not to answer the door for this toad. He knocks again. “Denmark, are you there?” he calls.
Something's different in Amos's tone. There's no sneering, smug, dismissive condescension. It almost sounded like he said my name with … respect.
I open the door. “What do you want?” I ask.
“Can I speak with you for a moment?”
“No!”
“Denmark, please. I know things haven't always been good between us, but…”
I slam the door and walk away until I hear Amos sobbing. “Please, Denmark,” he blubbers. “I don't know where else to go.
”
“I've got some suggestions,” I grumble.
This is a moment I've lived for. I don't know who or what caused this, but they have my gratitude. I've yearned to see this arrogant, high-brow sack of crap reduced to groveling. But I suddenly remember what I said to Samantha about boomerangs. I've already got some whoppers coming my way, and I don't need to add another. So I turn, open the door, and let him inside.
“All right, Amos,” I say, closing the door. “What is it? And make it quick.”
He snorts and sniffles, wiping his snotty nose with his sleeve. “My, oh my, how the mighty have fallen,” I think to myself.
“It's about Yarborough,” Amos says, clearing his throat. “They're sending him to jail.”
“So! That's what happens to people who commit armed robbery.”
His eyes fill with tears. “I can't let that happen, Denmark. He's my son. He won't survive in there. He's not cut out for …”
“Do you think anybody else's son is cut out for it?” I counter loudly. “But that probably never mattered until it was your son. I'll bet you never even thought about other people's sons who get sent up because their families aren't wealthy or connected enough to buy their justice.”
I get in Amos's face. “You know what happens to those people's sons?” I growl. “They do their time, even the ones who are innocent. Yarborough's not! He's a crack-head, a thief, and an armed thug, and he's going down!”
Amos grips my arms in desperation. “Please help me!”
“Get off me!” I snap loudly, shoving him away.
He staggers backward and nearly falls onto his rump, but regains his balance. “I've been everywhere,” Amos sobs. “Everybody says their hands are tied, that the evidence is too strong, or it's too risky.”
His face twists into an expression of anger. His eyes are glassy and wild, looking at but not seeing me. “They're treating us like common, low-down ghetto trash!” he blasts.
His eyes widen with shocked embarrassment as he suddenly remembers whom he's talking to and the place of my “common, low-down” origins.
I shake my head and chuckle bitterly. “I've got news for you, fat boy. They were already treating you like that. The only difference is that now you know it!”
Other Men's Wives Page 28