Cop House

by Sam Shelstad

  Wendy is crying a little with her hands over her face but I remember that this is just my imagination. I can change things. When an undesirable thought passes through my mind, it’s important to recognize it as such—simply a momentary, passing thought—and then let it float away like a helium balloon. Wendy is gone.

  Maybe she’s still on the island though, somewhere nearby. I’d like her to be around in case we find a way to work things out. She’d really enjoy the island if she gave it a chance. She was always complaining that we never got to go on vacations, that I’d go alone on business trips and drink myself into a coma and that she didn’t ever get to go anywhere. Well, here you are, Wendy! The most stunning, luxurious tropical island my mind can conjure. I correspond telepathically with my real estate agent and buy Wendy her own beach hut, just around the cove. That way I can keep an eye on her. Make sure she’s safe.

  I walk over to Wendy’s beach hut to check on her. Her beach hut is quite nice. Nicer than mine, actually. It’s much bigger and stands on tall poles so the tide doesn’t come in and flood her place, which happens nightly over at my beach hut. Anyway, I scramble up a tree and peek inside her bedroom window to see if she’s okay.

  Wait, what’s Dr. Hoffman doing in there? If we’re separated, why does Wendy still need to see our marriage counsellor? Maybe she wants to reconcile. Maybe he’s trying to convince her to take me back. But then why is he taking off her clothes?

  Shit.

  They’re having sex. They’re really going at it. Wendy’s having sex with our marriage counsellor in the deluxe beach hut I just bought for her with the drapes wide open, to mock me. Dr. Hoffman looks up from the bed and winks at me—winks! Was this his plan all along? Was this why he taught Wendy and I self-guided meditation? So he could infiltrate my thoughts, show me he could do a better job of satisfying my wife in bed? Wendy’s making a wild, intense moaning sound I’ve never heard before.

  Breathe in through the nose and out through the mouth. I am in control.

  This is my island.

  A cruise ship docks and Academy Award–winning actress Jennifer Lawrence comes running up the beach and climbs into my tree. We’re going to have sex right here on this branch so Wendy and Dr. Hoffman can see how it’s really done. Jennifer Lawrence looks amazing in her coconut bra although now that I think of it, isn’t Jennifer Lawrence kind of young for me? Not sure. I don’t want to be a creep or anything. Maybe I’ll quickly pop out of the meditation and Google Jennifer Lawrence’s age—no WiFi on the island. Be right back.

  I’m back. Internet’s been cut off, I guess, but no matter. I was mistaken. It’s actually Jennifer Aniston who got off the cruise ship and scurried up into my tree. She’s definitely age appropriate and just as sexy. Alright, here we go.

  “Hold on,” Jennifer Aniston says. “I forgot my wallet.”

  “What do you need your wallet for?” I say, but she’s already climbing down.

  While I’m waiting, I teleport a mai tai into my hand and take a long, cool sip. Much better. On my island, drinking seven or eight mai tais doesn’t affect my sexual performance whatsoever. I can throw back twenty and, if anything, my abilities only increase. I won’t pass out on top of a lover either and I certainly won’t vomit all over the bed. I’m ready to go.

  Except now Jennifer Aniston is in the room with Wendy and Dr. Hoffman. I see her taking off her coconut bra before my marriage counsellor shuts the drapes.

  Goddammit.

  I revoke Wendy’s special passport. I revoke Dr. Hoffman’s passport and I revoke Jennifer Aniston’s passport too, which is a shame. They’re all escorted onto the cruise ship and just like that, they’re gone. I don’t need to spy on Wendy. It doesn’t matter what she’s up to. I’ve moved on. I’m fine. I have my island.

  I climb down from the tree and go back to my beach hut. While I was away some villagers—all beautiful women who just moved to the island and are nice to me and make me omelettes—put my beach hut up on poles and tidied the place and fixed the wooden floor, which was warped from constant flooding. They also put up a fence and security lights in case Wendy and Dr. Hoffman sneak back onto the island somehow. There’s a large dog standing guard and the dog loves me unconditionally.

  The villagers finally sorted out island WiFi and so I sit down at the computer in my beach hut and play online poker. Sometimes I relieve stress by playing online poker and sometimes I relieve stress by meditating. Why not combine the two? Sometimes the island itself is stressful and so I play online poker and I’m winning. Wendy thought I took online poker too far and ruined our financial security by making outlandish bets while I was drunk but now I’m winning. If only she could see me now. I win a game and I win another one and I’m drinking mai tais and everything is perfect.

  Wait, what’s that sound?

  Wendy’s banging on the door to my attic apartment. It could only be her—no one else ever comes by. But I’m not in my attic apartment. I’m on my island sipping a mai tai. And when I hear her violent, real-world knocking here on the island, it isn’t the sound of Wendy trying to get in and force me to sign the divorce papers, it’s the sound of the bedpost banging against the wall of my beach hut as I have sex with a beautiful celebrity chef who just made me an omelette. We’re making love like wild dogs and the louder Wendy knocks, the more pleasure I’m giving this gorgeous, adoring woman. In fact, this woman isn’t a famous chef at all—it’s Wendy. She’s taken me back and we’re going at it and the bed sounds like it’s about to break. Don’t stop Wendy. We can do this. She’s not pleading with me to let her in so we can “finalize this damn thing,” her voice muffled by the door. She’s pleading with me to stay here, in my beach hut on the island, making love and drinking mai tais all day.

  “I never wanted a divorce,” she says. “The whole thing was a test and you passed. You passed with flying colours, dear.”

  “You can stay, Wendy,” I say. “You can move in today. We’ll live here on the island together and everything will be perfect. Just don’t stop knocking. Don’t stop.”

  And when I finally open my eyes, the knocking has stopped and Wendy is gone but I’m smiling. The meditation is over. Everything will be okay. I walk to the kitchen and fix myself a mai tai because even though it’s only ten in the morning, I’m on island time.

  Mrs. Flood Was Here

  When Mrs. Flood awoke Saturday morning in her car, she refused to believe it. I can’t be here, she thought. I’m in my bed. Mother will knock shortly. She’ll put on the radio and I’ll scramble the eggs.

  She unfastened her seatbelt and opened the door. It would only swing out a few inches—there were branches in the way. She was parked in a forest. She leaned over and threw up in the snow, through the crack in the door. She wiped her mouth on her coat sleeve. Why would I sleep in the car? she thought. It didn’t make any sense. I’ve slept in the same bed forever. In Mother’s house. No trips, no vacations. Mrs. Flood could remember spending the night in a hotel years ago, when she went to her cousin’s wedding up north. Fifteen years ago? Twenty? But that’s it. There’s no reason I’d be in the woods, she decided. I’ll wake up soon. She lay back in her chair and closed her eyes.

  Mrs. Flood awoke a second time. Before she opened her eyes she could feel the cold window against her cheek. She was sitting upright in a vinyl seat. She could smell the car.

  She remembered that last night there was a raucous gathering at the house next door to her and Mother. She had lain in bed, balling her fists. Those awful Milner kids back from college for the winter break, parties every other night. Normally she’d have put up with the noise but she had to get up early the next day. Oh God, she was missing the funeral. The funeral was today.

  The Milner kids, Mrs. Flood remembered. The loud music, the booming voices, the idiotic laughter. She’d screamed and screamed, pacing around her bedroom. She’d looked at the telephone but couldn’t bring herself to call the cops. She
certainly couldn’t have stormed over there herself. What, in her bathrobe? She’d gotten in the car and set out in the hopes of finding a room at a motel nearby. She was driving down Pine Road, above the ravine. She’d hit a patch of ice.

  Now here she was at the bottom of the ravine below Pine Road, most likely. She didn’t think she’d been terribly injured—she was just cold, nauseous—but sometimes you’re in shock and you can’t tell. She opened her eyes to check for bruises and gashes in the rear-view mirror when something else caught her attention. A shape on the hood of the car. There was a long crack running down the middle of the windshield. A thin layer of ice on the glass distorted her view, but she could see the shape. A shape with a long face. It was looking at her.

  But that couldn’t be, Mrs. Flood decided, and so she closed her eyes again. It’s one of those nasty dreams where you think you’re awake when you’re not. Soon she’d get up and start on those scrambled eggs. Mother would put on the radio. “Jimmy Mack” or “Chain Gang.” They’d dance around the kitchen.

  Mrs. Flood knew exactly what the shape was—a wolf. She opened her eyes. It was really there. On the hood of the car, looking in at her. It was massive. Just sitting there, staring. She didn’t know there were wolves in the area. Coyotes, sure. Just last week the mail carrier was saying that she ought to keep her cat inside on account of a coyote skulking around. Mrs. Flood had thanked him but didn’t tell him that she didn’t own a cat.

  A wolf on the hood. Or perhaps it was a dog, she thought. One of those sled dogs or some kind of mix. But no, she could tell it was a wolf. It wasn’t like looking at a photograph, which can be iffy. This creature on her hood had a presence. Its eyes said “wolf.” She couldn’t leave the car. She couldn’t dial for help either—no cellphone. She and her mother shared a landline. No one called them, they figured. They rarely left the house so what was the use?

  Mrs. Flood turned the key in the ignition; the engine hummed. The wolf’s ears perked up like two menacing little triangles. She couldn’t drive straight ahead because there were trees in the way. She turned on the heat, then spun around to look through the back window. The car was pitched forward and now she could see why: she was parked at the bottom of a hill at the ravine. Her back tires were on the slope. Her Sunbird would never make it. A pile of fresh snow covered whatever tracks she’d made coming down. Pale light shone through the patches of trees on the hill; it was early morning. Surely someone would drive by and see the broken guardrail along Pine Road.

  Except there wasn’t a guardrail. Mother always went on about that when Mrs. Flood dropped her off at bridge club, or when they went out to the Applebee’s together. “It’s criminal,” her mother would say. “They ought to call this stretch Lawsuit Lane.” No smashed-up guardrail to signal passersby, a thick layer of snow hiding everything. And then there was the wolf. Someone would find her, she knew. Soon enough. Soon, soon, soon.

  The wolf opened its jaws as if it might speak, like it was her spirit guide, but it only yawned. Long, white teeth and blackish gums.

  “Jesus!” Mrs. Flood exclaimed. She pressed her hand into the centre of the steering wheel and blasted the horn.

  The wolf stood up and leaned towards the windshield, its eyes locked on Mrs. Flood. She pushed the horn again and the wolf let out a high-pitched moan like a balloon releasing air. It squealed while Mrs. Flood pressed down on the horn. Wolves aren’t supposed to make noises like this, she thought. It was drooling. A thin rope of saliva swung from the wolf’s jaw as it continued to moan. The animal was deranged. Mentally challenged. Rabid. One of its eyes wandered to the side of the eyelid as though it were having a seizure.

  “Go away!” said Mrs. Flood. “Get out of here!”

  The wolf crouched down low and began licking the windshield. Mrs. Flood released the horn. The wolf’s tongue streaked across the glass. Mrs. Flood pressed her palms into her eyes and sunk back into her seat. Those goddamn Milner kids. No consideration for other people. I’ll goddamn kill those Milner kids.

  A minute passed and the terrible squeaking of the wolf’s tongue stopped. Still, Mrs. Flood pushed her hands into her face again, the blood rushing to her eye sockets. The funeral was today. Mother’s funeral. She needed to be there for her mother. She needed all this to stop, whatever this was.

  When she looked up again, the wolf was gone. There were wet streaks all over the windshield and large paw prints on the hood, but no wolf. In the rear-view, she saw the gash on her forehead and dried blood in her bangs. There was a sharp pain in her right leg and she had a pulsing headache. Most of all, though, she was thirsty. Mrs. Flood felt around in the backseat but knew there wouldn’t be anything to drink there. She kept a tidy car and a spotless bedroom. She looked out the window—snow. There were piles of it. She could eat the snow.

  Her door wouldn’t open wide enough, and besides, there was vomit on the other side. Mrs. Flood shifted to the passenger seat and looked out the window. No sign of the wolf. She’d have to be sure though.

  She tapped the horn, twice. No wolf.

  Slowly, she pushed the passenger door open—just a crack—and scooped a handful of snow. She closed the door and filled her mouth. Instant relief. Her whole body tingled, like she’d eaten a bowl of sugar. She devoured the entire scoop, then licked her hands. Her fingers were numb. Still thirsty, she opened the door again and took another handful. Again, she licked her hands clean.

  Mrs. Flood rubbed her hands between her legs to warm them after holding the snow. She heard a thump and then the vehicle lurched. She looked up. The wolf was back. It sat down on the hood of the car and looked in at her.

  “No,” Mrs. Flood said. “Get out of here.”

  She leaned forward and dropped her head between her legs. Her jeans were damp around the thighs from her hands. The heat was on but she was shaking. She kept her head down, eyes closed and hands down by the floor grasping her ankles. If I wait, it’ll leave, she thought. Someone will come. She could hear the wolf licking the glass above her.

  A few minutes passed and the wolf jumped down and trotted off. Mrs. Flood watched it disappear into the bushes ahead. If I make a run for it, she thought, I could try and scale the ravine. Climb up to the road and flag someone down. It was a steep climb and if the wolf came back, good lord. Those awful teeth.

  Mrs. Flood remembered the CD player in the glove compartment and plugged it into the dashboard. The digital clock flashed ten thirty. The funeral was at noon at Poletti & Sons Funeral Home out on Antrim Road. A small service since Mrs. Flood’s mother had few friends. There were the women from her bridge club, though they hadn’t spoken in years and her old boss at the cereal factory, Mr. Raebos, had been notified. It was likely that at least one of the ladies from the assembly line would show up. As far as family, there wasn’t much left. Her mother hadn’t spoken to her brother in ages due to an ancient rift Mrs. Flood had never fully understood. Grandma and Grandpa were long gone. After Mrs. Flood discovered her mother on the bathroom floor with the empty pill bottles, there had been very few phone calls she’d needed to make.

  At the very least, Mr. Poletti or one of his sons would notice Mrs. Flood’s absence. She had their cheque. How soon before they called the police? she wondered. How soon before someone organized a search party?

  She had to pee. Squatting beside the car was risky—the wolf could return at any moment. There wasn’t anything in the car she could use as a receptacle. Her purse would work, but then she’d ruin her purse. She dug around inside her bag and settled on her sunglass case. Setting the case on the seat below her, Mrs. Flood reclined the seat back and propped herself up on her elbows. It wasn’t easy. It took considerable concentration to release her bladder in such an awkward position and she soon realized the sunglass case wasn’t big enough. She had to stop mid-stream, check the windows for the wolf, pour the case’s contents out into the snow and reposition herself before she could finish. She filled the case four times. The car smelled like urine.

  She w
atched the clock. Ten forty-five passed by, then eleven. She ate more snow. Nobody came to her rescue.

  At eleven twenty, the wolf returned. It jumped on the hood again but this time it had something in its mouth. A dead rabbit. The wolf dropped the rabbit next to the windshield wipers and leapt back down. It looked into Mrs. Flood’s eyes as it walked by the window, tongue lolling from the side of its mouth, and slunk back into the woods.

  A gift. The wolf doesn’t want to hurt me, Mrs. Flood thought. It’s feeding me. Or fattening me up. I’m already fat, though. She closed her eyes.

  An hour passed. The wolf hadn’t returned and Mrs. Flood was still nauseous and only getting worse—she couldn’t stomach looking at the dead rabbit in the windshield much longer. Its white fur stained with blood, one leg contorted at an ungodly angle.

  I don’t care if I get attacked, Mrs. Flood thought. I don’t care if the wolf rips out my throat and leaves me bleeding in the snow. I’m not sitting here another minute. I’m going home.

  She turned off the car and put the keys back in her pocket. She picked up her purse, opened the passenger door and stepped over her urine into fresh snow. The slope was steeper than she’d thought; she couldn’t see the road through the trees. How she’d survived the crash was perplexing. She looked at the car and saw the back bumper was missing. The trunk was crumpled up and there were a few long scratches along the side. There was a smell of gasoline in the air, otherwise the car wasn’t in such bad shape, considering the fall.

  There wasn’t any kind of path. She stepped through snow up to her knees and kicked through bramble. The wolf wasn’t in sight. Her head was buzzing. Her legs throbbed with pain but she had to get up to the road.