Twisted

by Steve Cavanagh

  ‘It don’t matter, honey,’ said Daryl, scrunching the pack and the broken smokes in his hand and tossing them into the long grass beyond the porch. A stark contrast to the time spent with her husband. His melancholy gaze didn’t draw her in like it used to. She had realized that her husband could not be warmed and opened up like she had imagined. When she’d met her husband, he was a sweet man with a great sadness that clung to him. Maria had recognized something of that sadness in her too, and their relationship seemed marked by each one trying to fix the other. She thought she could change him, make him happy and thereby fix the part of her that was never happy. A bad way to start a marriage. Like two junkies trying to get each other clean. Ultimately, she realized she could not change him, or warm the ice that lay deep inside him like a wound. Daryl didn’t need to be thawed, he was warm and open, playful and kind. Maybe a little simple, but the best things in life were exactly that – simple. Somehow, to Maria, sharing that closeness with Daryl, that silence on the porch, was deeper and more satisfying than what went on the bedroom.

  ‘I know where I can get some cigarettes,’ she said. And with that, she turned and went back into the kitchen. She could hear Daryl padding after her as she made her way into the hall. Together, they stopped in front of an oak door. Maria reached up to the sill above the frame. Her fingers touched something cold and metallic. She brought down a small key and unlocked the door to her husband’s study. Strict about his privacy, her husband had left a key above the mantel on the doorframe for one reason – he kept a revolver hidden behind a volume of Dickens on his bookshelf. If an intruder got into the house, she knew where to find the gun.

  Inside the study she saw dark oak paneling. Books lined one wall. A globe in one corner. A solid, wide desk at the end of the room, facing the door. A green banker’s lamp on the desk and a laptop and notebook beside it. Maria stood to one side to let Daryl in.

  ‘He keeps a pack around here somewhere. I know he has a sneaky cigarette sometimes. I can smell it on him occasionally. And in the room too. He likes to think I don’t notice these things,’ she said.

  ‘Then he obviously doesn’t know you too well,’ said Daryl, placing his arms around her waist and nuzzling her neck. She playfully pushed him away. If she didn’t stop him right away she knew she would only end up making love again. The bed was one thing. Having sex on her husband’s desk, in his private study, somehow felt a step too far. Her husband was not a bad man. He could be distant and cold, but she knew he loved her and showed as much affection as he could. Two years ago, that was enough to get married. Now, she realized that she had married him for all the wrong reasons. Maria had been in love with the idea of the man her husband could be. She was young, and romantic. She had begun to realize that. Turns out, he couldn’t live up to her ideal.

  Together they searched the bookshelves, the hidden roll-back compartment in the globe. Daryl moved on to the desk while Maria checked behind the model airplanes, the toy cars, and framed photographs of her and her husband which he kept on the shelves.

  She heard a crack of splintering wood and whipped around to see Daryl holding a pack of cigarettes in one hand, and a broken desk drawer in the other.

  ‘Found ’em. Shit, sorry. It came away in my hand. I thought it was stuck so I gave it a tug,’ said Daryl.

  ‘Shit!’ said Maria.

  Papers had fallen out of the drawer onto the rug, and Maria could see a small piece of wood had broken away at the top of the drawer where the locking mechanism had once been housed.

  ‘Jesus, he’s going to notice this,’ she said.

  ‘When is he due back?’

  ‘Sunday night.’

  It was Friday afternoon. The chances of getting a carpenter skilled enough to mend the lock and the drawer in that timeframe looked to Maria about as thin as Daryl’s résumé.

  ‘Shit, shit, shit. Don’t just stand there, help me pick this stuff up,’ said Maria.

  They knelt on the rug together, gathering up loose pages that had tipped out of the drawer and onto the rug. Some were merely scribbles, some were draft marketing strategies for his clients, some rough notes probably about one of his campaigns, and some were newspaper clippings – yellowed with age. Once Maria had made a neat pile on the floor, she turned to Daryl to collect the pages he’d picked up and sorted.

  Only Daryl hadn’t sorted any pages. He was staring at a single piece of paper, his lips making a perfect O.

  ‘I knew you guys were doing pretty good, but babe, I’d no idea you were this rich,’ he said with a stupid grin on his face.

  Maria’s eyebrows knitted, she snatched the page from Daryl. Her husband had his investments, his marketing consultancy which brought in low six figures every year. They had twenty-grand in a savings account. Financially, they were just okay. They were not well heeled, as her husband continually reminded her.

  She looked at the document. A bank statement from last year. Two million dollars had been paid to a checking account with her husband’s name on it. The account had their home address in the top left-hand corner. She checked the date on the statement, looked at the amounts. Checked the name again. Then checked the spelling.

  Her husband had a secret bank account.

  Two payments were made in the last year. Roughly six months apart. One million dollars per payment. And more had been paid the previous year. The balance on the account sat at over twenty million dollars.

  A flood of excitement swept through her, capturing her breath, holding it, boiling it into rage. She felt a hot flush on her neck, and sweat broke out on her face.

  Her little rebellions in the bedroom were nothing, absolutely nothing compared to this. This liar of a husband.

  At that moment, Maria said something she didn’t really mean. A statement with no truth in it. Weightless words, spoken in anger. And yet, once she’d heard those words out loud, she was surprised that she’d uttered them.

  ‘I’m gonna kill him,’ she said.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Too angry to object, Maria sat in Daryl’s convertible while he drove them into town for a drink she didn’t want. She didn’t care what the wind was doing to her hair, she just sat with her elbow on the door and her hand pressed to her lips while she watched the sea disappear behind a tall cliff as the car wound its way toward the town. In some ways, she felt glad to be out of that house.

  He tried to talk to her, but she couldn’t hear him too well over the roar of the engine and the sound of the wind whipping all around them. Eventually, Daryl shut up. The embarrassing silence that greeted each and every sentence had eventually gotten the better of him.

  Memories of her short marriage fluttered by like signposts on the road.

  That time she bought those expensive designer shoes – the look on his face. Their one-year anniversary – all the complaining he’d done about the champagne. He didn’t drink much, and he thought one champagne was just as good as another. So why did Maria have to buy a vintage bottle that cost almost two hundred dollars? She even remembered the way he’d said it – two hundred dollars. Like she’d just bought a chateau in the south of France.

  When they first met, her husband-to-be had struck her as a lonely man. He’d had that look on his face the night she said ‘hi’ to him in a basement bar in Manhattan. Before her husband, Maria had a string of confident boyfriends. Talented men, with egos, motorcycles, and most of them with a gift for music. Troubled would also have been a good descriptor for those men. Men that women wanted. Barely a night would go by without her catching another woman gazing, longingly, at her man.

  That never happened with her husband. He was good-looking, with nice hair and a cute smile. Yet there was a sadness that lingered around his eyes – always. Maybe that was what had drawn her to him that night. Looking back, he had not been so worried about spending money when they first dated. Not so that she had noticed.

  Maria shook her head. She couldn’t believe she’d been so stupid. All of those times he’d made her
feel small about money when all along it wasn’t really about money.

  It was about control.

  She had not made love to her husband in months. He was always tired. Always working late at night in his office. Occasionally he would unwind with a bottle of wine, or a joint, and they would make love on those nights, but those occasions had grown more and more rare.

  In this last year she had sensed that her husband was keeping something from her. When they talked about their lives before marriage, her husband had barely spoken, and a coldness had fallen on him. As if he had built a barrier between them, keeping certain parts of his life just to himself. Even when they sat together on the couch in the new house in Port Lonely, she would occasionally glance over at him, and find him lost in thought. Distant, even though he was holding her hand.

  Now she knew. She had been right all along.

  Her husband was not what he seemed to be, her life was not what she had envisaged, and none of it appeared to be within her control. She was on a train, bound for God knows where and she wasn’t enjoying the ride. She tried to do other things. Keep herself busy. A pottery class sounded good at first, then she found that she hated the feel of the clay beneath her fingers. There was no gym in town, so she developed a habit of working out at home then going to the country club for breakfast. It was there that she had first met Daryl. He waited tables at the country club, and she’d noticed him but they had never spoken. It was the boredom of Port Lonely one weekend that eventually brought them together. Having ditched her pottery class, she booked a scuba diving lesson instead. When she came down to the marina on that cool December morning, she was surprised, and more than a little pleased to discover Daryl putting on a wetsuit. He was her instructor. She’d liked his smile, and that look in his eyes. They held hands underwater, and he proved to be a patient and careful instructor. She booked another lesson straight away. At the end of the lesson the following week she’d suggested they get a drink, and they’d ended up in a motel that same night.

  She knew then that Daryl was something special. That eased the guilt. She wasn’t just sleeping around – Daryl meant something. Maybe she had made a mistake to marry. Maybe Daryl was her true love. He made her feel alive when they were together. That life was happening now. So much of her marriage was about what would happen in the future – when her husband wasn’t so busy, when things calmed down, when he had time. Daryl had all the time in the world for her. He always answered his phone when she called. Always paid the bill at the motel, and never complained when she went days without calling him.

  There was a fire in him too. A heat when they made love. A connection in the quiet moments as they held one another. She felt safe and dangerous at the same time. The relationship with Daryl grew. He gave her what her husband no longer did: warmth. He never held back. There was a connection. An instant undeniable, almost cosmic bond. He made her feel like a twenty-one-year-old – silly, excited, protected and loved.

  The car rounded a sharp corner, the cliff tops fell away to reveal the ocean. Up ahead she saw the beginnings of the town. Two years ago she’d sat beside her new husband in his Maserati on this same road, headed into town after they’d viewed the house for the first time. As they had driven past the large houses on the edge of town, and the club, and eventually parked up on Main Street, Maria thought she could build a life there. It was peaceful, and quaint and oh so very quiet. He’d laced his fingers in hers, smiled at her and said, ‘We’re going to be so happy here.’

  For a while it had been true. They were happy. He worked on the house for months – refusing all but the most casual of help – a paintbrush laced with the color of his choosing. Then, when the house was finished, he started spending more time away. Business trips with clients. Golf with the boys on Sunday. Too tired to eat the meals she’d prepared when he did make it home. She wasn’t a good cook, but she tried and he didn’t seem to appreciate the effort. The quaint, cutesy quietness of the seaside town soon lost its charm. It was a new life. A lonely one. To Maria, it felt like she’d been dumped in the asshole of nowhere.

  Daryl drove through Main Street, past the spot where Maria and her then new husband had parked and held hands. She closed her eyes and forced the memory away. Maybe she could use a drink after all.

  Port Lonely had two bars. Maria had visited each only once before.

  One bar called Clarence’s charged twelve dollars for a mojito and housed an aging jazz pianist who looked like he was digging his way out of the place through the piano, desperately trying to flee the smell of disinfectant and avocado.

  The other bar didn’t know what a mojito was, and if they ever encountered an avocado they’d probably shoot it. They served both kinds of alcohol – beer and bourbon. Although on ladies’ night the bartender had been known to blow the dust off a bottle of tequila.

  The locals favored the latter establishment, and normally had it all to themselves. Occasionally a group of young rich kids would stumble into the bar and they’d last around thirty seconds before one or all of them got too scared to stay. The sign outside the bar said, ‘Barney’s Place.’ Barney had been dead for twenty-five years and judging by the smell from the bathroom he was probably buried under the floor tiles.

  Daryl pulled up outside Barney’s, and Maria held his arm as they went inside, there being no chance that anyone from the country club would see them together. The country club wear-a-tie-on-a-Sunday bunch wouldn’t go near Barney’s. Port Lonely’s locals served the rich, second-home types who didn’t tip much and didn’t mix with the hired help.

  Apart from a few regulars who sat at the bar, the place looked empty. Maria took a table in the corner while Daryl got the drinks. It was dark inside. A neon Budweiser sign buzzed on the wall opposite, and what overhead lamps that still retained bulbs struggled to throw much light in her direction.

  After some negotiation with the aging bartender, Daryl brought over two tequilas, each accompanied by a Miller chaser.

  ‘I know it’s messed up, but you should be happy,’ said Daryl, sitting down on the leather couch beside Maria.

  She looked at him, shook her head and thought about her taste in men. They were either good-looking and stupid, or smart enough to be great liars. In her lifetime, she’d experienced both kinds. Her first long-term boyfriend could turn heads, but couldn’t turn his hand to earning a cent or working on the house. Her new one, the one she’d married, was a liar. A damn good one. And then there was Daryl. Sometimes he said the strangest things. He had a child-like innocence. Sweet. Cute. Gorgeous. Normally she let Daryl’s naivety form part of his charm. This time it was a little much. Her emotions were buzzing and whirling together like the flies around the neon Bud sign.

  ‘Are you for real? Can’t you understand what he’s done to me?’ she said, letting her voice rise.

  ‘Come on, I know it’s weird, but look on the bright side. You’re rich, girl.’

  ‘No, I’m not. What planet are you from?’

  Spreading his hands wide, at that moment Daryl looked unsure about his planet of origin. Maria laid it out for him.

  ‘If he’s kept this from me, then there’s a reason. He’s got something else in his life that’s paying him millions – and I’m not part of it. Why? Is he a criminal? Does he have another family, another life somewhere when he goes away on these trips? What the fuck? And he won’t let me pay a cent over the odds on anything. I have an allowance. Did you know that? Three hundred a week. And if I go over that allowance he gets mad. Well, I’m mad now. Are you getting the picture?’

  He nodded, chastised, picked up the shot glass. Maria clinked glasses with him, forced a smile to show she wasn’t mad at him, then they downed the tequila shots. She’d never liked tequila. That sickening burn began in her throat and she looked around the table for lemon. Daryl hadn’t brought any. Instead, she took a long drink from her bottle of Miller.

  ‘Sorry, babe,’ said Daryl.

  Maria couldn’t tell if he was apologizing
for not getting salt and lemon for the shot, or just sympathizing with her marital situation. Either way, she waved a hand at him to stop.

  The beer bottles were slick with condensation and Daryl began to absently pick at the label. He concentrated on peeling off a section, and said, ‘Are you going to confront him with this?’

  Before answering, Maria took another sip of beer. In truth, she hadn’t really decided. She didn’t know what to do. Part of her felt like waving the bank statement in his face. Another part of her just wanted to leave him and file for divorce. Somewhere in the back of her mind she knew that neither of those things were smart. Before she did anything drastic Maria knew she needed more details on the money. She heard the sound of the label tearing off the bottle in Daryl’s hand. He still wasn’t looking at her.

  She knew then Daryl was also worried about himself. She could tell he was nervous. He didn’t want to be thrown in the man’s face by Maria.

  Where did you get this money? Oh, by the way, I’ve been screwing one of the waiters from the club.

  ‘Don’t worry, I’m not going to tell him about … us,’ said Maria.

  She’d almost said, Don’t worry, I’m not going to tell him about you, then changed her mind. This secret money had put a concrete block between her and her husband, and brought her closer to Daryl. Maria was no longer frightened to vocalize the relationship. It was there. Maybe even stronger because of this, but there was no denying it – sometimes they talked about what life would be like together, if she left her husband. She could tell Daryl wanted it, but he was nervous. He told her he didn’t have much to offer her. He waited tables, he taught people how to dive, how to surf – he didn’t rate his prospects as a financially secure partner, and there was a shame in that for him. At such times, Maria told him she didn’t care how much he made – but in truth, she worried about it. Maria wanted security. She needed it. Money had always been a problem, and she never wanted to have to worry about that again. It was the one thing that perhaps made her cling to her marriage. Security. Even if it was just three hundred dollars a week.