Tragic Renewal

by Marlina Williams

  Scott didn’t notice the ratty car with rusted wheel wells and dented hood as he passed by absorbed in his mission. The man and woman sitting in the car noticed him as he walked by. A hurried conversation ensued as the woman adjusted her clothes and reapplied dark red lipstick. The man in the driver’s seat looked her over, tugged at the top button of her shirt until it popped free. When satisfied with the amount of cleavage he gestured her to get out of the car and follow the man in uniform. Scott’s thoughts were on women, hoping a woman to his liking sat inside the bar’s dark interior. With luck he would find a suitable candidate and be out the door before he got completely wasted and soiled his uniform.

  He approached the bar and sidled his way into his favorite stool. The rack of ribbons pinned on his chest shifted as he sat. With a pride borne of years of training he adjusted the ribbons until satisfied they sat perfectly straight upon his dark blue jacket. Others sat at the bar or at tables throughout the small room, but most were in civilian clothes or the drab camouflage BDUs that were his normal choice of wear. His dress uniform was only drug out when necessary.

  Loud music played over the jukebox in the corner and smoke filled the air with a choking haze. Scott gestured to the bartender. The bartender scooted a beer across the bar’s lacquered surface. Scott caught it and took a long draw. He heard the door open behind him. He scanned the room searching for his next Maxine, Staci, Tiffany… he didn’t care about names. He needed someone to scratch an itch, an itch his wife refused to scratch. He turned to face the open door, sunlight blazed around a short curvy figure. Her hair puffed forward as the door closed behind, setting off a cascade of sexy blond curls falling over ample cleavage. His breath hitched at the sight.

  Her eyes squinted into the dark room while she waited for them to adjust. Scott stood and made his way toward her. The closer he got the more convinced he was that she was the one he was searching for. Her face was that of an angel with a she-devil’s body encased in a too tight button down shirt and black pants painted over her tight ass. His hands ached with withheld caresses.

  No words were exchanged, her eyes told the story his crotch interpreted. He captured her arm and steered her through the door she entered minutes before. When they were settled in his car, the engine purring, he turned to her. “What’s your name?”

  She smiled a slow knowing smile and promptly set to driving him insane. “Isabella.” Her voice whispered with a husky twang.

  His response was immediate, but he clamped down on it as he drove to the motel down the street.

  “Have fun, uh, Mr. Smith.” Juan, the motel clerk, waived to him as he said the fake name Scott had used from the first time he visited the motel. Scott never considered the name tag that hung from his shirt or uniform as every visit he was distracted by more important things.

  The room was dark and cold as they entered. A vague smell of moldy dampness permeated the air and threatened to kill the mood. Scott would not be distracted from his mission. Without preamble he threw Isabella to the bed and stripped her clothes, exposing the tantalizing cleavage and a surprising tattoo of a red dragon etched across her creamy skin.

  Afterward they lay side by side, sweaty despite the cool air that blew on them. They lay trying to catch the breath forced from their lungs by the voracity of illicit sex. Scott rolled to his side and tucked a strand of damp curly hair behind Isabella’s ear. “When can I see you again? Once isn’t gonna be enough.”

  A coy smile teased her red swollen lips, and a twinkle flashed in her bright blue eyes. “I don’t know Mr. Officer, why don’t you tell me?”

  He rolled over her. “How about right now.”

  From that day on Scott couldn’t get enough of the small powerful woman that drove him insane with desire. His brain no longer controlled his actions when it came to Isabella.

  With a sigh Scott pushed up from the chair when Boyd squirmed in his arms. He reached to rub Boyd’s flushed cheek and returned his gummy grin. “Hi, little man did you have a good nap?”

  Boyd kicked his legs and ripped out a loud fart.

  “Well, I know what I’ll be doing now. Too bad your mom’s not home, she knows how I hate changing your stinky little bottom.”

  Boyd kicked his legs more, letting out a continuous string of little toots.

  Scott waved his hand over Boyd. “You stink mister, you better be all done.”

  Boyd grinned and tried to capture Scott’s waving hand. He let out a triumphant grunt when he caught the waving hand and pulled it to his mouth to suck on Scott’s fingers.

  Once Boyd was changed and smelling faintly of baby powder, Scott took him to the kitchen to retrieve a bottle of breast milk from the fridge. Boyd kicked his legs while sucking loudly on the bottle. His eyes searched the room, turning up at the corners when he caught Scott’s in his field of vision. The nipple remained firmly clamped between his gums even after the bottle was empty and he sucked air.

  Scott pulled the nipple from his mouth creating a light popping twang. Boyd screwed his face into a cry then changed his mind when Scott lifted him to his shoulder and patted the tiny back in a now familiar rhythm. Boyd let out a satisfying burp and squirmed, biting at Scott’s shoulder and kicking his feet.

  Scott placed Boyd in the electronic swing and set the timer for half an hour. Boyd loved swinging and experimented with hitting the toys attached to the tray, watching as they spun and whirled at his touch. Satisfied Boyd would be content for a while Scott grabbed his laptop and settled on the couch to do some detective work.

  He punched in his password and pulled up newspapers from eleven months ago. As he scrolled through archived stories he couldn’t find a single reference to a worker dying on a charter fishing boat. The slow burn of frustration leaked into his searches as each came up empty. No matter the parameters he used, the keywords he punched in, or an inconceivable range of dates he couldn’t find any reference that even hinted at what he searched for.

  His mind whirred at the implications as he switched his search from news stories to obituaries.

  Boyd let out a squawk as the timer ran out and his swing ground to a halt. Scott, distracted from his search, hurried to reset the time before Boyd got upset and needed more attention. He walked to the kitchen and grabbed a beer from the fridge as his mind worked on the lack of evidence to Isabella’s claim.

  He settled back to the couch and woke the now sleeping laptop. Beer in hand he continued his search with single fingered punching of keys. Obituaries flew by. Pictures of mostly old, interspersed with a few young, people paraded by in a macabre dance of death. He skipped pictures of females, old white men, and kids. His mind tuned to fixate only on young to middle aged black men. Over the last eleven months only three black men had died in the city, but none fit the profile for which Scott searched. One died of a heart attack and two brothers died of carbon monoxide poisoning in an old house with crappy wiring and a broken CO2 detector.

  Scott’s mind crunched through the possibilities. A white hot rage began to build in his core, a core that had recently found a sense of contentment. He clinched down on the bleed of wrath threatened to overwhelm his mind and send his blood pressure into orbit. He heard the distinctive click of the deadbolt turning over as he fought for control.

  Isabella floated in on a cloud of too much perfume. She carried paper bags with string handles, evidence of her day of selfishly spending too much money. He knew within the bags there would be a token gift for him and Boyd hidden under her new clothes, makeup, and shoes.

  He rose with a look of withering disgust. “Hi honey, good day shopping?” His words dripped with contained fury, catching her immediate attention and forcing her to look closer at her husband.

  “Uh, yeah it was a great day. And I got you and Boyd something too.” Her voiced trembled with a wheedling tone that made Scott want to wrap his hands around her tender throat.

  “I’m sure you did, like you always do when you’re out spending my money.”

  Self-pr
eservation flashed in her eyes as she picked up on the control he exerted over his murderous intentions. “I’m sorry honey. I’ll have to watch that. Is there something wrong?”

  His eyes narrowed as he searched for the truth within hers. “How about you tell me about this mystery man that fathered my son? I can’t seem to find a single thing about his death.”

  Instant tears flashed over her cheeks, making their briny way to her designer clothes and splashing over pools of perfume.

  “Well?” He queried when she refused to respond.

  “I uh, I don’t know what you want me to say.”

  “How about the truth? There’s a saying about the truth… it’s supposed to set you free. Though in your case you better tread carefully because I ain’t making any guarantees.”

  Her hands visibly trembled as she pushed curls back after dropping the bags to the floor. The bags dropped with a quiet thunk, seemingly afraid to disturb the bull ready to kill its matador.

  With a sigh her shoulders slumped and the rate of tears increased, fat drops dripped from her lids and followed the path created by their smaller counterparts. “I lied, okay? I told you he was dead because I thought it would be easier if there was no chance of him ever showing up. I never knew his name. He was some random guy at the bar. Hell, I don’t even remember the night other than some guy picking me up and carrying me from the bar.”

  Her eyes searched his as she waited for a response that didn’t end in her dying. His mind worked the scenario, tried it on for size. The more he thought the more it seemed like reality, better than her first version. With iron control he pulled back and calmed his mind with deep breaths and glances at Boyd who batted toys on his swing, oblivious to the tension.

  His teeth ground, creating a crunching noise within his head, he spoke with clenched jaws, lips moving enough to deliver his message. “This better be the truth.”

  Twenty-Four

  Harper sat at the kitchen table sipping a glass of red wine, savoring the smooth liquid as it glided over her tongue. Cara’s letter freed Harper’s mind from the reality of an occasional glass of wine not making her a person with an alcohol problem. Enjoying wine no longer induced guilt, but instead a diffusing pleasure. Soft music piped through speakers and Ziggie slept curled under the table, his heavy head rested on her socked feet. Light snores rumbled through his body and tickled her feet with puffs of air. She refused to move for any chance of disturbing the content dog.

  Her finger rolled the scroll wheel on her wireless mouse as she scrolled through page after page of gazebo plans. Noah had sent her the designs so she could choose one as a memorial for Cara. Harper had put off looking at the plans, afraid of the emotion that would go along with her choice. After a week of procrastination she chose this day because it was the three month anniversary of Cara’s death. As each day drew to a close Harper became more settled and satisfied with her decision to stay.

  Harper sipped the wine and slowed her scrolling as one of the plans caught her eye. Noah had numbered each and a brief description was typed under the plans. Plan #17 gave her pause, its double roofline and inset benches spoke to Cara’s unique but traditional ideals. Harper read the description then double clicked so she could see a larger picture. Her heart rate picked up as the details loaded from the roof down. From the directional arrows with a horse topper on the roof to the expanding staircase encircling the footer, she knew this was the one.

  Her mind’s eye envisioned the completed gazebo next to the majestic weeping willow. The willow’s pointy leaves fluttering in the breeze and its drooping branches gracefully brushing the roof. She could hear the rustle of leaves and see the pond from her perch inside the gazebo as she watched the pond ripple with life that would come as the months continued to warm.

  She noted the number and fired off an email to Noah informing him of her decision and asking what she needed to purchase to get started, her purchase of supplies a small victory over Noah’s insistence he pay for the entire project. A weight lifted from her shoulders once the email was sent. She could now focus on planning the next stages of her garden.

  Already the peas she planted waved their bright green tendrils and showed small white or pink flowers that would turn into a delicious treat in a short time. Soon she would gather her first harvest and attend the county’s spring farmers market. A niggling of nervousness flooded her with self-doubt when she considered supporting herself on selling home-grown veggies. She coached herself through self-doubt when she considered the money in her bank account, and the new influx of funds from the insurance settlement she expected any day now. With decent planning she could stretch the funds until the real primary crops started producing in a few years’ time.

  Her garage now contained grow tables with shop lights hanging close to hundreds of tomato and herb seedlings. Soon the weather would warm and she would plant the sturdy plants in the garden. In her overzealous excitement she’d planted many more than even her large garden could contain, so extras would be sold alongside the many pounds of peas she hoped to harvest. Each day she checked the plants, enjoying rubbing her hands over their leaves and releasing their unmistakable scents. Her favorite aroma turned out not to be basil, oregano, or parsley, but the tomato plants’ fresh green scent.

  Her mouth watered at the thought of eating fresh tomatoes from the garden. She’d followed Noah’s advice for the majority of the plants, but she’d also snuck in some giant heirloom varieties. She’d remembered her mom buying fresh tomatoes from a farmers market when Harper was young. Her favorite was always the giant oddly colored and shaped heirlooms. Harper’s concession was to create a single row and use something called a Florida weave to contain their rampant growth. After hours of research she found the plans for the weaving system that seemed simple enough, even for a complete garden newbie.

  Ziggie’s head moved from her feet, leaving numb arches and cold skin. He made a light wuffing intonation and got to his feet, stretching and whining.

  He ambled to the front door and sat. Harper followed, puzzled at his movement. “What is it boy?”

  He watched her and blew out a snort of air. A flash of light caught her eyes, and she saw a vehicle rumbling down the dark driveway. Eventually she’d have to install lighting on the too dark strip of gravel, but for now she’d have to wait and see who was coming for a visit. She’d learned Ziggie’s reaction to familiar cars, but he seemed to be waiting to find out who their visitor was. He would put himself between her and the visitor until he determined the person was okay to be in his house. She’d watched him do the same when a UPS driver had approached with a package last week. Once Ziggie gave his approval, the person was okay to approach, but he kept a wary eye out for any funny business.

  Her heart rate picked up and her breath shortened when she caught sight of the bar of lights across the roof of the car. A weak porch light illuminated the man’s face casting a long shadow behind as he approached the door. Ziggie gave a soft grumble but gave no indication the man was a threat as he knocked lightly on the door. The light knock helped slow her tripping heart rate. If it was an emergency, the cop would have pounded.

  Harper opened the door a crack. “Hi, officer, what can I do for you?”

  He stepped further onto the porch bringing his middle aged features into clear focus. “Hi Ma’am, Sheriff Jenkins.” His hand shot out toward the door crack. Ziggie sniffed the proffered hand, and gave a single wag of his tail, approving the sheriff with a single movement.

  Something about the man looked familiar. Harper’s mind churned through details of why, if she’d never met him.

  When she didn’t respond he spoke again. “I’m sure I look familiar, after all I was on TV acting like a total idiot after your friend’s car crash.”

  Suddenly a ton of bricks smashed her heart as she recognized the crazy cop from the accident scene. She pulled the door open and indicated he come inside.

  As he entered Ziggie continued to sniff and judge, but never showed a
ny hesitation letting the armed man into his home. A sense of relief washed over Harper when Ziggie gave his final approval. She invited the sheriff to sit at the kitchen table and offered to put on a pot of coffee. He nodded his head in agreement and sat quietly waiting for her to take a seat.

  She placed a cup of coffee in front of him and wondered if he’d want a donut, then mentally kicked herself for buying into the cliché. The sheriff was trim and fit and filled out his uniform with toned arms and a well-developed chest. Harper almost laughed out loud at her out of character assessment. Years of Scott’s veiled jealousy had taught Harper to view people of the opposite sex in an almost androgynous light. Free of that veil she noticed the finer details blurred under that previous guise.

  “It’s nice to meet you. I’ve been putting off coming to see you, but today I finally have an excuse. I’ve been so ashamed of the way I acted that day, and of course it was caught on camera for the world to see.”

  Harper nodded and waited for him to continue, sensing he had something to get off his chest.

  “I met Cara once, she seemed like a nice person, and I looked forward to having a u-pick farm practically in my back yard. My wife and I love fresh fruit and would have been regular customers once it was up and running. Sorry, I’m getting off-track here. I came to let you know they finished the insurance settlement. I asked Brianna to notify me so I could tell you in person. I feel somewhat responsible for what happened that day.”

  He took a deep shuddering breath fraught with emotion which raised Harper’s curiosity.

  “Why?” she asked, puzzled at his connection.

  “Well, this is tough. The drunk driver was my friend. We grew up together, and I knew he drove when he was drinking, but he’d never had an accident. The day before the accident, his girlfriend of three years broke up with him because he refused to make a commitment. She was tired of waiting. Anyway, that’s irrelevant and seems like I’m making excuses for what he did. He cost three people their lives and there will never be an apology that makes up for that. I’m so sorry it happened.” His head hung as the relief of confession unburdened his shoulders. “And my wife told me I had to apologize if I ever hoped to get a full night’s sleep again.”