Ginny

by James Francis Gray

  I’m dry-mouthed—I’m history—I have no rebuttal.

  “You’ll sleep on this couch tonight. Tomorrow, I have an early morning at work and when I return from work in the afternoon, you’ll be gone,” she says.

  “But,” I say, “Where will I go?”

  “I don’t care, get you things and leave,” is her angry reply.

  I step forward, offering my hands, palms up, but she does not budge.

  “Leave!” She exclaims.

  Seconds pass in strained silence.

  “Johnny, I loved you with all my being, and it wasn’t enough for you—now, go and live the life you chose … sniff …”

  “No discussion?”

  “No,” is her weak reply. She takes two deep breaths and I wait for her to recover.

  “Don’t make me call the police, Johnny,” she says, gets up and goes to the bedroom, slamming the door behind her.

  I move to the bedroom door and with a gentle touch, knock on the door. “Please, Helen, let’s talk.”

  She does not answer so I try the doorknob, finding it locked.

  “Helen … Helen,” I say. I’m getting desperate.

  She answers, “Go find one of your women.”

  “No!”

  “They seem to fly from the sky, landing on your … you know what, ha, ha, sniff, sniff …” she giggles and cries.

  “That’s not funny!”

  “No—it’s sad—you’ll never grow up.”

  “Helen!”

  “Please, Johnny, leave me alone, I need my sleep.”

  I go to the hallway closet and grab a blanket—it’s sleeping alone time for me, damn.

  Morning brings a lonely time and a splitting headache for me. I stumble into the kitchen, check the clock, 8:45 a.m.—there’s no sign of Helen. The drip coffee in the pot is cold, so I dump it into a saucepan and heat it on the stove.

  After two cups and some toast, I’m feeling a little better. I go to the phone and dial the Blatz residence.

  The butler gives me a hearty greeting.

  “Mr. Blatz, please,” I say and in a moment he takes the phone.

  “Hello,” is his weak remark.

  “It’s Peterman, what’s wrong?”

  “Daphne left the house sometime in the middle of the night—I do not know where she went.”

  “This is not good,” I say.

  “What’s our next move?”

  “Do you think she’s off with Mrs. Hallstead?” I ask.

  “I’m not sure.”

  “OK, I’ll get over to the church and see if I can find out,” I say. “Meanwhile, check with the help—maybe they know something. I’ll be in touch.”

  “Sergeant Murphy called, but I’m stalling him—he’s not too happy about it,” Mr. Blatz says and asks, “Any suggestions?”

  “Murph’s never too happy—let me handle him. Talk to you later.”

  I take a quick shower, pack my things and I’m off to the Hallstead’s church. My disposition is foul, but duty calls.

  An hour later, I arrive and spy Murph’s 1941 Ford in the parking lot next to the church. This should be interesting. I alight and go in the side door and make my way to the back where the Reverend Hallstead has his office. There’s seems to be a heated argument going on when I enter without knocking.

  “You!” the red-faced preacher shouts when he sees me.

  “Good morning,” I say.

  “Johnny, what the hell …” Murph begins.

  “Cooler minds should prevail,” I say.

  “Where’s my wife, Mr. Jackson?” the reverend asks.

  “I have no idea. I thought …” I begin but do not finish.

  Murph asks, “Jackson?”

  “What can I say?”

  “Reverend,” Murph says. “Let’s all sit down and in a calm manner, discuss this matter.”

  “Daphne, in the middle of the night, left with my wife, heading to … who knows where. I’m perplexed at best,” the reverend says as he takes a seat behind his desk. He wipes his red face with a handkerchief.

  “Exactly … what time was that?” Murph asks. He procures a pencil and notebook from his inside pocket.

  “Around five this morning, I think. I heard squealing tires and observed Daphne’s car leaving the parking lot. I looked for my wife and couldn’t find her …” he pauses.

  “How do you know it was your wife with Daphne—did you see her in the car?” Murph asks.

  “I went to her room. The dresser and closet were practically empty and three of her suitcases were gone, too.”

  “You have separate bedrooms?” Murph asks.

  “Yes—I snore—it keeps her awake,” he sighs.

  “Not very lovey-dovey,” I say with a smirk, as Murph writes in his trusted notebook.

  “This is not funny, Mr. Jackson!” Reverend Hallstead exclaims.

  “Johnny, what’s with this Mr. Jackson stuff?”

  “It’s a long story,” I say with a half-smile.

  “Mr. Jackson, you’re here under false pretenses?”

  “Johnny,” Murph says.

  “I don’t know what to say,” I joke.

  “The truth,” Murph demands, giving me an evil look.

  “John L. Peterman, Esquire,” I say, “at your service.”

  “You’re a lawyer?” the reverend asks.

  “You could say that,” I lie.

  “Reverend Hallstead, do you suspect foul play in your wife’s sudden departure?” Murph asks.

  “I’m not sure—these past several days have been very troubling. The nanny’s death, my wife’s odd behavior, Mr. Peterman’s deception—I do not know what to think.”

  “Johnny,” Murph says, “Care to add to this?”

  I’m closed-mouthed, of course.

  “This is not a game, Johnny,” Murph chastises.

  I do not answer.

  The reverend says, “Yesterday afternoon, a parishioner informed me that she saw you, Mr. Peterman, following my wife in your car when she drove off to attend to some errands.”

  “The parishioner must be mistaken,” I lie.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  James Francis Gray lives in Ventura.

  E-mail him at jamesfgray@sbcglobal.net.

  Learn more about the author on the web!

  Visit the official website:

  jamesfgray.com.

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