Breaking Free

by Jennifer Slattery

Easy for you to say. You’re not the one acting like a human cannonball.

  An hour later, Alice sat on the locker-room bench, hot, sticky, and gasping for air. Meanwhile, Beth and Misty looked like a couple of beauty queens.

  Beth took a swig of water. “So, you guys wanna come over for lunch today? I’ve got some amazing leftovers waiting.”

  “I wish I could.” Misty dabbed her neck with a towel. “You know how I love your soggy, day-old tuna sandwiches.” She laughed. “Seriously, though, I’ve got some shopping to do for our trip next week.” She cupped her knees with her hands. “You’ll never believe where Drew’s taking me.”

  “Where?” Beth asked.

  “He’s going to wine and dine me at the Le Taha’a Island Resort and Spa. The place is amazing. Did you see the pics I posted on Facebook?”

  Alice suppressed a sigh. When was the last time she and Trent had gone somewhere nice? Or anywhere. At this point, even a trip to the hardware store together would seem romantic. If they spoke. To each other. Without fighting.

  “Oh, that’s right.” Beth smiled. “You and Drew are taking a little romantic getaway, aren’t you?”

  “And would you believe he planned it all? Told me all I need to do is pack my bags and get in the car. He’s taking care of everything else.”

  Beth and Misty jumped into a conversation about steamy date nights, but Alice tuned them out.

  “So, what about you, Alice?” Beth took a swig of water. “Want to come over for a bit? We could nail down the schedule for the retreat. Are you giving your ‘Set the Tone For Your Home’ speech? Because I’ve got an excellent tie-in.”

  Alice used her towel to wipe the sweat from her forehead. “I don’t know. I really should . . .” What? Do the laundry? Dust the floor-boards? Eat another container of cookie dough?

  “Oh, come on. Whatever you’ve got to do, it can wait.”

  “Yeah, you’re right.”

  Trent pulled up beside a red truck with a dented door and stared at the flashing neon sign in the pawnshop window. The rectangular shed-like building looked ready to fall over. Scanning his surroundings, he glanced at a lady sitting in the truck beside him. Her sallow cheeks caved in as she sucked on a cigarette, eyes locked on the pawnshop door.

  Trent tensed and looked away. I’m nothing like her. She pawned junk for drugs or booze. He was here for survival. For his family . . . and his kneecaps.

  He grabbed the small bag of jewelry from the glove box and headed toward the shop. As he opened the glass door, the stench of mildew and rusted metal flooded his nostrils. A lone florescent bulb flickered from the ceiling and a thick layer of dust covered the small glass window cut into the wall. He paused to give his eyes time to adjust to the dim light.

  The pawnbroker, a thick-necked man with a long beard, stood behind the counter inspecting a stainless steel Movado watch. Across from him, a short, squat man in a checked dress shirt watched him closely.

  The pawnbroker placed the watch on the counter and folded his arms. “As I said, most I can give you for this thing is $20.”

  The other man shifted. He glanced outside, frowned, and looked back at the watch. With a loud sigh, he gave the timepiece a shove. “Cash is cash.”

  The pawnbroker scribbled on a notepad, tore off the top sheet, and handed it to the man along with a crisp $20 bill. “Read the fine print.” He placed the watch in a drawer behind him and turned to Trent. “You here to buy, sell, or trade?”

  Trent clutched his bag of jewelry tighter. Twenty bucks for a designer watch? How much would this guy give him for his wife’s jewelry? Fifty? Seventy-five at most? Not even half of what it was worth. Didn’t matter. This was only a hiccup. Once he got paid, he’d settle his debts with Jay for good. The bonus he’d get for the Peak Performance account would take care of everything.

  “I’m here to sell.” Trent poured the contents of his bag on the counter. The pawnbroker rummaged through Alice’s most prized possessions, some of which had been in her family for over three generations.

  “How much you asking?” The guy inspected a Victorian bracelet given to Alice by her great-grandmother.

  “Three hundred?”

  The man snorted. “I’ll give you $35. Two hundred for all of it.”

  Trent shifted and pressed his palms against the smooth glass. Two hundred dollars for high-class, antique jewelry? But what choice did he have? Besides, he’d get it back, soon, before Alice noticed it was gone. He’d even pick her up a little something, like maybe one of those topaz rings or pendant necklaces displayed beneath an adjacent glass counter.

  He took a deep breath and looked the man in the eye. “All right.”

  “You planning on buying it back?”

  “Yeah.”

  The guy shoved a pawn ticket and pen at him. “Read and sign.”

  Trent strained to read the fine print. Buy back price was double, with a 40 percent interest rate tagged on and a $20 monthly “storage” fee. He grabbed the pen and scribbled his name across the bottom.

  “If you’re not back in 60 days, it gets sold.”

  CHAPTER 3

  Trent’s eyes blurred as he stared at his blank computer screen. The ticking of the office clock set him on edge, reminding him of his upcoming deadline.

  Laughter floated down the hall, stealing his concentration. He jumped up, slammed the door shut, then fell against the chair. What was wrong with him? He’d been with Innovative Media Solutions for going on 20 years and had accumulated numerous awards, so many, his co-workers had begun to call him the man with the golden keyboard.

  Leaning back, he eyed the plaques lining the far wall. In 2001 he won the Palmer Awards for Creative Web Design. In 2002 his record-setting productivity earned him the title of Innovative Media Solutions’s Graphic Designer of the Year. In 2003, 2004, and 2005, the American Graphic Design Association nominated him for the Golden Keyboard. Years’ worth of accolades, and all he had to show for it was a bottomed-out bank account and a pile of expectations cluttering his desk.

  He needed a drink. He pulled open his desk drawer and fished around the envelopes and Post-it notes until he felt the smooth glass of the vodka bottle. With a glance to the door, he pulled it out, and took two esophagus-burning swigs. The tingle of his taste buds mirrored the electric cravings that shot through his nervous system. Fighting against an urge to down the entire bottle, he shoved it behind a box of paper clips and shut the drawer.

  The phone rang, a welcomed distraction.

  “Trent, my man.” Arnold, an old college friend and poker buddy. “What are you doing tonight?”

  “I don’t know. Why?”

  “The crew’s getting together at Matthew’s for one last hand before Nathan leaves for Thailand.”

  The “crew” was comprised of a bunch of friends from the University of Washington. They used to meet in each other’s dorm rooms every Friday night for penny poker. Over time, the stakes got higher, especially when liquor was involved.

  Trent thought of Alice waiting for him at home. “I can’t make it. Not tonight.” He squeezed his eyes shut and pinched the bridge of his nose.

  “Whatever you’ve got going on, blow it off. Stay for a few beers, play a couple of hands.”

  His pulse quickened as memories of big wins filled his mind. He flipped open his wallet and pulled out a photo of him and Alice. “I told you, I’m not coming.” He cradled the phone in his neck to type a response to a recent email sent by Mr. Lowe outlining a new expense account policy. Starting May 1, every claim over $10 needed a receipt. So much for padding the reports. Maybe playing a few hands of poker wasn’t such a bad idea after all.

  “Mr. Deal-’em-and-cash-’em’s gonna turn down a sure win?” Arnold laughed. “Don’t you remember all the green you left with last time?”

  Yeah, he did remember, every win. Unfortunately, memories of his countless losses weren’t nearly so vivid.

  “Seriously, bro. This may be our last chance to get together, all of us. I
have a feeling Nathan’s three-year gig might turn permanent.”

  “So I’ll send him a postcard.” Trent gripped the phone tighter. Just one more hand. One more win. He gritted his teeth in an effort to increase his self-control. No! No more! Beads of sweat broke out on his forehead.

  “Oh, I get it. Wife’s got you on a ball and chain, huh? Little Trenty-poo can’t get away.”

  “Ha ha ha. Very funny.” He rubbed his face. One game wouldn’t hurt. Besides, what if this was it? The one time he hit it big. The law of averages said his win was coming. “All right. All right. But just for an hour.”

  “That’s my man. See you tonight.”

  Trent hung up and massaged his temples. This was his last game, period.

  The rest of the afternoon crawled by. He pecked at his keyboard and sifted through various ads and photos scattered across the desk hoping for a spark of inspiration. Nothing helped. His brain was blank. By five, he was more than ready to head to Matthew’s. A few beers and some time with the boys would do him good.

  He started to gather his things when the phone rang. He glanced at the number displayed on the screen. Alice.

  “Hi. Whatcha’ got?” He checked the clock again.

  “What time do you think you’ll be home? I wanted to know when to start dinner.”

  “I’m running a little behind.”

  “Oh.” She paused. “So, how long will it take you to catch up?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe eight o’clock.” That’d give him time for a few hands.

  She sighed. “Great, if you stick to it.”

  Slumping, he rubbed his forehead. “I’ll be there.”

  After answering three more emails, he snapped his laptop shut and shoved it into its carrying case. Rounding his desk, he paused. Mr. Lowe’s voice drifted down the hall. Trent froze and held his breath. When the door swung open a moment later, he picked up a magazine from a nearby end table and flipped through the pages. He watched his boss out of the corner of his eye.

  Mr. Lowe eyed Trent’s computer bag. “You heading out already? I thought you’d be burning the midnight oil, all things considered.”

  Trent closed the magazine. “I need to stop by Centinell to pick up some files.”

  Mr. Lowe nodded. “I forgot all about the Centinell brochures.” He looked at Trent’s desk. “You juggling everything all right? Because I could always throw a few projects Rick’s way. It’d allow you to give 110 percent to the Peak Performance campaign.”

  He stiffened. He needed those accounts, every one of them. “I’m good. I’ve got it all under control.”

  Mr. Lowe gave him a thumbs-up sign as Teresa from accounting poked her head in the door.

  “Do you have a minute, Mr. Lowe?”

  Trent used the opportunity to make his escape before his boss could throw any more questions his way.

  “I’ll see you Monday.” He maneuvered past them and hurried down the hall, through the lobby, and into the elevator. He rode it to the seventh level of the parking garage.

  His phone rang as he was getting into his vehicle. He checked the number. Leila, the marketing rep for Tri-City Residentials, for the third time this week. She probably wondered why she hadn’t received her promo materials yet. He’d call her on Monday and tell her they were on the way. Right after he emailed the files to the printer.

  Letting the call go to voice mail, he eased out of the parking garage and onto Broadway. Men and women in business attire, satchels slung over their shoulders, cell phones to their ears, thronged the sidewalks while hipsters wearing boots and backpacks wove around them. A man in a cotton candy pink suit danced his way across the street. A few pedestrians shot the man a curious look, but most of them continued, unmindful.

  Thanks to a six-car pile-up on the freeway, Trent joined the bumper-to-bumper traffic, turning a 20-minute jaunt into a nerve-wracking 50-minute crawl. By the time he made it to Matthew’s, the game was already underway.

  “Hey, man, thought you blew us off.” Arnold tossed a chip at Trent.

  “Traffic.” He nodded to the other guys gathered around Matthew’s coffee table and settled between Nathan and Arnold. “Spot me?”

  With a crooked smile, Arnold cocked an eyebrow. “What, the wifey didn’t give you your allowance?”

  Trent scowled. “I didn’t have time to hit the bank. Give it up, already.”

  Arnold slapped a $20 bill on the table. “You’re going down, my friend.”

  He glanced at a six-pack sitting at Matthew’s feet. “You hoarding or what?”

  Mumbling something about money-grabbing, beer-guzzling moochers, Matthew threw him a beer.

  Things started slow with conservative bets and few raises, but by the second six-pack the stakes rose and Trent quickly quadrupled his initial $20. He checked the clock—8:15. He was late. Alice was waiting for him, but he was on a roll. It’d be foolish to walk away now. He’d play one more hand. That’d put him home by 8:45, maybe a little after. No big deal. He’d tell Alice he’d gotten stuck in traffic or that a meeting had run late.

  The game continued for two more hours, Trent’s winnings increasing with each hand, the familiar surge of adrenaline flooding his veins. Fighting a smile, he sifted his chips through his fingers. It felt good to win. Real good.

  “This is lame.” Matthew downed the rest of his beer. He shot Trent a sour expression and stood.

  “I agree.” Nathan slid his cards to the center of the table and stretched his arms in a mammoth yawn. “It’s been fun, but I gotta jet.”

  Yawning, Arnold dropped his cards.

  Trent’s pulse quickened. “Come on, one more hand?”

  “Sorry, man. Maybe next time.”

  One by one the guys said their good-byes and pushed away from the table. Matthew walked them to the door then returned. Trent hovered over his winnings like a crazed hyena.

  “Listen, man”—Matthew tossed some empty beer bottles into a wastebasket—“It’s been fun and all, but the party’s over. Next time?”

  “Yeah, whatever.” Trent stood and shoved his cash into his pockets, his fingers closing around the crumpled bills. This was nothing. Next time he’d clean house.

  CHAPTER 4

  Alice checked her watch. Could this meeting drag on any longer? Choose a color already. “You know, I bet Saundra’s Boutique will handle all our decorations for a reasonable price. Would you like me to contact the owner?”

  “I don’t know.” Jude, a lady with short, silver hair, fiddled with a tulle centerpiece sample she’d brought. “We’ve always made our own decorations. It’s a tradition and a great way to encourage some of our younger women to get involved. Besides, it saves money.”

  “Doesn’t hurt to call, though.” Beth jotted notes on her legal tablet. “And I’ll ask Mirah if she’s up for making cheesecakes. I think 30 ought to be enough. What do you think?”

  Heads bobbed, and they moved to the next item on their agenda—the keynote.

  Alice flipped through her three ringed binder, years’ worth of notes scribbled in the margins. “You know, maybe we should change our focus this year.”

  Jude cocked her head. “What do you mean? You don’t like the theme we agreed upon?”

  “No, the theme is fine, but I’ve been talking about authenticity and transparency for almost a decade. As important as that is, perhaps it’s time we touched on some other needs.”

  Beth propped her elbow on the table and rested her chin in her hand. “Hm . . . like what?”

  “I don’t know. There are so many things we haven’t addressed like time management, healthy living. That might draw some of the younger ladies.”

  “Oh, like a battle of the bulge deal!” Wendy, a larger woman with a square jaw and long, thick hair nodded. “I think that’s a great idea. We could change the name to ‘Grabbing Hold of the New You.’”

  “I say we talk about surviving the in-laws.” Eileen, a petite brunette and the youngest on the team, slapped her pen onto the table.
“Did I tell you about our last family reunion? Sam and I were about to go for a hike. You know how we—?”

  Alice suppressed an eye roll, not in the mood for one of Eileen’s elaborate stories.

  Luckily Jude cut her off before her story became too dramatic. “I remember, and I’ve been praying for you.” She gave a tight frown. “That your in-laws would see God’s love and grace through every encounter.”

  Eileen’s mouth went slack, then closed, her gaze falling to the paper in front of her.

  Jude cleared her throat. “It’s already mid-April, ladies. At this point, we don’t have time to make any major changes. I say we stick with our agenda.”

  Beth nodded. “I’m not up for rewriting our outline. Besides, we’re addressing a real need here. In fact, I think we should expand our focus by adding breakout sessions. Alice, want to help me write up some discussion questions?”

  Not exactly, but what came out was a mumbled, “Yeah, sure.”

  “All right then. Let’s tackle our assigned tasks, and I’ll call you all in three weeks or so to set up our next meeting. Sound good?”

  The ladies voiced agreement, then closed in prayer. While Jude asked God to bless their event and prepare the hearts of their audience, Alice picked at her pinky nail. Her plan to weasel out of the ladies fellowship luncheon had failed, leaving two options: slip further into her hypocrite role or find some way to radically transform her marriage.

  Of course, there was a third option—switch churches, a rather tempting thought.

  Alice opened the freezer and pulled out a package of steaks. She put them back. Why bother? Trent wouldn’t make it home in time for dinner, and her boys preferred frozen burritos.

  Part of her wanted to call Trent, tell him what a loser of a husband he was, but that’d only make things worse. There was no sense throwing a pity party, either. So he’d be late. What did she care? Besides, there were a lot of loveless marriages. Why should hers be any different? Except that she did love her husband. No matter how hard she tried not to, she loved him as much now as the day they married. But would he say the same?