Alex Six

by Vince Taplin

  She lay on the bed, legs spread with a thin blue sheet over her chest and thighs. Her open hand stretched far off the bed, inviting me to be a part of her miracle.

  I was standing next to her then, and not sure how I got there. I should leave. This has gotten far too personal! Too intimate. She gently wrapped her hand around mine and whispered, “Incredible, isn’t it?”

  The doctors moved back the sheet, making room to work with the turkey baster syringe. The blanket glided up her knees, past her thighs and stopped just below her bellybutton. I politely turned away.

  “It’s okay, Vick.” She released her grip from my hand and pulled my chin to watch. “It’s life. It’s beautiful! There is nothing to be ashamed of here.”

  Okay. Okay. I am a mature adult. She is right. There is nothing to be ashamed of. I tried to be mature, tried to watch the beauty without distraction. But I’m distracted. My attention followed her hairless, tan thighs into a triangular patch of pleasure below her manicured pubic region. I watch as they slowly slid it inside her. Deeper. I felt her hand around my arm again. She was squeezing this time, whispering something. I couldn’t hear her; I was too fixated on the gliding penetration.

  She whispered again, hand growing tighter on my elbow. The doctor squeezed the plunger and the semen pushed from the clear plastic tube inside her. I felt her nails in my skin and I heard her then. I heard her whispering so quietly, so intensely, only I could hear it. I turned and saw her eyes focused intensely on me.

  “I’m cumming, Vick…”

  Chapter Thirty-three

  I’ve experienced joys and deaths in my life and I’ve encountered surprises on too many continents. Those words though, along with the nails in my arm, stunned me. Like, loss of minor motor skills stunned. Her legs trembled and her eyes rolled back in her head. The docs didn’t notice, or at least didn’t act like they noticed.

  We talked briefly after the incident. Mostly we discussed the party, my payment, and the contract. We talked about everything except the part about the unexpected orgasm. It was a casual exchanging of pleasantries and goodbyes. She was back to her old self. Cold, hot, Alexa.

  It was all I could think about. I went home, showered, and donated again — this time to the bathtub drain. That body. Light bronze, quivering thighs, and a patch of perfectly trimmed pelvic hair. Her whisper and her claws. I’m a teenager again, fixated on a woman with an intensity only puberty could understand.

  Kraya sat with us at dinner. Both of us chewed our food in a daze. The little dude ate playfully, blissfully unaware of the rights and wrongs beneath our roof. I thought about my vows — “Till death do us part. In sickness and in health.” Even sick and blank, she is still my wife. I have needs though. I wonder if she does, too. Does she think about sex anymore?

  The following day came quickly. And so did I. Same room, same docs. Same Alexa, hiding behind the curtain. The events played out the same, but when the time came, I did not stand at her side. She called to me again, but I stood idle near the doorway when the plastic syringe pushed inside her body. She didn’t climax this time. Her feet didn’t twist in the leg rests. She accepted my seed without emotion. She watched me as they emptied the tube.

  I’d requested cash instead of other methods of payment. I wanted this to stay off the radar in case Kraya suddenly became aware enough to review our finances. Someone inside me wanted her back, back to our normal world of stupid jokes and cuddly late-night movies. The little guy outside of me didn’t. He was hard for Alex.

  I took the envelope. One hundred fifty thousand in cash isn’t as heavy as I thought it would be. It felt insignificant. Cash will also help me avoid those pesky questions from the IRS when they came clawing for their cut of my dirty work. Were they there to encourage me when the docs weren’t? No. It was just willy and me… and Alex.

  Chapt3r Thirty-4our

  “Last time you were here…” She opens her notebook and skimmed a few lines. “You told me your husband has been acting strange. You also mentioned he has been seeing someone else?” She is a professional at open-ended questions. I feel my fingers picking at each other. Stop fidgeting and breathe. You can handle this.

  “Yes. He has.” Good. Good answer. See, you’re doing a great job, no need to be intimidated by the ugly girl at the dance.

  She writes more. Her pen scratches ink onto the page in the quiet office. It’s hard not to notice the bland wallpaper and her distressed oak desk. On the desk, a variety of red, blue, and black pens sat neatly in a “World’s Greatest Mom” mug. Does she have vodka in her bottom drawer? Does she tire of listening to problems all day, day in and day out?

  Her pen scrapes the page. “Do you know the woman?” she asks.

  “I know her, yes.”

  “Does it upset you that he is having an affair?”

  “He isn’t cheating!” I feel my heartbeat behind my eyes again. I wipe the first drop of sweat from my forehead.

  Moisture builds on my brow. “He is just…” In my lap, my pointer finger quickly traces circles on a fingernail. “I don’t know, experimenting!” I pause and adjusted my skirt again. “Once he finds out how much I love him, he’ll love me.”

  “Do you think it’s a healthy relationship if he is seeing other people?” she said and lifted her eyes from the notepad, ready to analyze my response.

  “No! Of course it’s not healthy, but we’ve always had an interesting relationship. This is just… just… just another curveball.” Stop! Stop feeding her. Short answers, remember? Short — controlled — answers.

  She jots more notes. “Does he know you know about her?”

  “Does he know? Does he know?”

  I wipe my brow. My makeup runs, tears welling, mutilating my mascara. Control yourself. Don’t let go. Don’t lose control again. I forgot how hard it is to come here.

  The therapist slides a box of tissues across the table. “Tell me about that.”

  Pins and needles in my mouth. I purse my lips so tightly they are numb. I snatch a tissue from the box and wipe black smudges from my cheeks. How did this happen to me? To us? I hate him for it, but I can’t live without him. His touch and his laugh and his… everything!

  “We’ll save that for later…” She scribbles more on the page. “Does he know you’re struggling? Taking medication?”

  Words are trapped. My mouth opens but my throat is too tight to make a sound. My palms are wet. “No,” I squeak.

  “Last time you were here, you told me you felt invisible. Like his life is being lived without you. Do you still feel this way?”

  My throat is hard around the spit I tried to swallow, like a snake squeezing my neck from the inside. Why are you pushing me, bitch? — “Yes…” My eyes meet hers. Rage — sadness — Oh my God, I’m too vulnerable.

  More scribbling. “Does he know about your condition? Your history? Your…” She leans forward. “…your mental health history?”

  I see you.

  I see you watching me from behind your coffee table. I feel your judgment. I know you. You’re like all the others. I seeeeeeeeeeee you. No! Not today. “No, he doesn’t know about my history.” I’m so vulnerable. Why did I come back here? Check, please. Check, please! I’m done. Done! I should have never talked to anyone about this. Who do you think you are? You’re a peasant therapist with certificates from a state school and a 2-dollar barn painting on the wall. I stand and walk to her side of the table. She leans back with a smug, uncomfortable smile. “And no one else should know about my condition.”

  The knife feels sticky as it slides into her neck. Her eyes watch mine: predator and prey. She got too close — Why did you have to do that? Look what you’ve done! Why didn’t you let me talk about him, or let me talk about my day and about how much I love him? Or you could have asked me why I love him. Or, or, or, or tell me he will run to me and he will love me! He doesn’t want that other woman. I am the only one for him. You did this to yourself, Counselor. You should have played nice.

&nbs
p; She tries to yell but it is just bubbles and gurgling. “You don’t know about my condition…” I pull the blade from her skin. — “…anymore.”

  She slumps back in her chair, holding her neck with a goofy, surprised expression. You should have known I’d bark back, bitch. Her eyes turn off, leaving her with a final, dim, expressionless gaze. She looks pretty now.

  No stress. No judgment. It suits her well.

  Oh my gosh. Oh my gosh. Vick. What have I done? Stop fidgeting! I did this for you. For us. She deserved it, sneaky bitch. Look what happens when you dip your toe in the deep end, Counselor. What have I done?

  Focus. Think. This is no time to panic. Now is not the time. I grab her computer and her calendar from the top of her desk. I snag her bottle of hand sanitizer, too, knocking her mommy mug to the floor with a crash. With both arms full, I leave through the side door.

  Good — perfect! He is still there. A homeless man in his sixties (or maybe his thirties with a lot of narcotics) is still sleeping under the concrete bench. My car is a few paces from him, facing east in the lot. I put the laptop on the roof of my car and fumble through my purse. I always lose these things, dammit. Where are my keys? I find the black key fob and push the trunk button. I drop the therapist’s schedule and laptop into the trunk. I unzip my first-aid kit and put on purple medical gloves. Not because I am too worried about DNA (although that is a cute ancillary benefit), but because I have to touch him. This, this… vagrant. A disease that grows on my streets. I am careful not to wake the bum under the bench while I wipe the bloody knife on his sleeve. I make sure to get some on his right hand, especially under his fingernails. He smells putrid, like alcohol and infection. I tuck her purse into his filthy camouflage jacket and wrap the strap around his neck.

  I go back to my car and reach into the glove box. Insurance cards, some napkins and 3 tampons fall to the floor mat. Is it still in here? Of course it is. The phone is on a battery charger, stuck with Velcro to the back of the glove compartment. It’s the burner phone I use to call Vick and hang up. I’ve called him many times, to hear him say hello. I purchased it with cash at a convenience store a few blocks from the tower. I power it on and dial the short number.

  “Nine-one-one, what is your emergency?” The dispatcher’s voice is professional and monotone.

  “Oh my gosh, I… I… I saw a man! A man screaming and yelling and covered in blood! Covered! He looks like a crazy person, a… a… a maniac!” I said.

  “Ma’am, calm down. Can you tell me where you are?” the police dispatcher asked.

  “I… I… I don’t know! I think on 9th Avenue near that big brown apartment building?” I know damn well where I am. I built that apartment complex last year and I know none of the cameras work on the south side — on this side. Why didn’t we repair them? Why should we — ghettos stay ghetto. Why should I keep throwing money at a building that keeps trying to knock itself down?

  “Ma’am, you’re doing fine. Officers are on their way now. What does the man look like?”

  Shit. I need to move. “He is in a… a… an army jacket. He looks crazy! Ahhhhh! He is covered in blood! Ahhhhh! He is coming this way!” I hang up and pop the battery out from the back of the phone case. Now the fun part. I pull the two epinephrine pens from under my arm and walk back to the bum. His scab-ridden calf is exposed, sunburnt and covered in cuts. I slam the needles into the meaty part of his leg, injecting enough adrenaline into his system to send him to the moon. His eyes flutter open. I snag the needles and put the cap back on, careful not to stick myself with his disease. He screams and panics. I stuck him with enough adrenaline to pick up a car. I ditch the pens and the burner phone battery in the rusty gutter and run back to my car. I fumble with my keys again. I hear sirens — they’re getting closer. I pull my seatbelt across my chest, start the car, and drive away casually as the flashing lights approach. Police officers pulled guns on the man in my rearview mirror. He is running in circles, trying to burn off the adrenaline cocktail.

  Pop! Pop-pop-pop!

  The transient man is a slumped mess of red in the mirror. Did they shoot him? Was that a car backfiring? Shit, shit, shit!

  My hands are shaking on the wheel. Fuck, that was close. Why did I do that? Why? I need to keep control. Focus. No more distractions. I thought I was done with incidents like this. Those days are far behind me. I splash a few pumps of hand sanitizer on my shaky palms, wiping the blood smears with tissue. I need to be more careful.

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Nick Preston sat across from me at the Orchard Club. We smoked cigars and watched the snow fall on the fairway. This was our second meeting. The first time we met, it was all personal, no professional stuff. He asked about my family, my investments. What I thought about the presidency and what book I’d read last. He was testing the water, making sure I wasn’t some schlep looking to score, which was exactly what I was, but he seemed to enjoy my company. He threw me a bone and watched what I did when I chewed it. He must have approved because here we were again. A large, stone fireplace fed us warmth as we drank scotch from the leather seats.

  “You believe the rental market is still climbing?” Nick took a sip of whiskey and knocked the ash from his cigar.

  “I do. I’ve been pulling numbers from the B&Bs, hotels, and apartment rentals. I have a few guys that send me their sales data. It’s climbing all right.” I’ve been doing my homework. Kraya’s been a ghost for as long as I can remember, staying in our room, mumbling and sleeping. I’ve been occupying my time with work. I do a lot of kiddo stuff, then work in a nap here and there, and then more business. I found guys from all over town to send me their monthly sales data. I threw them a hundred bucks. Poor bastards were stuck making minimum wage at some hotel. A hundred bucks was a big deal to them.

  Nick’s fingers rested on his chin. His mind busy as he gazed into the popping fire. “I’d like to try something else with you, Victor.” He didn’t lose eye contact with the burning logs. “I’d like to propose something. A joint venture.” Eyes finally joining mine. “I’d like to create a company together. An LLC. I’ll fund three million into the company if you can assure the gains. Big gains. Call it twenty percent in the first calendar year?”

  That scotch must be strong. “Twenty percent is too aggressive, Mr. Preston.” It was. I think he was testing me again — checking to see if I was made of big promises and small returns.

  “A most valid concern. My eyes can be larger than my stomach sometimes.” He shifted in his seat, paused, and puffed on the stogie. “How about five percent promised returns, and everything above that, you keep?”

  Rich guys like Preston don’t need to make more money. It’s the chase, the control, and the action they need. Five percent is just a point or two higher than the interest he’d get with a big, private firm if he were to park the money somewhere safe. He just wants to play.

  “I can live with five percent if we add a guaranteed stipend of seventy thousand for an operations manager.”

  “I can live with that.” He stretched a wrinkled palm toward me. I shook it. “I’ll have the lawyers draft something and send it over. I’d like to start no sooner than twelve weeks.”

  “Twelve weeks is good. I have a few others things I need to finish first.” I don’t have squat for twelve weeks, but I didn’t want to sound desperate. Desperation is about as subtle as a shart.

  We sat for a while after the handshake and gazed into the wide fireplace. He stayed put until his wife called him about a concert she wanted to attend. I can’t imagine the headache with dating someone half my age. Worried about lip gloss and strawberry daiquiris instead of mortgage payments and hemorrhoid cream. Ah, to be young again.

  I smothered my cigar in the big round ashtray and slurped the rest of my drink. I didn’t much care for scotch, but if I am going to walk like a duck, I need learn how to quack like one and drink like one, too.

  I stuck around for about twenty minutes after he left. I grabbed my jacket, tipped th
e bartender, and picked up my car from the club valet. These guys know how to live, don’t they?

  I pulled up to my house in time to catch the babysitter emptying the trash. She waved. I waved. I parked in the driveway instead of the garage and headed to the front door. Snow crunched beneath my shoes and wind burned my cheeks. The trash can needed to be moved to the street, Vanessa. But I don’t pay you to clean or push this thing to the avenue, I pay you to make sure my kid doesn’t die when I’m gone for the day, so I forgive you. My hands burned on the trash can handle as I rolled it down the drive. I’d fallen down on the ice a few weeks ago while taking out the trash so I take small, flat, shuffle steps. This thing is heavier than usual. What the heck did we do this week? And how do we always have so much trash? Bags were flowing past the lid like the foam on an over-poured lager. Foil caught my eye.

  I opened the lid, pulling a cold white grocery bag from near the top. The bag wasn’t tied tightly and it was puking cardboard cards, scratch off lottery tickets, packed so tightly the bag was nearly solid. I ripped the bag open, grabbed a fistful, and pulled them out. Scratched, all of them. Hundreds of them, maybe thousands. Three or four drop to my feet. What. The. Actual. Fuck?

  I slammed a handful of scratchers back into the trash. I leaned down and snatched a few more from the ground. Winners, two of them are ten-dollar winners. Kraya, in her blasted state is gambling our money away and to make matters worse, she is too fucked up to know which ones are winners and which aren’t! This is where our money has been going? All of those withdrawals?

  I snatched the bag and got back in my car. The first ticket I check is a dud. Second, no bueno. Third, not a winner, and so on until the twelfth ticket. Winner, fifteen dollars. I set it aside. I did this for an hour and forty minutes in the cab of my car. So many tickets in my car it looks like confetti. Overall, I find two thousand eight hundred ten dollars in winning tickets amongst the losing pile.