by Mina McShady
Like an ostrich trying to bury its head in the sand, Jennifer balanced herself on one leg and bent at the waist to open the low cabinet where she kept the cat food. As she was emptying chicken and turkey parts into Wretch’s red ceramic dish, a key turned in the dead bolt lock on the front noise. Startled by the unexpected noise, Jennifer dropped the dish of cat food and tried to hop around it. But Wretch had somehow gotten in the way, causing her to swerve, grasp at the kitchen’s smooth, linoleum wall, and finally tumble to the floor, where she found her backside resting against five ounces of moist feline dinner.
“Did you get us something for dinner? Um, what are you doing on the floor?”
Jennifer looked up and saw Eli, sweaty and apparently pleased with himself, staring down at her with feed me eyes.
“There are frozen pizzas in the ‘fridge, and wine,” said Jennifer’s inner hostess, who had once presided over so many of her mother’s numerous dinner parties for C-list celebrities. Then she shook her head and remembered that she was mad at Eli who, she suddenly realized, had never paid for dinner, not even once, or even a single roll of toilet paper.
“You know,” she said, “it wouldn’t kill you to buy some groceries every once in a while, considering that you've been hiding out here for two weeks, and you don’t seem to know when you’ll be going back to psycho Helen.”
Eli blinked a few times, suddenly finding himself in a new yet strangely familiar world. “I can leave right now,” he said in a low, choked voice. “I’ll pay you back for the food and for the clothes.” But, instead of leaving, he lingered, shuffling his feet and letting his eyes wander aimlessly along the walls and ceiling.
As Eli hovered in the doorway, Jennifer inspected him, as though for the first time, and she didn’t like what she saw. His face appeared to have collapsed inward, losing its characteristically bold and mischievous forward thrust. His weak chin, normally overshadowed by his strong nose and bold eyes, was suddenly the focal point of a visage that was sullen, hurt, and wary. She’d expected Eli to react to her snide comment with some flavor of anger—righteous anger, defensive anger, or even affectionate anger that she would even imagine him leaving her and returning to Helen. But his distracted passivity was shockingly annoying.
“Oh don’t be stupid,” said Jennifer, exasperated. “C’mon, help me up.”
After Eli got Jennifer on her feet and as cleaned up as a few wipes of a paper towel could accomplish, he realized that she was standing on one leg and that one of her feet was wrapped in ice.
“Hey, what happened to your foot?”
“Dropped a T.V. on it,” said Jennifer, trying her best to be casual.
“A what?”
Jennifer couldn’t believe that Eli was really that slow. “A television,” she snarled, wrenching herself away from Eli’s steadying hands and hopping over to the window. “See that box over there? In the parking lot?”
Eli strode over to the window next to Jennifer and nodded, still confused by Jennifer’s strange mood.
“Well,” she said, “I bought that television because I know how much you miss watching the news. But when I got home you weren’t here to help me carry it in. You didn’t even leave a note. So I tried to drag it in myself, and I dropped it on my foot. And you don’t even care.”
Jennifer couldn’t believe she was being so emotional over Eli and a dumb television set. It was like seeing two cars heading toward a predestined wreck and being powerless to do anything to stop it. So she cried hot, angry tears and hid her face as Eli gathered her up and gently placed her on the futon. She pretended to be sleeping, but, out of the corner of her eye, she watched Eli take the television out of its box and set it up at the foot of her bed.
Then he disappeared for a while, and Jennifer almost fell asleep for real. But the doughy smell of warm pizza kept her just barely awake. Maybe, she thought, I’ll hop into the kitchen and see what Eli’s been cooking. But, before she could turn the idea into action, Eli sat down on the edge of the futon holding a plate with a generous slice of pineapple ham pizza and a plastic cup filled with wine.
“This,” he said, placing the plate and the cup on a nearby milk crate, “is for you.”
“And now,” he added, “let’s see what’s on this wonderful TV.”
With a flourish, Eli picked up the remote control and turned the television on. But, no matter what channel he tried, all that appeared onscreen was the pulsating confetti of static.
“Goddamn it,” he said, bending over the television and jiggling a thick wire. “Doesn’t your building have cable?”
-Helen Kale-
Helen sat in her kitchen in a daze as Carol Waters and Sue Dawson washed dishes and chattered away about the latest R&M club gossip, and how Helen, as a woman scorned, was much more popular than she’d ever been as part of a golden couple.
“You know you really shouldn’t be hiding,” said Carol as she broke down a pizza box into its recyclable components. Carol, who lived just three houses down from Helen, was an attorney and casual runner with a big, bold personality that expressed itself through litigation and long blushing fingernails. Helen was on cordial terms with Carol, but she wouldn’t have characterized her as a friend.
“Yeah, honey,” added Sue Dawson. “It’s not like you did anything.” Sue had left Texas over 20 years ago, but her drawl, rather than fading, had grown thicker over the years. Helen knew Sue from the various R&M refreshment and race volunteer committees she’d joined about a year and a half ago as part of her campaign to immerse herself in Eli’s running world. Sue baked, presented herself as a cheerful, wholesome motherly sort (minus kids), and wore incongruously loud, tight clothes that suggested a robust confidence in her own desirability.
“And, besides,” Sue continued, her bright voice full of energetic sympathy. “Everyone feels just terrible for you.”
Helen frowned and shook her head, uncomfortable that two pushy acquaintances were feeling her pain to the point of molestation. Sure, Eli had cheated on her, but she, Helen, had actually laid hands on the other woman and even, in a primal way she couldn’t articulate, enjoyed it. Helen didn’t think she was entitled to anyone’s sympathy. In fact, she had the impression that, if these two women actually knew about what had happened immediately after she’d found Eli and that woman, they would make polite, nervous excuses and quickly skitter away.
“No, really, people think what Eli did to you is just awful. As a couple you and Eli were just so, I don’t know.” Sue paused a few beats to think of the right word. “Intimidating. Yes, that’s it, intimidating. You were always just the perfect girlfriend, putting the rest of us to shame.”
“Oh yes,” said Carol. “We all envied you from afar. It was awfully boring.” Carol smiled at Helen and then reached into an overstuffed grocery bag sitting on the floor. She pulled out a bottle of red wine and got glasses, which she and Sue had just cleaned, from the dish rack.
Helen stared quietly, unbelieving, wondering if somehow Eli’d had something to do with this seemingly spontaneous outpouring of manic goodwill. When she picked up the phone after ignoring Sue and Carol’s first assault on the doorbell, she was absolutely sure that she was going to hear Eli’s voice. She’d been thinking about him so much she just assumed that she’d conjured him. And even though she’d heard Sue’s cheerful twang instead of Eli’s lower, rounder tones, some part of her couldn’t give up the idea that Eli had something to do with the appearance of the two women. Perhaps he had asked them to check on her and assess her state of mind.
It occurred to her that, if Eli really had sent Sue and Carol—after all, he knew them about as well as she did—to check on her, they were sure to report back that her house was unclean and that she was pretty far along the road that ended with her losing her mind. And Helen had to admit that if she were to encounter herself as she was that very moment—dirt-smudged face, greasy hair, wrapped in an afghan on a summer night—she’d have serious misgivings. It was time, she thought, to engage her
guests.
“Thank you so much, both of you,” said Helen hurriedly as she took a glass of wine from Carol’s extensively manicured hand.
“To freedom,” said Carol, raising her glass and swirling it gently.
“To freedom,” said Sue in her characteristic twang.
Helen also raised her glass and tried to echo the toast. But, when she opened her mouth, all that would come out were convulsive sobs that, under other circumstances, would have reminded her of a sea lion’s comical bark. Although she knew it was futile, Helen covered her face with her hands, hoping that it might somehow make her invisible to the two women who had been cheerfully cleaning her house. When she felt the surprising strong arms gripping her shoulders and the lacquered nails stroking her hair, she knew for sure that it hadn’t worked.
“There, there, honey, let it all out,” cooed Sue as she pressed Helen’s wet, dirty face to her woven-hemp covered breast.
“No shame in having a good cry,” added Carol, who was guiltily enjoying Helen’s meltdown and congratulating herself on the fact that she had never cried with such abandon under any circumstance.
Helen tried desperately to pull herself together, imagining the humiliation of Eli hearing breathless reports of her impending nervous breakdown. But every time she thought she had her breathing under control, a new and heartbreaking what if popped into her mind. What if, she thought, I hadn’t tried driving to that wine party? What if I hadn’t crashed into that woman’s car? What if I hadn’t been so damned bitchy after the accident? There had been so many opportunities to avoid the horrible scene in Bob Robertson’s bedroom, but she had blithely ignored them all. It was as though all her negative thoughts and feelings about the relationship had exerted a magnetic pull on her actions, leading her inexorably to the outcome she’d feared most.
At last, Helen pulled back from Sue’s embrace and took a tissue from the box that Carol eagerly proffered. She looked into their faces, which were full of pity and the suppressed glee of schadenfreude.
“Look,” she said, pausing briefly to squelch another round of sobs, “I appreciate everything. I really do. But it’s not necessary. It isn’t. I...”
“Oh honey, don’t worry about. We’ve all been there, believe me,” said Sue, rolling her eyes at the offending memory. “Now, is it true? Is it really true?”
“Is what true?”
“Well, honey, Bob Robertson said that you kicked the shit out of Jennifer Champion when you found her with Eli. So, is it true, or is Bob just talking out of his ass?”
Helen couldn’t read anything in Sue’s face beyond avidity. She looked at Sue and then at Carol, unsure how to respond.
“Oh my God,” gasped Carol, grabbing Sue’s arm, “she did do it. Look at her eyes. She’s dying.”
“I’m so sorry,” gasped Helen. “There’s no excuse for violence, and I, um, I guess I should apologize to Jennifer, go to anger management classes, get help. Thank you both so much for all your help, but I-I-I...” Helen couldn’t go on. She dissolved again into sobs. She’d thought of Bob Robertson as a friend—not a close friend, but in the broad friend category—and, although she’d always known he was a gossip, she was shocked to hear that he was gossiping about her.
“Oh no, honey, we’re not here to judge you. No,” said Sue. “In fact, I think you did what every woman who’s been in your position dreams of doing.”
Carol took a swig of wine, emptying her glass. She took Helen by the shoulders and shook her gently. “Don’t you dare feel guilty. You did what you did in the heat of the moment. She’s not, like, permanently injured, is she?”
“Oh no,” said Helen. “Absolutely not.”
“Well then,” said Carol, smiling and pouring herself another glass of wine.
“But Helen, dear,” said Sue, “we’ve been worried about you. You haven’t been returning calls from Bob or Coach Grable. You didn’t come to last week’s potluck dinner. We didn’t even seen you or Eli at last week’s Death March training seminar.”
“You don’t have to hide,” added Carol. “Just because you and Eli broke up doesn’t mean that you have to hide out. Staying home and being miserable like this just isn’t healthy.”
“No,” said Sue. “And Eli isn’t worth getting so upset over. A lot of people don’t like him.”
“I don’t believe that,” sniffed Helen. She couldn’t imagine anyone disliking Eli. But she was also intrigued by the idea and wanted to hear more.
“Oh yeah,” Sue continued. “I could tell you some stories. Actually, if you’ll have some wine, I will tell you some stories.”
-Eli Hawthorne-
“Eli, can you bring me the phone?”
Jennifer’s voice carried through the bathroom wall and the whooshing of the shower to reach Eli’s increasingly sensitive ears. But Eli believed that not hearing her was an equally plausible outcome, so he continued to soap his body and critique his abs.
“Eli, please. I have to call Nasty.”
“Just a second,” called Eli, who thought he just might get away with an additional five minutes in the hot water.
Eli was planning on an insanely long run, at least thirty miles of steep hills on torturous trails. He needed to get out of the house and away from Jennifer. Somehow, when she dropped that television on her foot, she’d fractured her sweet, easygoing personality along with her third left metatarsal. Eli had spent almost the entire day trying to be as helpful as possible, just as if he really were Jennifer’s boyfriend. He’d dropped her off at the doctor’s office, picked her up three hours later, listened to her whine that he was an hour late even though it was really her fault for not replacing the batteries in her alarm clock, and even set her up with a couple of magazines, an ice pack, and a relatively warm slice of pizza.
But instead of relaxing and thanking him for everything he’d done, Jennifer became stressed and angry. She complained that she wasn’t going to be able to walk for three weeks—running was out of the question for eight—which meant that she might not be able to compete in the Death March. And Eli had been sympathetic, to a point. But then she started freaking out about Nasty, a terminally ill woman who’d slept with practically every regular at the Uvula so she wouldn’t “have any regrets.” (Eli’d turned her down. He was squeamish about “catching” cancer.)
Evidently, Nasty couldn’t be trusted not to light herself on fire, starve to death, trip over giant piles of newspaper, or run out of oxygen. To stop Jennifer from describing these potential catastrophes in vivid detail, Eli finally agreed to look in on Nasty that evening. He figured he could work it in at some point on his run. He would just keep his visit to ten minutes or less and try not to take deep breaths of contaminated air.
Eli knew he had to stay healthy. Although he didn’t know especially Jennifer well, he was afraid that her injury would prove the end of their good relations. He felt that the woman he’d hooked up with at Bob Robertson’s house—the one who made pleasant conversation, liked to drink wine, and dreamed of new ways to please him in bed—had been a chimera.
The real Jennifer was an angry, stranded animal, lying on her futon with her foot packed in ice, someone who didn’t know that you had to have cable installed before you could use it. And winning the Death March was his only hope of getting free from her, from Hell, from everyone.
-felis concolor-
The predator sniffed at the bony carcass festooned with small lumps of uneaten flesh. Although a certain amount of putrescence gave meat a satisfyingly tangy bite, the remains of his latest kill had passed its use-by date. He padded away from his secret cache and followed his nose, which had picked up the scent of herbivorous life. He was well rested and healthy, and he grunted with anticipation of the hunt. After lolling by his cache for a few days, he was ready for some action.
-Helen Kale-
Helen Kale sat at her desk, moving her mouse to simulate productive activity and periodically glancing at a precariously constructed paper tower, also known as her i
nbox, that was threatening to collapse. Since she had discovered Eli and Jennifer, she had been sleepwalking through work. Sure, she appeared at her desk at 9:00 a.m., said hello and goodbye to everyone who’d be terribly offended if she didn’t, and answered the phone with a smile in her voice. But she was just coasting on appearances. Instead of importing data into spreadsheets and building elegant equations, Helen absently opened and closed files and surfed the Internet.
Some of Helen’s glassy-eyed absent-mindedness was because of the long distances she struggled through each morning at increasingly early times. Rather than four or five miles, she was doing eight, nine, or ten miles each morning, plodding through the darkness to exhaust herself and slow the velocity of her wild, cyclonic thoughts. For the past couple of weekends, she’d run for hours, as if fleeing from demons. And it had worked. By thrashing her body, Helen had effectively calmed her mind. The problem was that, while a tired mind was a calmer mind, it was not a more productive mind.