Tales of River City

by Frank Zafiro

  I burned the sheets.

  While I watched the flames flicker and lap at the wadded cotton on the grass in the back yard, I wondered who it was. My guess was the lawyer. Phil. The fat, schmoozing fuck whose letters she’d been typing for three years, whose coffee she’d fetched, whose calendar she’d kept. It was so cliché, the boss and his secretary, that I was actually surprised I hadn’t found motel receipts. But after thinking about it, I realized that the unethical bastard probably paid for the room and wrote it off as a business expense.

  I left the ashes smoldering on the grass and went inside. I watched Dirty Harry on TNT and smiled. Now, there was a man who knew how to deal with problems.

  I let things ride, taking solace in the fact that she was still my wife, even if it was in name only. I hoped she’d come to her senses, or at least get tired of Phil’s floppy belly against her soft, small stomach and give us another chance. Until the papers were signed, well…maybe I wasn’t painting in that burning room. Maybe someone would see my Da Vinci, my Rembrandt.

  The time alone gave me a lot of time to think. I never got tired of thinking about Kat, but with the house silent in her absence and the TV mercifully on mute, I thought about my life before Kat and about my life at work and I realized more and more what a big, fat, lame joke things were. It wasn’t funny, but in a way, that was what was funny about it. I never quite understood what irony was, but I had to wonder if this was pretty fucking close.

  I wanted to tell Kat about it. Ask her how to change it. What to do about it. What to do because of it.

  But I was afraid to call. I didn’t want to hear Fat Fuck Phil’s jowly hello if he answered the phone. Or hear the change in her voice from a pleasant “Hello?” to a guarded, “What?” when she found out it was me. I didn’t want to wonder if incessant ringing meant she was on the other line and didn’t want to click over, or if she had caller ID and didn’t want to talk to me, or if she just didn’t have an answering machine and wasn’t home.

  And if she wasn’t home, where was she?

  Like I said, I thought a lot about a lot of things.

  Finally, the call came.

  “Brian?” Her voice was tight.

  “Kat?”

  She sighed. “You know I never liked you to call me that. It’s Katherine.”

  I didn’t know you didn’t like it until after you left and served me with papers and started fucking your boss and then you told me, I thought, but the truth was I’d call you Captain Fizzleumpagus or Mary, Queen of Scots if that meant we could get back together.

  “Sorry,” was what I said.

  She didn’t accept my apology, but moved on. “We…we need to talk.”

  “I agree.”

  “Do you have a lawyer yet?” she asked.

  No, I thought, so my sex life isn’t as happening as yours.

  “I don’t need one,” was what I said.

  Another sigh. “Brian, you have to get a lawyer so we can sign the papers.”

  “I don’t want to sign the papers, so I don’t need a lawyer.”

  “Why are you making this difficult?”

  “Why are you?”

  I just want to work things out, I started to say, but she had hung up.

  Thirty minutes later, Phil called back. Nice trick, that. Waiting thirty minutes so I’d think she’d called him and talked to him and then he’d called me. Like he wasn’t standing there the whole time she was talking to me. Probably just out of the shower and wearing her robe, too. With his huge fucking belly hanging out and his little wang straining for attention underneath.

  “Brian?” he said, his breath wheezing in the earpiece of my phone.

  I didn’t answer right away.

  “Brian?” he repeated.

  Waited.

  “Brian, now stop fooling around. I know you’re there. I can hear you breathing.”

  You can hear me? You oughta listen to yourself, Orca.

  “I’m here,” was what I said.

  “Ah, good then. Brian—“

  “It’s Mr. Rooney, Phil.”

  “What’s that?”

  “My name is Mr. Rooney. Brian is what my friends call me.”

  “Well—“

  “And you’re not my friend, Phil. You’re—“

  the sloppy, fat, unethical, earphone wheezing pile of pus who stole my wife!

  “—my wife’s lawyer. So if you want to talk to me, it’s Mr. Rooney or it’s goodbye.” I smiled at my own restraint.

  He cleared his throat and made a couple of hemming and hawing sounds, and then gave in. It was all about the money for him, anyway. And fucking my wife, of course.

  “Well, Mr. Rooney, it’s like this. My client wishes to finalize your divorce. It’s been seven—“

  “I don’t.”

  “—months and…what’s that?”

  “I said, I don’t want to finalize the divorce.”

  Phil sighed. It sounded like a wet bellows. “The thing is, Mr. Rooney, you really don’t have a choice. I mean, you can delay matters and force her to go to court and jump through legal hoops, but the result will just be the same in the end.”

  You fucking my wife?

  He continued, his voice soothing. “But when folks go through divorces like that, they never stay friends or even cordial with each other. In fact, they usually become lifelong enemies. On the other hand, a more cooperative stance on your part would allow the two of you to have some semblance of a friendship down the road a bit.”

  I imagined Kat and I as friends and realized we never really were. That made me a bit sad, but it didn’t mean I didn’t love her. Maybe we just skipped the friendship part.

  Then I imagined being friends with her and not being able to touch her and being invited over to have dinner with her and Phil and I ground my teeth.

  “Are you there, Mr. Rooney?”

  “I’m here.”

  “Do you suppose we could all meet for lunch and work out the few details left to finalize?”

  “Will Kat be there?”

  “My client will be there, yes.”

  I swallowed over a lump in my throat (but it was an angry lump, goddamnit and not a sad one) and whispered, “Yeah. We can finish things.”

  “Wonderful,” he said smoothly and I could hear some paper rustling.

  Why don’t you get your secretary to look that up, Phil? Or is she exempt from those duties now that you’ve started fucking her?

  “Let’s see,” he murmured. “Here we are. Well, would tomorrow work? Say, at two o’clock?”

  “Okay.” It was as good a time as any other, I supposed.

  “Do you know the Cannon Street Grill?”

  “The one on Cannon?” I dead-panned.

  “That’s the one,” he said, his voice containing the certainty that he’d won me over and we’d just shared ourselves a little comradely funny.

  Tee-fucking-hee, I thought.

  “I’ll see you there,” was what I said, and hung up.

  I arrived at the Cannon Street Grill a half hour early. I knew Kat and her lawyer wouldn’t be there yet, but I was still disappointed not to see her at a table.

  I decided I didn’t want to be waiting for her arrival, looking all pitiful, so I left the restaurant and walked up the street to Coeur D’Alene Park. The wide swath of green was littered with a sandbox, a swing set and a bench. The idea of swinging morosely and counting minutes made me sick to my stomach, so I sat down at the bench instead.

  Morosely.

  And began counting minutes.

  But fingering the lump of steel in my pocket made the time go a little quicker.

  It was only a .25 auto and nothing like Clint Eastwood’s huge cannon, but it should be enough.

  At five minutes after two, I walked into the Grill. I saw Kat immediately. She was wearing her business clothes—a snug skirt and a white blouse that looked to me like it was caressing her breasts—and picking nervously at a small package of saltine crackers. I’d been marr
ied to her long enough to know what that meant. She was nervous.

  Phil was more engaged in the menu, which was no big fucking surprise. He didn’t notice me approach and I could have taken out my gun and drilled him right through the printed lunch special, but I hesitated.

  Kat looked up at me and for a brief second, I imagined I saw welcome and love in her eyes and my breath quickened. I felt a rush course through my body as if some warm drug had been suddenly released from my pituitary gland. But then her eyes hardened and her lips pressed together in distaste and I found myself wishing I’d taken the opportunity to blast her lawyer lover in forehead.

  It was too late now, as Phil noticed me and reluctantly set down the menu.

  “Brian! Please, sit down.”

  So we were back to first names again? What happened to Mr. Rooney, huh, Phil? I immediately understood him, though. He had what he wanted from me—I was here. No need to cater to me anymore.

  The hell there isn’t. What if I don’t sign the papers?

  I clenched my jaw slightly. I wasn’t going to sign the papers. But he couldn’t know that. So what made him so goddamn confident that he thinks he can start throwing my first name around again like we served in the Navy together or something?

  “Hello, Brian,” Kat said primly, and there was my answer.

  The difference between our phone call and this lunch meeting was that he had Kat to use against me now. And indulging me with formality was a sharp stick compared to the nuclear weapon that was Kat.

  Fucking lawyers.

  But he had me and I knew it, and I hadn’t given him a red, third eye in his forehead when I had the chance, so I sat down.

  There was a long uncomfortable silence while the waitress brought water and took our orders. I think I ordered grilled cheese, even though I knew I wouldn’t touch it.

  It didn’t matter.

  What mattered was Kat.

  She sat, fidgeting and self-conscious, pretending she didn’t know I was staring at her. She fingered the saltines and looked off at nothing, pressing her lips together.

  Phil finally noticed me staring, though. He cleared his throat, but I ignored him.

  “Brian,” he said, not willing to be brushed off so easily. “We need to get busy on this if we’re going get done. And I have a three-fifteen appointment.”

  You’re not going to maaaaa-aake it, Phil, I thought, and slid my hand down to my pocket, feeling the reassuring bulge of metal there.

  “Go ahead then,” was what I said.

  Phil nodded and reached down to the side of his chair, where his soft leather briefcase sat. He removed a legal pad and a manila folder.

  I set about ignoring him again, staring at Kat. She’d shifted from looking off at nothing to focusing on what Phil was doing like it was a work of art—

  Burn, baby, burn!

  —and not some fat, greedy lawyer wheezing at the table while he plotted the destruction of a marriage for his own financial and sexual gain.

  “Kat,” I muttered, and she looked at me. Her jaw was set and her lips formed a severe line above her chin, but it was her eyes that I focused on. I tried to break through her icy green visage and find the warmth that I knew was still there.

  “Kat,” I said again. “Are you sure…are you sure this is want you want?”

  I was hoping for tears. If not falling from her eyes, then at least welling up and forcing her to look away for a moment before looking back and saying “No.”

  But Phil interrupted. “My client has already indicated her intent, Brian. She filed seven months ago. There will be no reconciliation here today. We’re here to work out the details—”

  “I’ve changed, Kat,” I told her staring eyes. “I’ll listen to you.”

  “—of the divorce—”

  “I’ll share things,” I told her.

  “—and sign the final paperwork so that—”

  “I still love you,” I whispered into her face, and then her tears came.

  They were small tears, welling up and sliding out quickly, using themselves up in the their own light tracks down the tops of her cheeks.

  “—I can file it. Damnit!” Phil slammed his palm on the table. “This is a business meeting, not a counseling session.”

  I looked at Phil, his nostrils flaring and his jowls wagging. I wondered what she saw in him.

  Kat dabbed them away with her napkin and sighed.

  “You won’t change, Brian. You can’t. Let’s just finish this and move on with our lives.”

  “You are my life,” my voice a cracked whisper.

  She shook her head. “Not anymore.”

  I cleared my throat. “I can change.”

  “I don’t believe you. I’m sorry, but I don’t.”

  Phil intervened again. “This is pointless. We need to—”

  “Shut up, Phil,” I said, my voice grim. I gave the .25 auto a squeeze in my pocket.

  “What?” Phil was incredulous. “What did you say to me?”

  I ignored him and looked at Kat. “You didn’t give me a chance.”

  “Don’t say another word, Katherine,” Phil huffed. “This meeting is—”

  Kat touched him lightly on the forearm and he stopped abruptly. My eyes lasered in on her hand, expecting it to hover there, but she pulled it back almost immediately. “It’s okay, Phil.”

  “It’s not okay,” he muttered. “It’s counter-productive, and as your attorney, I advise against it.”

  And as her new boyfriend, you are definitely against it, I thought.

  “What’s wrong with letting us talk?” was what I said.

  Phil opened his mouth to reply, but Kat touched his forearm again and he closed it. She removed her hand. Phil set his jaw, gestured for us to continue, crossed his arms and steamed silently.

  “I gave you every chance,” Kat said, and I turned to her. Her eyes were still icy and now a little angry. “You didn’t listen.”

  “Okay,” I said. “I’m sorry.”

  She met my apology with stony silence, cold anger sharp in her eyes.

  “I can learn to listen,” I told her and cringed at my own pathetic voice. “I can share things with you.”

  “It’s too late for that now,” Kat said with a small shake of her head.

  “Only if you let it be too late,” I pleaded.

  Another silence set in and I could feel my momentum flagging, knew I was losing ground with her.

  “I was molested,” I blurted.

  She actually gave a start and pulled her head backward. Confusion flooded her face. “What?”

  I cleared my throat, forced the words out. “I was molested. As a kid. I never told anyone.”

  Phil leaned forward in my peripheral vision as Kat stuttered, struggling to process what I’d said. “Wha—…who? Who did that to you?”

  “My Dad. My Uncle. Both.” I took a deep breath, surprised by the feelings that were tumbling out. “But mostly my Dad.”

  Kat’s eyes teared up. “I never knew.”

  “I never told you. I never told anyone.”

  “How old were you?”

  “Seven.”

  Her eyes blossomed with tears. “Was it once, or…?”

  The question hung in the air. I felt my lip trembling. “Until I was fifteen. Until I fought him off.”

  “Holy Christ,” Phil muttered.

  “I’m sorry, Brian,” Kat whispered and I watched her reach out toward my forearm. The touch of her fingers flooded me with warmth. “I’m so sorry.”

  I tried to shrug, but felt myself trembling. It was like the little lock-box in my head that had held this terrible secret for so long was falling apart. Fucking shattering, actually. I struggled to hold myself together. I was already pathetic. I didn’t want to be pitiful, too.

  Kat’s eyes were sad and large tears streamed from them. Her mien was blurred by my own welling tears. I wiped them away briskly.

  “I’m not looking for pity,” I told her, though it was a h
alf-lie. If pity was the only attention she would give me, I’d take it and run for the hills. But I wanted all of her, not just that one small part. “I just wanted to show you that I can change. I can…share with you.”

  Kat patted my forearm and I tried to smile at her. I waited for her to smile back and then dismiss her lawyer and set about repairing our life together. But after a few moments, she pulled her hand away and shook her head.

  “Brian, I’m sorry for what happened to you. I really am. And I wish you’d told me before. But it’s just too late. Too much has changed.”

  Anger surged up in my throat. “You mean him, don’t you?” I jerked my thumb toward Phil.

  Surprise, guilt and then anger flashed in her eyes so quickly that I couldn’t be sure I’d seen any of them.

  “What does Phil have to do with us?” she asked. “He didn’t cause us to split up. He’s just handling the divor—”

  “You,” I spat. “He’s handling you, isn’t he?”

  Once again, surprise. Then realization. “You mean—”

  “You know what I mean.” My voice was low, accusatory.

  Kat shook her head. “Oh, Brian. Stop looking outside of us for our problems.”

  “Don’t lie,” I told her.

  “I’m not,” she said, her voice rising in self-righteous anger. And then I saw color explode in her cheeks and her neck was flush red. Just like the saltine cracker-fidgeting, I knew what that meant.

  She was telling the truth.

  I didn’t answer right away. I didn’t know what to say. I felt my hand slide away from the metal frame in my pocket and I looked down at the tablecloth in front of me.

  Jesus, I thought. Maybe those times she was on the phone, she was just talking to her friends about the problems in our marriage. That would explain the awkwardness.