Truth Hurts

by David Boyle

  Freshening up the blanket on the bed, pulling it taut and neat, Luke heard the front door opening. He heard keys being dropped on the kitchen table, shoes being kicked off, the pattering of feet ascending the steps. Perfect timing, perfect scenario: Luke would look busy. He would be caught meticulously cleaning up the work area, brushing off the bed, making sure all was in order before leaving, galvanizing his reputation as a fastidious craftsman.

  Pretending to be organizing his tools, Luke heard Marcy Broderick entering the room; he detected the scent of a rather strong perfume—a redolence both irresistible and reawakening in him a series of off-color thoughts. Wanting to appear immersed in his work, he did not look up. Seconds passed as he tidied his toolbox. Then he heard Marcy’s sweet, tender, musical voice overtaking the silence, dominating his heart, his mind. Though a happily married man, he wished he could stop thinking of his client on that level. He knew he wouldn’t act on his urges, not a chance, but his loyalty to his wife could not diminish them either.

  “Looks fantastic. I can’t believe how much you got done today.”

  “It’s been a heck of a day,” Luke replied, still focused on wiping down his tools—or at least feigning to. “I really appreciate the comment.”

  Luke knew exactly what she would say next, the same thing every other woman said. He cringed in anticipation of those five words, which were spoken faster than he could concoct a reply.

  “When will you be finished?”

  Luke peered up at her, held her gaze for a few seconds, and took a long, controlled breath, as if preparing to give a sermon. “Tomorrow afternoon,” he said, though Marcy wasn’t paying attention. She hadn’t stopped staring at the refurbished closet; she reacted as though she’d never seen one so breathtaking.

  “Wonderful. I’ll leave you to finish up and I’ll see you on the way out. I’ve got things to do.”

  “Fair enough. I’ll just be a moment or two.”

  When Marcy left the room, Luke reached into his pocket and pulled out the key the Fosters had given him. He smirked as he appraised it from both sides. It was just a key, an ordinary key. Most important of all, though, it was a key to further questions, and the search for answers. Then he put it back in his pocket and made his way out. In the kitchen he saw Marcy flipping through an issue of Home Decor Magazine and sipping a glass of white wine, snacking on a piece of cheese, shiny gold bracelets dangling from her upright wrist. So this is what she said were the “things she had to do”? Drink wine? Eat fancy cheese? Read an expensive magazine? Between sips she would place the glass on the counter and play with strands of her hair. Luke watched from behind the doorway in the dining room. Something about her posture, her demeanor, suddenly irked him. What a startling and puzzling reversal of mindset, his opinion of Mrs. Foster changing so soon, so unexpectedly. He couldn’t put his finger on what in particular the flaw was. Maybe it was that he had been in other homes and seen the ways in which other more down-to-earth families lived, those who didn’t drink wine and pretend that made them sophisticated, or squander money, or knew when and how to behave more humbly. Or, maybe her frivolous spending, her insatiable need to create unnecessary household projects, reinforced her untamable ego. No doubt she knew how to use her striking beauty to conquer a husband who lacked similar physical attributes. She could have anything she wanted and she knew it. She would never be denied—never. Even a brilliant lawyer, intellectually refined Broderick Foster, couldn’t withstand Marcy’s prowess. She didn’t flaunt it, but she knew precisely when to turn it on and off.

  Luke couldn’t snap out of his trance. He couldn’t stop thinking about some of his other customers and what made Marcy Foster different from the rest, at least from his own oblique perspective. Why was he suddenly feeling such disdain for her? Then he realized, that when you look at somebody, from just the right angle, you tend to see other facets of their personality, of their aura, qualities that one wishes they hadn’t. At this moment in time, Marcy’s body language exuded overconfidence, pomposity, overindulgence, superiority. He had felt nothing of the sort when they first met, not in the least. After all, the Fosters were cordial to him, treated him as an equal, without the slightest slip-up in etiquette, without a modicum of condescension. Now, though, for no justifiable reason, he’d formed a grudge, a sourness, which he couldn’t substantiate.

  Coming toward the kitchen, Luke noticed Marcy’s index finger, with her polished French-manicured nail, caressing the rim of the wineglass; she gently slid her fingertip back and forth. He’d seen countless women doing that, but couldn’t understand the point. It was a glass, not a nipple. Moving on, he came into the room, bent over, and placed his toolbox on the floor, then straightened up. “Done for today. I’ll be back tomorrow. I should be gone by lunch time.”

  Marcy stroked her hair a few times, wiped a wine stain from the corner of her mouth. “Okay. Just put the key here,” she said, tapping her nail on the counter. “There will be a check waiting for you. Make sure you leave us an invoice for our records.”

  “Got it,” Luke said, standing opposite Marcy, on the other side of the table. “Coming along nicely, isn’t it?”

  Marcy had taken another sip of wine, her wet tongue meeting the rim of the glass, her eyes closing for a moment, all the while unaware of Luke’s admiring gaze. “It most certainly is,” she said after sating her thirst. “I’ve been looking forward to a bigger closet for years. Something always came up. We’re glad you’re here to lend a hand.”

  “My pleasure, Mrs. Foster. I take great pride in my work. Maybe that’s why I stay busy. My competitors are sneaky, shady. They tend to charge considerably more than I do, so I’ve heard. And even with a small crew—two or three men—their work leaves much to be desired. At least that’s what some of my best customers have told me.”

  Marcy had finished her glass of wine; her eyes were watery, she looked somewhat sleepy. She spoke tipsily. “This whole block has gone through many contractors. I’m sure I can speak for all of them when I say we’re glad you’re around, glad you’re easy to work with, and I’d be happy to give you a reference should the need arise.”

  Luke smiled. “Why, thank you.” At this point he knew he had Marcy Foster in the palm of his hand, without having to lay the charm on too thick. He was prepared to do whatever it took to spend more time in the house, to get his fill, to play with Marcy’s clothes, if need be, to innocently fantasize, to conjure up more reasons to pass judgment on their richly impressive but unattainable lifestyle, one he and Natalie would never catch up to, not without a sizable miracle. He himself would always have dirty hands, aches and pains, a scanty bank account. “You know, Mrs. Foster, I’d hate to impose, but while I was working on your closet, I noticed—”

  “What?” Marcy said, cutting him off. “Is there going to be a setback? Have I gone too big with the closet? Darn it, I should have…”

  Luke raised his hand, as if he were a traffic controller asking cars to stop. “Easy does it, Mrs. Foster. No need to come undone. I just wanted you to know that, having look-ed at the dimensions of your new closet, that your husband’s closet would look better if it were the same size as yours. Sometimes you don’t pick up on these things until the job’s far along. And I’d hate for my customers to think I’m trying to up-sell them. I’m sure you know that about me by now.”

  “Of course, Luke. As I said moments ago, I find you reliable and dependable. Not dishonest like most of them.”

  “Well, to show you the kind of person I am, Mrs. Foster, I’m going to cut you a deal. I’ll rebuild Mr. Foster’s closet, matching yours, for half the price. Talk it over with him and let me know. No rush.”

  “Luke,” Marcy said, her face ruddy, her voice cracking a bit, an after-effect of the wine. “I’m not even going to think about that one. Besides, my husband will go along with just about anything I say. So let’s do it. The job is yours.”

  “Great. I’ll update the job order and bring with me tomorrow a new copy. I have your
key so everything is taken care of. Thanks so much for having confidence in my work, in me. I won’t let you down.”

  “We knew that when we hired you, Luke. My husband would never hire just anybody. He’s a fine judge of character.”

  “Well, thanks.” Luke moved toward the door, on his way out. Marcy returned her attention to the magazine. Reaching for the doorknob, Luke looked back and saw Marcy Foster grabbing the bottle of wine and refilling her glass…again. All he could do was shake his head. So this is how some people live, he thought, how they spend their time, their money, their spare precious moments. Now, for the first time, he was feeling a newly formed knot in his stomach, one that had the possibility of growing broader and tighter with each passing day. What would that knot turn Luke Barnum into? The key in his pocket was the gateway to any number of successes or disasters, as well as a means to fully explore his conscience.

  LAST CHANCE

  My eyes open to witness a new day: hours of endless misery. The merciless pain begins at my feet, spreads to my spine. My discs feel as though they are crumbling to pieces. A constant battle with nausea forces me to swallow pills like candy. The medication is effective, but I’ve put on weight every week since I started taking it, and I’m on the verge of obesity. I was once lean and mean. That was over a year ago before the accident ruined me. It’s hard to believe tragedy has struck so early in life. You never know when it’s coming, do you? How it will happen? How it will feel? I was blind-sided one evening over a year ago. The anguish from that incident swells inside me whenever I glance back in time. The visions have never abandoned me. And now, once again, I sit up in bed as best I can. I close my eyes, trying to remember the good times, but my mind replays the tragedy over and over again and there’s no escaping it. This is what happened:

  Donna and I had put together a picnic lunch that day, something we hadn’t done for a long time. We used to sit out in the park on a fall day and let the foliage dazzle us. Nature was at its best then, providing a spectacular show of color. Donna always brought a camera with her, snapping off shots like the paparazzi. The look on her face warmed my heart. I knew we had a good relationship. I had always thought that the little moments in life really are the most rewarding. That day we cuddled under a warm blanket and shared hot coffee from a thermos. Those are the times I wish could have lasted forever. But nothing does.

  Donna tucked her head between my neck and shoulder and told me she loved me and smiled. She was thoughtful and introspective, that’s for sure. We didn’t always need words to communicate. When she was pissed at me I could tell by the way her lips pinched together, or how she’d bite down on her index finger. When she was happy she made her feelings clear as well. I pulled her close to me and kissed her forehead, working my way to her lips, stenciled in pink lipstick, and kissed her again. I looked her in the eyes, smiled, and told her I couldn’t imagine a world without her. Her eyes filled with tears of joy. She tilted her head, giving me her famous puppy-dog face. The words she spoke made my heart’s wings flutter. “Promise you’ll never leave me, Anton?” I choked back the emotion in my throat and answered. “Never.”

  We embraced. And then we made love…for the last time. That night our life changed. The day had started on a high but ended in unforeseen disaster. Sometime before bed we got into an argument about some family problem, this time concerning her mother’s meddling in our marriage. Her mother complained that we did not call her often enough, although one of us made a habit of reaching out to her once a week. Still, her mother was dissatisfied and, when the opportunity was right, made every effort to lay a guilt trip on us. On that particular occasion I was more vocal than usual and called her mother a “major pain in the ass.” My comments pissed Donna off and we argued.

  Most of our quarrels consisted of more trivial matters. Episodes like this made me subscribe to the saddening truth that speaking your mind is not always a wise course of action, even when it’s the honest thing to do. We often need to remember that reality sucks. Ours is not a fantasy world dreamed up in some book or epic movie where each day is better than the one before. No genie or mythical creature is casting pearls of wisdom that I can learn from. The human race must endure a barrage of right hooks before it can experience any form of bliss.

  After my comments, Donna stormed out of the den and went to bed. She cried herself to sleep. I wanted to have it out, deal with it then and there. But this was one of those times when a man has to let go. We all live by that rule whether we like it or not. Occasionally, this was how my wife dealt with anger and I had to respect it. That’s how she sorted out her problems sometimes. Usually—one day down the road when we were back on track again and laughing—she’d bring up what bothered her and brush it off.

  So I decided on going to Jenkins’s for a beer. One turned into ten, and I got drunk. Everything was a blur. I knew I was unfit to drive so I decided to walk home and let the cool night sober me up. It was only a thirty-minute walk home and I knew all the shortcuts. Even the bartender warned me about driving in my condition; he allowed me to leave my car in his lot until morning. “If you drive you’re bound to kill yourself, or someone else for that matter,” he said.

  As I stumbled along Benton Road I stared at the clear sky and the blinking stars. I thought about Donna and our morning together in the park, huddled under a blanket, and the happy ending to the afternoon. I just wanted to get home, wake her, and then apologize and forget our argument. I turned onto Cooper Lane, a long stretch of road with three main intersections. It’s wide for a back road, too. That night the curbs were lined with parked cars. I heard a truck engine behind me. I knew the rumble of a diesel motor and that’s exactly what it was; the headlights were bright and powerful. I spun to make sure I was out of the way. Everything looked fine so I turned back around and kept moving.

  Seconds later I heard a loud crashing behind me, the sound of metal thrashing metal. When I turned to appraise the situation, I was run down. The truck had collided with the parked car behind me and it had rolled forward over me. I awoke in the hospital with a flood of bright light staring me in the face. Medics were talking amongst themselves. Immersed in a drug-induced daze, I couldn’t decipher a word of it. Donna was sobbing at my bedside. I felt nothing. A cast covered most of my body; and I was being fed intravenously. Then I urinated into a bedpan. That was painful, but at least I was able to feel my penis. Thank god my organ had sensation. A man encounters a certain doom when faced with losing his private parts. The notion alone is crippling to any male.

  When I became coherent, my prognosis was divulged in grim detail. I was busted up severely: spinal cord cracked in pieces, concussion, broken legs, internal bleeding—the list went on. I listened to the horrible news as dread soared within. I was overcome with a fear that ravaged me. I felt bitter, scared, and angry. I asked myself, “Why me?” hundreds of times until I hated the sound of my inner voice. The doctors made it clear that my condition might be permanent. If I was ever going to heal it would require perseverance. The doctors also explained that I would need surgeries, therapy, medicine, patience, assistance, time, and a miracle to rebound from such trauma. One doctor said straight out that a situation like this tests the strength of a marriage and we should be thankful youth was on our side. Was that his compassion talking? I grabbed Donna’s hand and stared vacantly into her pretty green eyes. I struggled to crack a smile. She turned away from me. I saw a tear moving down her cheek. She closed her eyes. I didn’t know what to make of her expression. What was she thinking? The look on her face was one of grief and loathing. That’s what I saw.

  A month later I was released from the hospital, and ordered to stay in bed with a device attached to my back and a cast on my leg. The other leg, which hadn’t received nearly as much damage, had healed a bit. I had been through two surgeries that barely scratched the surface. A long road lay ahead if I was going to overcome the obstacles. Donna became my caregiver. The responsibility dominated her life for months on end. She we
nt through bed pans, sponge baths, preparing meals, changing sheets, medicine runs, phone calls to doctors—and she still had to earn the household income. She worked all day and was my nurse at night. Every once in a while a friend or two would come by and help. But she had to understand that they had lives and families too. She was on her own.

  With each day the once strong fibers of our marriage slowly disintegrated. The medication I ingested took away the pain but added weight my frame couldn’t handle. I had put on over a hundred additional pounds since the accident. When I looked in the mirror it terrified me. I wanted to get out of bed and take back the life that was stolen from me. All in time, I told myself, all in time.