Mansions

by Whitney Bianca

  Publicly as well as privately.

  My current wife wasn't this difficult. She wanted everything I had to offer, wanted this big opulent apartment, wanted to hold my arm as I escorted her to boring events and over-priced dinners. She wanted the life I had to offer her. She not only wanted it, she felt like she deserved it. I wonder how long Adrienne will fight me. Part of me knows she'll fight me until her dying day, but the other part of me thinks she's on the cusp of surrender. We've changed together. Or maybe only I've changed and I can't see past how much I need her. She's making me do things. She's making me disrupt my life. She's making me different. I still haven't figured out what it means.

  I kick off my shoes in the living room on the Moroccan rug and then pour a scotch. I slouch into one of the leather chairs that Selene's parents gifted us for our wedding. I never slouch, but I can't help myself tonight. The chair is big and comfortable, although a little stiff. It's part of a matching set, but neither of them ever get any use. We rarely entertain at home. Selene is always gone on the weekends and I usually come home late and go straight to the shower and then to bed. We're the proverbial ships passing in the night. It's how I've always liked it. But as I sit there in the dark with a half-smoked cigarette between my lips, I glance over at the other chair. I can imagine my Adrienne curled up there, a soft blanket over her thighs and her dark hair loose around her shoulders. Wearing a nightgown or something else flimsy and silky. She would want me home every night. She would want me to sleep next to her and fuck her and tell her about my day.

  She wouldn't care about any of this shit. She wouldn't care about where the furniture came from or how expensive it was. She wouldn't care what the neighbors thought about our decorator or what the co-ed board thought about our finances. Adrienne would be happy in a mud hut somewhere, sleeping on the floor. She would always have her eye toward the door, though, toward other hiding places in the world. I don't think I've cured of her of that yet, her propensity to want to run. She's dependent on me now, but also resentful because she thinks I've stolen her freedom. I'll fix that. When everything is finally settled, I have every intention of making her happy. I don't like how discontent she is now at Hamina Manor, but it's temporary.

  All of this is temporary.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  I can see the flames as soon as we soon as we reach the top of the hill. The sky is dark, but the flames illuminate the thick black smoke as it streams into the sky. It almost doesn't look real. It seems like a movie, a scene that I'm watching from a theater seat. There's no way Hamina Manor is burning. It's just not possible. Adrienne is in there. Adrienne can't walk. She can't run. She's defenseless against the flames.

  “Go,” I say, without thinking. “Faster.” The car jolts forward as Bryan speeds toward the estate. I set my hands on the door handle and wait. It's tempting to leap out of the moving car, but I know that makes no sense. I feel like we're going in slow motion, even though we're zooming down the winding country road. There's no one around for miles. It will take time for the fire trucks and ambulances to arrive. The heart of the house will be a smoldering pile of ashes before anyone will be able to put out the blaze.

  Adrienne will be dead.

  Gravel flies as we speed around the curvy drive to the front of the house. The toxic smell of smoke is heavy in the air. Flames haven't engulfed the lower level of the house just yet. I know instantly that Adrienne started the fire. She begged me to not to leave her. But I didn't listen. I had to do things my way. I did it all for her, for us, but she couldn't know that. I told myself that she couldn't know just how far I was willing to go for her. I didn't want her to know just how much power she held over me. Now she may never know.

  Two swift kicks and the rotting wood fence that leads to the back of the property gives way. I push through, stumbling on the rocky path. I land hard on my right knee but I push myself back up. “Dorian!” I hear Bryan yelling after me but I don't stop. I ram my shoulder into the door and feel it shake. I ram again and again, ignoring the pain. Finally, the wood splinters and the door bursts open. I throw my arm up over my face and charge in, pushing into the kitchen. It's pitch black and I don't know my way. The smoke is so thick, I can barely breathe, but I don't stop. I have to see her.

  As I make my way up the stairs, I can smell my flesh burning but I keep moving. I can smell her, too, even though the smoke. I can hear her in the darkness, calling out to me. When I finally open the right door, I know it instantly. There's a big bed in the center of the room. It's engulfed in flames and my heart stops in my chest. I run to her, even though the pain is unbearable. I know the fire is eating me alive but I don't care.

  She's the only thing that matters.

  There's a black, emaciated, twisted thing on the bed. I know it's her. I climb onto the mattress, fumbling, falling. I can see her hair, singed, and her hands, stiffened into claws. Her fingers are burned down to the bones but I bring them to my lips. I kiss the ashes, tasting her for the last time. I can feel myself dying, too, and it's not peaceful. It's anything but peaceful. I would scream but I can't. I can feel her fingers in my hair just as the world goes dark. I can feel her body soften as her flesh regrows on her bones. I can't hold her, because my arms don't exist. My legs don't exist.

  Nothing exists except for her.

  *****

  Waking up from the dream is painful.

  I sit upright, the smell of smoke still acrid in my nostrils. I'm still in the apartment, in my leather chair. I'm not at Hamina Manor. There's no fire, I tell myself. Adrienne is not dead.

  “Fuck,” I murmur as I notice my cigarette butt still smokes between my fingers. I drop it into my scotch glass and it hisses at it extinguishes in the melted ice. I slouch back into the chair, pressing my hand against my chest.

  It was a nightmare, not reality, but it's hard to shake.

  When my heartbeat returns to normal, I turn off all the lights and go into the bedroom. I take a long shower and go to bed, trying not to think about the scene from the dream. A feeling of dread settles in the pit of my stomach and I can't shake it.

  In the morning, I work out my frustrations on the treadmill, running until I can barely breathe and I'm dripping sweat. I go to the office, trying to maintain a semblance of normality. I want people to see me going about my life. I want to be as busy as possible. I go to dinner at night, out to a restaurant. I eat alone, thinking of all the dinners I have yet to eat, the dinners I'll spend with Adrienne.

  The call doesn't come until the following morning.

  I'm in the backseat of the car, on my way to work, when my phone vibrates in my pocket. I slip my hand inside and pull it out. An unknown number but I answer anyway, not knowing for sure if this is the moment my life officially changes or not.

  It is.

  “May I speak to Dorian Armstrong?” the voice says on the other end. It's a female voice, firm and non-emotional. I don't recognize it.

  “This is he,” I say.

  “Are you the spouse of Selene Bartell Armstrong?”

  “Yes,” I reply. The world outside the car windows seems to go quiet. I can't hear any car horns or traffic. It's like the whole city of New York is waiting for the words as much as I am. “That's my wife.”

  “I'm sorry to have to inform you this over the phone,” the woman says and my heart goes still in my chest. “But it will hit the media outlets soon and it's my job to inform next of kin first.”

  “What does this have to do with Selene?” I ask, even though I know.

  I'm sorry sir but your wife was killed late last night in a car accident.”

  “What?” I say, even though I heard it perfectly clear. “Can you repeat that?” I just want to hear it again.

  “Selene, your wife. She's dead.”

  “She's in California,” I say, as if I haven't understood. “She's visiting family.”

  “Yes, sir. She was killed here in Napa.” The woman doesn't sound flustered at all having to deliver such news. I wonder ho
w many times she's had to do this, how many families she's had to call. “It was a two vehicle accident. She collided with a truck on a two lane highway. We're questioning the other driver, but it's unclear if charges will be filed.” She says more things, more details about the accident, but I stop listening. It was quick. She went quickly. That's what I asked for, and that's what I got.

  “Thank you,” I say, then I hang up. When I get to work, I can already feel the eyes on me. I wonder how long it will be until everyone knows. That question is answered quickly when I turn on the monitors in my office. Selene's face is plastered all over national news already. It's our wedding photo, but my face isn't shown. She's smiling, her eyes bright and the sun shining behind her hair, making her veil look almost like a halo behind her head.

  “Selene Bartell Armstrong, daughter of Roger Bartell, owner of the world-renown Bar None Winery, was traveling northbound heading to the family home in Deer Park when she was struck and killed late Friday evening.” The TV blares out the somber news. “The driver of the truck allegedly fell asleep at the wheel and crossed the center line which is caused the fatal accident.” They show stock footage of car parts in the middle of the road and ambulances. Then they cut to commercial and Selene's time to shine is over. I'm pleased that my name was left out of it, but it's only a matter of time before the swarm starts and friends and family come out of the woodwork to offer their condolences.

  I can't help but remember our wedding day, how our fathers shook hands like it was a business deal and she wore a thirty-thousand dollar dress and looked like a million bucks. In another world, maybe we could've been happy. In another world, maybe we would've had a baby and permanently moved upstate. Maybe we would've spent holidays in Napa with her family and laughed together and held hands. Maybe we would've loved each other.

  Unfortunately, we peaked at the wedding day.

  There's a light knock on the door and Bryan steps inside. I glance over at him and catch his eye. He's been gone these past few days, arranging for Selene's death to go off without a hitch. It was a tricky task to find a driver willing to cause the accident. For now, it appears to have been successful. Bryan will never tell me any more of the nitty-gritty details and I won't ever ask for them. Those words don't need to be spoken. The important thing is that the deed is done. He crosses the room and sets a hand on my shoulder. I don't move away from his touch. From now on, it's all about acting the part of a grieving husband. It's putting on a show for everyone who will be watching. I can do it, of course. I remember what it's like to feel grief. It's been years since my father's death but I know I can conjure those feelings again with minimal effort. I've suppressed them but they're not gone.

  I'll grieve Selene, but this feels the first day of the rest of my life.

  I can't wait for it to truly begin.

  *****

  The next week and a half is hectic, as the suddenness of Selene's death requires me to plan a memorial service in New York as well as attend the actual funeral in California. She would be happiest buried in California and I only put up a half-assed argument to fly her back to New York. I know her father will never let that happen, so I don't push the issue. Besides, it's not my place. Selene had a lot of friends on the east coast, but at heart, she was always a west coast girl.

  Most importantly, my wife no longer belongs to me. I'm content to give her back to her family. As I stand at the grave site and watch her champagne colored casket being lowered into the ground, I can't help but wish it didn't have to be like this. However, I know that Selene would've never let me go. She wouldn't disappear with minimal fanfare like Cora. She would insist on firing all cannons. For her, I was not just a husband. I was a trophy for her, a sign that she'd won at life. She would've fought me tooth and nail for a divorce.

  Perhaps that's just an easy justification for the evil thing I've done.

  I fly back to New York as quickly as possible, and I feel the burden lessening as soon as the plane touches down at JFK. The family comes and takes her things from the apartment and, for the most part, I don't fight them. When their movers try to take the two leather chairs in the living room, however, I don't allow it. For some reason, I've become attached to them in the days since her death. Besides, they're just as much mine as they were hers.

  The memorial service is as lavish as Selene would've wanted it to be. Hundreds of guests, a hundred thousand dollars in flowers alone and extensive press coverage. I spare no expense, showing how much I cared for her the only way I know how and the only way that people like me do – by throwing extravagant amounts of money around. I don't think she would approve of the location, however. I chose St. John's cathedral on purpose, I have to admit. A gospel choir sings hymns, even though Selene hadn't stepped foot in a church since our wedding day. I sit in the first row with Bryan at my side. My sisters and my mother even make an appearance for the occasion. The surviving members of the Armstrong family are rarely in one place at one time. I doubt that I'll see them again for another year, but the public show of solidarity at a time like this is important.

  Overall, the whole ordeal is exhausting.

  When the mourning crowd dissipates and her family eventually disappear from whence they came, I can finally relax. Absorb the silence. I slowly return back to myself. I go out to restaurants for dinner. I go to my favorite bar for a nightly drink. I don't go upstate, not yet. I feel like there are still eyes on me. I remain in the city for the rest of the week, dutifully coming home to an empty apartment at night and going to the office and staying busy during the day.

  But I can feel the temptation.

  Two weeks and a day from Selene's death, I'm eating alone when someone slips into my private booth and interrupts my meal. She doesn't take off her sunglasses, even though the light is dim in the restaurant. She looks washed out and desaturated, like all the color has seeped out of her, hue by hue. The anger and the pain has made her dull. But it's also made her sharper. I'm afraid she'll be able to read me, see through everything I'm doing. I think she'll be able to hear the lies that pour from my lips. Before, she was naïve. She thought that everything was going to work out well. She thought that marrying a rich man meant she would have a perfect life. She's wiser now.

  I've asked Jessica to meet me here and she actually came, though, so I'm not sure how much wiser she is. Curiosity has already bit her in the ass once, but she's still angry enough to not care. I can feel the hate boiling in her blood for me. She runs her glossy fingernail over the vein in her wrist, over and over. I stare down at her bony arm. The veins are strikingly blue underneath her pale skin.

  I suddenly feel almost sorry that it didn't work out for her. I hate to see pretty things lose their shine. She used to stand out in a crowd full of beautiful people; now she's just another nameless face on Lexington Avenue. I don't know why I'm still intrigued with her. After tonight, I will be done with her, though. I owe it to her to leave her in peace, I suppose. I've done enough. Adrienne is mine now. There's nothing anyone can do about it. I've made sure of it.

  “I wish I could say I was sorry to hear about Selene,” she says, not bothering to keep her voice low in the quiet dining room. “But I'm not.”

  “Understandable,” I say, leaning back in my chair and crossing my legs. “If you said differently, I wouldn't believe you.”

  “I might say that I was happy to hear about her accident, because it meant that you would be in pain,” she said, tapping her nail against her skin. “But you're taking it better than I was hoping.”

  “She's in the ground,” I say, resisting the urge to shrug. I don't want to seem too cold. I feel like I can be honest with Jessica, though. Or maybe I'm just in too good of a mood to care. Jessica is on the other side of the curtain now. She hates me for what I've done to her, but at least I don't have to pretend. I'm tired and I don't feel like keeping up the charade. We both know I'm a monster; we don't have to waste any more time with niceties. “I may be powerful, but I'm not powerful enough to prev
ent death.”

  “Especially if you don't want to,” she said. She rubs her hand across her face and for the first time, I notice she isn't wearing her wedding ring.

  “I'm glad to see that you're doing better,” I say, changing the subject. “No ranting or screaming tonight. That's an improvement.”

  “Not yet.” She turned her head slightly. “Where's your Frankenstein monster?”

  “Who?”

  “Your man. Where is he?”

  “I told him to stay in the car. I figured you wouldn't want to see him,” I say. “I'm trying to be considerate.”

  “I just want to know why,” she says. “Why did you do it? Was it for fun? Was it because you got some kind of sick pleasure out of it? Why?”

  “Yes,” I say. “You were desperate and I knew I could use it. So I did.” She gasps out a small laugh. Or at least, I think it's a laugh. It's a bitter sound anyway, full of anger. I tap my finger on the table, the need to smoke suddenly rising in me.

  “I'm not going to give up,” she says, leaning forward. She reaches up and takes off her glasses. Her eyes are hard, resolute. “I want what you promised me.” Her eyelids flutter and, for a moment, I wonder if she's going to scream and make a scene. Then she surprises me. She tosses her glasses on the table and sits back in her chair. “Then I want you to leave us alone. I want you to go crawling back to the pit you came out of and never think about me or my daughter ever again.” Her words cut through me and I have to suppress a smile. It feels good.