by Kendric Neal
He'd missed that mark, more ups than downs that month but not enough, but that was alright, he'd loaded their statement in his word processor, changed a few things around and Hope was none the wiser. Part of the pride he took in the deception was that Hope was by God no easy woman to fool. She had a way with numbers, was savvy financially, and seemed to have a sixth sense when it came to suspicious family matters. He thought back to how her ability to judge character had alerted her to Dunn's dark potential, and how both kids complained regularly to him how Hope seemed to know things she couldn't possibly know. Cullen even spent an hour's ride to summer camp laying out, with examples and footnotes, his theory that his childhood was being compromised by overscrutiny (bright future, that kid. Bright future).
The notion of grappling with her when she eventually learned the truth was ruining his recent run of luck.
To think, he'd enjoyed her combative side when they first got together, well, that was on him now, wasn't it? She was a dyed-in-the-wool feminist, a pain-in-the-ass feminist was how Dunn had put it, and woe be to the man, business associate or friend who said anything in her presence that crossed that invisible line. They had lost deals because of it. Hell, they'd lost friends, they'd lost family members. He'd had more than one guy ask him how he dealt with it—how could he explain? Watching his wife turn her sights full-bore on anyone other than himself had a seductive pleasure to it he couldn't resist, and, besides, it was fun just to see her in action, period. Neely would sit back and watch the guy try to joke and wiseass his way out of some offhand remark about women drivers or nagging housewives, not realizing it was quicksand he was stepping into and that was an anvil strapped to his chest.
As for debates about politics or human rights, Hope may have still looked like the cheerleader she once was, but she'd also been a summa cum laude from Brown with a Masters from UVA. She was not a woman you could quote murky, half-remembered studies to. She would yank out her tablet and pull up journals, legal opinions and corroborated facts to torpedo every half-assed argument anyone tried to foist on her. Neely would watch her storm and rage unimpeded until the provocateur finally shut the hell up and slunk back to the shadows. It turned Neely on to no end, which was too bad because it had the opposite effect on Hope. She would fume the rest of the night, any thought of romance evaporated in the intense glare of debate. Her furrowed brow was a gathering thunder cloud and Neely did what any intelligent husband would do, he walked softly and cut her a wide berth.
He'd made the mistake in the early years of engaging her in such discussions solely for sport, playing devil's advocate and arguing a point he knew she'd disagree with just to tick her off. Her ferocity delighted and aroused him, but while he could turn it off whenever he chose, she would stew for hours and days. She'd follow him around throwing out more arguments and ripping the carpet out from under him until, finally, he'd apologize, explain he didn't believe a word of it, he'd only wanted to see her in action, it turned him on, he loved her with every bit of his heart, she was the most beautiful woman he'd ever met, her intelligence was sexy, feminists were sexy, men were dogs, he was an asshole, and her family was right, she could have done. She'd finally open up the escape valves, steam would vent, and, with luck, and she'd get the core down to a tolerable level again. In time.
If she found out now about his two years of lying, the price would be terrible indeed. He'd operated under a cloud of delusion at first—his initial forays, testing the waters, met with quiet success and he'd upped the ante without repercussion. He'd spent many sleepless nights imagining that she knew all, that she had simply given up on him and was quietly preparing the divorce docs and draining the joint accounts. His fears gradually subsided, as he knew from their returning easy rapport and impassioned lovemaking she knew nothing. She'd stopped checking their financial records and making him account for every minute of his time as their routine settled back in and her fears eased.
He was a whiz kid after all, wasn't he? He was more than capable of hiding a thing or two from his wife. He knew, though, not to grow too complacent, not to take too much credit, as deep down he knew his success was largely due to her inattention, not his genius.
She didn't want to be the cop, she didn't want to watch him like a hawk, she hated it in fact—she liked the domestic ritual, she loved being a wife and mom and finding ways to make her family happy while keeping them on a path of safe and healthy living. It was a curiously simple goal for what Neely thought of as a very complex woman, but he loved her immeasurably for it. He'd already gotten his feet wet in his own midlife crisis and learned the lesson faster than most—that in the end, family was all that mattered and if he stayed focused on that, the fears and anxieties would be present but manageable. It wasn't a profound revelation, but after 40 he didn't go wide anymore, he went deep. His greatest realizations these days were platitudes he'd known since he was a kid, but now found new meaning in: “Do unto others…”, “A stitch in time…”, “Nothing ventured…”, and that old fan favorite, “Lucky is what lucky does”.
The thing is, none of it had kept him from gambling.
He'd slipped back in slowly but easily, thoroughly convinced after the blow-up he could do it without it taking over. He could dabble and be happy, the amount didn't matter, only the thrill of the draw or the spin. It proved to be an ill-formed idea, as he soon felt himself in the familiar grip and not wanting to be anywhere else. But it was worth it, he reasoned, it sharpened his attention on Family Nights, his attendance at Cullen's myriad sporting events, his tolerance of Jess's increasingly expensive list of needs and wants, and his enjoyment of nights and weekends stolen away with Hope to reconnect and rekindle. All were felt more deeply when he had a bet on, when he had a secret they knew nothing about, when he had a carefully organized plan to slip away for the last quarter of the Eagles-Redskins with $4500 on a surprisingly favorable spread.
The unintended effect of this was that he suspected some part of him, conscious or not, wanted to get caught.
He wanted the blow-up of blow-ups, the one that threatened total dissolution, that put him back in bachelor quarters with a bottle of J&B, a portable iron and the channel set permanently to ESPN. He needed to know the extreme—it may have been what got him into all the crazy shenanigans to begin with, he needed to push Hope into true meltdown territory. He didn't know why, he just needed it. Why do moths fly into porch lights and fry themselves? Why does anyone ever pick up a drink or put down a bet the first time? Were they eyeing the finish line all along? Bankruptcy, divorce, nervous breakdown, unemployment? Spend their 20s and 30s building a life only to destroy it in their 40s? He sometimes saw it as a scream for help the way cowards cut their wrists with plastic dinner knives and then look for someone to tell. Yet, Hope in all her observational scrutiny, her unceasing watchfulness, her earnest and desperate concern, didn't suspect a thing. She went happily along, blind to nothing except her husband's foray into cliché—losing everything they'd saved together to secure their futures. It made no sense to him, and he realized the closer he came to finally emptying those last accounts on the home stretch of his epic losing streak, he had on a surprising and disturbing level, become furious with her for letting him get away with it.
What was a marriage but a partnership? What was a wife but a sentinel to keep a man from torching himself with his own innately self-destructive nature? This wasn't something new like internet chatrooms or Nigerian business scams or penny stock promises, this was the oldest vice in the book, or perhaps the second oldest…no, come to think of it, there's no way prostitution predated gambling, no way. As long as warriors gathered around fires at night on the downswing after the adrenaline-pumping thrill of the hunt, there've been games of chance to help them wind down. Sex was over too fast—gambling was what filled the empty hours.
He shut the screen, poured a Heineken from the mini-fridge, and sat on the lounge chair drinking in the view. He had to let this go, he was ruining the getaway. Hope wasn't to blame—he
understood what she was doing and on some level knew the alternative was worse. A wife who watched and monitored him all the time? Who the hell would want that? He'd hate her for it. He'd hate himself. He sat back and took a sip—kicking back in a chair surrounded by nature—it was intoxicating, wasn't it? It made him wonder why anyone would live anywhere else. He pushed his worries aside and sank into a favorite daydream—spending their lives like this after the kids left, globe-hopping while he dabbled with his sports bets, his online poker, his day trading, averaging steady returns adequate to pay for their luxurious lifestyle. Sitting by a pool in the Caribbean or on the Mediterranean watching the market close after a solid four-figure gain. Or five-figure, why not? It was all percentages. You only needed to be right 55% of the time, you just approached it like any other business plan and balanced your exposure.
“What a beautiful sun,” Hope said, coming up behind him, startling him from his reverie. They sat together and enjoyed it quietly, though he missed the coziness of his daydream. Somehow he never could go there when she was around—he never resolved the peacefulness of the dream with how he knew she'd really react if he financed their life of leisure by gambling. It added a jarring note to the idyll frolics, as even a year of solid gains wouldn't convince Hope it was sustainable. She was wrong that way and it bothered him. As long as he was winning, what did it matter?
“Fancy a walk, Mr. Thomas?” she said.
“What, you mean outside? With clothes and everything?”
“Clothing optional.”
“Not in Eagle Crest.”
“You might make the papers.”
“It's been a while since I've had anything for the Alumni News.”
“They'd be so proud.”
In the end, it was shorts and t-shirts—it was gorgeous out, it had rained in the late morning and now a mist clung to the trees that bathed the thick woods in an earthy, warm glow. Their photos turned out spectacularly and they posted the whole bunch on Facebook just to make their friends jealous. They did the whole 6-mile loop, somehow feeling the need for physical exertion to whet those other appetites they'd been busy satisfying. It worked as planned. A glass of Cattleya 2015 in the hot tub on their return, followed by a medley of sexual positions of Neely & Hope's Greatest Hits (well, Top 3 anyway—they were both looking forward to #4, but #3 proved too popular), a glass of La Gitana while they dressed, and their long-anticipated five-course dinner (they'd skipped lunch and the hike had left them ravenous).
Axel was a top-tier chef—Neely and Hope had been so impressed their first weekend they'd looked him up and found dozens of rave reviews. He'd honed his craft in Minneapolis and jumped three separate restaurants into five-stars in his time there. Of course, that belied his problem as well…he moved around too much, gifted with a mercurial temper that led to furious clashes with management. For every great chef who opened his own restaurant, there were two dozen with Axel's problem… a chef who could never stay in one place for long.
He ended up at Eagle Crest, a failure by most great chef benchmarks but a tremendous success by any other. He was granted superstar status there and given free run of the place. The discerning clientele immediate responded to his efforts and the raves poured in, feeding Axel's insatiable ego and making it soar to new heights. He was widely considered impossible now, condescending and patronizing even to billionaires. Neely and Hope were no exceptions—they put up with the haughty service and highly restricted menu (half of which was unavailable no matter how early you came), for the pleasures of enjoying culinary perfection by a roaring fire overlooking a thousand acres of raw wilderness. Axel's taste was exceptional—his Coquilles Saint-Jacques unforgettable, his Sole Meunière sublime brilliance, Blanquette de Veau even better, every bite worth savoring, every wine pairing flawless.
They made love again that night (#4 finally got its due). How could they not after that meal? A glass of Normandin-Mercier on the lodge patio, overlooking the lake, the night full of stars unpolluted by city light…The walk, arm in arm, back to the Well…Fueled by good wine, good cognac, good food—the great intoxicants of good living, they had a rapturous, bedsheet-bundling good time under the skylight, illuminated by the constellations and the glow of the wood-burning stove. To think Neely hadn't been sure he was up for it when they'd started—he'd actually thought how nice it would be just to go to sleep with the taste of dinner and that Très Vieille still fresh, to listen to the night sounds and creatures of the wild as his thoughts and worries slowly uncoiled. He'd surprised himself, maybe it was the peacefulness of the surroundings or getting away from city pressures…no, it was the relief of getting away from her. Suddenly, instead of Hope's face he saw the old Indian woman's crooked mouth. Hardly a tooth left, all gums and wrinkles, and that mad look in her eye. Not malicious, not evil, but worse. Right. Aligned with the Earth, with the tides, with the rhythms and cycles of nature. With right.
He'd been lucky, alright. If he hadn't looked up just when he did, if he hadn't—hadn't what? It was Sunday night and it was the Falcons-Packers, and well, that's a big deal, Sunday night was a very big deal. It was the game that capped off the weekend, it was the one that told him how he did overall, whether he made up for his losses, whether he hung onto his gains. He had Hope convinced he had prostate issues, he jumped up to go to the bathroom every 20 minutes. They'd watch a movie or carve their way through three episodes of their favorite show. He'd taken to sipping ice water, glass after glass, to explain his frequent trips to the bathroom. He'd call up the score, the suspense all the more enticing as a moment stolen from real life. Up 10, down 14. It'd look like a lock in the fourth quarter, it'd look dismal in the third, it all excited him, and that was the problem, the pamphlet said, when winning and losing became the same thing, the gambling became the thing. When regular life lost its luster and a day or two without a bet seemed insufferably empty.
He squeezed his eyes to get the old woman out. He buried his head in Hope's neck, eliciting a further gasp from her. She was close, he knew. Not the time to lose focus, not the time to think about that again. It was an accident. He didn't cause it. The fact that he might have prevented it wasn't the same. When your number was up, it didn't matter how it happened. That boy's time had come to die. That Neely played a part was simply God's will, not Neely checking the score on his phone, not him taking his eyes off the road for a few seconds. No one would consider that negligence, that's just survivor's guilt. It's no sin to be lucky. He should forgive himself. It's no sin to be alive.
Hope screamed.
He saw the trunk falling, and for one moment it was a Lincoln Log tumbling from a toy truck. It didn't seem real, it was a moment from a movie he'd seen once. Directly in his path, though, that was no toy…that was a 6000 lb. log hitting the pavement and bouncing.
He didn't even know anything that big could bounce. He yanked the wheel, thank God again, thank you German engineers, thank you for doing your job—he yanked hard but not too hard, not enough to lose control. Hard enough to miss the log, then thwack, and he spun. The boy hadn't seen the log, he didn't know what was happening or why Neely had clipped him. The truck had been to his side and his eyes had been straight ahead. He would have gotten it regardless of what Neely did. He was in its path. That's how it happened, you were in its path. Neely spun, so did the kid. The kid got squashed, Neely got spared. They told him afterward the log hopped over him. Who could have predicted that? It could have squashed him like a housefly, it could have done what Fate wanted to that night. No, no, they all agreed, it was unanimous.
It wasn't for another three days that he remembered any details.
He'd told the emergency workers, the police, the doctors and nurses that all he saw was spinning, but that wasn't true, was it? He'd seen the Jeep get it, he'd seen the log flatten the passenger compartment, he'd seen the arm. For help? Supplication? Forgiveness? Benediction? No, it was the force of the impact. The trunk made that Jeep into a joke, like it was made of cellophane and aluminum, like a
good whack from a yardstick would smoosh a Dollar Store toy. The kid had no chance, but he'd known what was coming alright. He'd seen it as Neely had seen it, only it had come down on him and bounced over Neely. The arm had flung out from the thwack like those cowboys riding broncos, only there wasn't a body attached to it by the time the arm reached its height. It kept going. No home to come home to. Some perverse slapstick cartoon, the kind of thing that happened to Daffy Duck or Wile E. Coyote. It was the arm he kept seeing. That, and the look on the old woman's face as she hissed at him. The feel of her dry, leathery hand in his, squeezing tighter, that foul breath, that rasping voice…
He became aware of Hope's still-labored breathing.
Sex was good in the Well…
…when he was distracted, disturbed, distanced by something, Hope could mistake it for intensity. It didn't make sense, she was a damned intuitive woman, but in moments like this she could misinterpret his hallucinating an old Native American woman's face over hers and say things like “God, that was amazing,” like she did now.
“What's in that well, anyway?” Neely said.