Surviving Valencia

by Holly Tierney-Bedord

  “I feel like I’m faking it,” I told him.

  “If you fake something long enough, it starts to be true,” he reassured me.

  It was not just the toppling of my ideals about who Adrian was that gnawed at me. I realized I had preferred being harassed and potentially hunted by one man to feeling like every policeman in the world was after us.

  I began to make secret lists to calm myself. Pros and cons, my old trick. On paper, it did not look good:

  Pro: I have a lot of clothes.

  Con: I’m married to a murderer.

  Pro: No one knows I am married to a murderer.

  Con: I know.

  Pro: People think I am married to a desirable man and have an enviable life.

  Con: I am not someone who cares what people think. Wait. I guess that is not true.

  Pro: Because of Adrian, I am not alone in the world.

  Con: I was married out of pity. There’s no way that Adrian finding me was a coincidence.

  Pro: Everyone thinks we are in love.

  Con: Are we?

  Pro: We are going to have a baby.

  Con: I don’t want to have this baby.

  Pro: Everyone loves a baby. Maybe I will love the baby. Maybe people will love me if I have a baby.

  Con: Adrian is a very bad man. This baby’s father is a murderer. MURDERER.

  Pro: We’re going to look at new cars on Tuesday.

  Con: I feel like he is trying to distract me with material items.

  Pro: At least we will have a new car.

  Con: Adrian was involved in Van and Valencia’s deaths.

  Pro: At least now I know what happened. Plus, we never would have met otherwise.

  Con: He only married me because I was the next best thing to Valencia.

  Pro: Valencia is dead, so I am the next best thing.

  I locked myself in the bathroom and sat in the corner to make my lists. I wrote them on tiny scraps of paper that I dropped into the toilet bowl as I went. It was the only safe way I could write the truth. Anywhere else would be dangerous. Just writing them down was more confession than I could handle.

  “I’m losing it, little baby,” I whispered, rolling my pen over my swollen belly. The pen was a gift from Adrian, a beautiful silver pen with flowing velvet blue ink. It was engraved with my initials. It was funny to me that now I needed things that should only be wants. It was funny to me that a pen could become part of an equation that could add up to me wanting to stay with Adrian.

  I had once heard it said that a person’s deepest fear is his greatest desire. My deepest fear and unshakeable expectation had always been to find that Adrian did not love me. I had sensed that this was all too good to be true, that I was living a life meant for some other woman. And now as I watched my life unraveling, and saw my deepest fears becoming reality, I wondered if somehow I had willed this to happen. Or was I simply a peculiarly unlucky person? Or, worst of all, did none of this, as usual, really have anything to do with me?

  I felt like the neurons in my brain weren’t properly clicking together. It was all too tricky for me to get hold of. I couldn’t be sure of anything. I flushed the scraps of paper that had contained my list, wondering what my next move was. Probably nothing, scrawled the deep blue ink onto a fresh scrap of paper, the fancy pen taking off with its own free will. Probably just wait and see what happens it taunted, and then it added a smiley face out of spite. I threw these scraps in the toilet bowl and snapped the pen cap back into place.

  But the longer I sat there, looking at the grooves on the back of the toilet that had never once been cleaned, the more obvious it became.

  That’s it, I wrote on another scrap of paper. None of this, as usual, really has anything to do with you.

  Unexpectedly, a tear fell from my eye and the blue ink fanned out into a watery blur. It reminded me of dying Easter eggs, many, many years ago. For a moment the constant art studio smell of our house was replaced by a poignant, acute memory of the smell of boiled eggs, the sound of Van and Valencia’s laughter, the feel of the metal wire ladle used to hold and dip the eggs.

  “Let her do it herself,” Valencia was telling Van and our parents. She was wearing her red Coke Is It t-shirt and her arms were out as a protective barricade against my irritable family who did not so much believe I could not dye some eggs, but who simply did not have the patience to let me.

  “She can do it. Look, she’s doing a good job. That’s the best one yet! I like the way the colors swirled.”

  The memory, momentarily so clear, was slipping away like a dream. I replayed the bit I could remember again, letting the tears flow down my cheeks. Sometimes no memory could move me. Years of untouchable immunity rolled by, while I stood back, jaded and detached. Bored by all that had happened in the past. Over it. Then some sweet, forgotten moment would spring with the delicate vibrancy of a crocus through snow and break my heart.

  “None of this. Has anything. To do with you,” I whispered, looking around me at the Turkish towels, the cool white tiles, the Italian towel drying rack. Then I uncapped the pen and wrote the words, and watched my tears distort them.

  The toilet bowl came in handy for the times when the words on the little scraps made me sick.

  We sat there one evening, a month and a half after Adrian’s trip to the Cities, trying to watch a movie when I brought it up again.

  “Honey, please talk to me,” I said.

  He paused the movie.

  “I always talk to you,” he said.

  “About Minnesota. About John Spade.”

  He stopped the movie and turned to face me.

  “I’m having a really hard time dealing with this,” I said.

  “I know, but it will get easier.”

  “Adrian, you killed someone.”

  “Shh,” he interrupted. “The windows are open!” He stood up and went to close them, lock them, lower the blinds, turn on the air. I waited, trying to contain my annoyance, afraid that the conversation would once again be put on hold.

  “As I was saying,” I whispered as he sat back down. “I am having a really hard time getting past this.”

  “You don’t have to whisper. We’re all good now. You need to relax. It’s not healthy for the baby or you to get all worked up.”

  “It’s just… It’s too much for me. I feel so alone.”

  “I’m the same person I was before this happened. Don’t treat me like this. Everything I have ever done, I have done for you. You know that. Right?”

  “I know, Adrian. I totally know. That’s the problem. I was nothing before you. I was a total loser. But now what?”

  “I’m not following where you’re going with this.”

  “Adrian, having you love me made me normal. Better than normal. I felt like a success. Now what am I? The wife of a murderer?”

  “Would you listen to yourself? Would you listen to how selfish you sound?”

  “So I sound selfish. Don’t turn this back around on me. You always do that when we fight.”

  “I understand this is a lot to absorb but could you quit calling me a murderer?”

  “But you are.”

  “I am not.”

  “Is John Spade dead?”

  “He is.”

  “Alright.”

  “But I’m not a murderer.” He ran his hands through his hair in aggravation. “What happened twenty years ago was a terrible mistake that I never should have been involved with. As for John Spade, would it have been better if I had waited at home with a loaded gun until he broke in? Would that make you feel better? Self-defense is self-defense. Our lives and our baby’s life are worth more than his life and he is the one who made me have to decide that. The past could have stayed in the past, but he didn’t want to let it. I can forgive myself. I did what I had to do for us. For me and for you. For you. Got that? I did this partly for me, and partly for the baby, and mainly for you. Could you have done that much for me?”

  “I wouldn’t have had to! I neve
r would have gotten us into something like this!”

  “You never get yourself into anything. You just ride along with the crowd and borrow everyone else’s life. Don’t you get tired of living vicariously through other people?”

  “That’s mean,” I said, numbed and surprised by his cruelty.

  “It’s true. You let everyone else make the decisions and you just go along for the ride. Then you sit back and judge. Well, you can’t have it both ways.”

  “If it had been up to me, you would have stayed here and we would have gone to the police. You would have just told them what happened twenty years ago and we would have dealt with it. But I guess that’s not enough action for you, so here we are. We were happy and now we’re murderers! We have police visiting us! We’re going to be afraid as long as we live. I’d rather just go away by myself and live my own honest, boring life.”

  Adrian stood up and the remote control fell on the floor. Frisky had been lying nearby and he sensed the change in the room, and began to yawn nervously. “Be sure to bring your wardrobe of designer fucking clothes with you on your little trip,” said Adrian. “Oh, by the way, how do you plan to pay for it?”

  “I will find a way. And why don’t you quit buying me things if you secretly have a problem with me having them.”

  “I don’t buy you all those clothes, you do. With my money.”

  “Actually, most of my clothing I sewed myself for practically nothing, but you wouldn’t notice that anyone else in this house has any creativity or talent, because you’re so busy being wrapped up in your own artistic life.” Then I took it a step further, “Do you think you’re really that talented, or is it more likely that one movie star liked your work and everyone else has followed along like sheep?”

  He laughed. “Unreal. I am very, very talented. Not that you are any kind of a judge of talent.”

  “Of course not. No one is remotely intelligent compared to you, Adrian.”

  He nodded and seemed like he was going to add to that, but instead came back with, “You didn’t answer me: How are you going to pay for yourself, now that you’ve gotten accustomed to living off me?”

  “By selling oranges.”

  “What?”

  “By selling oranges,” I said again. And right before my eyes he became a tiny little man. Small enough to fit in my pocket or crush between my fingertips. I walked out of the room. He followed me.

  “Don’t you understand this is the perfect crime?” he said, switching from angry and condescending to the equally unsettlingly slippery tone of a salesman. “Do you think anyone cares what happened to some rapist? Even if they think someone killed him, they’re going to figure the bastard deserved it.”

  “We aren’t just talking about some rapist. What about Jeb?”

  “We didn’t do anything to Jeb.”

  “He’s dead because I got him involved.”

  “Jeb is not our fault. You need to let that go,” he said, heading into the kitchen.

  “Are you worried about where he is? There’s a body out there. Where are you going?”

  “I’m sure John Spade took care of it. I’m going to make us some tea.”

  “Are you serious?” I asked, following behind him.

  “But as for John Spade, I did the world a favor. And you know what? If they do start looking for who did it, they have about four or five women’s families filled with possible suspects. Think about that! They’re going to look at those cases and say, ‘Who here wanted to kill John Spade?’ They don’t even know you and your family are connected!”

  “What’s with this You and your family? Don’t you mean Us? ”

  “Fine. You knew what I meant. But I’m saying that We aren’t going to be the first place they look. They don’t even know about us.”

  “In Minneapolis they don’t, but here in Savannah they do! And what do you mean by if they think someone killed him? Isn’t it obvious he was killed?”

  “Oh man, I forgot one,” he said, closing the kitchen window.

  “Adrian, what happened?” I had been assuming all along that John Spade had been shot.

  “Do you really want to know what happened?” Adrian asked, as he arranged two mugs with bags of chamomile tea on a tray. The tea kettle’s clunking turned to a whistle. He set it on the back burner where it immediately quieted itself. We stood there in a ridiculous silence, mine tense and his determinedly ordinary. Cheerful, almost. He tidied up the countertop, sliding things into place, disposing of a bit of cellophane, sweeping crumbs into the sink with his hand. I half-expected him to begin humming or singing.

  “Yes. I need to know,” I said.

  “It wasn’t actually that bad,” he said, pouring the tea. “Do you want honey in yours?”

  “No. How can you say that it wasn’t that bad?” I rubbed my stomach, shielding the baby from whatever Adrian was about to tell me.

  “I knew where he lived. Same old house he lived in with his mother, back in the day. Once he got out of prison, he moved back in. She died six months ago. I found her obituary online so I knew he would be there alone.” He passed me my cup of tea but I shook my head so he set it back on the tray.

  “That seems like a careless move, looking her up, I mean,” I said.

  “I wasn’t here when I did it,” he said, shrugging.

  “You’d be mad if I did it.”

  “You wouldn’t know how to cover your tracks. Anyway, I got there and the door was unlocked. I just walked right in. I saw a car in the driveway so I knew he was home. It was a different vehicle than he had back then, but I knew it was his car by the bumper stickers. A bunch of loony conspiracy theory shit. I thought ‘this guy hasn’t changed one bit.’ I walked in and it was dark in there. I didn’t know what I was going to do. I had a gun, a knife… I was afraid I was not going to be able to do it. Then I heard water running in the bathroom. He was in there, taking a bath. The bathroom door was open and it was bright in there, but the rest of the house was dark, and I saw him before he noticed me. I just went for it. He was starting to stand up and reach for his towel and I gave him a shove. He split his head right open on the faucet. Then he drowned. I walked in, did it, and was back on the road ten minutes later. I really don’t think we have a thing to worry about.”

  “Wow.” To my surprise, a huge wave of relief washed over me. Our odds of getting caught seemed to have diminished considerably. And just as compelling was the discovery that Adrian kind of wasn’t a murderer. It was more like John Spade slipped and fell.

  “Did you leave footprints? Did anyone see you? Did you get blood on you?”

  “No.”

  “There’s no evidence?”

  “None. And we have a great alibi. The little vacation? Everything is fine. It’s better than fine because he got what he deserved for what he did to your brother and sister. And to that private investigator, and all those women. And for what he was going to do to us when he got tired of playing games. Think about it.”

  “Why do you think he got interested in you again after so many years?” I asked.

  “I have no idea.”

  “Do you think he knew that I’m the twins’ sister?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “So you feel like you can live with this?” I asked him.

  He rubbed his neck and nodded.

  “You know, now we’ll never know where she is,” I realized.

  “Did you ever think you’d know?”

  “I guess not.”

  He passed me my tea and I sipped it, and we stood there in silence. What he had done would either cement us together for eternity, or divide us in a way that could never be healed. I was not sure which.

  Chapter 58

  “Hel-lo! How’s the mommy to be?” asked Alexa.

  I looked at the clock. It was six o’clock in the morning, which meant it was five in Madison. I sat up in bed and moved the phone to my other ear while Adrian continued to doze beside me.

  “Hi Alexa. Is everything o
kay?”

  “Sure.” There was a crunching sound like an apple being bitten into, followed by muffled chewing. “I didn’t wake you, did I?”

  “Umm, a little bit. What’s going on?”

  “I need to come to Savannah. It’s getting cold here. I need a break so I can focus on my book. I was thinking November. That would be perfect for you two because then you can celebrate Thanksgiving with everyone, and I won’t have to.” She laughed and took another bite.

  “You need a break to read?”

  “No,” she said, exasperated. “I’m writing a book. Two books, actually. The coffee table book I told you about last time I saw you, and a new book. But neither is going as well as I had hoped. So we need to switch. Okay? Is Adrian there? Put Adrian on.”

  I looked over at him. He was still breathing deeply, but looked like he was faking it. I poked his shoulder and set the phone against his face.

  “Hmmm?” he asked.

  “It’s your sister.”

  I got up and went into the bathroom, but I could still hear Adrian’s side of the conversation. His voice was slurred and sleepy: “Why are you calling this early? …November is three days away. …Are you coked up or why are you talking like a maniac? …I am going back to sleep, call me when it’s daytime. …In March. Mid-March. Saint Patrick’s Day, I think. … No we don’t know its name. …I don’t know if pregnant women can fly or not. …Okay, I am going back to sleep now. …Goodbye. …Alexa, call me later. …Bye.”

  I came out of the bathroom and put the phone back where it belonged. Then I got back in bed beside Adrian, but without touching him. He did not reach for me. It had turned out that if I pushed him away enough times, he eventually stopped trying.

  “Are we going to Madison?” I asked.

  He just grunted.