by Gary Taylor
"Yeah," I said. "She has some problems. Any news breaking around here?"
Catherine eyed me coolly as Strong nodded in the negative.
"Quiet as a tomb," he said, emphasizing tomb with a sickening grin.
"Let's get a beer," I said. "I need to talk."
Catherine maintained her silence while we took an elevator down to the courthouse lobby, walked outside, and strolled to the Hoagie Shop in the next block. It was a quiet little sandwich joint that also sold cans and bottles of beer. We often visited the place in the afternoons for the reporter's version of a coffee break. On this occasion, we each grabbed one of those huge cans of Australian Foster's Lager, popped the tabs, and sat down.
"Cindy's doctor boyfriend shot her telephone," I began.
Strong started laughing, but Catherine leaned into the table anxious to hear more.
"I'm not kidding, or, at least, I don't think she was kidding," I said. "She's all fucked up."
"Good," said Catherine. "She needs to be fucked up."
"Well," I said, "I have to think about the kids. She has a doctor's appointment at six and needs me to get them from day care, so I guess I'll be busy with them tonight."
"The hell you will," Catherine snarled. Her tone wiped the smile from Strong's face, and he jerked back in his chair. I took a long sip from the beer while she continued her harangue. "I had plans for us tonight, and they didn't include you leaving to spend time with your ex-wife and kids. You'll have to tell her to get a babysitter."
"No," I said. "I need to get them. Besides I haven't seen them in a while."
Now she took a long sip of beer and measured her next reply.
"I don't need this bullshit," she said. I had expected some problems with Catherine but had underestimated the toxicity of her venom. I'd just assumed she'd agree that the kids should always come first. And I didn't know of any plans we had that would interfere, besides the regular routine of having some drinks somewhere and going home. But it instantly became obvious to me, Strong, and several others in the Hoagie Shop that Catherine had lost control. She raised her voice and began to stutter a list of her complaints: "Calls in the night. Visits to the courthouse. Cindy has problems. And, I just don't need this bullshit in MY life."
The Medusa stare twisted into just the most visible demonstration of body language that warned she was poised for action. Before I could brace myself, she leaned across the table, knocked her beer to the floor, and grabbed a pen from my shirt pocket. She stood up with that in her hand and slammed it onto the floor where she started stomping on it. I stood up and moved to leave as Strong pushed back from the table and stood up, too. Before I could reach the door, she caught me and grabbed my necktie, pulling on the knot.
Jesus, I thought, am I going to have to fight her?
Catherine would not let go of the tie as I tried to move to the door, so I dragged her along beside me. She was screaming orders, demanding that I could not go get my kids. Strong and other patrons watched with their mouths agape. When I stopped moving, she dropped the tie. I knew I had to avoid a physical confrontation at all costs, but I also knew she would grab hold again unless I resumed our debate.
"If you go over to get those girls, Gary, we are through," she warned, as if that would represent her most serious threat. I stood there and stared into her cold, hard eyes.
"I am," I said. "And we are."
Then I turned and walked out the door as fast as I could. But I heard her footsteps behind me, rushing in pursuit. I hustled toward the corner and turned to look over my shoulder at the chaos unfolding on the sidewalk in front of the Hoagie Shop. Catherine had taken an umbrella from its attachment on her briefcase and was smashing it against the brick wall beside the sandwich shop picture window. No one moved to stop her. Strong had retreated to the curb, where he watched this lover's spat with an agonizing look of disbelief. I just wanted to get away, but I had to stop when I heard her footsteps again, moving toward me with the shaft of that shattered umbrella in her hand. I turned and involuntarily raised my arms to ward off the blows I believed would flow from the shaft. By then, however, Strong had come out of his trance and grabbed her from behind. She was sobbing as he held her back.
"What do you want me to do, you bastard?" she screamed and pointed to the curb. "Should I crawl down in the gutter here and beg you?"
"I'm leaving, Catherine. I don't care what you do."
I crossed the street, went to my car, and drove away, truly shaken by her outburst. If I had been watching that scene from across the street as a disinterested third party, I would still have been laughing while phoning friends to share the story. As a participant, however, it had sent a chill up my spine that spread across my shoulders and settled in for the night. Then I wondered if maybe I had been too hasty in counting her behavior out of line. In my life I had never experienced anything similar from a girlfriend or wife, but I knew things like that occurred. I had covered trials that included testimony about temper tantrums like I had just witnessed. Then I remembered, too, that testimony about those outbursts usually had presaged further testimony about murder or mayhem. I wondered how Strong was handling her in the wake of my departure. I thought maybe she would turn to him in the midst of her crisis and out of that comfort might spring a new love affair for my deliverance. Of course, I would move from Strong's house and let the lovers have their way, if only they would ask. Or, maybe they wouldn't even have to ask. But I quickly dismissed this delusion as wishful thinking. And I knew Strong would be fine as long as he was willing to listen to a filibuster of Senatorial proportions.
I also knew I was facing more trouble than I had first imagined. Her secret agenda of reasons for wanting me in her life had just added its most deadly element: pride. I realized she was so threatened by the thought of rejection that she could easily lose control.
What a worthless and destructive emotion is jealousy, I thought. It's the bad mother in any relationship that always eats her young. It destroys judgment and ruins lives.
And I knew I had not seen the last of its unpredictable wrath. From Uncle Al to Catherine Mehaffey, Cindy and I had dug ourselves an ugly hole in what felt to me like quicksand.
So, I picked up the girls from their school and drove them silently to Cindy's new home, where we parked outside to wait for her. I took the innocent eighteen-month-old Shannon in my arms, squeezed her as tight as I could, and began to bawl.
"I will get us out of this," I mumbled between sobs while Little E watched from the back seat without a clue about what she should do. They don't deserve this mess, I thought as I wept and promised again, "I will get us out of this, somehow."
THIRTY-FIVE
November 21, 1979
By eight-thirty I had given up on Cindy. I had sat with the girls in my old car outside her new house for at least an hour and a half after a dinner at McDonald's. I couldn't get inside, of course, but it looked nice enough. It was a one-story bungalow in Houston's semi-tony West University Place neighborhood, an area that catered to young doctors on the rise in the nearby Medical Center complex and professors at Rice University. I grew worried and tried to figure out a plan. In those days before cell phones, I had no way to reach her. I knew that appointment with the shrink should have ended by seven and feared a catastrophe. Concern about a suicide attempt topped my list of possibilities, so I decided to take a drive.
The girls fell asleep as I cruised the western side of the Loop highway that circles Houston like a wheel around spokes. I don't know what I thought I might see. She was driving our old, mustard-colored Dodge van, so maybe I hoped that would stand out if she had been in a wreck. More likely, I just wanted to think a bit. My drive carried me clockwise around the city until I found myself approaching our old neighborhood in the Houston Heights. I knew I had to do something, so I drove to our house there on Redan and parked the car. I took the girls across the street to the home of our former neighbors and asked if I could use their telephone.
"Where the hel
l are you?" asked Strong with more than a tinge of anxiety in his voice when I called him at his house.
"Looking for Cindy," I said. "Is something wrong?"
"You better get your ass over here fast. Cindy called a little while ago looking for you. Catherine took the call, and it went crazy. She told Cindy she has the kids over here and that she is now your lawyer. Catherine told her you can't talk with her again and all conversation must go through her. Cindy's on her way over here now. I don't know what Catherine plans to do, but I'm sure there's going to be trouble."
"I'm on my way."
I left the girls with our old neighbors and pulled up at Strong's just after Cindy had parked her van in the driveway. I climbed out of my car just as Catherine stormed out of the house toward the van with Strong in her wake. I raced to cut her off and stood in her way.
"What are you doing now?" I asked her.
"Let me handle this," she ordered. "Where are those girls? You really need to have those girls."
"You're not handling anything," I replied. She stopped and stared at me. I said, "You need to go back inside. I'll send her away."
She seemed to consider my demand a few moments and then backed toward the house, avoiding a physical confrontation. I recalled the umbrella-smashing of just a few hours earlier and concluded she must have cooled down since then. Taking advantage of this opportunity, I turned and went to Cindy in the van.
"Where the hell have you been?" I asked. "We waited in that car outside your house forever."
She sat in the driver's seat, sipping on a soda from a Jack-in-the-Box and looking no more concerned than if she'd just arrived a little late for someone's birthday party. Comparing my recollection moments before of Catherine at the Hoagie Shop with her retreat in Strong's yard, I contrasted Cindy's dazed appearance with that of the afternoon in the courthouse when she seemed on the verge of suicide. I wondered if I had stumbled into the Twilight Zone.
Am I the only one here who missed the guy passing out tranquilizers? I thought.
"I had to take a drive after my appointment and clear my head," she said between sips. "Where are the girls?"
I looked over my shoulder and saw the shadows of Catherine and Strong watching from inside his door.
"They are at Liz's," I said. "What did Catherine tell you?"
"Catherine? She said she's your attorney now and the girls were here."
"Don't believe anything she says."
"I don't. Did you see my new house?"
"Yes. You better go pick up the girls. We can talk later."
"Will I see you this weekend?"
"I'll call you when I can get away."
She finished her soda, tossed the cup onto the floor of the van, and backed out of the driveway. I turned toward the house and almost got trampled by Strong running for his car. He jumped behind the wheel and peeled out, gone for the night. I trudged up the sidewalk and passed Catherine standing silently in the doorway.
"This isn't going to work with us," I told her, as she followed me inside closing the door behind her. I wanted to offer a compromise, breaking up on terms that would not resemble outright rejection. "A lot of things are good between us, but, in the end, all I can see is a bunch of trouble. We're like gasoline and a match."
I could see she was furious and just biting her tongue, collecting her thoughts as she devised a strategy for her next move. I wondered if I would get anger, guilt, pity, or something new. She decided on something new: logic.
"It's a shame about us," she said. "If we lived on a deserted island, just the two of us, we'd have a great life. No Special Crimes, no Cindy, no Strong, no outside distractions. Just us all alone. We'd get along fine. So, why can't we make that happen here?"
Yeah, I thought, I bet you'd like to have me alone on a deserted island. I flashed back to her comments on her philosophy of life from our night at the beach: Everyone is either predator or prey? We could have an eternity of hunting on that island, I thought. I'd never get any rest.
"There will always be distractions, other people," I told her instead. "We have to realize together that we just don't work as a couple. We're only going to hurt each other. I'll help you find a new place to live, and we'll get on with our lives. We'll see each other at the courthouse, say, 'Hi,' and move on down the hall."
"Bullshit!" She obviously wasn't buying it. "You'll not say, 'Hi' and then walk on by like I am some piece of shit you threw in the gutter. I have to work there. I can't be humiliated by some reporter."
I just stared at her and tried to sort through my options. I knew I would have to find a new place for her to live and oversee a continuation of her move, transferring property from Strong's and gathering what was left at Mike's. I realized it might require some sort of physical confrontation but knew it would have to be done. I decided to avoid any emotional outbursts and let her rant. She needed no encouragement.
"You have ruined my life," she screamed. "I gave up all my friends for you. I gave up the place where I live. I bought you expensive lunches at Charlie's. I spent money on you. I did anything I could to win your love and asked: 'What else can I do? Can I get down in the gutter? Fall on the floor? Kiss your feet?'"
Where does she come up with this stuff? I wondered. Then I listened as the serious threats began.
"Well, you won't get off this easy. You've had everything you wanted, and now it's my turn. You are going to give me some of that house. I think ten thousand dollars is about right. I want ten thousand dollars when you sell that house. And I want you to continue finding me defense appointments. And I want you to pay my rent where I move. On top of that, I still haven't had my period."
"I'm going to bed," I said. "I'm worn out."
I ignored her and walked into the bedroom as if she wasn't there. I stripped off my clothes and crawled under the sheets. I didn't care if she joined me or not. But my action unleashed her savage fury. She raced to a closet and pulled out a suitcase. She opened it, screaming something about getting out of "this house of Strong." Before she could pack anything, however, Catherine apparently had second thoughts and decided instead to destroy the luggage. She smashed it against the walls and the door jam, snarling and shouting in an uncontrollable rage. I began to wonder if this was the last thing seen by George Tedesco, and that thought kept me alert. She gave that suitcase a thorough beating. Recalling it as the brand advertised so tough a gorilla could not destroy it, I thought: Their competitors might like to look at it now.
When she finished with the suitcase, she looked around the room and spotted my stereo receiver on the dresser. She yanked the plug from the wall, grabbed the receiver, and came toward the bed holding it above her head. I slid out from beneath the covers, stopped long enough to slip on my jeans, and ran for the front door. As I opened it, I heard footsteps behind me. Expecting to feel that stereo crunch down on my head, I turned in one motion and swung with my fist, timing the move so I caught her in the side of the face and sent her flying. When I saw she had left the stereo in the bedroom, I felt guilty. I had never smacked a woman until that night and never would again. Surely, I thought as I ran into the yard to hide behind my car, I could have handled this differently and not have her eternally on the guilty side of my conscience.
Catherine had risen and come to the doorway calling for me.
"Gary, come back inside. It's cold out there."
She was right. Houston's November chill had arrived, and I stood in the driveway, shivering behind my car in nothing but my pants. Once again, if I had been watching myself from across the street, I would have laughed. With my car keys inside the house, I obviously could not leave. I vowed then and there never to sleep in the nude again. With Catherine in my life, I figured I never could know when I might have to flee in the night. Just as I was considering that thought, the cops arrived.
"You're really lucky," Catherine told me after they had left, and we had agreed to a truce. "It is rare when the cops come that someone does not go to jail. That's what they d
o, you know. Take people to jail. It's a good thing I didn't tell them about the beating."