Shatter My Rock

by Greta Nelsen

  I am relieved and finally satisfied. “Thanks,” I say. Once again, I notice that Muffin is nowhere to be found. I glance around as if there’s some way I could have missed him, but come up empty.

  Tim says to Jenna, “Can I walk you out?” It’s a formality not required in this neighborhood, yet he always offers.

  And she accepts. “See you Monday,” she says over her shoulder, with a smile that strikes me as too upbeat for this time of night.

  I struggle to mirror her pep. “Thanks again. You’re the best.”

  * * *

  The narcotics I’ve procured from my primary care doctor for this unrelenting neck pain are doing the trick. I hardly sense that I have a neck anymore, let alone register the random stabs of a hot poker that once afflicted me.

  But relief has its price. Since the day I filled the prescription, disturbing dreams have stalked me. Nightmares that run my blood cold and snap me awake in a sweat. The only blessing is that they vanish swiftly, leaving behind nothing more than a vague sense of unrest.

  Until I find the first note.

  A week before Christmas, Mother Nature teeters on the brink of winter, unsure if she should take the plunge or hop a getaway flight to the Caribbean. I hustle to my car, an icy mix of sleet and freezing rain marring the suede boots I’ve worn to work without as much as a cursory check of the weather forecast.

  Today I need not fumble with my keys, though, my thumb glued to the unlock button of my fob in preparation. I time the maneuver perfectly and slip into the car, thankful to be dry, at least, even if I’m still as cold as a frostbitten Thanksgiving turkey.

  From the driver’s seat, I spot something that was invisible outside: a soggy envelope clamped under my windshield wiper. Probably a Chinese restaurant menu or a rashly deposited slice of political propaganda. Whatever it is, it must be moved, so I can clear the window and get on my way.

  I shake my head and resign myself to the task, abandoning the relative warmth of the car, if only for a moment. But the envelope fights me, clings to the glass like a starfish to a slick rock. I pry it free a millimeter at a time until I have won, then retreat in victory.

  What could be so important that someone would brave this nastiness to deliver it? I wonder.

  I steal a glance at the other cars in my row but fail to locate the sisters and brothers of the disintegrating mess I hold in my hands. Then again, maybe they are camouflaged as this one was until now.

  It hardly seems worth the bother, but something tells me to look, unveil what has been left to me. Yet the same voice fails to warn of trouble, drop the breadcrumbs so I can find the way home.

  The envelope comes apart in gummy clumps that I drape across my lap. Inside is the last thing I expect to find: an advance copy of next week’s Food Mart sales flier. I wonder if some underling has mistakenly placed this, its intended target the marketing VP.

  But I unfold it and look anyway, and what I see drops a boulder on my gut. In mismatched, cut-out letters—the serial killer kind—a message: If you don’t tell, I will.

  These words fall just short of paralyzing me, force my hands to quake. You will not, I tell myself, knowing what I must do. I will not let you.

  I hurl the flier out the window, then crank up the engine and drive over the thing, smashing it to soggy bits. For good measure, I reverse and slaughter it twice.

  * * *

  The credit card statement Jenna has pulled for me provides a glimmer of hope, some ammunition in my secret war. There are meal and entertainment charges I could question, point to as inappropriate uses of company funds, characterize as blatant theft.

  But these may be hard to prove, having occurred in the context of normal business. What I do catch Eric on is a single hundred-dollar lapse, a purchase he cannot explain away: gambling chips. An unauthorized excursion to Foxwoods.

  I highlight the offending purchase and march into Bob Evans’s office, without the courtesy of a VP-to-VP heads-up.

  “Hey,” I say as he looks up from the computer. “Got a minute?” Usually I only bother him with personnel matters, and this is how I plan to frame our exchange today.

  “Yeah. Come in,” he says, despite the fact that I already have. “Pull up a chair.”

  I breeze past the seating area and halt beside him, where I thrust the credit card statement over his shoulder—and inches from his face. “You need to see this,” I say, maximizing my physical advantage. In my standing position, I tower over him where he sits.

  He coaxes the paper from my hand and sets it on the desk, studies it. “Should I know what this is?”

  “Theft. Chapter four, section two of the employee handbook. Look it up.”

  He squints, shakes his head.

  “I want it dealt with,” I state flatly. And in these matters, what I say goes.

  He fishes an old day planner from his desk drawer and flips back, then back some more. “Baltimore?” he says, still connecting the dots. “But…”

  I aim to be abundantly clear. “He hit Foxwoods on the way back,” I say, as if I’ve witnessed the deed firsthand. “Used the company credit card for poker chips.” With a snort, I demand, “Fire him.”

  Bob appears panicked, and I know why: Eric makes him look good. Despite the reptile’s penchant for depravity, he really is superb at what he does. Bob is sure to flounder without him.

  “Have you cleared this with legal?”

  “No,” I say. “But it won’t matter.”

  “Talk to me when you have.”

  * * *

  It never ceases to amaze me that when do-gooders break rules, they invariably wind up caught. Yet vermin like Eric Blair creep around among us, evading repercussions at every turn.

  I can’t go begging legal to fire him, lest I draw attention to what has transpired between us. Even though it was rape, I need it to stay quiet, fade away.

  Something did come of my meeting with Bob, though: One of Eric’s barely legal conquests—a frisky redhead from accounting—got canned. It turned out she was the one who swiped the credit card at Foxwoods, a move that seems foolhardy until one considers the fact that she arrived at the gambling mecca on Eric Blair’s arm.

  I would love to share all of this with Jenna, if for no other reason than to rid my mind of it. But I cannot afford such an indulgence. “So what happened?” she asks as we burst through the exit door for our noontime walk. On Fridays, we now skip lunch in favor of burning calories.

  I shrug. “It was incidental. I didn’t even know who made the charge. But once I saw it, I was obligated to…”

  No one would dare say so, but it seems as if people assume I’ve had Eric’s girlfriend fired out of jealousy.

  “I thought you were checking on one of the tech guys.”

  “I was,” I maintain, “but I didn’t find anything.”

  “Oh.”

  If it weren’t for this wicked wind, the weather would be almost tropical—at least by Rhode Island in December standards. I cinch my coat tighter. “Any more strange dreams?” I ask. It strikes me as more than coincidental that Jenna has been plagued by nightmares for weeks, just as I have.

  She hesitates a moment. “There was one where I was on a ship. A giant ocean liner, like the Titanic.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “And this hole opened up in the water. Some kind of vortex or something.”

  This description reminds me of the movie Ghostbusters, but I keep mum.

  “I knew we were going to die. The hole just kept getting bigger and bigger, and the ship started spiraling.”

  There is deep concern in her voice, a condition with which I empathize. Two nights ago, I dreamed that Owen spoke; through Eric Blair’s glinting teeth, my baby chirped, I love you, Claire-bear.

  “Anyway,” she says with a shudder, “it really rattled me. I’m thinking of getting a sleeping pill or something. See if that helps.”

  “Don’t,” I say, sure that my own nightmares are the product of pharmaceutical intervention. I remem
ber a magazine article I’ve read and suggest, “Try a lavender bath or some chamomile tea.”

  * * *

  The next note arrives on a Saturday, and this time Tim gets it. He’s had Muffin out for an early morning stroll.

  I ramble about the house collecting the debris of the most joyous Christmas we’ve ever experienced, happiness on a level I’d never before dared imagine.

  Yet all good things must end.

  The side door clicks shut as Muffin bounds into the den, uncharacteristically energetic. Tim takes longer, plots his steps, measures things. I smile for the second it takes me to notice the Food Mart sales flier in his hand. From the way he concentrates, I know my fears have come to roost.

  When he finally sets his gaze to mine, I search it for hatred, frustration, disdain. “What?” I say, mimicking the perplexed way his features contort. “What is it?” I have not the means to envision what Eric Blair has done.

  He offers me the flier but no explanation.

  “What is this?” I say again. But, of course, I know. The letters are the same—those cut-out, mismatched, crazy ones—but the words have changed. In a quizzical tone, I read, “He has my eyes?”

  “I was hoping you could…”

  At least fate has left me some wiggle room. I shrug. “No idea.” I hand the flier back as if it doesn’t concern me. “Where’d that come from?”

  “The van.”

  “In the garage?” The idea that Eric Blair has penetrated my private realm alarms me.

  Tim nods.

  Suddenly the image of Owen’s empty crib flashes through my mind. I want to run to him, assure myself that he is safe. But I can’t let on. “That’s strange.”

  “Who would do this?” Tim asks with hurt in his voice and eyes.

  I suggest, “Some crackpot.” I shove a handful of wrapping paper into a garbage bag and turn toward the kitchen. “Who knows? It doesn’t even make sense.”

  There is marked relaxation in Tim’s demeanor, as if the fact that I have voiced a denial erases Eric’s evil deed. “Lock everything from now on,” he instructs, the protector in him surfacing. “And no more babysitters.”

  Part of me wants to laugh. Jenna is the only one we’ve trusted with the kids outside of Tim’s parents, and I doubt she would act as a conduit for Eric Blair. But Tim doesn’t know that. “Agreed,” I say. And I mean it. It’s time for us to close ranks around this little family of ours.

  Chapter 7

  I am in a dark place, and no matter how I try, I cannot bring the light.

  The presence that inhabits this place with me emits pulsing signals that translate as raw sexual desire, the distillation of carnal lust.

  My conscious mind aims to erect a wall, block these pulses out. Yet my feral core—that weak spot where my wiring reaches back to antiquity—objects, craves the satisfaction that is proffered.

  I need not speak this desire, though, because IT already knows. So IT begins to please me: a trail of wetness around my ear; hot breath to my neck; a feather’s touch at one nipple, then the other.

  I tell IT to stop, leave me be. But IT knows my denial is transient, equivocal, fragile enough to be ignored.

  And so IT does. With reckless hunger, IT ravages. And I allow IT.

  But soon I wish I hadn’t. Because when the light comes, I see what I am complicit in, the depravity to which I have consented. And IT’s face is Owen.

  I bolt upright in a cold sweat, the urge to vomit pressing its way through my throat and into my mouth.

  Tim rolls over and slings his arm across my lap. Gently, I roll him back and slip out of bed, drape my bathrobe over my shoulders and scuff my way into my sheepskin slippers.

  But there’s nowhere to run. As much as I wish to disappear, hit the reset button, erase what has been done, the facts remain: Owen is here and I love him, Eric Blair be damned.

  The bathroom is cold this time of year, especially in the morning, the heating system among the few things in this historic home yet to be lovingly brought into the twenty-first century.

  I swing the medicine cabinet door open and zero in on the Percocet bottle, the source of my malaise. Considering the pain it’s dispensed, I shouldn’t have to think twice about tossing it. But its loss gives me pause. A stronger person would curse it out, demand retribution, vow to exact revenge.

  But I love these pills, the effortless way they mask what hurts, how they protect me when nothing else will.

  Yet they must go. I flip the toilet lid and dump the twenty or so tablets that remain into the bowl, then flush. This is not the appropriate way to dispose of narcotics, I know, but the trash is too dangerous; I could always go back and dig. Now the only risk is to the fish—and the water supply.

  The simple act of depressing that handle sets me free, begins my head to clear. Now I must check on Owen—and Ally, the girl whose place has been stolen by midnight feedings and battles with Eric Blair.

  I settle on the edge of her bed, careful not to stir her. “You’re still my baby,” I whisper, hoping she knows without hearing. I brush a tangle of hair from her cheek. “I haven’t forgotten.”

  My back is to the door, so I don’t see Tim when he enters. But I’m sure I hear Owen gurgle. “Everything okay?” Tim asks as he materializes beside me, the baby cradled to his chest.

  I nod. “You guys?”

  “Never better.” He smiles, flush with contentment.

  I grasp his hand and squeeze, smile back. “Good.”

  * * *

  “A man came to school today,” Ally tells me nonchalantly as we buzz through the mall, Owen’s jogging stroller pointing the way. There is a party for Tim’s parents’ fiftieth anniversary in two days, and I’ve been tapped to head the decorating committee.

  “Oh?” I say, already tuning out what she might utter next. The fact that I lack a list has my mind swimming with rainbow-colored streamers and golden balloons.

  “He said he knows you,” Ally states, sounding uncertain, “and Owen.”

  These words take a few seconds to register, and when they do, they stump me. “Huh?” There is no one at Ally’s school with whom I am familiar on a personal level and certainly no one who is familiar with Owen.

  She shrugs. “He has really white teeth,” she says, as if this may spur my memory, “and a tan.”

  A Rolodex of faces flies through my mind’s eye, bumps to a stop on the sole image to match Ally’s description: Eric Blair.

  In the midst of a jumble of post-Christmas shoppers, I halt dead. “Where did he…?” I try to ask. “What…?” But Ally is gone. I sprint ahead and latch on to her hand, almost taking out a nun in the process. “Sorry,” I mutter to excuse the close call. But I don’t bother following up on the nun’s wellbeing, certain I have already earned enough negative credits to qualify for a one-way trip to the scorched beyond.

  The perplexed look on Ally’s face turns to concern and even fear as I tug her to a vacant bench. “Tell me everything,” I demand. “What did he say?”

  Ally regrets having shared this tidbit, it is clear. “Nothing,” she says. “He was nice. He asked about school.”

  “And?”

  “He said we could be friends, that I could call him Uncle Rick.”

  I wonder if she has misheard. “Eric?”

  She shakes her head. “No, Rick.”

  I don’t want to upset her any more than I already have, but I must ask, “Did he hurt you?”

  She wrinkles her face as if I’m the one who is confused. “No.”

  Owen lets out a happy squeal, and all at once, my pulse steadies. “You know what Daddy and I say about strangers, don’t you?”

  Ally is too old for this lecture, and she knows it. “Yeah,” she says with a sigh.

  “If you see him again, tell a teacher,” I instruct. But I’m sure it won’t come to this. It’s clear that I have made a mistake by not confronting Eric before now, an error I intend to correct, post-haste.

  * * *

  I lay in
wait at the far end of the lot, where Eric parks his canary-yellow Corvette in hopes of avoiding the incidental nicks and scratches of carelessly flung doors nearby.

  He pulls in beside me as if we have arranged to meet like this, and when I hop out and block his path, he smiles. “Claire-bear.”

  “Shut up,” I growl, “and listen.” I set my shoulders, lengthen my spine. “You’re done fucking with me.”

  He should be surprised by the imperative nature of what I say and the gruffness with which I say it, but instead he appears pleased and even entertained.

  I threaten, “If you want to spend the next ten years taking it up the ass in Cranston, be my guest. I’d be happy to put you there.” It’s a sick thought, but such a punishment seems morbidly in line with his crime.

  “Really?” he says, sounding doubtful. “For what?”

  “First-degree rape. Illegal possession of a controlled substance.”

  He crosses his arms over his chest and rolls his eyes. “How do you figure?”

  “I know what you did in Cincinnati,” I say. “The ‘muscle relaxer.’”

  “What you did, you mean?”

  I have no idea where he’s going with this, but my patience is waning. “Huh?”

  “You called me,” he says with a sneer. “Invited me to your room. Took advantage. I should have you brought up on charges—or at least fired.”

  “You should…?” I sputter. “You lying bastard.” It’s obvious he’s getting a cheap thrill out of my use of profanity, not to mention the way he’s managed to rile me. “Just leave my family alone,” I settle for demanding, “or else.”

  He chuckles as if we’re playing a lighthearted game. “I’ll think about it.”

  I don’t think at all. In one swift move—a move he fails to anticipate—I thump my palms against his chest, forcing his spit-shined oxfords to slide across the ice and skid to a stop upon hitting dry land. I hear the crack as he goes down.