by JoAnn Chaney
“This isn’t over,” Hoskins says, vaguely, not really looking at her but over her shoulder, and it scares her—if they weren’t in public, if the couple beside them wasn’t openly staring now, not even pretending to mind their own business, if the waiter wasn’t hovering over the table, patting down the wet spots he can reach, she might’ve screamed. Because those aren’t Hoskins’s words. They’re Seever’s, that’s what Hoskins had told her, that Seever had said that, it was his catchphrase, he repeated it every time they spoke. “This’ll never be over.”
Then he leaves, turns and walks off, out of the restaurant and into the warmth of the afternoon. The couple hurriedly go back to their meal and the waiter starts clearing the table, everyone is busy not looking at her, Move along folks, nothing to see here, and she feels like she’s been slapped, stunned, and she wishes someone would look at her, even if it is with pity, but no one does. It’s like she’s not even there at all.
GLORIA
March 17, 2009
On Tuesdays she goes to the grocery store, stocks up her fridge with plastic totes of salad greens and skim milk and ground coffee. She still hasn’t gotten used to shopping for one—it’s strange, not to buy all the things Jacky used to eat, the potatoes and cheeses and gallons of rocky-road ice cream. And all the red meat. She hardly ever eats meat now. There are even times she forgets to eat altogether, when she’ll come into the kitchen in the morning for a cup of hot tea and find it completely untouched, and she’ll realize that she didn’t eat at all the day before. This never fails to surprise her, because it doesn’t seem like eating is something a person could forget. She doesn’t buy much at the grocery for that reason, and even so it sometimes goes to waste, the lettuce leaves melting into black goo at the bottom of the produce drawer, the quarts of milk separated and sour.
It’s Tuesday, but she’s not going to buy food. Instead she’s going home, to the big house on the northeast corner of Sycamore Street, the brick place on a quarter-acre lot with the thirty-foot evergreen planted right outside the front door. That tree cost a small fortune to plant, and the roots would break into the foundation and the sewage lines at some point, but she’d once told Jacky that she wanted to live in a house with a big tree right outside the front door, and he’d stored that information away, kept it for later. Jacky always had a good memory for those kinds of things, and he loved surprises, and she was surprised when he bought the house, even more surprised when she woke up to the sound of men planting the tree in the yard a week after they moved in. Jacky liked to make her happy, he said that was a husband’s main job. To make his wife smile.
“I’m sorry for all the times I’ve made you cry,” he had said, a week before he was arrested. She was packing, carefully laying out outfits and rolling up socks to tuck into the shoes already in her open suitcase. They’d done a lot of traveling over the years of their marriage, and she’d become an expert at packing. Toiletries in gallon freezer bags, in case they exploded, which they were so apt to do when flying into Denver. A pillbox to keep her jewelry in, the compartments keeping the necklaces from getting tangled. Socks tucked into shoes to save space.
“What was that?” She’d been busy with her packing, trying to keep all the last-minute details straight. She was going on a trip with her mother, to see the arch in St. Louis, or farther on, to Chicago. The trip had been Jacky’s idea, and later, she realized that he’d been so adamant about her going because he knew what was going to happen and he didn’t want her around to see him arrested. “I’m sorry, I wasn’t listening.”
“I’m sorry for the times I made you cry,” Jacky had repeated, slowly. He was sitting in the armchair by the window, looking out on their quiet street. There was a car parked at the corner, the same place it’d been every day for the last few weeks, and she could see the shoulder of the man sitting behind the wheel, his fingers drumming on the dash. She hadn’t said anything to Jacky about the car and the men who were always around, but she knew he already knew, and that they were cops. She knew that by the clothes they wore, the way they wouldn’t meet her eyes when she drove by. They’d been married for almost thirty years but Jacky still thought she was oblivious, that she didn’t notice the little things. It was the running joke between them, and she’d always gone along with it, but she’d noticed the cops, their shifty eyes and their suit jackets that were cut too loose around the waists to hide their weapons, and she’d known something was going on.
“What’re you talking about?” she’d asked, but he hadn’t answered her, that’s the way Jacky was sometimes, he’d move from one thing to another before she had time to catch up. He’d ignored her question and helped her pack, and she didn’t remember that he’d said it until he called her from jail. She had spent a lot of time crying in the early years of their marriage, but after Jacky was arrested, she didn’t cry at all.
But the house. Her house. Jacky had bought it because the restaurants were doing well. He said it was an investment in the future, that living in a rental was like flushing money down the toilet. It wasn’t a nice house to begin with—the carpets were filthy, the walls were covered in tacky wallpaper, and there were spiders living in the highest corners—but Jacky said that was her job, to spruce up the house, to call in the contractors and the cleaners, to shop for furniture and curtains and knickknacks. Fluffing their nest, that’s what Jacky called it. She’d thought they’d spend the rest of their lives in that house, they’d finally have kids and grow old and complain about having a second floor because of their stiff knees and they’d talk about selling, that’s all it would be—talk. But none of it happened. There was never a baby, no matter how hard they tried or how many doctors they visited, and here she is now, forty-nine years old, living in a dumpy furnished apartment while her husband sits in prison and her beautiful house is empty. It wasn’t the life she’d imagined for herself, but it’s what she has, and nothing is going to change it.
She’ll never live in her house again, the police say. She’d spent so many years planning, so much time bringing home paint samples and walking slowly through furniture showrooms. It hurts her to think that she’ll never have a home that works so well at Christmas, when the dining room would be crammed with friends and family, the fifteen-foot tree glittering in the front window. Or those times during the summer, when they’d barbecue out back and neighborhood kids would be tearing around the yard, catching frogs in the pond and jumping off the dock Jacky had built, their tongues stained red from Popsicles. Her pastor always said that a person should let good memories of better times help them get through the bad, but that was before Jacky was arrested, before Pastor Ed had taken her aside and quietly suggested that it might be best for her to worship at home, that He would always listen to her, no matter where she was. Turn the other cheek, that’s what she’d always been taught, so she didn’t go back to church again; she stayed at home and watched televised sermons on Sunday mornings and prayed quietly before every meal and bed, but she would’ve liked nothing better than to see them all dead, to see Him smite them all for turning their backs during her time of need. But she waited, bided her time, because He repays. Sooner or later, everyone gets what they deserve.
“When will I be able to move back in?” she’d asked a few weeks ago. She was tired of the apartment. Corporate housing they call it, but it was as bad as staying at a motel. Worse. It kept her up at night, wondering how many people had slept in the bed, had used the chipped dishes in the cupboard and sat on the stiff sofa.
“What do you mean?” the cop had asked. There were two of them, and they always traveled in pairs, like a matched set. They were the ones who’d sat in front of her house, and one was younger and handsome, but the other was mean. She could never remember either of their names, didn’t even try. She didn’t like them. “You can’t move back in there.”
“What’re you talking about? That’s my house. I own it.”
The two men looked at each other, seeming amused. She hated them for that. Like
she was a child demanding a toy she couldn’t have, because she didn’t know any better.
“The house is going to be torn down, Mrs. Seever,” the young one said. At least he was polite, not like the other one, who was always watching her, a weird smile on his face. “Completely demolished.”
“No, it’s not.”
“Yeah, I’m afraid it is.”
“Jacky said I could live there, even if he was in prison.”
“Jacky doesn’t get a say in things these days,” the old one said. Loren, she remembered. Detective Loren. He was grimacing, his lips pulled back far enough that she could see every tooth in his head, and most of his gums. “You lose your vote when you murder a bunch of people.”
“I don’t understand.”
“The house has been sold.”
“But I live there.”
“I guess your sweetie-pie husband never told you that you’re dead broke,” Loren said. “He had his lawyer sell everything to pay for his defense. The house. His car. All your assets. You didn’t think that fancy lawyer-man was defending Jacky out of the goodness of his heart, did you?”
She tightened her hands on her purse, her nails sinking into the leather.
“But those all belonged to me too,” she said. “He couldn’t have sold it all without me knowing.”
“Technically, nothing belongs to you,” Loren said. “Your name wasn’t on anything, so Jacky was able to do whatever the hell he wanted. And he did. Without ever letting you know.”
He was right, she realized. Jacky had always taken care of everything, all the finances, all the paperwork, and she’d never been involved. Not once. She’d never known how much money they had, how things were going, but it had always been easy to believe that everything was fine, because it always seemed to be, and she’d never questioned anything as long as her credit cards still worked and her checks still cleared without issues. He’d bought the house without her, as a surprise, and he’d always gone to the car dealership alone. The only paper she’d ever signed with Jacky was her marriage license, and that’s all he’d needed to bring her up in the world, then tear her down so low.
“But the diners—” she started, but then paused. She hadn’t set foot in any of them since Jacky’s arrest, had never even called to check on them. There’d been so many other things to deal with, and Jacky had assured her that he had the managers running things, that she didn’t have a single thing to worry about. I’ll be out of here before you know it, he’d told her during one of their visits at the county jail. You don’t have to lift one finger. Don’t worry. “Are they gone too?”
“Yes,” said the young cop, shooting her a pitying look. She could’ve killed him for it.
“Who bought the house? And the diners?” she asked. “I’ll buy them all back. They’re mine.”
She regretted saying the words as soon as they left her mouth, because she thought—no, she knew, she couldn’t afford to be naïve, not anymore—she had nothing left. If Jacky had sold the house and the restaurants, all behind her back, of course he would’ve cleaned out their bank accounts too. If she was lucky he might’ve left her enough to live on for a while, but who was she kidding? Jacky was the one in prison, but she might as well have been too, and she’d built it herself, slid every brick into place with her own two hands. A prison built out of complete and utter stupidity.
Sucker, that’s what her father would’ve called her. He would’ve smacked his lips together pleasurably when he said it. A goddamn sucker.
“The diners sold to new owners, and the house was bought by some foundation here in town. They work to improve the quality of life in Denver, and the plan is to destroy the house,” the young cop said. He seemed embarrassed. “Have it leveled completely. I’ve heard talks about a playground being built there. Maybe a community garden.”
“Why would they do that?” she cried.
“Because their check cleared, and they can,” Loren said. “And because people need to forget what happened there.”
“Forget what?” she said. She’d been scrubbing at her mouth with a tissue, meaning to wipe away the lipstick she’d forgotten to apply, and her lower lip had cracked open and begun to bleed.
“They need to forget your husband’s a fucking psychopath.”
“Jacky never hurt anyone in his life.”
“Is that what you think?” Detective Loren said. She glanced at the young cop, wishing that he would speak more, he was so much nicer, but he was standing by the door, his arms crossed over his chest, watching his partner. “Do you know what your sweet, harmless hubby told us a few weeks ago?”
“No.”
“One of the girls he killed—Beth Howard, I think. Is that right, Paulie?”
The young one shrugged.
“Anyway, this girl, she’s walking home with a bag of groceries. And your husband, kind man that he is, offers her a ride. And she takes it. Maybe it was hot outside and she had a long way to go, or he propositioned her, or she was just a lazy idiot. But we’ll never know.”
“I don’t understand why you’re telling me this,” Gloria said, pulling her purse closer to her body, taking some comfort in its weight.
“So Jacky brings Beth Howard home, where he does what he does. I won’t go into detail—I’m sure you’ve seen the news. You know what he was doing.”
“I didn’t know.” She stopped, cleared her throat. Something is stuck there, hot and heavy, but she’d rather choke to death before asking these men for a drink. “I didn’t know anything.”
“Paulie, you mind getting Mrs. Seever something to wet her whistle?”
The young one ducked out, came right back with a can of Coke. Gloria took it, cupped her hands around the aluminum, but didn’t drink. The can was warm.
“Anyway. Where was I? Oh, yeah. Ms. Howard’s dead, and I’m pretty sure everyone agrees that your husband had something to do with it.” She hadn’t thought it possible, but Detective Loren grinned, his lips stretching so far it looked like the top half of his head was ready to topple right off. “Ms. Howard was a kindergarten teacher, by the way. When she went missing, every kid in her class wrote us a letter, because they loved her so much. It was real touching, wasn’t it, Paulie?”
“This doesn’t have anything to do with me,” she said stiffly.
“Wait, I have a point. So after Jacky was done with Ms. Howard, do you know what he did?”
“I need to go now.”
But that bastard cop, with his mean eyes, he wasn’t going to let her go until she heard everything he had to say.
“Jacky slid that girl under your bed. You spent eight hours sleeping six inches above a young woman your husband had killed.” A bead of sweat ran down Loren’s forehead, into his eye, and he swiped it away absently. She realized he was enjoying this, watching her squirm. He’d be able to tell all his buddies about it later over beers, she could practically hear them laughing at her expense. “Jacky liked keeping his victims close, even when he was done with them. Damn. Maybe if you’d given it up a little more—if you would’ve occasionally bent over and took one for the team, he wouldn’t be where he is now.”
She didn’t say anything. She could feel a migraine coming on, a screaming-bad one, she’d spend the next ten hours in bed with a damp washcloth draped over her eyes. She considered taking the Coke and throwing it right in Loren’s face, bounce it off his forehead. She wanted to hurt him for blaming all this on her, make him bleed.
“You can certainly go into the house and collect your things,” Detective Loren said. “But there’s no fucking way you can live there anymore.”
So here she is, on a Tuesday, usually her grocery day, pulling into the driveway as if this is still her home, the keys jangling loosely in her palm and she walks to the front door. There’s a car parked at the curb, the engine idling so the air conditioner keeps chugging away—it’s warm for March—keeping the two men inside out of the heat. The one in the passenger seat raises his hand, and she nods in return,
although she’d much rather flip him the bird. They’re cops. There are always cops here now, keeping watch over the house until it’s torn down, which is a waste, she thinks, because why not let the bums and delinquents have a turn before it’s all razed to the ground? She’s heard that people have tried to break in, because they want to write ugly things on the walls in spray paint and kick holes in the doors, or they want to steal something, a morbid piece of Jacky Seever to show off to their friends.
She unlocks the front door, goes inside. She was last here the week before, with two young men and a moving truck, and they’d carried out everything she’d pointed at, loaded it up to take away, even though they were nervous, they’d heard all the stories about the house, and the crawl space was still exposed although the cops had nailed a tarp over the open hole and roped it off. She had them box up her photographs, and the set of Christmas china with the scalloped edges and the sprig of holly imprinted in the centers. All the furniture in the guest bedroom, the nice wicker set with the lace coverlet. She’d slept in that bed sometimes, when Jacky’s snoring got too loud, or when her insomnia was particularly bad and she didn’t want to keep Jacky up, and it was nicer than the stuff in the master bedroom, more comfortable.
“The police confirmed that a few of your neighbors complained of a bad smell coming from your house on several occasions. Is that true?” That was one of the questions from that newspaper reporter, she couldn’t remember her name, who had showed up two months before. Gloria had tried to close her door on the girl when she’d said she was from the Post, but then the girl had said she thought Jacky was innocent, that he was being raked over the coals for no good reason. That was why Gloria had let her into the apartment, had set her down in the tiny living room and served her coffee and cookies, the crispy butter kind in the blue tin.