by Britney King
She presses her lips together and the smile returns. “Likewise.”
“I have—”
“We have an hour yet at least before this thing ends,” she interrupts. “Are you sure you won’t join me upstairs for just one drink? A toast—to your success.”
I don’t mean to, but her suggestion makes me laugh. “There was a time in my life I might have said yes. That time has passed.”
“What a shame.”
“Yeah, well,” I say, downing my whiskey. “Youth tends to pass you by. Whether you want it to or not.”
She leans in close—not too close on account of having a champagne flute in each hand, but close enough that the warmth of her breath is hot on my ear. “You know what I say, Mr. Dawson?”
“I’m sure I can guess.”
“I say we should try to hold onto our youth as long as we can. Even as it slips away, we should take hold, rebel. Refuse to let go.”
“Easy for you to say. You’re young. You probably don’t have much to rebel against.”
She cocks her head. “You’d be surprised.”
And that’s how I ended up in a hotel room, passed out, naked, tangled in sheets, next to a woman I didn’t know.
Chapter Ten
I wake up after a fever dream, with cotton mouth and a sore back, the woman beside me fast asleep.
My eyes scan the room. What I wouldn’t give for some cold water, a few aspirin and a time machine. I’ve made mistakes in my life, but not one like this, not in a long time.
Eve and I have been married for thirty-three years. Not to excuse my infidelity, but unless you’ve been married for that long, you don’t get to have a say. You can’t possibly know what an eternity it is.
For thirty of those years, I have been faithful to her.
Thirty good years. Do a couple of shaky ones negate all the good? Many people would say yes, but I don’t know. I’m sure they’d be no less shaky with anyone else. That is the nature of relationships, and if I know anything at all, which isn’t much, I know you can’t fight nature. It always finds a way to win.
It’s not like Eve’s record is squeaky clean. But, like I said, thirty-three years is a long time. Days and days, hours upon hours, in which to make a mistake.
And believe me, this is a mistake. Not only am I going to have to answer to my wife for the missing hours, I’m going to have to answer to Liam, and the last thing I intend to do is to look weak in his eyes.
Bile rises in my throat. Maybe it’s the pounding in my head, maybe it’s the hangover, maybe it’s recalling what Liam said in the car last night and how betrayed I feel by my wife. To find out that she has been talking to him about our children, when for years she has refused me the opportunity, stings.
If I were an armchair psychologist, this would be the part where I point out I’ve just completed a revenge fuck.
I know that Eve blames me for what happened to the boys. For years, I have known that. But to refuse me memories, pictures around the house, all of the birthdays and Christmases that I wasn’t allowed to so much as mention them—well, that has been almost as bad as losing them in the first place. She made it feel like they didn’t just die—they vanished, as though they’d never existed in the first place.
She blames me for them, I blame her for Jenny. I know it was hard for her, losing her brothers, and with them, in a sense, her parents as she knew them.
Most marriages don’t survive the death of a child. Ours has survived three. Losing the boys sucked the joy from our lives. So much that we had none left, nothing to give our daughter. It makes sense that she rebelled. Or maybe it was in her genes all along. She wasn’t my daughter. That never stopped me from loving her like she was, even when it was hard to show it. Even after the boys. Not only did I overlook Eve’s mistake, I embraced it. Did I ever get credit for that? No.
I never so much as asked for it, either.
Then, when Jenny died, it took the rest of me. Not all at once, but in small chunks over the years. It was like the shedding of skin, peeling off layers of who you thought you were in the world.
I dealt with it by throwing myself into work, writing more than I ever had. Becoming more successful than I ever had. Certainly more than I’d ever dreamed. No one can tell you how much free time you have when you suddenly become childless and your wife hates you, but I can assure you, it’s a lot.
I excuse myself from the hotel room, make my way down to the lobby, and end up in the hotel bar. It’s not open yet, but thankfully the restaurant next door comes in clutch. I’ve always found the best way to deal with regret is to start over again, fresh.
The place is mostly deserted, which I find suitable. My tie is stuffed into my left pocket. It’s pretty clear that I’m wearing a day-old wrinkled tux and that I haven’t showered. I’m sure I look about like I feel. Experience tells me no one really cares.
A server appears to take my order. She has a large hoop through her left eyebrow and a barbell in her nose. I wonder if it hurt. I wonder if that was the point. I wonder what the next phase will be.
I order a whiskey on the rocks. Proving my point, she doesn’t bat an eye at my choice. Who cares if it’s not yet nine a.m.? “What I wouldn’t give to have one of those,” she says.
“Might as well,” I tell her.
“I have an AA meeting tonight.”
“Even better. Aren’t those like confession, anyway?”
Her bottom lip juts out and then she nods. “Good point.”
Our conversation settles my nerves. It’s always been people with a kind of laissez-faire attitude who interest me most. It’s as though the whole world could be falling apart and so what?
A group of businessmen eat at a corner table, laughter erupting every few minutes.
Outside, traffic grows thicker with each passing moment. Brake lights span as far as the eye can see. Horns sound cacophonously.
On the large TV in the corner, a sports channel plays. Two commentators argue in a manner that strikes me as unbelievable. The screen flashes to a pitcher walking off the field, and that’s when the unsettled feeling comes back. I look away. I hate baseball. Always have, always will.
The server delivers my drink and asks me about food. I have no appetite, but not wanting to seem pathetic or cheap, I place an order anyway. Eventually, I power on my phone and check for messages. It makes me feel sick, the weight of it in my hand, not to mention on my shoulders. I’m not a member of the generation who checks their phone every five seconds. In fact, I abhor the damned thing. If it weren’t for Eve’s illness, I wouldn’t carry it at all.
There are seven missed calls from home and three texts from Liam.
I text back saying I’m writing and I’ll be home later. This is obviously a lie, but not an implausible one. I have been known to disappear from time to time when trying to make a deadline. Of course, that was mostly in the early years when I had a bustling family life and more on my plate.
These days I’m just lazy.
Horns blare outside.
The businessmen speak in hushed tones.
Baseball goes on forever.
I wonder what it would take to get that TV shut off?
Seeing that baseball is at least half of the reason my kids are dead, I have good reason to hate it. Not that it ever stopped me before.
It wasn’t just the sport that killed them. It was a freak accident.
Well, not so freaky, if you consider the person driving the car was at least two times past the legal limit. Although those were the words my wife used if she ever had to talk about it, which she rarely did. A freak accident.
They were on their way back from a baseball tournament when the car they were riding in ran off the road and crashed into a tree. Eve was supposed to drive them, but she was sick that weekend, and I was supposed to be the back-up.
I claimed I was sick too. Which I wasn’t. I was, however, massively behind on my writing, with a deadline barreling toward me, and the last thing I wante
d to do was to drive a hundred miles, round trip, and sit out in the Texas heat to watch a game I cared nothing about. I wasn’t the one who signed them up. I’m pretty sure I even said that. It wouldn’t kill them to miss one game. I said that too.
So when Eve mentioned that one of the other dad’s said he wouldn’t mind driving them, I didn’t question it. It wasn’t like we weren’t owed the favor. Eve was constantly shuttling other people’s kids here and there. She fed off of having them around. Those were the normal years. The best years of my life, although I couldn’t know it at the time. And then instantly, everything was different. Everything that mattered before, those things ceased to be. Things that once seemed so pressing, turned out not to matter all that much. There will always be another deadline. And another, and one after that. Dreams don’t have deadlines.
But kids die. They grow up. You grow up. You die. Bad decisions are written in permanent ink. Life cannot be reversed.
I don’t realize that I’m weeping in the middle of a restaurant on a weekday. Not until the server brings me another drink, telling me it’s on the house, does it occur to me that anything is amiss. People stare. Taking the glass from her hand, I salute. Liquor killed everything I’ve ever loved. So why shouldn’t it kill me?
Chapter Eleven
‘The Book Doctor’
Journal Entry
Everyone makes mistakes. Some big, some small. Depends on who you ask. Hers were big. Her biggest one would turn out to be leaving a window unlocked. Not surprising, really. Let's consider the typical American female: she can't balance a checkbook, knows all the Kardashians but not her kid's middle school teachers, can't find Iraq on a map, can't name the past six presidents, thinks the U.S. won the Vietnam War. She pays someone to mow her lawn so she can free up time to walk on a treadmill at the gym, then spends twenty minutes looking for a parking space. She waits in two lines to pay six dollars for a sixty-nine cent cup of coffee just so she can enter her office with a sixteen ounce "symbol of conformity" in her hand. She can't name her state's senators, doesn't know what a mutual fund is, has never heard of Douglas MacArthur. She spends more money on her hair and nails than retirement savings and has been brainwashed to think a man on a white horse is coming to save her.
Carefully sliding the window upward, I contemplate how a person could be so irresponsible and the many questions left to be answered. Did she not think something seemingly so small as an unlocked window could ultimately prove fatal? Was she in a hurry? How can she not see the world for what it is? Opportunistic. Evil. Every man for himself. Where was the blind spot in her thinking? How could she not see that her naiveté would put her at risk for predators like me?
In that sense, she was lucky. At least I wouldn’t make her suffer. I’d make sure her death was quick and painless, even if that hardly makes for a good story.
I thought about this a lot as I waited for her to come home. Had I made the right choice? How was this story going to end? What would her face look like as she died? What was in the contents of her stomach? Did she enjoy her last meal? Or had she rushed through it, as is so often the case, mindlessly scrolling her phone?
What would be her final words? Would it be an emoji sent via text? Was that how she wanted to be remembered by the people who love her?
How many strings would she have left untied?
One thing is for sure: she was late. Her shift ended thirty-seven minutes prior. For two weeks I’d watched her, followed her, studied her. I even spoke to her once. For fourteen days, she’d come home on time. Right after work, on account of the dog. What was the hold-up I wondered? A sixth sense? Did she get caught in traffic? Had she been in an accident herself? Did she stop over for a drink with a friend?
So many possibilities. Any number of scenarios could have caused a variation in her routine. I was curious to find out how close I could come to the truth. I suppose I should’ve been bitter about sitting in a cramped laundry room next to the dog bowl.
On top of the washer was a basket, overflowing with dirty laundry. Clothing that would become artifacts to a loved one. Most people put them in Ziploc bags. So the smell keeps. I had a good laugh thinking of this. Grief does funny things to people. I guess I get it, but not really, I’ve never lost anything I really cared about. But I suppose once a scent is gone, it’s gone. Who will keep hers? Her mother or father? A lover perhaps? Lucky them, her clothes stunk. A stench not soon forgotten.
While I waited, I decided to have a look around the rest of her house. It was fairly clean but sitting in that room, I realized I’d made the right selection. She was one of those closeted messy people, the kind that likes to hide things. Surely the world will be fine with one less of those.
For ninety-seven minutes I sat and I waited, stuck with B.O. and my own thoughts, which, thanks to her tardiness, weren’t much better.
Then, finally, I heard the beautiful sound of a key clicking in the lock, and I knew the wait was over.
The dog greeted her at the door. A sweet dog, though useless. He wasn’t a barker. Just a terrible choice she made, one among many. I wondered how long it would take someone to find her. Such a pity, the dog’s bowl was empty. How long would it take before he got hungry enough to feast on her?
That I would like to see.
It took another twenty-two minutes for her to rummage through the refrigerator, microwave her findings, and flip through her phone, until finally I heard the sound of running water and I knew it was almost the end.
She looked different naked. Most women look better without clothes on, but this one, she surprised me. Maybe it was the grunge, the way she seemed ashamed of her body, wearing loose-fitting attire, as though afraid to be seen.
She was terrified, opening her eyes, seeing me standing there. Of course she was. But she was predictable in her fear, rushing to cover herself instead of going on the offensive. She bargained, too, like they all do.
Unfortunately, her fate was sealed. She liked baths, and she lived alone. She left windows open and made questionable choices in pets. She inserted herself into my story, and I inserted myself into hers.
“Listen,” I said putting my finger to my mouth. “You can scream if you want. But you’ll still die in the end.”
She made herself small in the tub—the wrong move to make when faced with a predator. “Now, I have to ask you a question. Are you ready? It’s very important.”
Her eyes bulged as she gave a shaky nod.
“Who said ‘Give me liberty, or give me death?’”
She looked at me like I’d lost my mind. Then her eyes darted around the small bathroom before finally landing back on me. “Bill Clinton?”
“Wrong,” I said making a clucking sound with my tongue. “Would you like to try again?”
Her eyes narrowed. I could see that she was going to disappoint me…that she was going to take a guess. “Obama.”
It was a mystery to me, how she couldn’t answer a simple question. And, there was something else. What I’d come for. I had questions of my own. I wanted to know what true electrocution looked like. Obviously, a person shakes. Obviously, it looks like they’re an epileptic having an episode. But there are other things that happen too. The body heats up, causing severe damage to internal organs. The eyeballs melt. As the body twists and gyrates, bodily functions release. The bath water turns murky brown. Skin burns off. It will have to be scraped off the sides of the tub if it is ever to be used again. That is, of course, if the dog doesn’t get to it first.
Chapter Twelve
To say that Eve retreats back into herself after the hotel incident would be an understatement. I have no idea how women always know when there’s been someone else, but apparently, it’s a superpower. No matter how many times I tell her that nothing happened, that I stayed over to write, she refuses to believe me.
Perhaps the saddest part of all is it’s the truth. It was nothing. Gun to my head, I couldn’t tell you one thing about that woman’s body or what the sex was like
. I was three sheets to the wind. If I’m going to have to pay—and it seems I am—shouldn’t I at least remember what I’m paying for?
I’m a good enough writer to know a bad analogy when I see one. Obviously, the guy who killed my boys, he was probably too drunk to remember his actions. He didn’t deserve to live. But he did.
And in my case, no one died. Not literally.
But Eve moves her belongings back downstairs. She stops eating, stops talking, stops doing much of anything. You don’t have to be ruthless with your words if you’re ruthless with your actions.
Meanwhile, I continue to spend mornings with Liam, writing, afternoons walking, and nighttime drinking myself into oblivion.
“How’s it going with the girl?” I ask Liam one afternoon. Perhaps I’m desperate to talk to someone, to anyone, or perhaps I’m hoping he will bring up Eve, and in turn, my indiscretion. Most likely, I just want to hear that things are as bad for him as they are for me.
“It’s not going well,” he answers. “Not well at all.”
“Sorry to hear it.”
He looks away, out the window, before he stands and walks over to it. “My parents received a wedding invitation,” he tells me, staring out at the yard. “I guess she’s really going through with it.”
“The sun will shine on you again.”
“Speaking of—how’s Eve?”
He doesn’t deserve my kindness, not after the incident in the car. But then, those who live in glass houses—or how did he put it? Oh yes, prisons—should not throw stones. “Eve is fine.”
“I haven’t seen her around much.”
“She’s not been feeling like herself.”
“No?” He turns and starts for the couch without making eye contact. “That’s too bad.”
I motion toward Eve’s chair, then lean forward and slide it back. “Here.”
Easing into the seat, he furrows his brow. I study him as he takes a pencil from his pocket, pushes it between his teeth and chews at the tip. Physically he’s here, but mentally he’s miles away. He plucks the pencil from his mouth. “What’s the largest organ in the human body?”