Looking down, I see the small, round spot of thick blood on my Levi’s. When I press my hand against the knee, I feel the sting. I must have cut my knee on a piece of shattered glass. Unbuckling my belt and unbuttoning my jeans, I pull them down below my knees, careful not to upset whatever is stabbing me.
It’s worse than I thought.
A jagged piece of crystal-clear drinking glass has impaled itself into the side of my knee. It’s gone clean through my jeans and into the skin and flesh. Oftentimes, pain doesn’t really kick in full force until you see the wound. Just bringing my fingertips to the piece of jagged glass ignites my nervous system and makes me see stars. Blood trickles down my skin and a painful burn shoots up and down my leg.
I don’t have much choice in the matter.
Reaching around behind me, I grab my beer off the counter and down what’s left of it. Then, inhaling and exhaling another breath, I clamp the piece of exposed glass between thumb and index finger and yank it out of my knee.
I nearly black out.
As the glass comes free, glazed with my richly red blood, my legs grow wobbly. I grab the counter to hold myself up and take a moment for the sting to go away. I know I have to clean the wound. Tossing the triangular, inch-by-half-inch shard of glass into the sink, I pull up my jeans just enough to allow walking without stumbling and head into Lisa’s bedroom and the bathroom at the back of it.
I need Band-Aids. Lots of them.
By the looks of it in the bright bathroom light, the wound would more than likely require four or five stitches. But no way in hell I’m going to the hospital. Not when doctors and nurses can start lobbing questions at me about how I managed to cut myself. They’ll smell the alcohol on my breath and the smoke in my hair and they’ll ask me if I have a history of violence or if I’ve ever been diagnosed with a psychotic ailment. Even if I lie and tell them no, they’ll do a computer search on me and discover that not only have I been diagnosed, but that I’ve been nailed with not one but two violence-related restraining orders, the most recent of which was issued today.
No bandages inside the medicine cabinet. No alcohol.
I close it and open the doors to the cabinet under the sink. The space contains several rolls of toilet paper stacked one on top of the other, a toilet brush, and bingo, a white bottle of rubbing alcohol. I pull it out and rest it on the sink. I also spot a much nicer first aid kit, which means I’m in business.
I pull out the kit and gaze upon the big red cross printed in the box’s center. Opening it, I find a roll of thick medical tape, a few packages of gauze bandaging, and some cotton balls. I proceed to soak the cotton balls in the alcohol and then, gritting my teeth, press them to my leg wound. The burn is electric and sends another wave of stars flying past my eyeballs. Tearing open the gauze bandage package with my teeth, I apply the clean bandage, securing it with four separate strips of surgical tape.
When it’s all done, the wound doesn’t feel nearly as painful, but, judging by the crimson-red stain expanding on the gauze, it’s going to be a while before the bleeding stops.
Pulling up my pants, I go to set the alcohol and first aid kit back into the bottom cabinet, setting them down beside the stack of toilet paper. That’s when something stored behind the rolls of paper drops. It’s a little white CVS pharmacy bag.
When I open the bag, I find a bright purple box with a glossy finish to it and white lettering. The front of the box contains a familiar white graphic of a Trojan warrior. Above that can be found a gold-rimmed frame that bears the words “Trojan Pleasures. America’s No. 1 brand of condom. Trusted for over 90 years.” This particular model is said to be extended for “longer lasting pleasure.”
Longer lasting fucking pleasure.
I stare at the box, not quite believing what it is I’m holding in my hands. Lisa and I don’t use birth control. My vasectomy officially took me out of the gene-spreading pool three years ago, when Rachael and I started dating and spontaneity usually took the place of safe sex.
So why the hidden box of condoms?
Maybe it’s left over from months ago, from when Lisa was still sleeping with David. That’s got to be the answer. Reaching down into the plastic bag, I find the sales receipt and pull it out. The slip is dated one month ago, almost to the day. Lisa and I have been back together for two. My stomach grows as hard as a rock. I open the package and see that out of the twelve, four are missing.
For a brief, heated second, I feel the urge to stuff the box into my jacket and drive it out to Lisa at her parents’ house. I’ll bust in through the back door off the kitchen, march upstairs, and even if she’s still asleep from the sedatives, I’ll wake her, shove the box in her face, and demand an explanation.
But it would be the wrong thing to do.
I’ve never had a reason not to trust Lisa, so why should I be jumping to conclusions now? If she has a box of condoms hidden in the master bathroom sink cabinet behind a stack of toilet paper, there must be a good explanation for them.
Yeah, you go with that, Reece.
It’s not my dad who’s whispering into my ear this time, but instead, my big brother Tommy. I can just see him rolling his big brown eyes while he stuffs his thick hands into the pockets of his worn Levi’s.
Dropping the condom box back inside the plastic bag, I tuck them back behind the toilet paper where I found them, close the cabinet door, and leave the bathroom.
A man with a wounded knee, a brain on the verge of meltdown, and a heart full of distrust.
Chapter 37
Distraction.
I need distraction real bad. Something to take my mind off the madness of the day and the anger that’s building up inside me like the hot lava inside an active volcano. I discover that distraction when I see her standing in the middle of the bedroom floor looking up at me with sadder-than-sad eyes.
Frankie.
“Oh dear God, Frankie,” I say aloud. “I haven’t fed you at all today and the house is still a train wreck.” Leaning down, I pick her up, check all four of her paws for any cuts she might have suffered on the broken glass and china. She seems okay, and to prove it, she starts licking my face like I’m the second coming of Jesus. At least she isn’t growling anymore, now that Olga’s burned body is resting at the bottom of the river.
“Can we eat now, Reecey Pieces?” she asks. “And my bladder is about to burst.”
“Yes, ma’am, Frankie. Been one hell of a horrible day.”
“Have another beer. It’ll make you feel better.”
“After I get you fed.”
First I set her outside the sliding glass doors, where I watch her relieve herself only a few feet away from where Olga was burned to death. When she’s done, she can’t help but trot on over to the now leaf-covered burned-out patch of grass and start sniffing. Heading back outside, I take her into my arms and carry her back inside and into the kitchen, setting her down on an empty space of counter. I order her to sit and she obeys. While she’s still, I locate both her water and food dishes. I clean them both and fill them with water and dry food, then set them before her on the counter. While she eats, I go about the business of cleaning up the kitchen. It takes a while, but I manage to get it done, even with a wounded knee.
With Frankie safely back inside her crate, I head into the dining room and sweep up all the broken china and toss it away in the trash in the garage. Then I set to work straightening out the bedroom, returning Lisa’s clothing and underwear to the chest of drawers. All that’s left to do is erase the chalkboard, which I do, only too happy to do away with the drawing of my brains being blown out.
When I go to set the wooden chalk bowl back on top of Anna’s upright piano, I see the earring. It’s caught between the loose pages of a piano lesson book that’s leaning upright on the piano’s music holder. I take the earring in my hand and stare at it. From what I can see, it’s homemade and c
onstructed of small pieces of jade strung on thin wire.
Is this Lisa’s earring?
Possibly, although I can’t recall her making her own jewelry. But that doesn’t mean it wasn’t a gift from someone. Still, the long earring doesn’t seem like her style. But then-what the hell do I know?
Is it Anna’s?
Certainly not. Anna hasn’t had her ears pierced yet. Mom’s orders.
Maybe one of Lisa’s mom friends. I’ll never know, and right now, with my adrenaline-filled head on fire, I can’t really care all that much. Stuffing the earring in my pants pocket, I decide the time has come to pay a visit to my girlfriend/ex-wife, even if she hasn’t called me yet to give me the “all clear.”
Back in the kitchen, I make one last check on Frankie in her crate.
“Gotta go out, Frank,” I say.
“My love to the girls,” she says.
Grabbing the car keys, I head out the front door. In my overheated head, I’m already building a list of the twenty questions I plan on shotgunning at Lisa.
Point-blank.
Chapter 38
Here’s the deal with Lisa’s father, Alexander Reynolds: While Victoria treats me with a degree of civility, he is downright hostile to me. I’ve been in his presence only once since Lisa’s and my reunion and, even then, it was only for a few minutes . . . the time it took to sing “Happy Birthday” to Anna and for her to blow out eight candles plus one to grow on, and for her to silently make a wish. When Lisa told her not to speak a word until she finished making the wish and took a bite of cake, Anna peered up at me with big, brown, loving eyes. Eyes that didn’t go unnoticed by the entire family. Eyes that said, I’m glad Daddy’s back and my wish is for him never to go away again. At least, that’s what I wanted to believe at the time. But Lisa’s dad wasn’t having any of it. He ran his hands through what’s left of the salt-and-pepper hair on his head and walked out of his daughter and granddaughter’s house, letting the screen door slam behind him.
There’s supposed to be two sides to every story, right?
Not according to Alexander. He warned her a long time ago about me. Back when we first got together. “He’s a writer, Lisa,” he said. “An artist. He’s broke and always will be broke, and he’ll suck off of you like a leech if you allow it.”
But even after we were married and she told him I was in the process of writing the great American novel and that my agent promised to sell it to a big New York publisher for a million dollars, he responded, “You just wait. Even if your new husband does manage to sell his book, he’ll find a way to lose it all and then you’ll be on the hook all over again.”
The old man’s hard words festered inside Lisa’s head, because what she couldn’t reveal to him was that I wasn’t writing at all. I was suffering from a seemingly incurable bout of writer’s block, the symptoms of which included heavy drinking and self-imposed isolation. I would never write that first novel, at least while we were married, which made Alex’s words prophetic to say the least. Lisa was indeed on the hook for me, and it was something that began to tear us apart even before David entered back into her life.
I pull into the long, private driveway and take it slow along its entire quarter-mile length until I come to a big, brick French Colonial home. Technically speaking, the estate is located in the city, in the ritziest suburb of North Albany, but Lisa’s father laid out the cash to buy up a ton of acreage so that the mansion is three-sided by thick second-growth woods. The backyard contains a giant lawn, groomed gardens, and a kidney-shaped swimming pool with attached hot tub. A black fence surrounds the entire back lawn and immediately beyond that, the woods.
The fence is made up of iron, spear-like rails. It’s the kind of fence an intruder can easily impale himself on, which I suppose is entirely the point. Not too long ago, a deer trying to jump the fence did indeed impale itself on one of the spikes, right through the belly. He hung there for hours writhing in pain until Victoria discovered him. The police came, shot the deer in the head, took the carcass away in a black rubber body bag, and later cremated the animal in the city pound. To this day no one knows what the deer was running away from, but a second deer was also discovered that very same night, impaled on an identical fence located not a half-mile away.
Instead of making my way to the front door, I let myself in through the back gate, which I knew would still be unlocked at this time of night, and follow a path of neatly laid brick pavers all the way to the back door off the kitchen. Through the big picture window looking out onto the gardens of the big back property, I can see them both sitting at the round kitchen table.
Victoria and Alexander Reynolds.
She’s got a ceramic mug of something set in front of her. Tea, probably, since, other than the occasional bottle of wine, the house is mostly dry. He’s sitting with his legs crossed in his business suit minus the jacket, reading a newspaper.
Sucking up a calming breath of the cool evening air, I step up onto the concrete landing and thumb the bell. My heart beats inside my throat. One of the major reasons Lisa and I have worked so well these past two months is that I’ve managed to avoid her parents like the plague. But Lisa is still very close to them. She relies upon them for support, both financial and otherwise. Anna loves them. Even I must admit how good they are to her. It’s as if they don’t recognize an ounce of me in my daughter.
Out the corner of my eye, I see Victoria getting up from the table. I see her not through the picture window, but through the glass on the door. She says something to Alex that I can’t make out. But judging by the look on her face, it’s something like “Be nice.” She spots me through the glass, frowns, and begins unlatching the deadbolt. Don’t let the unlocked back gate fool you. The Reynoldses are freaks for security.
She opens the door and issues me this up-and-down gaze with wider-than-wide eyes, like I’ve just stepped out of a meat grinder. But then, she just as quickly assumes a faux smile, saying, “You should call first.” Her tone is one I recognize entirely. Agitated and nervous.
“Thought I’d surprise you,” I say. “Sorry I didn’t have time to pick up some beer or donuts maybe, but as you can see from my less than kempt appearance, it’s been a hell of a long day.”
“That’s okay,” comes a deep voice from behind the newspaper. “We don’t drink on weeknights and you won’t be staying long.”
“Alex,” Victoria barks, shooting her husband a look that could singe.
It never ceases to amaze me how, with her long dark brown hair and deep-set brown eyes, she resembles the Lisa of the future.
“Come in, Reece,” she says. “It’s getting cold out.”
I step inside, close the door behind me. The heat is always on high, since Victoria finds it impossible to get warm inside the drafty old house once the summer is over. Must cost them a fortune in utility bills. But then, Alex, having combined a sizeable payout from the profits of his own law firm with some prime real estate in Manhattan, is worth not a fortune, but a fortune and a half.
“Hello, Alex,” I say to the man still hiding behind the newspaper.
“Alexander,” Victoria says, “don’t be rude. Reece is trying to say hello. Don’t forget, he’s Anna’s father and our daughter’s partner again.”
The paper comes down hard, revealing a man with closely cropped and retreating salt-and-pepper hair. His face is long and clean-shaven, his cheeks and nose slightly flushed from hypertension and late middle age. If you look him in the face, you can’t help but notice that his ears are slightly too big for his head. But pity the poor fool who would dare point that out to him.
“Partner, eh? Is that what you are now, Reece?” he says through a crooked grin. “At least she isn’t with that other lazy fruitcake anymore. He called himself a writer too.”
“You tortured that poor boy, Alex. It’s a wonder he stayed with Lisa for as long as he did.”
> “Not my fault his lack of ambition didn’t earn him much more than minimum wage. Sound familiar, Reece?”
“I’m all about the ambition, Alex, and I make quite a bit more than minimum wage these days, thank you very much.”
“That so? Okay, you’re not lazy, thank God, but I will say this: I thought when Lisa kicked your ass out the door it was for good. You still lighting shit on fire?”
“Alex, please,” Victoria once more jumps in. “I thought you promised to be civil.”
He shoots her a glance. “I am being civil. He tried to burn Lisa’s house down with our granddaughter still inside it. Reece should feel lucky I’m not knocking his teeth down his throat right now. Isn’t that right, Reece?” His grin widens, his ears twitch. “By the way, you look like hell and back.”
I feel the slow burn from the fire he’s lighting under me. He’s provoking me and he knows that I know it. But then, the man is not all wrong. I did try to burn a fire on the deck of the home Lisa and I shared together. And if it wasn’t for him and Victoria and their sizeable funds, Anna would have had to endure day care while I was off trying to build my career.
“Well, Alex,” I say, “people change. I was a bit sick back then.”
“Sick and broke and drunk and violent. A man with a history of violence. Need I go on?”
“Please do,” I say.
“But you’ll have to forgive me, Reece,” he says. “Credit where credit is due: you have managed to sell a few books. Unlike that other jerk she was with. What’s his name, again?”
“His name is David,” Victoria says, “and he was very sweet. He was very good to Anna when Reece . . .” Her statement trails off, like she doesn’t want to finish it.
“When I wasn’t around,” I say for her.
Everything Burns Page 14