The Estranged

by JG Koratzanis

  Heather snickered. “I always favored Saint George. The only decision my mother made for me I agree with.”

  He watched her lips draw close and her chin dip into her chest. It was a silence that he wasn’t expecting. Heather had a friendly word and a lengthy conversation raring to go every chance she had. Ruben took her hand and gently squeezed.

  “What’s bothering you, Heather. You know you can tell me.”

  Her head raised, and her heart thumped by the sorrow that clung to her lids.

  “You remember—”

  “Chase?”

  Another cloud of smoke jetted from her lips. “We broke up a while ago now. But I—”

  Ruben released his grip and allowed the distance she attempted to put between herself and her words. It was the same behavior he wished he had the opportunity to express when his precious Cruzita died. If only his wife, Mary, Father Anthony and his Tio Pedro had the same wherewithal to do the same. And when her killer finally met with justice, with his maker, they gave him the distance he wished they didn’t. Almost as if they suspected—

  “I think I’ve been looking for his love in the wrong places,” she finished.

  “What kind of wrong places?” He didn’t want to ask. Surely her wrong was much less than his.

  “I’ve been seeing a therapist for— a year? Maybe. I don’t remember anymore. Well, anyway, I’ve been seeing him since before I showed Chase the door. He’s alright, I guess, but I just can’t talk to him about certain things. Frankly, I don’t know if I should be talking to you about it either. I’ve known you since I was a kid.”

  “Then why did you come to me?” It sounded harsher than he wanted. Paternal. Ruben loved Heather like his Cruzita. And if anything happened to Heather the same way his daughter, he wouldn’t change a thing.

  “That’s what I love about you, Ruben. You’re right.” She snuffed the cigarette butt in the ashtray atop the love seat between them.

  “I’ve taken up drinking, lying to my therapist about it. My friend gives me Xanax on top of it. I don’t think she has any idea.”

  Ruben studied her intently.

  “I don’t have a substance abuse problem if that’s what you’re thinking. I have a problem with the decisions I’ve made. I take the pills to ease the tension, and drink to forget the pain.”

  Ruben took a long drag of his smoke. “What happened with you and Chase? Why did you leave him?”

  Heather reached into Ruben’s shirt pocket for another cigarette. He offered the Zippo he held on to. She flipped it in her palm and examined the familiarity of it. The tear finally drifted from her eyes.

  “It was like he was— I don’t know, cursed? Damned? Like there’s some fucking demon hiding in the shadows, hunting him or something. No matter how hard he tried, he lost every time. It— it started to affect us. I know I promised no matter how bad things got, I’d be by his side. But it started eating me away. No matter how hard I tried to help him, he would just fight with me. I couldn’t—”

  Heather collapsed into Ruben’s chest and sobbed. He stroked the back of her head and let her pour it out. Seminary school and too many years of priesthood taught him when to speak, and when to shut up. This was the latter. It wasn’t long before she hopped up and wiped her nose with the sleeve of her olive sweater.

  “He was hurting himself. And it killed me. I know I can’t do anything about his past, but he was so far removed from all that bullshit, and it’s like he just— it just consumed him,” she sobbed. “I failed him, and now I’m time traveling and waking up with different—” she paused. “Regret. Waking up with shame and regret. I don’t know what to do, who to talk to, what to—”

  “Shh,” Ruben interrupted. The former reared its head. “You came to the right place. You know I will never judge you, Heather. That’s for him,” he said and pointed upwards.

  Judgment. Something he dreaded when he breathed his last. A handful of years past the normal workforce retirement, he prayed he would live another hundred years. He knew the Father turned a deaf ear to him years ago.

  “The drink isn’t going to help you. Trust me. I’ve tried it myself. The medication should be short term. But you’re letting those crutches to swallow you away and wake you up with— regrets. I have my own. And I know they’re not the same as yours. Mary would have left me years ago if I did that.” He winked. A chuckle past her lips and her cheeks reddened.

  “Are you working?” he said. She shook her head.

  “Temp agency found a spot for me at Emergency dispatch. Figure if I listen to enough of everyone else’s problems, mine won’t seem so bad anymore.”

  “Not always, but give it a try.”

  A rap at the door startled Heather. Her cigarette flew from her hand and rolled under Ruben’s desk. She darted after it, a string of apologies wafted past.

  “Come,” Ruben snapped. He didn’t hide his scowl when the door opened.

  “You knew I had a visitor to see me today, and not to disturb me, Father Anthony.”

  Anthony waved his hand at the thick smog throughout the chamber. A habit Ruben wished he would swap out for smoking as to have a little more public decorum about the dirty, but legal, addiction. No matter how many times Ruben offered Anthony, he would never partake. Young, dumb and a health nut, my-body-is-my-temple-bullshit regurgitated one too many times when the priests broke bread together at the end of a long Sunday.

  “I’m sorry, Father. But it’s kind of urgent,” Anthony said. Ruben noticed Anthony’s head dotted with sweat.

  “Police Officer Davis is here. He had a few more questions.”

  Ruben’s eyes grew dark. “About?”

  “Cruzita. He said it was about her.”

  Ruben considered Heather. He knew his expression didn’t change as she quickly looked away.

  “Heather, I’m sorry, but I have to take care of this. Can you come back in an hour or so?”

  Heather smiled and shook her head. “That’s all right, Father. I have to go anyway. I should have come to you first. You always know how to talk me off the ledge. I’ll be here Sunday—”

  Ruben smiled and gently shook his head. “Though we’re not Catholic, it’s still a sin to lie. But do come back soon. I miss your company.”

  Heather nodded, kissed Ruben on the cheek, and exited the room.

  “I told these clowns everything I know.” He pronounced it everyting. “Why do they keep digging up my daughter? Can’t they just let her rest in peace?”

  IV

  Tires screeched as he recoiled. Wide eyes envisioned staring up at the concerned eyewitnesses and paramedics as he lay there, entrails burst through his lips as his midsection nearly nonexistent, flattened by tires.

  The vehicle came to a halt. A punch landed on the hood of the blacked-out Lincoln Navigator as he yelled.

  “What the fuck, asshole! Open your fucking eyes, you stupid bitch!”

  The young Middle-Eastern woman behind the wheel told him to fuck himself and sped off. He remained in the middle of Flatbush Avenue and glowered.

  “Bitch. If it were up to me, you women wouldn’t even be allowed to drive,” he grumbled as he stepped onto the sidewalk.

  The bright sun hung ahead of the gloomy thick of clouds as a flock of geese honked and drifted past the meandering pedestrians around the Barclays Center in Downtown Brooklyn. The Nets had ended their season early as one of the worst scoring teams of the year, and the marquees blared with “Just Announced” concerts and events in consideration of the empty seats. He didn’t care for the climate, the pedestrians nor the loser Nets. You’d think with the pride of returning to New York City after so many years, they’d put a little more effort into their games.

  Sweat dotted his brow as he wandered the massive walkway before the arena. He stopped every now and again to read the electronic kiosks before the subway station and took a break from the heat. Maybe wearing a dark hoodie and leather jacket, zipped up to the neck on an early summer day wasn’t such a clever id
ea.

  Another rush of commuters vomited forth from the mouth of the subway exit. They meandered and hurried about the sidewalk. Some chunks paused in wonder, others threaded the lookie-loos in their pursuits, and some stepped cautiously about, searching for their destinations. One stood out from all the rest.

  Her wavy, raven locks drifted about the thin, olive T-shirt and shoulders with each footfall. Her denim shorts exposed bronzed, shapely legs that moved with delicate fluidity. Her drab Chuck Taylor’s padded in a perfect path, as though the droves of people recognized the unconscious need to step out of the way. A rumble of thunder and the onset of heavy rain patted her and the sidewalk in blistering volume. She donned her hood and marched on. And he followed.

  Obstacle after obstacle, he bumped and slammed into everyone that crossed his path. Some exclaimed his rudeness as he ignored them, fixed on the woman, others shoved back to no response as the woman increased her distance. Frustration consumed him as he watched his quarry dash across Atlantic Avenue. He reeled back as he slammed into a soft, immovable hindrance.

  “Move it, bitch! I’m in a hurry,” he said.

  The statuesque woman before him didn’t move. She didn’t seem to breathe. The loud floral print of her dress swept across her voluptuous figure as if it had been painted on. She brushed a tassel of ginger locks from her cheek.

  “I beg your pardon, Douglas. I seem to have disregarded my manners, as have you,” the woman said.

  “Watch— wait. Do I know you?” Douglas said. The woman grinned. Brilliant teeth glowed through crimson lips.

  “I’m afraid not. But I know you,” she said. Douglas peered over the woman’s shoulder in search of—

  “Forget about Ms. Andreasen,” the woman said. “You have more pressing matters to attend to.”

  Douglas gawked, and his hands shook. “How? Who the hell are you?”

  “The hell, indeed. I am here to stop you from doing something foolish. As with you, she has other matters to attend to before someone like you can interfere.”

  “What? I wasn’t going to—”

  “Of course not, my dear boy,” she said and brushed the back of her hand down his cheek. “But if one were to guess, you might have followed her into the department store, and after a brief confrontation that would not have favored your intentions, your hands might take her throat until she breathed her last.”

  Douglas gasped.

  “As you have with your many adopted pets. You have promise. You, my boy, have a special place for those who would have you at their disposal.”

  Douglas stiffened, his mouth went dry and veins bulged, and road mapped his flesh as the strange woman pressed her bosoms against his thundering heart.

  “Now, you will listen to what I have to say. Pay attention. Your instructions are explicit. Do not, and unfortunate events may befall you. Do what thou wilt.”

  CHAPTER 6

  THE ALLEY

  I

  Busy bees droned on about the office with challenges and solutions as the phones continued to buzz about the exhausted resource staff. Heather took the job at the Emergency Call Center hoping to pad her resume with real job experience. Little did she know, only three weeks in, it would be one of the most draining experiences of her life.

  One of.

  The temp agency snatched up the position for her, knowing full well she had no desire to stay there longer than the six-month opening allowed. And until that day, the higher than expected salary gave her consideration to stay on. State your name, identification number and ask the nature of the emergency, type everything in short-hand and relay the information to the proper authority, whether police, fire, sanitation or family services.

  The first call knotted her belly. A good Samaritan called in about a hit-and-run truck taking out a young bicyclist. The remainder of that day became an endless deluge of spousal abuse, drug overdoses, and attempted suicides.

  Yana, the beautiful responder beside her, who Heather thought should have been a model with her chiseled face, hazel eyes, athletic build and lush lips, always reached out to Heather’s trembling hand as she answered her own calls of despair.

  “It gets easier, darling,” she assured in a thick Russian accent. “You get used to it.”

  She wondered when she would. Where every call was darker than the last, she wondered how depraved the human psyche could devolve.

  Heather thanked Beatrice for her miraculous little white pills, seeing Heather’s ability to make some emotional progress and take charge of her life. And with this job, and the up and down swearing that she went to a few A.A. meetings, she made sure Heather didn’t run out. It’s a shame she believed her.

  She never told her best friend that she would ration out her pills, a full one each day, ensuring a magnificent tranquility. Beatrice didn’t know that weekends comprised of sleeping as many hours as possible and drinking herself back to sleep with a bottle of wine. She somewhat heeded Beatrice’s warnings and didn’t drink at the same time. Booze after pill, you never feel ill.

  “Nine-one-one, Heather Andreasen, six-six-four, what is your emergency?”

  “Hey, nine-one-one, this is, uh—an-on-ee-mouse,” the caller said. “I don’t really think this is an emergency, but I’ll leave that up to you.”

  The nauseating feeling of familiarity washed over her. She knew that voice, that pretentious inflection, from somewhere.

  “What is your emergency,” she repeated.

  “Yeah, yeah. No problem. You see, the situation is, well, there’s this kid—”

  “A child? How old?” Heather interrupted.

  “Well, he’s not a kid. I’m just older than he is. I says he’s about twenty-six? Twenty-seven? I don’t fuckin’ know.”

  “I apologize, sir. What is the issue with this man?”

  “Well, you see, he kinda got the shit kicked out of him and now I think he wants to die or something,” the caller said.

  Heather searched her keyboard for the call-trace button. A pop-up window flashed on her screen.

  NUMBER/LOCATION: UNAVAILABLE – TRACE ACTIVATED

  “Sir, can you give me the best number to reach you at in case we get disconnected?”

  “No.”

  Sweat dotted Heather’s face and neck. “Can you tell me where you are, sir?”

  “Not really. I’m not there anymore, in case you were wondering. Like I said, I don’t really think this is an emergency.”

  “Can you tell me where—”

  “Yeah, yeah. Maybe if you gave me a fuckin’ chance to speak, I can tell you. He’s lyin’ in some alley, between these two-story apartments somewhere by Henry Street.”

  Her throat went dry and tight. “Henry and where, sir?”

  “The fuck I know! Henry and Third something or other.”

  “Can you tell me the extent of the man’s injuries,” she fought the rising bile to ask.

  “Yeah. I punched him in the face. A lot. You should’ve seen it. His nose popped like a fuckin’ strawberry! Then I kicked him in the stomach. Once, I think. Not sure. Maybe six times. It’s kinda dark out here. I couldn’t tell if he threw up or coughed up blood,” he said.

  “Are you telling me that you are the assailant?”

  “No, I just found him that way, lady.” The sarcasm made Heather wince. “Here I am, bein’ a good Samaritan and all and calling you to let you know he might need some help—”

  Heather attempted to locate the caller again through the system.

  NUMBER/LOCATION UNAVAILABLE – TRACE INVALID

  “This guy’s got some serious fuckin’ issues, I tell you, lady. But thanks for takin’ my call.”

  “Can you tell me the victim’s name, sir?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Would you give it to—”

  “No.”

  Her eyes closed as the call disconnected. Her gut wrenched, and she covered her mouth before lunch made a reappearance.

  The caller sickened her with his unemotional disconnectedness,
his sarcastic concern over beating someone and the refusal to tell her who he—

  Please don’t be—

  But there was something. An awareness. She heard that same voice over Chase’s phone once. She was sure of it.

  She suppressed what desperately fought to burst through her lips and tossed her headset to the console. She didn’t contest the sting of fear and sorrow in her eyes.

  “Yana, I’m going on— I need a break,” she said to her Russian cohort and stomped away.

  II

  The Atlantic Avenue subway station reeked of pungent nitrogen, trash, and stagnant water. Late night rail users ambled their way towards the nearest staircase to escape the stench and breathe deep the not as acrid Brooklyn night air. Another fifteen minutes and Kelsey would be home.

  “Son of a bitch,” she groaned as she spun her ankle before the stairwell. Looking down on the damage, the heel of her black pump skittered away under the trample of exiting commuters. If only she remembered to throw her sneakers into her backpack before work, she thought. Her head thrummed with the onset of a headache she was in no mood to tolerate. Stepping to the side of the stairs, she rummaged through her purse for some relief.

  The rattle of the single pill brought the corners of her lips downwards. Scanning the platform, the dim lights of the newspaper kiosk seized her gaze and she hobbled towards it. As she waited, her eyes ran down the line of porno magazines, some wrapped in transparent plastic, others in brown paper with only their logos emblazoned upon them, local and national newspapers, rows of gums and mints, and other miscellaneous odds and ends that others like might her need before they arrived home.

  “Give me a Tylenol, a bottle of water, LifeSavers and a pack of Trojans,” she said as the Middle-Eastern stand owner turned to her. He swiped the smaller items, then pointed at the condom rack. She nodded and licked her sly lips as his finger hovered over the pack of Magnums. Handing over a twenty-dollar bill, she chuckled as he scorned her in his native tongue.