Fatal Flaws

by Clyde Lawrence

  Because of her approach to parking, her vehicles tended to have multiple blemishes, from regular assaults by car doors, surface gravel sent flying by parking lot spin outs and other careless and unapologetic acts of vehicular vandalism. However, according to her story, her Rav4 had recently undergone repair at an auto body shop. Too little time had passed since the repairs for there to be a significant accumulation of scratches and dings on the left side of her car.

  After seeing what I saw at that moment, I wished that there was some way I could still believe her story about her car accident. However, her story had just been busted wide open, just like the broken right rear brake light cover which had never been replaced after a parking lot mishap which probably involved a runaway shopping cart. As I looked at the array of dents and dings along the driver’s side of her mini SUV, I immediately recognized the accumulation of body damage that had occurred due to Ryan’s lack of defensive parking.

  “Does this look like a vehicle that just recently had extensive repairs following a wreck?” I asked Mandy.

  “Holy shit! Did she really think we weren’t going to notice that her story didn’t match up with the condition of her car? Well, I guess she doesn’t know how to lie any better than you,” she replied. It had been acknowledged many times over the course of our marriage that I had many talents, but bullshitting my wife wasn’t one of them. This usually worked in my favor, however, because she knew that I would never be able to pull off a clandestine affair without getting caught lying about where I’d been, so I didn’t have to deal with her being suspicious of my whereabouts when work kept me late or I got stuck at the hospital waiting on a delivery. All she had to do was ask me about it and watch my face as I replied in order to know if I was full of shit.

  “Well, it doesn’t really matter,” she continued.

  “Why? What do you mean?” I asked.

  “I didn’t want to call her out on it, but I already knew she was lying. I figured I’d wait to tell you until after we left, so we could start figuring out what to do about getting her away from that fucking asshole.”

  “What did I miss? How did you already know she wasn’t being honest? Everything she said actually seemed plausible to me until I looked at her piece of shit car.”

  “Well, she picked the wrong skating rink for her fictional near fall to occur at for one thing. I just saw a story in D Magazine about the revitalization of the Galleria Mall. We haven’t been there in quite some time, so I didn’t even know they were renovating it. Anyway, the article specifically described all the new improvements they’ve made throughout the mall and the expansion project for the skating rink that just finished up. Apparently, the rink has been closed since Christmas due to the work they’ve been doing.”

  “Ahh, gotcha. So, there’s no way that Ryan got hurt skating there in January. That’s the final nail in the coffin as far as I’m concerned. On the other hand, I have one more thing I want to check out before I tell you what’s on my mind.” Thankfully, we had a busy afternoon scheduled, so we were able to table our discussion on Ryan, although we were both worried about our little girl, and a somber mood had settled on both of us as we proceeded with the day’s activities.

  When I got home, I called a neighbor who managed a Ford dealership in Rockwall. I had written down the VIN from Ryan’s Toyota before we’d left her apartment complex. I asked him to do a Carfax search. The report detailed several body repairs which had been done over the life of the vehicle, the latest of which had been three years ago when Ryan had backed into my BMW M6 in our driveway. He assured me there was no way she could have had the kind of work done that a side impact MVA would necessitate without it going into the system and being available so that a dealership or private individual looking to buy it could find out all of the pertinent details. I thanked him for his time and hung up.

  Heading to the fridge, I grabbed an IPA. Then I reconsidered. I needed something considerably stronger if I was going to process all of the feelings and thoughts going through my head. I replaced the IPA and grabbed a Diet Coke to use as a mixer with a medicinal sized pour of Bulleit Bourbon.

  After a few large sips of my potent cocktail, I could feel the familiar warmth in my chest, and I began to relax. By the time I took the empty can to the recycling bin and put away the decanter of bourbon, the tension in my neck and shoulders began to loosen up and I was able to mentally flip a few switches in my head that would allow me to begin dealing with the situation. It took some effort to reroute my circuits, but I was eventually able to disengage my ‘Pissed-Off’ and ‘Demanding-Retribution’ modes. Next, I focused on engaging the switches which activated my ‘Level-Headed’ and ‘Problem-Solving’ features. This would allow me to constructively examine the reality and begin developing a plan for how best to neutralize my baleful son-in-law and rescue my daughter.

  Chapter 26

  It was really happening. My daughter was being victimized by an ill-tempered and abusive husband. Like many such women who are embarrassed about their situations and fearful of the consequences of letting loved ones know what is transpiring, she was lying to her family about it. I really couldn’t understand what would make her want to stay in such a relationship, but I guessed she really loved Brandon and was deceiving herself into thinking he would change with time—just like my mother had fooled herself for so many years. It was ironic to me that the two women in my life with the biggest hearts and the greatest capacity to love had become casualties of fate. As such, their powerful emotional attachments had led each of them to devotion to men who were completely undeserving of their adulation.

  To my great chagrin, I also seemed to be a casualty of fate. Although I’d been delivered from the hell of watching my mother be brutally assaulted at the hands of my father, I could not fully escape my damnation. Now, I was forced to face the reality that my daughter had chosen as her husband a man whose brutality was equal to that of my late father. I’d been powerless to intervene on behalf of my mother. Now, I wondered I if I would be equally incapable of helping my daughter break free of her tormentor.

  As far as I was concerned, my oldest daughter was taking ‘for better or for worse, until death do us part,’ oath too literally. I was quickly realizing if death was the only force that could ‘do them part,’ then I might have to consider sending Brandon to meet his maker. I had been telling myself for years I would happily waste any motherfucker who hurt one of my kids. Of course, it was much easier to talk about hypothetically than to consider for real. I suddenly felt a bit sick as I realized I might actually have to become a murderer in order to protect my child and my future grandchildren.

  What about leveling with her and letting her know that we know what’s been going on? I asked myself. Could we get her to see the only future she has with Brandon is one that will bring her disappointment and sadness? What’s the worst that can happen?

  The problem with trying to arrange some kind of intervention would be that I’d have to show my own cards. Once Ryan was aware that Mandy and I had discovered the truth about him and we wanted to extract Ryan from her perilous relationship, there would no longer be an option of intervening on her behalf against her will. If she rejected our efforts and denied a major problem existed in her marriage, it would almost certainly drive a wedge between us. Additionally, my hands would forever be tied. If I threatened Brandon, he would just tell her, and possibly get a restraining order against me. If I decided, based on the physical and emotional harm he’d done to Ryan, as well as the anguish he’d yet to cause, his life should be forfeited, I’d be powerless to take him out. Clearly, if he was subsequently injured or killed by an unknown assailant, the police would easily be able to determine I had a compelling motive for going after him. Any investigation would quickly become centered on me, and I’d surely be identified as the culprit. With all of this in mind, I felt we couldn’t let Ryan know we’d discovered her secret.

  So, what was left? There was no way I was going to sit idly by and l
et my daughter be repeatedly traumatized. She deserved so much more than that. Maybe, I hoped, she would spontaneously wake up from her nightmare and recognize the problem before I’d have a chance to intervene. Of course, if she hadn’t come to the right conclusion up to this point, it was unlikely she’d experience an epiphany about her husband any time soon. I was going to have to protect her—even if it meant Brandon would have to die. My only solace was that I had a best friend who had committed to helping me in any way necessary, if and when one of my children had fallen victim to an evil bastard like my son-in-law. It was time to call Hank.

  Section Eight:

  My Only Choice

  Chapter 38

  When I was in residency, I was involved in a research project that was selected to be presented at the national American College of Obstetrics & Gynecology (ACOG) convention in San Francisco. Mandy and I hadn’t had many chances, up to that point, to travel, and we definitely lacked the funding for expensive vacations. However, by that time, I had finally been getting some moonlighting shifts at area family planning clinics, and our finances had improved to the point that we were no longer just barely squeaking by. We decided to extend the trip by several days and do the tourist thing in and around the ‘City by the Bay.’

  If you ever visit San Francisco, rent a car and drive south on Highway 1 to Santa Cruz, which is less than an hour and a half away. The scenery along the way is gorgeous and there are a ton of great beaches and roadside bistros along the route. Mandy and I stumbled upon this activity while we were there and, since then, have made this amazing day trip a tradition when we’ve returned to visit San Francisco.

  The ACOG conference was in late September and the weather during our stay was unseasonably warm. The sky was clear, and the sun was in full bloom on the day of our coastal highway expedition, which made the drive that much more enjoyable. We stopped at several beaches along the way and walked together barefoot through the sand. We stopped at a roadside diner and purchased sandwiches and bottled iced tea, which we enjoyed while we sat on a large boulder atop a low cliff overlooking the beach. The huge waves crashing into the rocky outcrops were literally awesome and the ocean spray could be felt dozens of yards away as it floated down through the air onto our faces.

  As we worked our way down the coast, we found the small coastal city of Santa Cruz nestled at the north end of Monterey Bay. While driving around town, we found there really wasn’t much going on. At this time of year, it seemed to be a very sleepy municipality without a real obvious retail and dining out district. We followed municipal signs to the beach and found the boardwalk. There were sand volleyball courts scattered around on the beach near the pier, but only a handful of people were involved in what appeared to be pick-up matches.

  Eager to find something to do, we walked out onto the wooden walkway built atop thousands of timber pilings extending out from the beach into the Pacific Ocean. To our chagrin, the place was essentially barren. Except for a few moms pushing strollers and a few guys along the railing fishing over the edge of the pier who looked like they were depending on catching something if they were going to be having dinner that night. None of the small restaurants, popcorn stands, ice-cream kiosks, or candy shops were open. There were a few touristy souvenir shops open, but I had no interest in buying a picture frame or snow globe that had the words Santa Cruz stamped on it. The boardwalk, which housed a number of carnival rides and games, a plethora of snack shops, and a huge arcade was also closed to everyone but the seagulls who were scrounging around for any leftover morsels dropped by the summer crowds.

  At this point we’d been in Santa Cruz for about forty-five minutes and we’d discovered we were too late for the summer tourist season, yet too early for the holiday season, which is when we decided would be the next time there was any activity at the pier and boardwalk. In short, we wouldn’t be able to find even a hot dog or ice cream cone to snack on if we hung around the area. We certainly weren’t looking to go pier fishing with what were essentially bums, or join a pick-up game of beach volleyball, so we concluded we’d seen pretty much everything there was to see.

  We walked back to our rented Toyota Corolla and started our way back to the main arterial that would get us back to Highway 1, heading north this time. I kept scanning the sides of the streets for a bar, restaurant, gift shop, or any place really, where we could stop and hang out for a while in order to not feel so goofy for choosing the off season ghost town of Santa Cruz as our destination that day. Then, I saw it! A black, vertical sign with yellow letters going down it, spelling out a word which beckoned to me and gave my trip down the California coast that day a true purpose. The sign was like many I’d seen before on the sides of crappy, dilapidated-looking brick or sheet metal buildings in Texas where people were drawn for a single purpose. It said simply, ’TATTOO.’

  I’d been thinking about getting a tattoo for a while, but hadn’t really brought it up to Mandy, because I expected a lecture about what a profound waste of money it would be at a time in our lives when we were just starting to have a little discretionary income. I pulled over, looked at her and said, “Hey babe, what do you think about me getting a tattoo? There’s a place right there.”

  Amazingly, she replied, “Well, only if I get to help you pick it out. But what about me? I might want to get one. You’d be cool with that, right?” Again, my cool little baby momma had surprised me with how compatible we were, reconfirming to me that we were soul mates.

  We walked into the shop late that afternoon and walked out two and a half hours later, sporting our first of what would eventually become many tattoos. Unfortunately, this shop did fairly amateurish work, the worst aspect of which was that the decorative sun permanently affixed to my right shoulder was off center and would have to be balanced out, years later, by surrounding it with a tropical island landscape. At the time, however, I thought it was pretty cool and Mandy liked the creation she got on her right shoulder blade. That’s right, we were a badass couple, and just like the gangstas we’d instantly become, we knew that anyone who saw our awesome tats would know not to mess with us. Not really, but our new artwork did make us feel cool.

  *****

  Not long after our trip to California, Mandy and I took our family to visit Hank, Patti and their kids in Paris. The kids were all outside playing and the adults were sitting around shooting the shit. It had been a while since we’d visited, and we had a lot of catching up to do. Patti asked if there were any highlights to our trip.

  “Well, I got this in Santa Cruz!” I said excitedly, as I jerked up my short sleeve, revealing my new tattoo.

  Hank leaned over and ran his finger over the nearly healed image of the sun. “What the heck did you get that for?” he asked, with a mocking tone. At that point, he and I were still active in the Mormon Church and our exclamatory phrases had not yet progressed from words like heck, jeez, and gosh to blatant, unapologetic profanity.

  “I like it, so go piss up a rope!” I replied.

  “Mark, don’t talk like that around Patti.” Mandy piped up. “Show her some respect!”

  Hank decided I needed a lecture on responsible use of money and said, “Didn’t you just start getting some moonlighting money? Why are you wasting your money on that? You were just asking me about helping you find something to invest in last week. I’ve never understood why people waste their money on that kind of crap.”

  “Listen, man. It cost like eighty-five bucks. I didn’t exactly spend my life’s savings on it.”

  “Last time we talked you said you essentially had no savings,” Hank recalled. Unfortunately, he was accurate with his recollection.

  I was still nearly two years from finishing residency at this point and Ryan, who was in sixth grade, had just got her first pair of stylish shoes, complete with a white Nike swoosh. We had all still been living simply and lean, and I guess I understood Hank’s point to some degree. Spending money on permanent skin art was, most assuredly, not going to improve our standard o
f living or produce any investment dividends. On the other hand, I figured it could be looked at like entertainment. Dinner and a movie for Mandy and I would cost essentially what I had spent on my tattoo. It’s not like I’d gambled the money away at one of the many regional casinos, leaving me with nothing to show for it. I had purchased something with my money that I would own for the rest of my life. It was hard to think of any other impulsively-procured investment that provided such guaranteed dividends. Considered in that light, I felt like a tattoo was one of the best values someone could spend their hard-earned money on.

  “Well, whatever—I like it,” I said, trying to act like Hank hadn’t hurt my feelings. In reality, however, he had made me feel like kind of an idiot.

  Patti surprised us all by saying, “I think it’s cool. I’ve always kind of fantasized about getting a tattoo. There’s something about it that is appealing. You know, it’s kind of naughty, or bad. I think that all girls are a bit drawn to bad boys and want to, you know, break the rules every once in a while,” she said, making air quotes with her fingers when she used the words ‘bad’ and ‘rules.’ “Even good Christians like us.”

  “Give me a break!” Hank declared, as he looked at Patti and shook his head. “You were the one who talked me out of getting my ‘Special Forces’ tattoo because the Church doesn’t approve of permanently marking our bodies. Remember?”

  “I know,” she replied, “but that was a long time ago and, you know, times change. Anyway, let’s stop talking about it. For the record, though, Mark, I think your tattoo totally kicks butt!”