We had to run away and get out quick. The street was virtually busy but we somehow made it past guards and traffic. Jessica’s bright idea was to officially bless the wedding with the elements, or something like that. She was definitely Wiccan, and that bodes quite well with me.
So we found our way through the MGM building by a really heavy bribe to the guards and waltzed through the elevators to the top. By the time we were there, Tatum kept complaining of how tight his pants felt, and was dared to take them off. Nix silently regretted the decision. Tatum’s underwear came with the package.
Jessica then came along and choreographed the last photo, with Alexi’s permission of course. The guys would surround us and howl at the yellow moon, as Tatum and I kissed. It was the most beautiful night ever. Even his description caught onto me and made me cry.
The two weeks since that honeymoon suite, I have found peace. Tatum works a different shift than I do now. We worked it out that if we both came home at the same time no one would be there to take care of the other sexually, mentally, and emotionally.
So in his kitchen I stand, flipping glasses over and planning out on what to cook for him. It is nightfall already, and should be home in a few hours. I look through his fridge and find some really good meatballs. In the cupboard above I see a pack of spaghetti. Old school is always the best way to go.
I cut it all up and line the ingredients. One by one, from the oil sizzling to the red and green chili peppers frying, to the aroma wafting and the meatballs taking in the heat, I let the fire do its thing. The spaghetti is on the other stove, boiling it out.
Huh, I do surprise myself sometimes. I rarely cook, but this marriage thing can really turn things around, huh?
And then, from the corner of the marble table, I see a small drawer I hadn’t seen before. Sure there are others lining the wood, but this one is smaller. Enough to place a small set of knives or a gun.
I don’t want to ruin this, our anniversary, with doing something I shouldn’t. There must be a reason the compartment is hidden, perhaps for his own personal safety or secrets…
Secrets that he doesn’t want me to find out?
I open it. Gently and smoothly the wood slides. A letter, white and opened, rests at the heart of the space in it. I shouldn’t, but it’s already open, so no harm no fowl. I recognize the paper immediately I see the handwriting. Even the envelope it is in is a punch in the gut.
It’s Eric’s letter.
Word after word, I sink deeper and deeper into a whirlpool of emptiness. Each sentence is a blow in the back for me. I can see him writing this in his chair at night while I was asleep. He knew it was the end before I could have even seen it.
To Tatum Driggs,
Greetings, old friend. I know this might seem a little bit unconventional, but better now than never, eh?
I realize now that I have never been a good person. Humility can be quite unsettling. It has taken me too long to take this lesson as a man should, and I am sorry that you have to hear this from the grave, and not from my lips.
You are a good man Tatum. You always were. Even when we practiced in the ring, you always made sure you did it all by the book. You were not selfish, you were not unkind. You cared for us all like your family.
That night I was at fault. I knew it by the time my back hit the mat. I knew it before they carted me away and took me in that wailing van. I knew it when I saw my sister Waryn hold my hand in pain and discomfort at the loss of her brother.
But I wasn’t dead. Not entirely to be honest. I was dead inside already. I should have followed that script, but I kept on coming, and you kept on giving. You were the man that night, and I wanted that so bad. I wanted to make a win at least once in my life before the curtains fell.
The script was ours to follow, and you were better. I need you to know I do not write this in regret, but in gratitude. In my last moments you showed me what it is like to be a man of honor, to be a man of my word.
And it is for that that I write you this letter. I know I was a fool, ignoring the warning signs early on in my life. Ignorance is bliss till the last flash of your life before you, old friend. I took that pill and bit hard on it.
I was never a good brother to my sister. We have been alone and together for a big part of our lives, and it has taken a lot of effort for me to accept the fact that I was crap to her. We were kids and I was meaner. We were adults and I grew higher in that ass-fuckery of an older sibling. I hate myself right now for being the man who takes his only family’s help for granted. I hate my life for being how it is.
To you, old friend, old comrade, I write to ask you a last request. We were never close, we were never true friends, but in this waking call from Death herself, I feel that you are the only link between me and this painful world. II feel that if it is not you, then there is no one else who can understand.
Look after my sister. She has no one left in her life but her best friend Sarah. When the time is right, you will meet her. I know you will. She might not approve of this, and so I ask you to keep this letter hidden, or burned, or thrown into the toilet. She must never know that I had told you any of this. Waryn must never know that I have written these words Tatum. You must promise me this.
It seems I am asking much of you; that’s two favors now. But it is all I can ask, since she is asleep in her room right now, and so I can have my light on and write this. I wish she never bears any anger for what I plan to do. Making her stand by me and take care of my failing, useless body while I did nothing for her as a bigger brother pains me more than she will ever know.
All I ask is for you to be kind, and do a fallen comrade one last wish. Maybe in the other place we shall meet, and I will be walking again. It would be nice if I bought you a drink in thanks for this.
Right now, I shall put an end to this penning. When the time is right, let her know how much I love her. Even death won’t stop me.
Be well, old friend. Do not anger over what I did. I know you found something else in art to take your mind to a peace I will never know. Keep art at heart Tatum Driggs. Life must be fuller inside it.
Take care,
Eric Blair.
I weep on the floor, with no end in the space I stare into.
Chapter 13 - Tatum
The sun is long gone by the time I drive through my street. My neighbors are almost all asleep, which is good for us; Waryn and I get a little too noisy for anyone’s comfort at times. Mrs. Doberman’s dog is still barking though, loud enough for the moon to hear, and I hope it’s not the stack of burritos I have in the back of my jeep.
Two weeks since our oddly awesome wedding, and I get to have the one woman who never shies off from food on the anniversary. All day every day I work and think of her, on how lucky I can be. Damon says I should get a ponytail to go with my newfound femininity, and Nix chipped into a jar-fund at the corner for it. The glass jar is halfway full now, thanks to Damon and his unremitting passion to have a good laugh.
The lights in the kitchen are still on. Good. I need her awake. Asleep would be better though; it would prove a challenge to wake her up. I turn the heated engine off, grab the bag of petunias and burritos, and lock the car. It is brisk. Save for the constant bark at the corner, it is calm and oddly quiet. I hear a ringing in my ear, almost minute and ominous to the goose bumps singing in waves across my skin. By the time I’m at the door, I feel it.
Something is wrong.
The lights are off in the living room. I see her red pair of heels, strewn absentmindedly across the floor space. A touch of rose petals flows in a windless fashion across the entire room as I shut the door. A lamp falls out of place by my desk at the window. The air smells wrong, and on close inspection I taste burnt meat. More like meat that has had its fair share of a stay on the cooker. The cushions are in the wrong place, as if someone tried to take them out and then rethought it.
“Waryn,” I call out. I try to be audible enough for her to hear me all through the house. Not an answ
er comes along. By the back of the closet, I swiftly open the brown panel and grab the safety bat I keep in case of robberies. It is cold and heavy. Two qualities I like in a weapon.
I walk past the kitchen counter, careful to be silent in my tread. There is a skillet on the already burning stove. Steam and brown smoke arise from it. Across the browning meat there is a pot boiling over, whitish solids strewing out in bits. I enter the kitchen fully and see two things.
My wife on the floor; her eyes red and fingers swollen. And the letter by her crossed feet.
“Waryn! Are you okay?” I am by her side faster than the bat clutters to the floor, its echo filling the emptiness round us. My throat feels cramped, more of a frog down it’s silky ringed walls than guilt. The only way she could be this…upset…is if she read the letter. Her head cocks and turns my way slowly, and our eyes settle in the dust that rides on the ensuing storm.
“Are you with me because of this?” she points down. As if on cue, I gulp.
“No.”
“If Eric hadn’t written this letter and we somehow still met, would you have been with me this long?”
“Waryn-”
“Yes or no, Tatum. It’s not that hard a question.”
“No.”
“Good. Now we’re getting somewhere. Look me in the eye and tell me this then, wh-”
“Waryn, that letter means not-”
“I wasn’t finished Tatum.”
Bricks could be sliced with this ice. My heart beats at the center of my ear, and a well of regret offers a crack through the walls of my conscience. The burning smell around us is not helping. Instinctively, I place my hands on the stove and switch off the gas. It silently hisses. The food sizzles to a slow quiet. The boiling water bubbles lightly in its stead.
“Are you with me because of guilt?”
The words stop before I can. I do not feel my knees anymore, and the drying, crippling desert warmth round my throat grows ever more. If she knows the truth, of how that letter caused a domino effect on our lives together, of how things might have turned out if it…
I recall that sunny afternoon. It was my morning shift and I was ready to have a boring day with some exciting new clients. She was through my door and I was simply finishing the setup for the day. An angel in fire light, burning my eyes with an innocence that I had never seen in a woman before she was. And she smiled at me.
It is one faint expression of emotion that I can never dare forget. How she cringed at the kiss of my needle. How she looked at me while laughing at the memory of the swan and her brother in her younger years. How she looked at me with that twinkle in her eye and that twitch on her nose when she paid me and walked away. How she stood there as I ran to her, knowing who she is and having no idea what to do with that damned letter.
If she has already minced through the words meant for me, then there can be but one path to follow.
The truth.
“Yes Waryn. I never wanted you to find this out, okay, and I would never want us to build our relationship over a faulty foundation. When…when Eric wrote that for me to read and implement, I didn’t know how anything would work out. Waryn, please…”
Her face, though angry, seems lost. She tries to get up and fails; there is no energy left in her bones. I can picture her maddening out, salting her rage with each thought that provoked the need for her to tear up the entire apartment and then finally slumbering on the floor defeated, yet ready to confront me. Her eyes, red and filled with nothing but hurt, turn to me like a bull on red.
“Read and implement? Read and implement. Did I seem to you a charity event that needed funding and my body was a leaflet with the online payment options? Or in some wicked and whack way, in your mind, when we first kissed and made laughter in love, did I feel like a user agreement you could simply read fast and crumple up? Did you read and implement me, Tatum?”
I am by her side now, trying, salvaging what is left. She turns away but keeps her throbbing vein in the side of her neck staring at me. “Waryn…please. This is not how we both saw this. The moment I saw you I knew I wanted to know you better. I just wanted to see where we would go after our conversation, and then when I read the letter…”
She sharply cocks her head. I finish with a sigh of desperation.
“It was a sign. I am no fanatic to the heavenly of ordained, but that was a sign Waryn. Can you not see that your brother, however much of an inconsiderate man he could be, still put us together and let the chemistry do its thing?”
Her knees are opposite mine, her strength, the fire in her anger, returning. The house is eerie, and morbidly morose. The only sound running through the chilled silence between us is the endless and horny bark of Mrs. Doberman’s dog.
“You don’t get it Tatum. Eric didn’t bring us together. He ripped us apart.”
She is in the bedroom faster than she got up. I follow her to try and make some sense of it all. “Waryn!” I shout and plead. “Waryn, this can’t be happening. Why are you going th-…Waryn. Waryn. Talk to me, please. Why are you doing that? Let the bag be baby. Please don’t take them out of the closet. Waryn. Where will you go? Where- Waryn, it’s past midnight, where are you taking that bag? Waryn…what are you doing? Leave the car keys. You don’t have to-”
The door slams in my face. Her steps to the car in the driveway patter away like rain on freshly mowed grass. There are a few slams of metal on metal, as well as the more human echoes that vibrate through the air, onto the wall and through my resting ear; the luggage settling in nicely in the seats, her fingers jiggling the keys, the car starting roughly, and her soft sobs that last an eternity.
Her car is gone by the time I open the door. A trail of an engine roar in the distance shows me where she is headed.
I don’t want to think. I have rationalized and thought things over for far too long, and there is no way my wife deserves this. She is not thinking straight. Neither am I.
The keys to the jeep are still in my pocket. I rev after her wake.
*
I keep my distance from afar. The more she sees me, the more frustrated and angered I make her. This time she’s decided to live uptown in one of the more snazzy motels, Baggy Eyes. The area seems nice enough, with the owner also being the father to some really mean-looking dog breeds at the tall, metallic gate.
There is only one light flickering at the top left room of the first floor. At this time, I can only assume it’s her. There are no shadows. There is just her there. And me here. Time in between.
This morning when I woke up all I could think of was how best I would make this work. Life had never been so good to me to give me exactly what I needed until her. I kissed her good morning on her lips and butt cheek, and we made love before dawn. In her hand she had her ring on, and twirled with mine as we said our vows, funny and odd.
I love Waryn Blair, and sitting here in this empty cold car smelling like fried meat and flowery petals is lonely and angering. Even the jacket I have on feels colder than cold itself. Her light goes off, and so does the hope it represents in me.
That letter is the bane of cruelty. I should have burned it the moment I finished reading it. Before we had drinks and went out for dinner. Before we kissed and made selfish but true promises to each other. We should have been married even before that, and in the fire where we spit alcohol into to commemorate it all, the words from the dead should have stayed there.
I drive away, glad that she’s safe, and heavy-hearted that she’s not in my bed.
*
“No way, Tate. Waryn is Eric’s sister? Damn bro.”
“It’s none of our business to know, Holland. His business is his business.”
“Still Damon…that got messed up pretty quickly. Sorry man.”
“Thanks Holland.”
“Need another beer? We got all night to talk.”
“Sure Nix,” I blubber. B sees his four fingers in the air and nods in approval. The ambience is brighter and less casual in this time of nig
ht here at B’s club. Of all the patrons lighting up, Holland is the least drunk. Three men play pool by the green table in the blue illuminating light. Two of them have biker jackets on, black and branded. The other is in a half suit, a loose tie on his neck and sweaty joy on his face. He must be a broker or something, judging by the smoothness of his chin and his steely eyes. Which makes me question why I am all focused on a dude thirty feet away. B makes it over to our table and leans in extra saucily.
“Here are ya drinks boys. An extra on the house for ya Tatum. Sorry bout ya gal.” Holland folds his arms tentatively and looks at his beer like it’s the last drink on the planet. I smile up at her tightly pushed boobs and her perky, caring face and sigh.
“You know what B? Thank you for this. You are a beautiful and fucking sexy woman who doesn’t get told of that fact often enough.” She blushes through the blue lighting and places an arm on her waist. “Thank you Tatum.” Her body turns from side to side sizing up the rest of the angry men looking at her, waiting on their booze. “Now ya boys see that? Gentlemen still live and breathe in my time. If you need me I’ll be right there at the counter.” As she leaves, she perks her lips and winks at Holland. “Ready to play when you are spicy boy.” He shudders in anticipation and, if I can see it right, fear.
“Serves you right for peddling personal info like that to B, Holly,” I say, sipping through the cold bitterness. The beers are in hand, and we salute.
“So let me get this straight. For talking to B behind your back, Holland here gets to have some pretty scary but epic sex tonight?”
“Yeah.”
“What can I do to you right here right now to get some?”
“That was super gay Nix. You’re lucky no one overheard you. Oh wait,” I notion to the hairy lug by the counter watching the screen up above. His face had flitted on our end more than once.
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