by Joseph Souza
I politely ask the reporters to let me open the door to my pickup truck. Surprised by my civility, they move back and allow me to climb inside. I slowly make my way out of the parking lot until I turn onto the street. Then I accelerate.
For a brief moment I see myself starring on a hideous reality TV show. The thought of it repulses me, but I may need the money. Buckets of money. Money to keep my brewery afloat. Money to fend off lawsuits. Or to start a new brewery somewhere else if this one doesn’t work out. Money, money, money.
I drive home, listening to the oldies station and not thinking about all that has happened in the last twenty-four hours. Men like me are simple creatures. We accept reality. We have the ability to adjust to our shifting environment and make the most of it. Compartmentalize, plan, and prioritize. The future is murky, but somehow I know I’ll survive.
Leah’s car is parked in the driveway when I pull in, but there are cars parked all around the development and in our neighbors’ driveway. A car pulls up as I sit listening to the end of a song by the Police: “Every Breath You Take.” A well-dressed black couple gets out and walks toward the Gaineses’ front door, a casserole dish in one hand and a bottle of wine in the other. They don’t turn to look at me.
I’m not even sure I want to go inside and face Leah and the kids. What will she say? It’s possible she won’t let me stay the night after how I’ve betrayed her. But she lied too, and in many ways her lie is worse than mine. If true, it’s likely that I never would have married Leah had I known about her past. I would have run away as fast as possible.
After the song ends, I get out of the pickup and walk to the front door. A few reporters ask me questions, but I ignore them. I go inside. After all, this is my house too. I’m part owner of this monumental debt. As soon as I make my way inside, I see Leah and the kids sitting at the kitchen table and eating fried chicken out of a red and white box. Zadie jumps off her chair and runs over to greet me. She jumps up in my arms and squeals. Leah gives me one of her fake-ass smiles, and I know I’m in for a long night. I can barely return her gaze after recalling the terrible things I’ve done. The terrible things she confessed to doing as a child.
How could she have pushed her disabled sister into a pool? What kind of person does such a thing? Or claims to have done it?
Zadie grabs a plate and dishes me up some macaroni and cheese, chicken legs, and corn. It all seems so weird that it feels dreamlike. Zadie pretends to feed some to her doll. So surreal. Zack says grace, a generic version of the prayer that Leah has approved. I’m not hungry, but I bite into some extra-crispy skin.
“How are you?” she asks me.
I laugh. “Been better. You?”
She places her hand over mine. “We all make mistakes.”
“Some worse than others.”
“We’ll get through this, Clay. We still love each other, right?”
“Yeah.”
“One forgives to the degree that one loves.”
“I suppose.”
I want to run out and never come back. Everything feels sickly and wrong. I’m not even sure I love Leah anymore or if she loves me. It feels staged. Forced. Everything has changed in our lives. I cheated on her, and she lied. A good friend once warned me not to marry her. Only now do I realize how right he was.
So why did I marry her? I married her for the same reason most men marry their wives. Love blinded me to the dark sides of her personality. When she broke up with me after a year of dating, I thought my life was over. I thought I’d never again meet such a beautiful woman who accepted me for the person I was, faults and all. And I had plenty of faults, which later in life made me believe that love had blinded Leah as well. We looked past the real person and married the ideal of who we wanted our mate to be. I had little insight into my superficial nature, believing that if I’d lost Leah, I’d never again get a woman as beautiful and altruistic as her. So I told that friend off and never laid eyes on him again. His words of warning, however, still reverberate in my head.
A car door slams. I look out the window and see people gathered in the Gaineses’ living room, comforting the injured man’s wife and family. The gulf between our two homes seems vast now, and our lives forever entwined. Yet we’re so close. How long will we coexist like this? The Hatfields and McCoys. Spy versus Spy. What will happen if Russell doesn’t wake up?
Worse, what will happen to all of us if he wakes from his coma and tells the truth? Or at least his version of it.
LEAH
10 Months Later Monday, August 17, 7:47 a.m.
I WAKE AS USUAL, THINKING THAT THIS DAY WILL BE LIKE ALL THE others since our life changed ten months ago. Clay has left for the day. He now works at a welding shop forty-five miles out of town. I pop my head out the front door and grab the newspaper off the stoop. A bulb flashes and a lone reporter shouts out a question that I can’t understand. It’s been a while since these leeches have showed their faces around here. So why now?
The coffee timer goes off and it begins to brew. I bake banana muffins and blend healthy smoothies as Mr. Shady wags his tail and stares up at me. I pull back the sliding glass door and let him out to do his business. The air feels warm and humid this morning. Summer has hit Maine with a vengeance. Soon the starlings will be here to put on their annual aerial acrobatics.
I hear the news bulletin on the radio and understand almost instantly why that reporter was camped outside my front door. It’s the most wonderful news I’ve heard in some time. Mr. Shady disappears from sight, but I can hear him barking at something in the shrubs. I walk out onto the deck and search for him, hoping he hasn’t rooted out an ornery skunk.
“Get that filthy mutt off my property.”
I turn and see Clarissa standing on her deck in her bathrobe. The sight of her sends a chill down my spine despite the fact that we’ve been reluctant neighbors all this time. Has she seen the news? She must have.
“And pick up that dog shit or else I’ll throw it back on your deck.”
I grab a bag and run over to where Mr. Shady has wandered. A drainage ditch separates our properties, and I leap over it and pick up Mr. Shady’s fresh mess. Then I scoop him up in my arms and turn to Clarissa, who stands on the deck with her arms folded, glaring at me.
“You must be so happy about the news,” I say in my most smarmy voice.
“Why are you even talking to me? Look at the way you ruined our lives and destroyed this community.”
“Don’t act so holier than thou, Clarissa. It’s just you and me here. Let’s be real.”
“I have nothing to say to you.”
“You don’t need to lie anymore or plant those fake ‘stories’ in your diary. What’s done is done.”
“You’re a very good liar, Leah. You even lied to your own husband, for God’s sake. All those years and he never suspected that he was sleeping next to a murderer.”
“At least we have that in common.”
“You make me sick.” She turns to go inside.
“Isn’t it wonderful about Russell?”
She stops and turns toward me. The shocked expression on her face lingers for a few seconds before she forces a strained smile.
“What about Russell? I’ve had my phone off this morning.”
“They just announced on the radio that he’s woken from his coma. He may even be talking soon. Looks like you’ll have your husband back.”
She rushes inside the house, leaving me standing with Mr. Shady. I can’t stop smiling. Russell is conscious and hopefully talking. That terrified look on her face will make me smile all day. It will help me forget about the injustices my family has had to put up with over the last ten months. The name-calling and racist taunts from strangers. Having to transfer the kids to a private Christian school ten miles away. My husband having to sell the brewery. Gone. All of it is gone.
The children are not down from their rooms yet. 10,000 Maniacs comes on the radio. As much as I love this song, I switch to the local news station. I
dump cereal into the kids’ bowls, take out the muffins, pour myself a coffee, and then fill Mr. Shady’s bowl with dried dog pellets. A car door slams outside. I peek through the shutter and see a bunch of reporters standing outside our home. A woman photographer stands on my property, crouched down and leaning against the tired FOR SALE sign planted on my lawn. For some reason I’m not mad at them today. In fact, I’m glad they’re back.
Once Zack and Zadie finish their breakfast, I guide them out the front door. Back when the bad news first started, Clay and I would park in the garage so as not to deal with these pesky reporters. But today I wave and say good morning to them. The kids enter the car and buckle themselves in, unfazed at the sight of all these leeches. I tell them to wait a minute, and then I stand at the foot of the driveway. Shutters click as the reporters fire off questions in rapid succession. I quickly shush them with a raised hand. Once it’s quiet, I begin to speak.
“As you all probably know by now, Russell Gaines woke up from his coma this morning. This is wonderful news for my family. Hopefully, we’ll finally be vindicated once the truth comes out. You’ll see that we are not bigots or racists, but innocent bystanders to a terrible crime. Then you can report the real story and we can get on with our lives. That’s all I have to say for now.”
They will not let this go and keep peppering me with questions and snapping pictures. Where before this would have bothered me, today I’m quite happy with the attention. I’m happy to drive the kids ten miles to their Christian summer camp. I’m happy to have my busybody job at Goodwill, working in the back and tagging donations out of the public eye. If Russell’s conscious, he will talk. And I’m confident he will point an accusing finger at his manipulative wife.
CLAY
Monday, August 17, 9:56 a.m.
I WATCH AS THE DRILL BIT LOWERS AND THEN PIERCES THE METAL. Minute after minute, hour after hour, day after day I perform this mindless job. I suppose I should be happy that I’m employed. At least I’m not in jail—not yet, anyway—and I’m able to pay some of the bills. Our family remains together, although the dynamics have certainly changed. My dream of opening and running a brewery has been dashed. Of course I’m not giving up on my dream. There’s always hope for the future.
I take my “coffee” break in the lunchroom with a few of the other guys. The TV is on the local news station. I polish off my messy breakfast sandwich while listening to the top story being reported: Russell Gaines has emerged from his coma.
The other guys in the break room pay no attention to the story and continue playing cards or staring dumbly at their cell phones. This is a primitive lot. Neanderthals who drive oversized American pickup trucks, drink cases of Bud on the weekend, and prefer to listen to classic rock or country music. They know me as Skip. I’ve grown a beard and gained fifty pounds in the last nine months. Still, I pray my face doesn’t come up on the TV screen.
A buzzer goes off and my coworkers begin to file back into the plant. I stay behind after they all leave and stare up at the television. A man’s face appears next to that of an attractive woman. It takes me a few seconds to realize that the photo is of Leah and myself. I look washed out. Bug-eyed with only one chin. I look unrecognizable from my current bloated version.
I don’t want to go back inside that plant and press drill bits into metal plates all day. But I don’t want to go home and face Leah, either.
The two of us are locked in a cold war of our own making, neither of us coming to grips with the past. We haven’t talked about our indiscretions or even acknowledged the terrible things we’ve done to each other. There’s been no family counseling or therapy sessions. Leah simply refuses to go. She thinks we can heal ourselves with love. And in that vein we’ve managed to continue on as if nothing had ever happened—and it feels surreal, as if we’re living in a fishbowl that’s getting murkier by the day. She doesn’t want to face the truth, but then again, neither do I.
The day drags on. The hands of the clock seem to never move. How I wish I had a cold beer next to me. When I was running the brewery, I could quaff a porter or pale ale whenever I wanted. But my life now hangs in the balance. The DA hasn’t formally charged me with a crime. Of course, that could change at any moment. The prospect of murder still hangs over my head like a French guillotine. If I end up behind bars, I can all but forget about ever quaffing a beer again.
My shift ends. I wait in line and punch out. Something tells me that my life is going to get a lot more complicated in the coming days.
LEAH
Monday, August 24, 8:36 p.m.
I POUR MYSELF A GLASS OF WINE AND GRAB A BOTTLE OF BEER FOR Clay. Then I sit next to him on the couch. The dishes have been put away and the kids are upstairs in their rooms, where we can momentarily forget about them. The news is about to come on. I put my hand on Clay’s thigh and wait for him to reciprocate, but he doesn’t.
The lead story is about the Gaineses. Ever since Russell returned home in a wheelchair, I’ve been on edge. I keep having to remind myself that I shot him in self-defense and that Clarissa tricked me into doing so.
I have to give the woman credit: she’s played her hand perfectly. Although she hasn’t gotten to collect on his life insurance, she’s parlayed her victim status into something more profitable. She’s been a guest speaker on a few of the cable news shows, decrying all the hidden racism in society. Where else could a black man helping his troubled neighbor be shot in cold blood? Her speaking engagements have grown considerably and she’s become somewhat of a celebrity on campus. From what I’ve heard, there’s been a stampede to get into her classes, and she’s even being considered for tenure.
I stopped reading all the stories in the newspapers and magazines about us. It pained me to see Clay and I portrayed as bitter-clinging racists. They made Clay out to be a heavy drinker and philandering frat boy. He’s put on a lot of weight in the last six months. At least fifty pounds because of the stress of it all. I typically skim over the bad articles when I see them. I change the channel whenever our names are mentioned. I was waiting for the day when they would bring up my past and refer to me as a child killer. But for some reason, they never did. Clarissa must be holding this back for a reason. Her ace in the hole in the event she ever has to use it.
A news reporter appears on screen. It takes me a few seconds before I realize that he is standing in my front yard. The screen transitions and I see Russell sitting on a sofa in his living room, surrounded by their diverse collection of African art. He looks gaunt and tired, but with the red bow tie and wire-rimmed glasses, he appears professorial. He resembles one of those POWs being held against their will, forced to parrot the Islamic propaganda fed to them for fear of being decapitated. And for a brief second I feel sorry for him, even as he begins to spew the hateful words that Clarissa is forcing him to say.
“I owe my life to the doctors and nurses who kept me alive all those months and never gave up. And of course, to my family, who also never gave up hope that I would one day pull through. My wife has been my rock, and were it not for her, I may not be here today.
“Let me just say the atrocity committed against me was a blatant act of racial hatred. The Danielses have been hostile to our family ever since they moved in to this neighborhood. Leah Daniels invaded our privacy on a regular basis and illegally entered our house. She became obsessed with me and desired a sexual relationship. Despite how it appears, I had absolutely no interest in a relationship with her. Who knows what her motives were? Some people speculate that she was obsessed with black men. Others say that she wanted to get back at her husband because he had an affair with a black student who attended Chadwick. Whatever the reason, I know in my heart that she tried to kill me that day. Thankfully, she didn’t finish the job. Why else would she call my house just before the shooting happened and tell me that she was going to kill herself?
“There’s more that will come out. I only pray that the police will be able to gather enough evidence to convict the Danielses f
or their crimes. Mycah Jones and Cordell didn’t deserve to die like that. I didn’t deserve to be shot because of my skin color and because I was willing to help a deeply troubled woman. I think it’s terribly sad that black people must live in a society where this attitude is so prevalent. While many prejudiced folks would never act out on their racist beliefs, the Danielses showed their true colors.”
Clay sips his beer and shakes his head. I clutch his hand and squeeze it. We’ve been beaten and battered for so long now that our defense systems have been honed down to a double-edged blade. We’re a team now with an “us against them” mentality.
“Can you believe this bullshit?” Clay says. “I thought you said he would back you up?”
“Didn’t you see his eyes? He’s being forced to say all that nonsense. Clarissa’s controlling his every utterance.”
“Or maybe he’s suffered so much trauma that he actually believes what he’s saying.”
“You mean her version of the events that happened,” I say, pointing to the screen. “I can tell by his body language that he’s lying.”
“How can you tell?”
“He blinked a lot during his statement. And did you notice the way he kept touching his right ear?”
“Is it true you called him before he came over?”
“I called their house to see if Clarissa was all right.”
He turns to face me. “Why did you break in to their home and read her diary?”
The question surprises me. We haven’t yet talked about any of this. “Do we really want to go there?”
“I can’t continue with this hanging over our heads, Leah. We have to get things out in the open if we’re to stay married.”
“Why did you sleep with that girl?”
“I asked you first.”
“I needed a friend, someone I could talk to. I needed to feel loved and be loved in return, and you weren’t giving that to me in the way I needed. I read her diary so I could become closer to her.”