Love & Sex in a Minefield

by Jean Austin

  “Hallen… Yes, Emma Hallen—the one on TV… No shit…” We swerve across several lanes as we merge onto the freeway. Several other cabs give chase. The speedometer climbs—50… 60… 70… 80… I’m more than a little nervous as the driver swerves between cars—overtaking and undertaking vehicles at speed. I’m waiting for the sound of sirens.

  “Yeah, big… we need something big,” he says. “Okay... Will do.”

  The cab swerves and flies up an off-ramp. What looks like an army of cars and vans following us all perform the same maneuver. The cab driver runs a red light. I hold onto the door for dear life as we round a corner, wondering if this is more dangerous than walking in a minefield. I’m half expecting to wake up in another hospital with little to no recollection of what happened in some horrible collision.

  “Why are you doing this?” I ask.

  “I know a little about what you’ve gone through,” he says. “My wife cheated on me.”

  “Oh,” I say as we swing around a corner with tires screeching. “I’m sorry.”

  “I’m not. I was, but not any more... But you—the whole world wants to see what happens next. You ran a cop out of the house naked, shooting at him, and then went to live in a war zone. Damn, girl—that’s sick… What’s next?”

  “I—I don’t know,” I say. It’s like he thinks I’ve planned all this.

  “I have got to see how this plays out, and if I can help a little, hey, count me in.”

  “Thanks,” I say, wondering if it would be simpler to just face the media and get them off my back, although deep down I know there’s nothing I could say that would satisfy them.

  As we race along a one-way inner city street dozens of yellow cabs join from the side streets. Several of them cut off the media vehicles behind us.

  “Right on cue, Justine… You’re a legend.”

  Taxis swerve around us, cutting in front of us, swinging across behind us, and it’s then I realize their plan. They’re hiding us, confusing our pursuers. We dodge and weave, accelerating and braking, blending in with them. It’s the ultimate three card Monte.

  “Keep your head down,” the driver says.

  A police car turns on its siren, and one of the cabs pulls over, but the cop keeps going. I doubt he knows who he’s chasing or why. What can one police officer do with dozens of cabs swerving in and out of the traffic? The lights ahead turn red, and all the cabs come to a halt. There are easily fifty yellow cabs arranged in four orderly lines. I can’t help peek out between the headrests. A couple of the reporters are out on foot, running between cabs, peering in, looking for one particular passenger.

  “Hey. Over here,” one of the reporters yells, pointing at someone crouched in the back of a cab, but it’s an elderly gentleman. He sits up, chuckling.

  “You’ve got everyone rooting for you,” the driver says. The light turns green and we’re off again, weaving through the gaggle of cabs. “You’re the underdog, you know? We all want to see you win.”

  “Win?” I say, still lying on the rear seat. I’ve never thought of my life as a competition. I guess to those looking on from the outside, it’s all just a game. To Justine, the invisible woman on the other end of the phone, and to the taxi drivers joining in to help, this is like a game of dodge ball.

  “So where are we going?” the driver asks.

  “Fourth Ward Police Station,” I say. “On the north side. I need to speak to my husband.”

  “Oh, hell yeah,” the driver says, turning off the main road. No one follows us. They’ve all taken the bait. “Told you this would work.”

  The driver glances in his rearview mirror every few minutes, and finally says, “You can sit up now. They’re gone.”

  “Great.”

  We drive along in silence, but I can tell something’s bugging him. As we get close to the police station, he says, “So how can we follow you?”

  Follow me? Wasn’t that the point of helping me flee from the Press—so no one could follow me?

  “You know,” he says. “On social media.”

  “Oh,” I say, and my mind is suddenly alive with possibilities. I can defuse the interest of traditional media in my life by flooding social media. What is there to report on if everything’s already in the open?

  “Yeah, okay,” I say, bringing up Twitter on my phone and creating a new account. “Keep an eye on @loveminefield.”

  “@loveminefield,” he says, only he’s not repeating himself. He’s telling Justine. Given his tone of voice when he asked about following me, I’m guessing she put him up to it. “Okay, got it.” Well, he certainly hasn’t, as he’s driving, but I’m guessing Justine is already looking at the blank profile created just moments ago. She posts, “Hello Emma,” on my Twitter profile, to which I reply, “Hi, Justine.”

  We pull up at the police station. I open my purse, pulling out my credit card, but the meter hasn’t been running.

  “Oh, no,” the driver says. “This one’s on me. Go get him, tiger.”

  I laugh. “Thanks.”

  “Anytime, Emma.”

  It’s four in the afternoon. I have no idea where Paul is. I’m hoping he’s inside. I climb the broad concrete stairs leading into the precinct and ask for him at reception.

  “Do you have ID?” the officer on the desk asks. “Who can I say is calling for him?”

  I hand the officer my driver’s license. My words come out with cold deliberation. “His wife.”

  The officer goes as white as a sheet. Word has gotten around. He calls Paul, speaks to him for a few seconds, hands me a visitor’s pass and says, “Through there, on the left.”

  “Oh, I know precisely where he sits,” I say, stepping through the metal detector as I pin the visitor’s tag on my shirt.

  I walk through the open plan office toward Paul’s desk at the rear of the floor, and spot a familiar face.

  “Hello, Helen. It’s good to see you,” I say, being sure to add the word, “dressed.”

  Helen hangs her head as I walk on confidently. Around the floor, heads turn, silently watching, waiting for Mount Vesuvius to erupt.

  “Em?” Paul says, looking timid. He’s surprised, perhaps even shocked by how I look. He wanted to talk... well, here I am. I guess he figured it would be on more neutral, perhaps private ground, but I’m the daughter of the police chief. I feel completely at ease here at the station, even if the new guy on reception doesn’t recognize me.

  “Come,” I say. It’s one word spoken with precision to determine who’s in control. Paul gets up and follows me as I walk back to the entrance.

  We approach the door, and he asks, “Where do you want to go?”

  “Giovanni’s,” I say, again only offering him a single word. I don’t want him to see how vulnerable I am. I’m struggling to know what to feel, what to say, how to react to him. Part of me wants to scream at him, another is on the verge of tears. I want neither to win. I need to remain composed.

  Giovanni’s is a four star Michelin restaurant opposite the station—entrées start at forty bucks. In ten years of marriage, we’ve talked about having our anniversary dinner at Giovanni’s on at least five occasions, but we’re both too cheap. It’s been a nice idea that was never realized, and it sends a clear signal to Paul—things are changing.

  “I’m not dressed for it,” he says, looking down at his uniform, “but okay.”

  As the police station is across from the mall, we wait patiently, silently for the lights. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Paul staring at the three parallel lines cut into my cheek. The ointment given to me by the hospital gives my cheek an oily sheen. The doctors in Bosnia told me there would be some scarring, but that it should fade with time. Personally, I don’t care. Once, I would have. Once, my vanity would have demanded perfection. These days, I see beauty as an imposter. Pretty looks are nice, but without any depth behind them, they’re meaningless. If anything, I wear these scars as a badge of honor.

  Both of my arms are bandaged, but on
my left the bandage reaches down to cover my palm, weaving between my thumb and forefinger. A taxi drives by and honks. I smile and wave. Another cab passes in the opposite direction and honks, and the driver waves out the window. Paul is bewildered.

  We cross and walk up a flight of stairs to Giovanni’s. The entrance is stunning. Hundreds of bottles of wine sit in floor-to-ceiling wooden racks begging to be opened. Ornate mirrors line the back wall, making the restaurant seem larger than it is. The far wall is nothing but glass. No pillars, no frames, no supports, just the occasional sealed seam between crystal clear glass panes, providing a stunning view across the treetops outside the state museum.

  The maître d’ is dressed in a flawless tuxedo. He’s slim and tall, and wears it well, looking debonair. Our eyes meet, and as much as he wants to ask if I have a reservation, the look on my face tells him today is not a day to be patronizing. “Welcome to Giovanni’s. I’m sure we can find somewhere for you.”

  “There,” I say, pointing to a table overlooking the gardens.

  “Of course.”

  The maître d’ seats me, places a cloth napkin in each of our laps, and pours us each a glass of sparkling water. I browse the menu as a waiter lights a small candelabra on our table. Candles flicker. Paul makes small talk.

  “If I’d known we were coming to Giovanni’s I would have brought a change of clothes.”

  “You look fine,” I say. It’s hard for me to be nice, but I’m trying. I force a smile for the father of my two children. It’s too easy for me to think of him as evil incarnate, but that’s not honest on my part. He’s no demon. He made a mistake. Big mistake, granted. Not an innocent mistake, but a mistake nonetheless.

  How does someone get to the point where they cheat on their partner? I doubt it’s a decision taken in a single step. Love has to erode. The flame flickers and dies. Why did Paul cheat on me? He had to see something in Helen, some spark that outshone my brightest moment. Is that my fault? Or Helen’s? Or Paul’s alone? Paul allowed himself to stray. I don’t think that makes Paul the devil—it means he’s human. He’s petty and flawed and selfish, but aren’t we all when the facades are stripped away? It seems we’re both vulnerable to our own particular brand of weakness. For me, it was a bottle. For him, the problem started between his legs.

  Sitting across from me, Paul seems to recognize the turmoil I feel as the sheepish look in his eyes suggests he’s uncomfortable. He feels out of place.

  I look at my phone. After flying in from Europe, the battery is almost dead.

  “Is your phone charged?” I ask.

  Paul pulls out his phone, saying, “Fifty percent.” He unlocks it and hands it to me. I open Twitter and switch to @loveminefield. With a few quick taps, I start a live broadcast, using the front-facing camera. I set the phone up on the table next to us, leaning it against a saltshaker with the screen facing us so we can both see the images being sent over the internet.

  “Well,” I say. “All this started in public, let’s finish it the same way.”

  “That’s the way it’s going to be?” Paul asks, but he’s not accusative. If anything, I think he’s surprised. Having been embarrassed by him, I guess I’m supposed to shrink from public view. Maybe once. Not now. Not after Anton.

  “That’s the only way it can be,” I say, watching as the tiny counter in the corner of the screen starts racing upwards, signaling the number of users picking up on the live feed. “Nothing to hide, right?”

  “Yeah,” he says, and I’m beginning to see something new in Paul. Anton was right. The course of a single day can have more impact on us than an entire decade, but it’s a choice. We have to choose to change. We have to break the chains of the past. I can see that in Paul’s eyes. He’s not the same man he was when we last met. He seems to sense the same thing about me.

  “You’re in pain,” he says, noticing the motion of my arms and hands isn’t fluid or smooth. I must admit, I do feel a bit wooden and robotic with all these bandages.

  “I’ve suffered worse,” and I have, and I’m not speaking metaphorically about his affair. Giving birth to Jimmy was torture. My perineum tore and needed stitches, but as I was bleeding heavily there was no time for a local anesthetic. Pain—yes, I understand what pain is. This is not pain.

  Being a cop, Paul is used to dealing with people in distress, only ordinarily, he’s the one taking charge. To see me so injured, and yet decisive and in control, is perplexing to him. I can see it’s challenging his base assumptions about me. He’s known me for over a decade, been married to me for almost as long, and yet he’s only just realizing who I am.

  “Would you like something to drink?” the waiter asks, oblivious to being on show as he passes in front of the camera. He’s dressed in black, with a white bow tie. I open a drink menu and automatically point at the first entry.

  “I’ll have a glass of the Moët & Chandon Dom Perignon 1975.”

  “Ma’am,” he says. “Respectfully, the ’75 Dom Perignon is five hundred dollars a bottle, and isn’t sold by the glass.”

  “Then bring the bottle,” I say, gesturing politely to Paul as I add, “He’s paying.”

  Paul takes a deep breath, getting a feel for what’s to come. He looks down at his napkin, shaking his head softly, but he’s smiling. He’s enjoying this. He’s on the verge of bursting out laughing. If it wasn’t for the chaos between us over the last week—what, with me shooting at him, and his son walking into a minefield—he’d have a good laugh.

  I rest my elbows on the table. Breach of etiquette in a fancy restaurant, I know, but I really don’t give a fuck.

  “So,” I say. “I guess you’re wondering what I was doing wandering around Bosnia.”

  “It had crossed my mind,” Paul says, looking completely out of place in a high class restaurant still dressed in his police uniform. We both get subtle glances from the other patrons. The maître d’ seems to sense the volatility in the air, and seats the other customers on the far side of the restaurant, leaving a buffer of a few tables around us. I quite like the intimate setting the distance creates.

  The waiter returns with the champagne and pours two glasses. We both take a sip. Damn, that’s smooth, but I have no intention of finishing my glass, let alone the bottle. I’m making a statement. Paul thinks I’m I’m weak. I can’t control my drinking. Last week, maybe, but not now. Not going forward. Like Anton said, I’m not the same woman I was this morning, let alone back then. Last week seems like a lifetime ago.

  “I had to get away,” I say. Paul nods. Nothing needs to be said about why, but I have to be honest—brutally honest with him. My honesty, my integrity—they’re important. At the end of the day, that’s all I have. There is nothing I value more. “I needed time alone. No friends. No family. Europe was supposed to be a novelty, an adventure—hah, I guess it was, but that wasn’t what I intended. I just needed some breathing space.”

  “Em, I—”

  “Don’t,” I say, cutting him off. “I don’t want an apology. I want you to listen. I need you to understand.”

  He nods.

  The waiter comes over. His timing is perfect, giving me the opportunity to deflect and avoid bawling my eyes out as a variety of emotions threaten to overwhelm me. We both order, and the waiter leaves. I take a deep breath.

  “We spend our lives looking at the wrong things.”

  Paul is quiet. The lines on his brow reveal his focus. He’s serious. I’ve asked him to listen and listen he will, not because he has to, because he wants to. I deeply appreciate seeing this side of him.

  “What do we value in life? And why? I think we value the wrong things. We shouldn’t value things at all. We should value people.”

  This isn’t coming out right. I’m muddling my ideas.

  “I mean, look at this,” I hold up an ornate side plate. Candlelight reflects off the bone china. A fine gold thread runs around the rim like ivy climbing a wall. “We admire perfection, but it’s shallow—hollow. It’s all just a s
how.”

  I hold the plate out to one side and drop it, watching as it falls from my bandaged hand. The plate shatters, breaking into dozens of pieces and scattering across the floor. The waiter hears rather than sees what happens, and comes rushing over. He crouches, picking up the pieces. I crouch beside him, helping, as does Paul.

  “Oh, please,” he says, “I’ll clean this up.”

  “It’s okay,” I say, taking the pieces from him and putting them on the edge of the table. “Leave them.” He looks confused. “It’s fine, really... I’d like you to leave them.”

  Paul seems to sense what’s happening is significant to me in the midst of what must look like a midlife crisis on my part. We sit back down, and I begin arranging the pieces as though they were part of a jigsaw puzzle. Without saying anything, Paul helps.

  “Wow! That was more fun than I expected.”

  Paul laughs. “Now I know where Jilly gets it from.”

  “You have no idea,” I say, smiling at him. It’s nice to enjoy some light banter with my husband. For a moment, I almost feel normal. “Here in the West, everything has to be new. No dents. No scratches. No scrapes. Something gets chipped and we throw it in the trash. In Bosnia, nothing’s perfect, and they don’t care. If anything, a few bumps and bruises, and things have more meaning, not less.”

  I lose myself in my memories, speaking from the heart as I fiddle with the broken pieces. “Everything’s old. Everything.” My eyes settle on the silver candelabra beside us. I tap the base with my nails. “Branka had candlestick holders made from rocket propelled grenades… There were knives made from scraps left over from the civil war. We’d drink coffee from these old enamel mugs. They were horrible things made from tin or steel or something, and they were chipped and dented. I asked her about them. She said they were her great grandfather’s, relics from the First World War.”