Tips for Living

by Renee Shafransky

  Chapter Fourteen

  At least Ben hadn’t woken up. He probably wouldn’t think anything of the dish towels drying on the rack in the morning, or the wads of paper towels stuffed in the bin under his kitchen sink. I tried to think what to do next while I let the cool tap water run over my hands to soothe the irritated skin. There was no point in trying to go back to sleep, or even lying down next to Ben while I was vibrating like a tuning fork. And what if I did fall asleep and the same thing happened all over again? Or something even more destructive?

  I had visions of a child’s hand gripping a steel golf club. The hand lifting my mother’s Wüsthof carving knife, its blade glinting in the moonlight. I saw the hand, now larger, wielding razor-sharp scissors and stabbing a sweatshirt. Clutching an X-ACTO knife. All the hands mine. Hands that committed angry, violent acts.

  Sickening questions swirled in my head. Was I, the woman who vowed not to let her life be ruined by anger, getting a message from my unconscious that rage had triumphed? Had I been so plagued by my conscience that I’d roamed in my sleep to wash my hands of blood like Lady Macbeth? Was I sleepwalking the night Hugh and Helene were murdered? Did that blood I imagined belong to them?

  I’d read the literature on sleepwalking. The morning after I’d cut the heart out of Axel Bartlett’s sweatshirt, I’d rushed straight over to the lower level of Bobst Library at NYU. Hunched in a dark booth in the bowels of the enormous library building, I’d scrolled for hours through the American Journal of Psychiatry, Scientific American and scores of medical publications stored on pre-Google microfilm.

  Somnambulists (the name sounded like a circus act: “Now for the flying Somnambulists, ladies and gentlemen!”) almost always made their move within the first hour of sleep, before REM and dreaming kicked in. In children, the triggers might be anxiety, sleep deprivation or fatigue. The biggest physical hazards came from falling and bumping into things. Generally, child sleepwalkers grew out of the problem by age eighteen—my age at the time of that last sleepwalk. A small percentage didn’t.

  Adult sleepwalkers weren’t just overtired, nervous pups. Sure, there were harmless, blank-stared strollers who merely wandered from room to room moving furniture, flicking a light switch or raiding the fridge for ice cream. But a good number of adult sleepwalkers had serious medical or mental disorders. They drank heavily or took medication that set off dangerous, sometimes lethal behaviors while they slept.

  The legal defense term was “non-insane automatism.” Defense lawyers argued that consuming alcohol and/or drugs could produce involuntary actions like “sleep driving,” as in getting behind the wheel and accidentally running someone over or slamming a car into a utility pole. “Sexsomniacs” woke up screwing total strangers. And, most terrifying of all, “sleep killers” murdered unconsciously.

  Was I one of them? Had I consumed too much vodka last Saturday night and gone “sleep driving” over to Pequod Point? But where would I get a gun?

  There were also cases where there was no drinking or medication involved. Killers had been acquitted using a straight up “sleepwalking defense.” A sleepwalking father smashed his shrieking baby against the wall: “I was sure it was a wild beast.” A sleepwalking fireman beat his wife with a shovel, believing she was an intruder. One major study showed that adult sleepwalkers had difficulty handling aggression in general. Could that be me?

  I’d been too horrified to deal with what I’d read back then. I hadn’t even told Grace about the disturbing research I’d found. I just prayed the sleepwalking would end. She’d advised watchful waiting after the sweatshirt “heart attack,” and counseling if I had another incident. Grace was an unusually light sleeper, and we agreed more nighttime activities would certainly wake her up. There were none. I calmed down, eager to believe this had been a singular event, the affliction’s last gasp while I was still in my teens.

  But as I shut off the water and dried my tender hands in Ben’s kitchen, a high-profile case I’d read about in NYU’s library haunted me.

  Kenneth Parks drove to his in-laws’ house in his sleep. He choked and stabbed them, killing his mother-in-law. Later, he staggered through the doors of a police station, not knowing why he came. His own wrist had been severed, but he couldn’t feel the pain. He wasn’t awake. Given his history of sleepwalking and the fact that he “adored his in-laws,” he was acquitted.

  There were sleep experts who theorized that Parks’s violent act was the result of a neurological glitch, that when Parks’s father-in-law discovered him sleepwalking outside the house and tried to detain him, he’d caused Parks’s amygdala—his primitive brain—to kick in. Parks fought him and went on to kill his mother-in-law without (literally) blinking. Or so his lawyer argued.

  Did I have that same glitch?

  Get a grip, Nora. As Ben would insist: “You’re a reporter. Look at the facts.”

  Okay. Fact: I’d never left my immediate location when I was sleepwalking. Fact: my worst offense had been cutting a hole in a sweatshirt, and tonight all I was guilty of was letting water overflow from a sink. Most important, I’d never had access to a gun, awake or asleep. The facts said “no, not possible.”

  But it was also a fact that I’d begun sleepwalking again. There were those jeans that I didn’t remember washing the night of the murders, and those blazing lights the other morning in the Coop. And what about the scratch, the twig and the leaves? Still, none of that meant I was a murderer.

  Remember: no gun, no guilt.

  A chill ran through my naked body. I scurried into Ben’s living room to look for my coat and spotted a fluffy mohair throw on the back of a leather armchair. I picked it up and wrapped myself in it. The soft wool felt like a warm hug, and for a moment I stopped wanting to crawl out of my skin.

  Ben’s apartment overlooked the harbor. Moonlight poured through the wall of windows onto two plump white couches in front of the fireplace, a piano and a plush Oriental rug. I crossed the room to the windows. Over the past few days, mariners had hauled out the last of the boats for the season. Light shimmered on the inky water all the way to the horizon under an almost full moon. An achingly romantic view for someone in the mood.

  I turned away, my gaze settling on the framed photographs resting on the mantel. A picture of a young, gap-toothed Sam. He looked like his dad. Another of Ben’s wife standing behind the wooden wheel of a sailboat, smiling confidently, her hair blowing in the breeze. All I knew of sailing I’d learned during a Channel Island whale-watching trip with Hugh: for seasickness, suck on gingerroot. Had Ben been comparing me to her tonight? Did I even come close to measuring up? I couldn’t afford to spend any time worrying about that. I had more important things to figure out, like why this bizarre affliction had returned and how to stop it.

  According to everything I’d read, muscle-paralyzing drugs were the standard treatment. A terrible idea. What if there was an emergency in the night? A fire? I’d be toast if I couldn’t move. And what about needing to use the bathroom? Not a single article had offered an actual cure, though some sleep-clinic research showed promise for biofeedback techniques. I was afraid to seek help at a sleep clinic. What if Gubbins was right about the police tracking my GPS? If they discovered I went for sleepwalking treatments, they would use it against me, if not as direct evidence, then as a sign of a troubled woman with a guilty conscience.

  I moved to the couch and flopped down. My head fell back onto the pillows, and I became aware of a smell almost instantly—subtle but definitely there. Cookies. Chocolate chip cookies. Where was the delicious cookie smell coming from? I sat up again. A large brown pillar candle had been placed in the center of the coffee table. I leaned over, drew it toward me and sniffed.

  A chocolate chip cookie candle.

  Ben had a chocolate chip cookie candle in his living room.

  If I weren’t so messed up, I could fall in love with a man like him.

  Ben didn’t budge when I tiptoed into the bedroom. Or as I gathered my clothes, or even
when I accidentally tripped over the alarm clock on the floor and caused it to clang like a tricycle bell for a second or two. I envied Ben’s ability to sleep soundly. He lay on his side, arms wrapped around his pillow the same way they’d embraced me. When I finished dressing, I knelt down next to the bed and watched him sleep. All traces of the ornery Ben had disappeared. His expression was sweet, the corners of his mouth turned up slightly, as if he were smiling at some happy thought. I had to fight the urge to kiss him. He’s a good man: a good father, a good friend. Loyal and true. He’s lost the love of his life, and he’s trying to start over. He’s opening his heart to me. But my heart wanted to run and hide. If Ben knew about the sleepwalking, how would he react?

  I’d told Hugh about my distressing sleep history and its genesis: the mobsters showing up at the cinema to strong-arm my father. “That same night, I woke up wielding a golf club. The next night, a knife. I think I wanted to protect us.” Ashamed of how vengeful it looked, I didn’t share how I’d mutilated Axel’s sweatshirt years later.

  Hugh was sympathetic and reassuring—even a little intrigued. “Those bastards must’ve scared the hell out of you, poor kid. This explains something.”

  “What?”

  “You’ve always given off a kind of dark mystery. I thought it was the Russian in you.”

  But Hugh had hidden his own darker feelings. That “disturbing” picture he’d painted of the “Nora beast” standing over him while he slept? The one I read about in the review of his Scenes from a Marriage show? That was Hugh saying, “This is my ex-wife, the repulsive sleepwalking fiend.”

  If Ben learned about the sleepwalking, he might also be repulsed. He might even begin to add things up differently. He could have doubts about whether the killer really did arrange a frame-up. He might suspect that I’d murdered Hugh and Helene. How could I expect him to trust me when I was having trouble trusting myself?

  Ben’s eyelids began to flutter. What was he dreaming? Was I in there with him? Were we opening his door to the ocean, crossing the threshold together and diving deep? I wished I could swim by his side over the coral reefs and discover fish and plants I never knew existed, explore underwater caves and ancient shipwrecks with him. I didn’t want our great adventure to end before it started. But I couldn’t see having a relationship until I cleared my name of suspicion.

  I quietly took a pen from my purse and, fearful that tearing a page out of my comp book would be the thing that would wake him, went back to the kitchen. I returned, righted his nightstand and set my note down on top of it.

  A brilliant moon lit my path. The surf slapped against the wooden pilings of the empty docks as I jogged along the edge of the water with my shoulder bag slung across my chest like a bandolier. A halyard pinged against a flagpole. Cold, salty air bit my face, drawing tears from my eyes. Tiny daggers of ice stabbed my lungs. I was headed for the Courier. We’d driven to Ben’s apartment in his car, and mine was still parked in front of the office. Though blood drummed in my ears and my chest wheezed, I kept moving through the frigid early morning. In a little more than an hour, it would be light, and I’d meet up with Grace at Van Winkle Lanes. I’d tell her everything. She would have some idea of what to do. She always did.

  Soon I was making the left on Pequod Avenue and heading toward the golden glow of one of Pequod’s solar streetlights. I stopped short when I saw him. He stood a few yards ahead of me under the canopy of the Pequod Bookstore, nibbling on the ornamental cabbage in the window box. A white-tailed buck. Noble, elegant tines sprouted upward on either side of his head. His ears twitched and he lifted his snout. He turned and stared at me, still chewing the cabbage leaves. Daring me to do something about it.

  He was fearless, confident. I’d need more of his moxie to deal with what lay ahead.

  From the Pequod Courier

  Letters to the Editor

  Dear Editor,

  The Point Killer isn’t the only one getting away with murder in Pequod. What about that new traffic camera on the signal by the expressway exit? The county sent me a $100 ticket for running the red light there last week. I did not run the light. But they have “photographic evidence.” I don’t know how they’ve rigged this one, but I’m not the only resident it’s happened to. I demand an investigation.

  Nick Lyons

  12 Conklin Street

  Pequod

  Chapter Fifteen

  I heard the tires screech before I saw anything.

  “What the hell?”

  The black van peeled around the bowling alley’s back corner as I turned into the Van Winkle Lanes parking lot. I braked hard and sent the thermos of coffee rolling off the passenger seat. The van careened onto Old Route 20 and sped away with its engine roaring and gray-blue smoke trailing out its tailpipe. Shaken, I parked near the darkened Van Winkle Lanes sign. That made the second van sighting in less than ten hours. Clearly, the driver wasn’t following me this time. But this guy was dangerous. Reckless. Why was he always in such a rush?

  I’d managed to read the faded logo on the van’s dented side panel: MASSAMAT DIRT BUSTERS: WE GET YOU CLEAN. It was possible the driver worked as a janitor here. I’d ask Kelly about it when she came in.

  I leaned over to retrieve the thermos on the floor under the passenger seat, and as I straightened up, I noticed the tip of Kelly’s blue Mini parked at the rear of the building. The dash clock said 7:13 a.m.—way too early for Kelly. She usually arrived five minutes before class to let us in. My breath caught in my chest. Something wasn’t right . . . the way that van came racing out of the lot. I turned off the engine and, with a growing sense of foreboding, went to check.

  Music seeped out of the rear of the building. Amy Winehouse’s smoky, muffled voice. The metal door to the Thunder Bar was unlocked. I cautiously pulled it open and entered. Inside, the music was set at CIA-torture level, and it blasted my ears. The strong stench of ammonia stung my nostrils. I ran my hand over the wall for a light switch, found one and flicked it on, but nothing happened. The faint glow from the crack at the entrance door’s bottom was all I was going to get.

  “Kelly?” I yelled.

  Pointless. How could anyone hear over the din? I stuck my fingers in my ears and, hugging the wall, made my way down the hall in the dark while the pounding bass line pulsed under my skin.

  The only light in the Thunder Bar shone from a single hanging fixture with a stained-glass shade. Behind the bar, a mirrored wall reflected some of the glow into the wood-paneled lounge area. The bowling lanes that filled the rest of the vast, hollow space were hidden in darkness. A quick survey revealed a closed cash register, clean glasses stacked on the counter and liquor bottles displayed in orderly rows on the shelves. Aside from the overly loud music, nothing was amiss. But where was Kelly? I located the stereo in a cabinet next to the minifridge and turned it off. Blessed silence. Then, from the back corner—a faint whimpering.

  “Kelly?”

  The whimpers turned into soul-wrenching sobs. They were coming from the cluster of wooden café tables at the rear of the Thunder Bar. Shadows obscured the farthest ones. I found another light switch and flipped it. In the back corner, a shapely calf dangled off the red vinyl banquette.

  “Kelly!”

  I rushed out from behind the bar and ran to her. She lay sprawled on the banquette, wearing purple spandex shorts and a matching purple sweatshirt. The shirt was hiked up, exposing her bulging tummy and its huge belly button, which looked like tortellini. Her pink down jacket was bunched around her head as if someone had tried to smother her with it.

  “Are you all right?”

  A barely audible voice croaked from under the pink puff.

  “He hurt me, Nora.” Her body heaved with more sobs. “He hurt me and my baby.”

  “Oh my God.” My hand flew to my mouth. I scanned quickly for blood but didn’t see any. “Don’t move. I’ll call for an ambulance.” Panicky, I reached for my cell and remembered I didn’t have one. “Where’s your phone?”


  Kelly slowly pulled herself up to sitting. The jacket fell away from her head to reveal a tangled ponytail sticking out over her ear. Her eyes were bloodshot from crying.

  “I’m okay. I don’t need an ambulance.”

  “You do. You’re hurt. I need your phone.” She might be numb with adrenaline. How to convince her? “Even if you feel okay, we want to check the baby.”

  “He didn’t hurt me physically.”

  “You’re sure?” I ran my eyes over her again for any signs of bruising.

  She nodded.

  “Thank God. But we still have to call the police.”

  “Why?”

  “He tried to attack you!”

  “Who?”

  She wasn’t making sense. Could she have a concussion? “The man in the van.” I pointed to her down jacket. “He tried to smother you.”

  Kelly looked at her jacket, puzzled for a second. Then she shook her head.

  “No. No. I was trying to block the light. And that was Al. Al didn’t attack me.”

  “Al?”

  “Sinead’s husband, Al.”

  “Al Rudinsky? Tidy Pool Al?”

  She nodded.

  I was confused. “What was he doing here?”

  “He cleans the alley on Fridays.”

  I sat down on the banquette next to Kelly, trying to process this. Al was the maniac in the van? He’s always been such a sweetheart—a shy, mellow man. Since when did he work here? If Al moonlighted as a janitor, that amounted to four jobs between him and Sinead. Money must be even tighter than I thought. Plus, they were still raising teenagers. I couldn’t even imagine the strain on them.