by Jack Kinsley
"That's it?" Travis asked. All morning he had hoped Dallas would be brief, but now he wanted the nitty-gritty.
"Let's call it unsuccessful, but not without casualty. I wasn't able to get 'er, but I ain't the only man she'll be missin'. Take that one straight to the horse track." Then he rubbed his face inside the valleys of his palms. "I'm feelin' a bit tuckered just now. Might take me in a movie; suppose some shut eye wouldn't hurt me none either." The Valium was most likely taking its full effect.
"Are you nauseated at all?"
"Not so much, but maybe a tad now that you mention it."
"You could be starting withdrawals."
"Ya think?"
"When is the last time you used?
"Yesterday afternoon."
Travis had been right on the money. "It's possible. The Valium should last you a bit, but let me know if I need to keep you steady again; just another five milligrams would probably do it until the doctor gets here—" He checked his watch. "—in another six hours or so. And speaking of the doc, please keep this between us." The overpaid son of a bitch was next to being thrown out on his bony ass. Travis recalled Sarah had recently mentioned the greedy doctor had double billed again. In the past, the doctor had also made several attempts to charge for services never rendered; he even had the gall to argue it.
Dallas waved off Travis's concerns with a set of banana fingers. "Don't you worry none," he smiled. "We got stuff on each other now."
Travis regarded him with a mixed sense of newly found interest and appreciation. "Yeah, we sure do," Travis smiled back.
One Week Later
Chapter 8 / Living In California
If Travis had a choice that morning, he would have stayed inside the cocoon of his eight hundred thread-count sheets — the one luxury he brought home from work. The extra Valium he'd taken in the middle of the night brought him down to a thousand fathoms and he simply ignored the pinhole light of pain and worry above him. He would have played hooky if it wasn't for Sarah, who rang him three times and put a fire under him. There was an extra sense of urgency in her voice this morning.
Once he was up and moving — with the aid of two Adderall — he was like a machine as he got ready for work: shit, showered, shaved, and dressed with lightning efficiency. There was just the first glow of morning light as he stepped outside and made a beeline to his car, only to find a police car parked diagonally in the middle of the street, blocking him in. The red and blue lights spun quietly, washing the neighborhood in a silent call of concern, pulling the residents from their early-morning rituals — some still wore their robes and many held cups of coffee as they filled each other in on what had happened.
A young neighborhood boy, Will, stood on the sidelines of the action while his mother tried to hold him close under her wing. Travis knew the boy had just celebrated his ninth birthday, had heard him and his friends laughing and screaming cannonball at the community pool days ago, but this morning his eyes were bright red and swollen as he repeatedly wiped at them with the back sleeve of his checkered pajama shirt. Mother and son stared into the street at something flanked by two tall garbage bins that had been rolled out as barriers. In between the cans, Travis could see a sliver of something light, maybe yellow, as he approached them carrying his briefcase.
The closer he got and the greater his angle of vision became, the slower he walked. A gruesome scene began to reveal itself. It was Maxine, Will's golden retriever, lying in a patch of red asphalt with a trail of embedded fur stretching in a straight line down the street. She must have been dragged at least ten feet before she cut loose from under the speeding car. Her body was like that of a contortionist, only there were a variety of crushed and broken bones, a possible broken neck, and a deep gash ran down her belly exposing her insides.
"They killed her," Will told Travis, desperately trying to hold back his tears, but his eyes betrayed him. The two of them had become friends over the past few months, and Travis had gotten to know Maxine as well.
"The son of a bitch hit her and just kept driving," his mother told Travis. "Probably some morning drunk leaving the Headless Goose Pub. They're always serving assholes till daylight." She kissed Will's head and pulled him in close. "Sorry, honey. I know I'm not supposed to say those bad words."
"I don't care," he sobbed and shoved his face into her terrycloth robe. There was a brief muffle of sobs.
A large utility truck turned the corner at the end of the street and headed in their direction. It flashed its high beams a few times at the crowd and then bounced sluggishly over the single speed bump in the road. When it pulled up, Travis heard Will whisper the words written on the side of the truck. "ANIMAL CONTROL" — written in big bold font across the door. The driver stepped out with a clipboard and started talking with the officer.
Travis turned back to Will and his mother. "Did anybody see who did it?"
"No, we only heard it. And not even a screech of tires. They didn't even try to stop." she said, petting her boy's head rapidly, desperately trying to comfort him.
Another dog killer on the loose, Travis thought and watched the man from Animal Control unlock a large box on the side of his truck. He produced a few simple tools that could be found in almost any household garage and got to work.
Travis nearly made the mistake of telling the boy he could get another one, but some things were irreplaceable — like his little Bella.
"I'm so sorry, Willy," Travis told him — calling him by the nickname he had only given the boy a week ago. He knew Will secretly liked hearing it. "She wasn't tied up?" Travis couldn't remember a time when Maxine hadn't been leashed to a nearby pole, lying contently while Will skateboarded around the carports.
The boy could only meet his eyes for a second, still trying to man up for Travis. "No, I wasn't out with her," he managed to say with a clear voice. "I took out the trash this morning and she must've gotten out."
"It's not your fault, baby." His mother rubbed the length of his back quickly up and down, creating friction as if it were cold out.
"It is my fault," he said and freed himself of his mother's hold — not able to accept any more love from her while he blamed and hated himself. "And now she's gone!" he shouted and ran back home. Travis imagined the boy running up the stairs, locking himself inside his room, and crying uncontrollably on his bed — a place where he could really let Maxine go.
After the dog was bagged and put into one of the lock boxes, the crowd of neighbors began to disperse, and Travis heard one of them say he was getting his garden hose. His phone had vibrated twice in his pocket in the last five minutes; he didn't need to look to know who it was. He offered final condolences to Will's mother and then got into his car, waited patiently for the police cruiser to clear his path, and then left for Crystal Heights.
— — —
A lot had happened within a week at the rehab, but it was still business as usual: expect the unexpected. No surprise was ever truly a surprise.
Nathalie had left the rehab — without Dani — a few days after Devon the Dog Killer had been expelled. She was now supposedly shacked up with Devon in his den. Travis assumed it had been an easy choice for her; a girl with no other prospects, not really a lesbian, and she could simply follow another money trail. Dani remained at Crystal Heights under the advice of Helen, so she could work on herself, but in reality Travis was sure she couldn't bear the thought of going back home alone. And at a reduced rate, she readily and happily committed for another month, maybe even two.
Dallas was still in the program, having survived a rough detox, and was starting to come around. His personality-plus was a hit with almost everyone. It never ceased to amaze Travis how quickly a client's true persona would reinstate itself after a detox; a moth to a butterfly — but not always beautiful. The verdict was still out whether Dallas would stay longer at Crystal Heights. His two-week payment left him with one to go and there hadn't been any talk or financial commitment for a longer stay. Travis didn't believ
e he had the resources.
Betsy's health continued its steady decline, and the doctor had seen fit to provide her with a private nurse — one of his own, of course, from his private practice. Betsy had almost completely lost her appetite, becoming weaker by the day, and had only made it once to the dining table, to sit with Dallas and Dani. It lasted but ten minutes before she asked Travis to help her back to bed. As they walked to her suite, Betsy told him how vulgar she found Dallas, and added, "I don't trust that man. Careful, not everyone who smiles is your friend."
As for Ana, she was still determined to leave with Bella for Romania. She had gathered all the necessary legal documents for Bella to live abroad, and subtly threatened Travis that if he didn't sign voluntarily, she would file an application for permission to remove Bella from the jurisdiction. He could fight this in court, and there was a good chance he would stop the motion as they weren't officially divorced, but the real threat of her pulling the rug from under Crystal Heights still loomed.
So he played along, making only verbal agreements, but there was only a small window of time before records were filed and airline tickets were purchased — a paper trail that could cause serious complications if Ana were to suddenly disappear. He didn't refuse any of her requests, including the listing of the Victorian house, but asked for a few days as he was busy with a newly admitted client and needed time to fully accept her plan — but that he would. What he really needed was time to formulate a plan of his own. What had been only an idea before, a fantasy he allowed himself to indulge in, was becoming more tangible by the day. Travis was going to get rid of his wife. The design was there but still remained only a sketch needing the rendering of detail and polish. He was confident it would come to him, but time was ticking at an alarming rate.
As he pulled up to Crystal Heights this morning, the sun finally cleared a stubborn patch of cloud and illuminated the driveway for him. He grabbed his black box from the glove compartment, shoved it into its second home, and then made his way into the busy yard. A sudden blast of heat struck him under his navy-blue dress shirt and it felt like he was wearing a solar panel on his back.
He was immediately bombarded by clients and staff with requests: Dani was upset because her massage had been canceled and she wanted to go to an outside massage parlor, Lucy wanted to know if she could have next Tuesday off, Chef Tom needed petty cash for morning groceries (something Sarah would normally handle), and Travis could see Dallas rubber necking at him from inside the beveled glass of the front door.
He handled the requests promptly and efficiently at poolside: Dani would have her outing later this afternoon, he gave Chef Tom a Benjamin, and then passed another buck in regards to Lucy's request — telling her she could talk with Sarah about her day off. "She's in charge of staff and client scheduling," he reminded her. And then asked her, "Where the hell is Sarah, anyway?" She could have easily handled these requests.
"Busy in the office," she told him, surprisingly succinct.
Travis entered the house and waved a hand to Dallas to indicate 'morning, I'll catch up with you soon.' Dallas sat on the couch reading a newspaper, sipping coffee, and raised his mug to toast Travis as he continued for the office.
Lucy followed him, trying to get a last word in that he wasn't hearing. At the office he held up a finger to her, gave her a forced smile, and shut the door in her face.
Jesus.
The tension inside the office was thick and palpable, as if the final word of a horrible argument had just been spat.
"Morning," he said to Sarah.
She was in the corner of the office with her back to him, wrestling with the printer. "Morning," she mumbled, but didn't turn and kept at the copier.
He watched her continued to struggle with it. "Need some help?"
"Paper jam," she said and tugged at the sheets in its jaws. "Caught halfway up its ass and it won't let go. Goddamn it!" she cursed it, and smacked the top with her fist.
"Let me have a whack at that," he said. He stood next to her, expecting her to move. She didn't and tried to hide her face from him, but he caught her profile, and was shocked to see her cheeks fresh with tears.
"It's just a printer, don't sweat the small stuff, right?" he said, but knew damn well it was something else — his house manager would never cry over a cheap printer.
She finally faced him and he could see just how much of a mess she really was. There had been a torrent of tears that ran two clean rivers down her face, leaving thin black banks of eyeliner.
"What the hell is going on?"
A timid knock came at the office door.
"Not now!" Travis shouted. The door silenced.
Sarah walked over to her chair and dumped herself into it like a bag of bones, and dabbed at the corner of her eyes with a disintegrating tissue. Travis provided her with a new one from the box on the desk.
It took her a while to completely regain her composure before she could speak. "The bastard is married," she finally blurted. A few sobs escaped. "How could I be so gullible? Am I a stupid woman, Travis? Am I?" she cried, and made quick work of the new tissue.
"Who are we talking about? Peter? He's married?" The thought was as unbelievable as it was plausible. Who the hell knows what's really going on in a long-distance relationship? He'd had his moments of paranoia with Ana during their other-side-of-the-planet correspondence.
"He has a family and everything!" she told him contemptuously, without tears this time.
"How did you find out?" He sat down in the chair across from her.
Sarah threw her arms up in surrender. "He doesn't even live in Florida. Are you ready for this?" She leaned toward him. "He lives here in California. Forty fucking minutes away from my house! He lied about everything."
Travis didn't know much about their relationship, but he did know she was always picking him up at the airport.
"Are you sure?" he asked.
"Yes, I'm sure — as sure as God fucking hates me."
"Weren't you meeting him at the airport?"
"Oh, that's the best part," she said, as if warning him to hold on to something. She pulled a compact mirror from her purse, gave her reflection a quick mocking laugh, and plucked three more tissues from the box. "He would drive there, park his car, and then wait for me with his suitcase. He would be there curbside as if he'd just come off the goddamn plane. And there I was, all smiles, hugging and kissing him, asking him how his flight was. I'm such a fool."
She inspected her reflection in the mirror as she tried to remove the mascara that had run south. "But in reality he'd just kissed his family goodbye to come and stay with me. Probably telling his wife he was going on a business trip, or some shit. How could I be so stupid, Travis? He was living here the whole time. He even played up the time differences."
And she appeared to have not yet really considered this last conniving piece of it. Her eyes wandered absently around the room, dumbfounded. "The three-hour time difference..." she said, mostly to herself, recalling the fine details of his lies. "We scheduled our lives around those hours — for two years! I'm such a stupid girl, Travis. I have no business being your house manager. I should just resign. You can't have such a dumb bitch working for you. Really."
"Okay, that's enough now. This isn't about you. It has nothing to do with how smart you are." He paused, still trying to wrap his head around what he'd just been told. "You can't blame yourself for this. It's not your fault he has a little dick!" It just came out without him thinking about it. He'd said it instinctively, trying to snap her from her guilt-ridden state; change her focus. And even though it was cheap and random, it worked.
A few chuckles permeated her sobbing as she told him, "You're such an asshole." But he knew she appreciated it. Her breathing steadied and the storm weakened as she began to collect herself. She sat upright and pulled her blouse down evenly around her waist, then dumped most of the contents of her purse onto the desk to put herself back together
"So, he told yo
u? Or..."
"Oh, no! He would have kept up the charade. It was a friend of a friend...of a friend." She twisted a lipstick that spun a wet pink finger up and then went immediately back down into hiding. She dug for a different color in her purse. "Thank God for friends, right?"
"Well, thank God you found out now. Just imagine what could have happened later — two families living unknowingly, forty-five minutes apart? Better now than later."
"Better never." Dodging a future bigger bullet gave her no consolation. "They saw him with his family having dinner at the Lazy Dog Café in Torrance," she said.
Travis knew the restaurant well. He'd eaten there on several occasions with Ana and Bella. They had the kid coloring placemats, which made it one of Bella's favorites.
"She said they looked like the perfect family — a boy, a girl, and a beautiful wife. When I called him out on it, he tried denying all of it; saying it couldn't have been him — trying to use the asinine excuse that it must have been someone that looked like him. And knowing him for so long, I may have even started believing it, if it wasn't for the pictures my friend took with her cell. She kept sending me the pics of the cheating bastard — one after the other — showing him at different angles. And without a doubt it was him. He was even wearing the shirt I bought him for his last birthday!"
One can live or die by those cell phones, he thought, making a mental note to keep his texts with Ana clean of any incriminating details.
"What about telling his wife?" he asked. "Give him a taste of his medicine. An eye for an eye?"
"I thought about it. I probably will, but I don't know. Don't forget the Bible also goes on to say, 'turn the other cheek.' It doesn't really condone revenge. It's all about taking it up the ass here on earth and letting God sort it out for you at a later date."
"There's my little sailor's mouth," he said and tapped her on the hand. Sarah had even cursed during her informal job interview with him, which was a plus because no matter how rich or educated their clients were, there was no pussy footin' around when it came time to tell a grown adult they had to hand over their cell phone and go straight to bed.