Alex Six

by Vince Taplin

  Chapter S16TEEN

  He snored with one arm stretched across the bed and one leg falling off completely. I heave myself from beneath his heavy, hairy arm. He’d been drinking since early afternoon so he isn’t going anywhere.

  I twisted on a white robe, tying it around my waist. It’s cool against my skin, a friendly feeling versus the sweaty carcass of the man that lay in my bed. My husband. Those words sound gross, disturbing even. I enter the code on room 9 and peek once more at Francis to make sure he is asleep.

  The man told me it’s strong enough to stop a charging bull. He called it Compound X. I’m sure it has a more scientific name, but Compound X raised its price tag to five thousand dollars per liquid ounce. It’s a fast drug — dissipates in minutes, not days. He called it a half-life miracle. It leaves the body too quickly to track.

  I stick the needle into the tiny vial, extracting no more than a bottle cap of fluid. I look at the screen again, to make sure he is still sleeping. I have cameras in every corner of my apartment. The bedroom camera, however, is hidden in the lamp. He hadn’t moved. Thank you, Francis. Now I need you to do something for me.

  I quietly close the door to room 9. It shuts with a hushed click. The bedroom reeks of alcohol and sweat, the culmination of overindulgence and ignorant vigor. Who is this man? This, this, this, New Yorker who I’m married to. Never did he ask about me. Never! Not once! Never, never, never! He was so mesmerized by my crotch he forgot everything important.

  The needle slid into the small webbing between his toes. My heartbeat quickens, I can feel it in my ears. Vick’s cologne from room 9 lingers, I can still smell him. More butterflies in my pulse as my thumb pushes the plunger on the syringe. I arch my back as I watch the first rush of chemicals enter his body. Slowly, I drain more of the compound into his foot. I imagine it climbing through his veins, through his ankle and up into his thighs, through his groin, and into his flaccid, tiny cock. His chest is filling with Compound X. Breathe, my love, breathe. My legs quiver and my thighs tingle. My knees shivering, almost knocked into each other. I rest a finger on his neck, feeling gently for a pulse. He is still here. My breathing intensifies as I push the last hit of liquid into his foot.

  He shakes, startling me. A sudden chuckle escapes me. “You scared me, Francis!” His eyes open for a moment and blink. His mouth gapes. “Almost there, honey. Shhhhhhh…” He erupts into a full body tremor. His heart skips and stutters. I feel my lip curling into a smile.

  His eyes fade and I whisper, “Thank you, Francis, I’m one step closer.” I kiss his forehead and slide my fingers over his eyelids to close them. I remember mother kissing my forehead as a child. It brings on sweet memories, a time when mother wasn’t hiding in the amber of a pill bottle. She would sing to me at bedtime. She would kiss my forehead and whisper, “Twinkle twinkle little star… How I wonder what you are…”

  I hummed the rest of “Twinkle Twinkle” with a smile as I pulled the needle from his foot and covered his limp, naked body with sheets. I wiped a bit of foam from his lips and kissed his forehead one last time.

  “Goodnight, dear.” I smiled, turned out the light, and closed the door.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Things are good. Very good. I’d worked out a deal with some of the guys from the club on a ranch-style duplex on the south side and I was getting much needed time with the little man. I’d met with Alexa a while back to tell her about my family history. I was surprised — she’d done her homework. The meeting was short, and not as memorable as the others.

  Kraya and I were doing all right, too. Seems guilt is a dish best served daily. I was feeling better about my decision, but for weeks after the donation I felt terrible. Funny how you overwork to improve a relationship when you feel like an asshole.

  Kray had some weird things happening. She was up and down, forgetful and sleepy, sleepless and energetic. Post-baby, par for the course. She’d visited her nurse a few times and gotten the same answer: “Just hormones. Relax, it’ll get better.” And she was right, she did get better. Usually right at the moment she fell asleep. More often than not, I’m riding in the caboose of her emotional roller coaster.

  It’s my favorite time of year so I do my fair share of tucking away feelings. I can ignore a lot when I’m a few eggnogs deep into a Christmas album. Twelve-ish inches of snow clog the sidewalks and twinkling red and green lights hang from every porch. Carolers and bell ringers are out in force, collecting money for some charity I’m not sure exists. I drop a quarter in the bucket from time to time because for fuck’s sake, it’s just a quarter, not one of those giant checks you get when you win the lottery.

  Christmas music plays in our house from the moment the Thanksgiving bird is finished until the first day of the new year. No exceptions. My boy and I started opening doors on the advent calendar this week. He likes the candy and I like the tradition.

  We were finishing up breakfast when my phone rang. The caller ID said, “A. Livingston.” Kraya tilted her head curiously and pointed, her mouth too full of food to ask. “I’ve gotta take this, hun.” I pulled the phone to my ear and answered, “Hello?”

  “Good morning, Vick.”

  “Alex, good morning. What can I do for you?” I‘ve gotta get the hell out of here before Kray overhears something. I head to my office, taking my phone and one more bite of bread.

  “We should talk,” she said. Her tone unreadable.

  “We’re talking now, aren’t we?”

  She laughed. “We are, yes, but we need to discuss some business. Privately.”

  I’m intrigued. “I’m free next week. Maybe Wednesday?” I had a lot going this week. Inspections, a few repairs, naps — the usual.

  “I’m attending Preston’s charity event tomorrow at six p.m. We’ll talk there. Dress formally. I have some people I’d like to introduce you to.”

  Nick Preston’s house? Nick is well known in the community. One of those guys so successful even B-list celebrities want to know him. He’d been in business since I was a wee lad and threw Christmas charity parties every year. Invite only. Exclusive. Coveted. I’m in. “I’ll have to rearrange my schedule, but I can probably make it.”

  “Good. Pick me up at five-thirty.”

  Damn, she’s cocky. Or is that confidence? Either way, kinda annoying. “Pick you up? From the tower?” I call it “the tower” now. Anyone who is anyone calls it that.

  No response.

  “Hello?” Nothing. Not a dropped call. Not a hang-up, just empty noise. Like she’d put the phone back in her pocket. “Alex?”

  Still no response.

  The screen showed we were still connected. Maybe a bad signal? I asked if she was there a few more times and hung up. I threw the phone back into my pocket and headed upstairs. I kicked a few toy cars and a blue ball from the stairs as I climbed. Kraya was elbow deep in applesauce because our kid made the decision to slap his food rather than eat it. I’ve had those days, too, buckeroo.

  “Who was that?” Spousal curiosity — innocent, but prying.

  “Oh, a friend from the club. May want to do some work together.” I avoided using he or she. Plausible deniability. It’s not dishonest if you don’t lie, though I am getting sick of this friggen gray area.

  “Oh good! Let me know what happens, okay?”

  I told her I would.

  We cleaned up breakfast, and talked about her week. She wiped the table in circles with a torn, wet napkin. On Monday she found a sale on double-smoked ham and diapers. Tuesday she returned that movie we never watched, and on Wednesday she had a great lunch with Clarissa. They talked about Clarissa’s new boyfriend, a younger stud with aspirations of becoming a nurse. I nodded, said, “Uh huh,” and mixed it up with, “Oh yeah?” and “Oh, I could see that.”

  Conversations with your spouse are like talking to a recording of yourself: A) You probably know how the story is going to end, B) It’s always one sided, and C) The person on the other end is someone you love.

  After
the dishes were dried and Junior snuggled in his bed for a nap, I took off. I was fresh out of paint and one of the rentals had thirsty walls. I pushed the garage door button on the visor and waited for the door to open. Our garage was getting tighter as the years progressed. Coolers and billowing boxes line the walls. I should spend a day and work on this. But who has the time? I’ll wait for spring.

  Sunglasses? Check. Phone? Check. As I dug through the center console for my stuff, I saw an envelope buried under some coins and a toy whale. The garage door was still opening, so I took a sec to peek. An ATM receipt from yesterday morning. Withdrawal of four hundred dollars. Why did she withdraw that much? And why cash? We always use credit cards; the points are too good to pass up. I know she was looking at some things on eBay. Boom. I know! Christmas presents! Sneaky, sneaky, Kray. Nice try. I won’t mention it though. If I do, she’ll conceal it better the next time.

  My tires crunched in the snow as I pulled out of the garage. I could hear a few neighbors scraping shovels against their driveway. I decide to scrap the paint shopping and opt for some Christmas shopping instead. Kid needs some socks and Kraya? Hmmm. Maybe a necklace? I never know what to buy her. Her gifts are always so thoughtful. Mine are usually just expensive.

  Shopping was a breeze. In and out, like any proper male should be. Though it was short, I enjoyed my brief encounter with the mall. The same, wonderfully repetitive Christmas music in every store. Heck, I even made time to order a coffee and sit for a spell to enjoy the Christmas-people-watching extravaganza. Mothers with unruly kids. Grandparents with smiles and diapers. Teenagers with black hair, piercings, and testosterone. Six stores and a cup of black in sixty minutes. A new record.

  After navigating the icy parking lot labyrinth, I headed home to wrap their presents. Kiddy presents are always the easiest to wrap. Loose cartoon gift paper and a few strands of clear tape is perfect. Kraya’s presents were tougher. You know, wrap the paper tight and smooth, and use a ribbon around the box. I slapped a bow on the top where the ribbon made an X, and cut a “To: /From:” card from a scrap of leftover paper.

  It took me ten minutes, per present, to wrap her gifts. It will take all of seven seconds to unwrap them. I think I’m in the wrong business. Someone is making a killing out there manufacturing single-use wrapping paper. What’s it cost to manufacture? Maybe ten cents? I paid eight bucks for this glimmering, mistletoe-laden paper bullshit.

  I stowed the presents under the tree and had a few cookies. ’Tis the season for frosted goodness and an extra ten pounds around the waistline. Kraya has been on a cookie-baking frenzy. I’m not convinced she is eating or sleeping, just cookies, cookies, cookies, twenty-four/seven. She’s been in one of her “ups” — endless energy, fun, and motivation. I knew a crash was bound to happen any time now, but this was the best version of Kraya I’d seen in months. Apparently this still falls into the somewhat normal behavior range for the first few years of motherhood.

  Kraya talked endlessly while slapping balls of cookie goodness onto the pan. I’d made myself comfortable in the living room, feet up in the recliner, throwing her a “Yep” and a “Uh-huh” when she needed one.

  “…He kissed that other girl and she knew it! I told her she was worth more than that. No one should be dating someone who cheats! Annoying, isn’t it? That she would go back to him? After all this…”

  Mid-sentence, the sound of a tin pan hitting the tile echoed through the house. She’d dropped a pan of cookies. Was it a baked pan? Or a cookie dough pan? I held my breath and waited for the meltdown. Hold… hold! I gritted my teeth and squinted. When her mood is up, she’s explosive.

  Is that laughter? She was laughing! I carefully popped my head into the kitchen to see her sitting on the floor, laughing at the cookies.

  “Everything okay in here, hun?”

  She turned to me, eyes wide. “Oh, ha! Yes. Yes. Yes, yes, yes! Everything is wonderful!” Open palms pointed to the cookie mess.

  Was that sarcasm? Hard to tell. “Are you sure you’re okay? Is there anything I can do for you?” I cringed. Why did I ask such a stupid question? Inevitably she’d think up something.

  “Yes! Thanks. I need two more pounds of sugar and a few more pounds of flour while you’re at it. Oh, and can you grab some applesauce pouches, too, since you’re going out?”

  Is she really all right? No. She is not. She’s wound up tighter than I’d ever seen her. Maybe she’s about due for another check-in at the clinic.

  More errands and an hour away from Kraya might be the hero I need to be right now.

  Chapter E18HTEEN

  Daddy’s influence kept our short wedding and Francis’s heart attack out of the papers. The media was morbidly excited to write about the Livingston’s short marriage ending after her husband’s heart attack. It took money, lots of money, to keep the press out. A favor I begged of Daddy.

  I grieved publicly, weeping quietly whenever eyes were on me. I took a month off, something I never imagined possible. I cried at family dinners, too. My mother was a surprisingly wonderful shoulder to cry on. She listens to my stories and holds me in her frail arms. Does she still have some motherly instincts buried inside her?

  At night I am calm. I am methodical. I trade black sweaters and puffy eyes for workout attire. I run miles on my treadmill, lift weights, and spend time in my tanning bed. I’m creating a beautiful world for us. Vick will fall prey to me because he is mine already.

  I bought a new medical insurance package for him. In doing so, I needed to insure his wife… I hate that she gets that title first — his wife. I insured his son, too. Our son — He’ll be mine, too, soon. His tiny heart will grow to love me, my smile, and my ability to love his father. Children can feel that kind of tenderness, that innate sense of loving. I used Vick’s company to buy their upgraded insurance. Anyone can buy insurance for strangers with the right social security number, FEIN, and a credit card. It gave me a back door to all of their records and allowed me to request a routine blood panel. I need to know he is still safe. Had that bitch of a wife infected him with something worse than her presence?

  I still follow him. I’ve gotten better though, more advanced. I use GPS tracking on his car and phone. I even have a chip in his son’s shoes so I can keep an eye on him, too, if that floozy can’t.

  Everything is falling into place. Everything is perfect. Especially today. Today is different. My take in the second act of the play. I’ve learned from my mistakes and realize I need to make my own destiny. You can’t rely on others to introduce us. This time will be different.

  I pull into the grocery store parking lot, just a few cars behind him. He walks casually, dodging traffic as he heads to the sliding doors. “Be careful,” I whisper as a redneck slams on his brakes to avoid Vick. If he hurt him I’d pull his flannel-loving butt out of the truck and kill him where he stood. You got lucky today, Cleatus. I wait a full, agonizing minute before I follow him into the store. I check my hair, my nails, my eye shadow, and go inside.

  I see him. Oh my God, I see him standing there casually in the fruit aisle. I can feel his skin against mine. His smile bright enough to illuminate the whole store. I smell his cologne and a rush of endorphins and fluids reach my core.

  How long has it been since I’ve visited a public grocery store? Why do you walk among the commoners, Vick? You should be buying real food, not these overdone avocados and this poor excuse for a tomato. When we wed, you will see what it is like to have a personal shopper and what it tastes like to eat real food.

  I walk behind him with shaking hands. I cannot cry. — Do not cry! This is it. I’m so close I can see his hair. Each, beautiful in their way — zigging and zagging. Do they know how lucky they are to grow there? The pit in my stomach grows deeper. Keep cool. Keep walking. My heels are loud on the dirty, faded tiles and it smells of musty fruit and retired women. What if he doesn’t see me? What if all this work is for nothing?

  Our eyes meet and I blush.

  Shit. Shit. Shi
t. There he is. He sees me. He saw me! Gather your thoughts. Gather your strength; breathe, breathe, listen, hum, breathe, laugh, don’t laugh. He sees you. That’s it. Go with the plan. Stick with the plan. Drink the water, Vick.

  Chapter Nineteen

  I woke to the sounds of sobbing. Not Kraya this time, but our little boy, whooping from his crib. I nudged Kraya, whose response was unintelligible, even a bit angry. I knew what she was saying, I took foreign language in college. It translated to, “Fuck you, get him up yourself, I’m sleeping.” She popped open an angry eye and pulled up the covers. Translation confirmed.

  I walked into his bedroom and pulled him out of bed. The floor was cold on my bare feet. I changed his diaper on the tall wooden changing table. I knew someday I’d need to screw it into the wall for safety, but not today, and not any of the previous days either. I put him in some orange pants and a miniature sweatshirt. Gosh this kid is cute. I slipped back into the bedroom, this time with my secret weapon — a smiling little kiddo. The dragon’s eyes popped open for a moment, only to reveal a scowl and more unintelligible sounds.

  We let her sleep. I made breakfast — the good kind of breakfast, none of that cereal and milk bullshit either. I cooked up some eggs, bacon, and sausages, and made orange juice and coffee. I even threw champagne in there to liven things up. I brought it to the side of our bed on a silver platter as a peace offering to the dragon goddess. She woke, turned, and eyed the food. She looked terrible, like a drag queen after a night of too much coke. She rolled toward us and began grazing. We sat with her while she ate. It took her about twenty minutes to come back to life after snarfing down the breakfast in bed. Whether it was the food or the champagne, she was vertical and able to look after Junior while I went out for a bit. Mission accomplished.

  As I pulled on some jeans and a Rush concert t-shirt, I asked her about last night. She said, “I was just so wired. I don’t know what came over me.” Totally normal, I’m sure. I love the woman, but she’s been a train wreck for a while. “I made plenty of cookies though! Feel free to take some with you today.” I threw some in a baggie before I left. How could I resist?