Bonita Palms

by Hal Ross

  Guy Thomas, the captain at my precinct, warned me to ease up on booze or face suspension. I was stunned. Until that moment I had no idea that he or anyone else knew about my drinking problem.

  After Alice and I were married I’d often dream of having a son to bond with. Instead of basking in the father/son relationship I’d visualized, I was burdened with a boy possessed with an attitude so foreign to me, I couldn’t understand it, let alone cope.

  When Alice told me she was afraid of Charles, of what he was liable to do, I considered telling him to move out. After all, he was twenty-one; time he made it on his own. But our son had no means of support. Even if I paid his rent, how would Charles manage the rest of his life? Out of our sight he’d soon become even more of a liability.

  My wife’s complaints became more frantic. Charles had taken to threatening her, she said, demanding money, food for his friends, or the use of her car. I began questioning my ability to be a husband as well as a father. The more I admitted my own failure the more I drank.

  Alice lost a lot of weight and grew sloppy. She’d often remain in bed all day. And I took the easy way out. My drinking escalated. I no longer had a sense of obligation; my mind could barely focus.

  I got the call at eleven o’clock in the morning. I was at work. A woman’s voice I could hardly recognize muttered, “C-Come h-home.”

  “Huh?”

  “P-Please … h-home.”

  “Alice?”

  No response.

  “Alice! Tell me what’s wrong!”

  “I … I shot him, Miles. I … shot Charles … with your gun.”

  10

  January 21

  Denise Gerigk said goodbye to the other women and walked out of Jill Derbyshire’s house. As usual she was dressed stylishly; pink flowered top and red- Bermuda shorts, blonde hair combed to perfection, makeup applied with care. Nine-thirty at night and her mid-week bridge game had just ended.

  She got in her Audi A4 and started the motor. The drive home would take twelve minutes or less. The night was beautiful and she could see multiple star formations in the sky.

  About to enter her neighborhood of Augusta, the car sputtered; Denise hardly had enough time to guide it to the curb when it died. The control panel remained lit. She quickly glanced at the fuel gauge: EMPTY.

  Not again! she thought. What’s this? The second time in less than two months?

  There was no one to blame but herself. Of late she’d gotten into the habit of putting off the onerous task of filling her gas tank … until the inevitable happened.

  She stepped out, locked the Audi and leaned against it. Her husband was home watching one of the rare Toronto Maple Leaf hockey games being shown on Florida television. Disturbing him and asking for a lift would only make her feel more foolish. Calling one of the women she’d just played cards with would be equally belittling.

  It’s a nice night. I’ll walk, she decided. Her hand automatically patted her Coach bag for reassurance. Inside was a compact 9mm Beretta just like the ones her girlfriends were also carrying wherever they went. Once she’d completed the brief but thorough training course, Denise had become comfortable with the gun. By her estimation there were four more blocks to go. What can happen in four blocks?

  * * *

  Born in Montreal to French Canadian parents, Denise Bernier spoke little English while growing up. Her father died at the age of forty-nine when she was thirteen. There was no insurance and not very much in the way of savings. Denise thought of that period of her life as the “dark side” because of the mess she’d gotten into; a situation that to this day remained unspoken about.

  She had a brother and two sisters. They all pitched in to make ends meet. More than a full year passed before Denise came out of her funk. She began to work when class let out and on weekends at whatever temporary jobs she could find. After graduating high school she took a full-time position as a teller at a local branch of the Bank of Montreal.

  Promotion followed promotion. By the age of twenty-one her English had vastly improved and she was transferred to the main downtown branch. Tom Gerigk, a salesman for the Hasbro toy company in Canada, eleven years her senior and married, was a regular customer.

  The two became friendly. Two years later, when his marriage came undone, Tom asked her out. Denise had recently been dumped by her Anglophone boyfriend who reneged on his promise to always be there for her. She liked Tom, and it wasn’t only his mesmerizing blue eyes. Despite the typical salesman’s bluster, there was something about him; a kind demeanor and a gentle soul.

  Tom left Hasbro and started his own toy distribution company. When he moved to Toronto, Denise figured she’d never see him again. But then came his surprising invitation for her to join him; and her delighted acceptance. Within weeks they were living and working together. Marriage soon followed.

  The toy industry proved to be a challenge. But Denise loved what she did; discovering she was a kid at heart. However, her adapted business was a crapshoot. The key retailers like MyMart and Arrow were becoming more difficult to deal with. Promised purchase orders from these and other large chains sometimes failed to materialize, thereby leaving them with excess inventory and storage costs.

  Still, Tom proved to be frugal, and they were able to save enough to buy their home in Florida. It was a dream come true for both of them; having a warm-weather place where they could relax during the winter months. Though invariably, Denise would use it more often than Tom, as business matters in Canada occupied his time more than hers.

  She made friends with many of her American neighbors and it was an eye opener. She’d come to the conclusion that Canadians as a whole were more conservative, laidback, and accommodating. A disproportionate number of Americans were opinionated, too serious about their politics, and far more prejudiced.

  * * *

  Almost home, Denise was passing Randal Park, named for one of the founders of Bonita Palms. Seventy-five square yards, with a goldfish pond in the center, benches, and few trees or thick foliage that someone could hide behind. Denise and Tom spent many Sundays here, kicking back and enjoying the sun.

  Denise abruptly came up short. A pebble had become stuck in her left Cole Haan shoe. She thought about toughing it out, but it was really bothering her. She hobbled on the crushed gravel path toward the nearest bench.

  She was about to take a seat when she lurched back awkwardly in alarm. Millipedes. Dozens of them. Slithering on the ground close to the bench. She despised the wormy creatures. The fact that they were harmless did nothing to ease her anxiety. They appeared when you least expected, but not usually this early in the year, especially not in January.

  She limped to the next bench over, made sure it was clear of the insect infestation, and took a seat, setting her bag beside her. Then she froze. The sudden movement when she’d first spotted the millipedes must have reactivated the twitch in the right side of her neck. Actually, more than a twitch; the damn pain seemed to travel from head to toe.

  Denise couldn’t count the number of doctors she’d consulted, both here in Florida and back home in Toronto. General practitioners. Physiotherapists. Chiropractors. Each had come up with a different diagnosis. One specialist told her it was N.U.C.A. or cervical artery dissection. Another blamed it on the Atlas bone at the bottom of her cranium. A third mentioned entrapped nerves which, from her understanding, was like a grouping of neurons being pinched together.

  When painkiller pills and muscle relaxants failed Denise, her doctor theorized there could be a psychological trigger, such as anxiety, and prescribed Narvia. She reached into her bag where she now kept a travel pack and removed two pills, then used the water bottle she always had with her and washed them down.

  Denise bent over and removed her shoe, shook it, and a dime-sized pebble fell out. A high-pitched whine cut through the air, disturbing the quiet. She put her shoe back
on and stood up. A helicopter, flying low, was getting closer.

  This isn’t unusual, she reminded herself. Often there were medical emergencies that required transportation of a Bonita Palms resident to Lee Memorial Hospital in Fort Myers, the closest one with a helipad. The helicopter would land just inside the main gate at the intersection of the two key roads. Denise assumed this was the case now.

  The sound grew louder. She was looking up, expecting to see the helicopter zip by at any moment, just as something else caught her eye: someone slowly approaching on foot, along the same path she’d used a few moments ago.

  In a panic, she thrust her hand into her bag, pulled out the Beretta and flicked off the safety the way she’d been shown.

  She sized up the figure as an African American male. The helicopter was almost directly above her, the noise so loud it hurt her ears. Her attention flipped between the copter and the man. She raised the gun to waist level.

  The helicopter was moving slowly. Denise called out as loudly as she could to be heard above the din, “WHO … ARE … YOU?”

  The person didn’t answer.

  “I have a gun.”

  His pace continued.

  “SIR?!”

  Denise didn’t know what to do. Can he not hear me? Or is he deliberately disobeying me? A voice in her head commanded, Shoot! Shoot now and ask questions later!

  The man drew nearer.

  Noise from the helicopter began fading into the distance.

  “HOLD IT!” Denise screamed, “RIGHT THERE!” her knees knocking together. She raised the gun to shoulder level, her finger tightening on the trigger, when the pain in her neck flared again.

  “Mrs. Gerigk?”

  That the man knew her name stunned her. “Y-Yes?”

  “It’s Martin … Martin Williams,” he said, arms outstretched in a defensive manner.

  Martin Williams? The boy was eighteen years old and lived with his parents in Augusta part-time when he wasn’t attending college. He performed chores for her and her husband as well as others in the neighborhood. Martin was one of the most reliable people she’d ever met. “Oh my God!” An involuntary sound of relief, almost a giggle, escaped her lips. “Martin … Williams…”

  “Yes, it’s me.” He’d stopped in his tracks, his gaze switching from Denise’s face to the gun she was pointing at his chest.

  Embarrassment washed over her. She flicked the safety back on and shoved the gun into her bag. Denise massaged the tension in her neck while explaining about her car; then being disturbed by the loud helicopter as, what she believed to be a complete stranger, was advancing on her. “W-What are you doing out here?” she asked.

  “I just got back into town. A friend left me off at the main gate. I was walking home when I saw you—thought you might need some help.”

  She shuddered. “I’m so sorry. I…”

  It finally dawned on Martin. “Of course…” now Martin was embarrassed, “of course you’d be frightened, being approached in the dark—by anyone.” He pointed in the direction of her house. “Would you like me to walk you home?”

  She forced a smile. “I’m fine now, Martin. Thanks for your concern.”

  * * *

  During the remaining two blocks to her house, Denise couldn’t stop berating herself. She’d come this close to shooting an innocent boy. She was ashamed of the voice in her head, ordering her, Shoot now … ask questions later. Would she have had the same thought if the person had been white? What about her theory that Canadians were less prejudiced than Americans?

  She was trembling as she climbed the short steps to her front door.

  Twenty-nine hundred square feet. A cathedral ceiling. Four bedrooms, two full baths, and a decent-sized pool. Denise took pride in every inch of it.

  Tom heard her enter, turned off the TV, and approached. “Did you win?” he asked.

  Without a word, she collapsed in his arms and broke into tears.

  “Denise?”

  She couldn’t speak; wished she could nest where she was for a good long time.

  “Honey—what is it?”

  It all came out in a rush: Her car running out of gas so deciding to walk, the helicopter and Martin Williams, the gun she’d removed from her bag, the voice in her head telling her to use it.

  “You walked?” Her husband was stunned. “You should have called me! I would’ve come get you!”

  “I … didn’t want to disturb your hockey game.”

  “Who cares about the damn game? Two women have been murdered, Denise.”

  The fact that he was this concerned about her welfare touched her heart. “Okay, okay, I get it,” she said. “Yes, I should’ve called you.”

  His voice softened. “Did you really come that close to shooting the boy?”

  “I did…”

  Tom proffered a handkerchief.

  She took it from him. They were standing in the brightly-lit foyer. Denise faced a mirror that lined the opposite wall. She caught her own reflection, then Tom’s. And she paused.

  There was a quarter-full glass of scotch sitting on the side table. Her husband liked to drink but seldom after dinner. And there was more. Something in his disposition. She’d been so self-absorbed she hadn’t noticed it when she first entered the house.

  “C’mon. Let’s have a seat,” Tom said, indicating the off-white leather couch in the great room.

  As he led the way, Denise’s eyes lit on the two-foot polished-bronze statue of Jesus, positioned on a pedestal next to the couch. She’d purchased the statue while on a vacation in Rome. Something about the pose—Jesus welcoming the children onto Him—had appealed to her. She paused, crossed herself and whispered a Hail Mary.

  Tom gave her a funny look. This was the first time in ages she’d said or done anything devotional. “What’s wrong?”

  “No,” she didn’t hesitate, “what’s wrong with you is the question.”

  “What do you mean?’

  “Tom?”

  “What?”

  “Dis moi.”

  “It’s … nothing.”

  “Please?” she insisted.

  “Let’s talk about what happened to you.”

  She turned so she was facing him. She saw how drained he looked. Tom was a youthful sixty-nine. People often mistook him to be much younger. But not tonight. She could see the stress on his face. And she had a pretty good hunch what was causing it. The toy industry in Canada was getting worse. Buyers were practically teenagers without experience, gutless merchandise managers, and a retail environment run by bean-counters.

  “Can I get you a drink?” Tom offered.

  “No.” Her concern ramped up. “Tom … tell me.”

  “You don’t want to know,” he sighed.

  She went to stand from the couch; the pain radiated again. Not now! she berated herself.

  “Your neck?”

  She tried to nod; couldn’t quite manage it. “I wanted to get you your drink.”

  “In your condition? You sit. I’ll get it.” He came to his feet, retrieved his glass and returned to the couch. He took a long sip, then said, “You know how we’ve been saying that Arrow’s arrogance is going to hurt them one day?”

  It was a sore topic. Instead of buying the Leaders chain when the American dollar was valued thirty percent higher than the Canadian dollar, Arrow hesitated until it was at par, then vastly overpaid. And unlike MyMart’s entry into Canada, where small steps were taken to enable success, Arrow chose to open all 130+ stores nearly at once, before they had a decent logistics system in place. Store shelves were never more than half-filled from the get-go. Pricing of goods was higher than most if not all of Arrow’s competitors. Management talked itself into believing that they were perfectly knowledgeable about the retail environment in Canada. Hiring executives with Canadian experience
was unnecessary. The Arrow name alone would be enough to guarantee success.

  Goose bumps erupted on Denise’s skin. “What about them?”

  “You’ll find this hard to believe.”

  “Tell me.”

  “They’ve just declared bankruptcy.”

  She looked at Tom askance. Many had predicted it would only be a matter of time, but not this soon. “Why are they giving up after less than two years? It doesn’t make sense.”

  Tom muttered something under his breath. Instead of asking him to repeat himself, Denise allowed the seconds to tick by, an inevitable question on the tip of her tongue.

  Her husband read her mind: “$976,000.”

  She reeled back in disbelief. “That’s what they owe us?”

  “’Fraid so.”

  “But Arrow Canada is a wholly-owned subsidiary of Arrow U.S. The parent company isn’t going bankrupt. They’re still a viable concern. Surely to God the Canadian government has regulations in place that protect us.” She paused, then asked weakly, “N’est-ce pas?”

  “Uh-uh. I’m afraid not.”

  Denise knew their operating line at the bank was supported by second mortgages on both the house in Toronto and the one here in Florida. They’d also loaned their business $500,000. A loss of this magnitude would ruin them.

  Tom tried to reassure her. “It isn’t the end of the world. We’ve been through tough times before. Look at me—”

  She tried to turn her head; felt her neck resist.

  He gently placed both hands on her shoulders. “Denise—we can do it again. I … need you to be strong.”

  She couldn’t find her voice. She and Tom lived life to its fullest. And yes, they’d built a modest nest egg. But their retirement depended on one day selling the business and getting out from their guarantees to the bank. Without that, both homes would have to go. She remembered growing up poor; the thought of returning to that kind of existence sent chills up her spine.

  11

  20+ years ago

  “I shot him with your gun.”