by Vince Taplin
“This is Nancy Green, a nurse from Mercy Hospital emergency, your wife has been in an accident.” No one can prepare you for those words. The music in the background stopped. The cheers from the game on the TV became blurry. All I could hear was the woman on the phone. I stood, spilling my drink on the bar.
“Oh my gosh, what happened? Is she okay?” I said, frantic now. I can’t feel my legs. I’m all out of nerves. I can’t decide whether to sit or stand or fall down.
“They are both stable, but your son has some bruising on his face.”
My son? What the blooming fuck was she doing driving around with him? “Okay. Okay. Jesus, okay! I’ll be right down. What room?”
“Emergency two-two-three-A.”
I hung up, forgot to pay for my drink, and ran to my car. It took a moment for my eyes to adjust to the daylight. The snow had mostly melted now, replaced with an endless, gray drizzle. Too wet to enjoy the outdoors, too warm to be considered winter.
I felt my phone buzzing in my pocket again, but I didn’t get to it in time. I’d had three drinks, but the combination of brightness and alcohol made it difficult to pull out of my parking spot.
After fifteen minutes of one-eyed, blurred driving, I found myself in the parking loop at the hospital. I headed to reception after I parked, asking the obese man in scrubs where I could find two-two-three-A. He gave me simple directions, a visitor’s badge and buzzed me in. My phone rang again, this time, I answered.
“He-he-hello?” I was out of breath. I didn’t realize how fast I’d been running.
“Vick, buddy, I’ve been trying to reach you.” Rob’s voice on the line. Surprisingly comforting to hear a friend at a time like this.
“Rob, I’m sorry. Kraya’s been in an accident. I am just getting to the ER now.”
“I know, Vick. I’m here.”
I round the final corner and see Rob on the phone, waiting outside room two-two-three-A. Beside him, my boy, sitting in a wheelchair with a cold pack over his left eye. Oh, my little guy! He’d been crying. His wet cheeks as red as a balloon. I knelt, hugging him so tight I thought I might hurt him. “Is he okay? Is she okay?” He hugged me tightly with small, warm arms.
“He’s fine, Vick. A bit shaken up, and a bruise here and there, but all the scans are clean. No concussions. No trauma. He’s a tough kid.” Rob patted him on his tiny shoulder.
“Kraya? Where is she?” My attention turns to Rob now. I’m going to kill her, taking him on a pleasure drive in her condition? She knows better.
“That’s why I’m here…”
Rob pointed into the room. I looked at the plaque; it’s room two-two-three-A all right. I pop my head in and I’m met with a view of three police officers and a nurse, all talking to Kraya.
“What? What is this? What’s going on, Rob?”
A burly officer with a shaved head and tan line shaped like sunglasses turned, saw me, and asked Rob if I am “the husband.” He nodded and Big Arms McLaw started asking me questions.
“Is this your wife?” he asked.
I nodded.
“How long has she had a drug problem?” He pulled out a pad and started taking notes.
“He doesn’t have to answer that…” Rob injected.
“Look, you’re right, he don’t need to answer it, but she has a serious problem. I need to know how long she has been on heroin so I can make a recommendation,” the police officer said.
“What kind of recommendation?” I asked him, but Rob grabbed my arm and shushed me.
“Treatment or jail…”
Rob pulled me aside, hard enough to hurt my arm. “Dude. Stop talking. They found heroin in the car. Heroin! Quite a bit, too.” He stopped, looked to his left and right, and whispered, “Did you know?”
“What? Heroin? No, I did not fucking know! This has gotta be a mistake.”
“No, man. They tested her blood and found it in the car. It’s heroin.”
Ch4pter Fo4ty-6ix
The babysitter left for lunch after everyone fell asleep. She usually drives to the bagel shop or to a fast food joint, during which she calls her mother or her pathetic boyfriend. Sometimes she smokes. Sometimes she reads. She is a boring peasant.
I walk through Vick’s house with the familiarity of my own. How many times have I been here? Hundreds? Thousands? It’s my home away from home. I know every inch. Every magazine and everything in every drawer.
I replace Kraya’s pills first. Every few weeks I switch her anxiety medication for a new opiate, narcotic, or psychotropic. This time, a combination of morphine and methylmorphine. Not quite as strong as heroin, but in the same family. Just enough to make her a slug, not enough to kill her. Although I do fantasize about it. One extra milligram and I can end your peasant life. The power I hold, Kraya, you cunt.
Not today though, no, not today. I need to switch them back to her boring anxiety medication. The plan is in motion and everything is set. Just a few more steps. Just a few more, can you believe it? The pill bottle echoes in the bathroom as I shake them into my latex glove.
I use the toilet next, adrenaline usually does that. After I wipe and flush, I move to the boy’s room. He is sleeping. He is a sweet boy, like his father. My Vick. Pity he isn’t mine. Yet, everything that is Vick’s will be mine soon. I will cherish you, young one. I’ll hug you and read to you. You’ll call me mother one day soon, you’ll see. You’ll forget you even knew your cunt mother. You’re going to love it.
His basement man cave is quaint. I smell him on the pillows. I press my face deeply into his futon, inhaling his scent so violently I can taste it. I check his computer for anything new. A few new saved pictures of girls in bikinis and a change to the family budget spreadsheet. Good. Cash is getting tighter with medical bills stacking up. After snooping through a few more rooms, I enter the garage. Kraya’s car, parked crookedly as usual, sits in the left stall. I open a small notebook with pictures and notes I’d found online.
The key to cutting brake lines isn’t slashing madly, it’s gentle and slow. I open the hood and use my fingers to trace the small steel tubes. Where two lines convert to four lines, I make a small mark with a paint pen. The drill is loud, but no one can hear it. Kraya and Vick’s son are in dreamland and the babysitter wouldn’t return for another 15 minutes.
A red, oil-colored fluid starts to bead from the tiny holes. The goal is to make the holes small enough to be undetectable, but large enough to spit fluid when pressure is applied. As usual, my work is flawless. I hide a small package in the trunk, too. A small, yellow balloon filled with black tar heroin, 2 needles, and a rubber arm strap. The heroin and paraphernalia are nauseating. I’d paid a junkie to find it for me. The needles were the most terrifying. Who knows what lurks in those needles. Drugs? Aids? Bacteria? Vagrants disgust me.
I exit through the side door and pull my blue gloves off with a pop. The trap is set. Now for the bait. The babysitter returns later than I expect, but the plan will still work. When she pulls back into the driveway, her phone is pressed tightly against the side of her head. She rolls down the window, flicks a cigarette butt into Vick’s driveway and turns off her engine. Where did she learn this disgusting behavior? Other peasants? Is there some college these people attend to learn how to be proper trailer trash?
I wait for them to finish lunch. My tablet provides me with a crisp video of them around the table, eating in the quiet room. I change views with a swipe and focus on Kraya. I touch her face on the screen. “Your life is about to change, peasant.” I smirk. “Time to go…”
I punch her number into my phone. I use a phone number masking app to show the hospital’s phone number and caller ID information. I watch as she slowly lifts her head as her cell phone rings.
“Hello?”
“Hi, this is Deputy Farren from the sheriff’s department. Your husband had a heart attack and is in the emergency room. He may not have long, so please hurry…”
The peasant perks up. As much as possible anyhow. She grabs he
r son by his wrist and bolts from the room. The babysitter is shouting now, protesting Kraya’s ability to drive. Kraya ignores the sitter, straps the kiddo into the car seat, and flies from the garage.
She passes me on the street. I suddenly realize I easily could have become collateral damage if she lost control and hit my car. Next time I’ll be more careful. But there won’t be a next time, will there, Kraya? I feel a smile cross my lips.
Chapter Forty-seven
I hope she is sobbing. Bawling so loudly in her cell that her bunkmate punches her. I hope it sucks in jail. I watched them as they dragged her from the hospital bed after she was cleared from medical. Other than a few cuts, she is a picture of good health. Oh, except that she is action-packed with psych issues and addicted to fuckin’ heroin!
She is in city lockup. I am one phone call away from her bail. I can stop this. I can stop her pain by transferring money to a bail bondsman. A few swipes on an app and a two-minute phone call and she is as free as a bird. Instead, I drink. I drink, and I ponder.
“She’ll be fine for the night, buddy,” Rob said, comforting me. “I get it. I get why you’re mad.”
Mad? That’s one. Another is rage and hatred and distrust and violation and sadness. A lot of sadness. My wife is on drugs and I didn’t know it. I’m so embarrassed that I didn’t know. She hid it from me, deciding to live a life of inebriated solitude instead of time with her son and me.
After she was arrested, Rob and I took Junior to the babysitter’s place. We needed some time to work through this and a few more cocktails and legal advice was on the menu.
“Thanks for helping, Rob. I’m not mad; I’m furious. I-I-I-I can’t believe it. I-I-I just… I just can’t believe she has been hiding this from me.”
“They don’t usually come out and say it, dude. People with a problem tend to hide it. Kraya wasn’t any different. She was probably scared, man.”
“She should be scared. You know what this is going to do to her? What it’s going to do to us?”
“It’s not as bad as you’re thinking, not the criminal part anyhow. She’ll probably do some time in an inpatient treatment ward and be out on probation in a month.”
“What’s the other part?”
He sighed and took a sip. “She did some pretty heavy damage. A car, a building, signs; the list goes on. You’re going to have to pay for it and insurance isn’t going to pony up.”
“Fuck!”
“Not to mention legal fees.”
I glare at him. “Your fees?”
“No, no. I can’t take your case on, bud. It’s not what I do. Civil is what I’m good at, but I’m not going to do her any favors in criminal court. She’ll need someone more qualified. This case might be another hundred thousand. Maybe another fifty for the damage. Treatment cost. Bail, that is, if you ever do decide to bail her out…”
I polish off another drink. That is number five. Or is it six? They can’t seem to go down fast enough.
“Don’t you think you should take it easy on the booze, bud?”
“It’s too much. I can’t think.” Funny, I can think. It’s what I’m thinking about that I’m trying to avoid.
“Normal. Totally normal.” He drinks more of his beer and shakes his head. “I see clients do this all the time. But take it easy tonight, man. I need you to make some big decisions in the morning.” He slides a packet of police and hospital forms across the table. “You need to file these tomorrow morning and bail her out. She can’t sit in there forever, Vick. She is your wife after all.”
“My wife? I don’t even know who she is anymore, Rob.” I raised my pointer finger, telling the waiter to pour another drink in bar sign language. He tells me it’s my last one by signing back a one-finger throat slit, and fills my glass. “I’ll file them tomorrow, don’t worry. But I need time to think tonight.”
“You want me to pop by Vanessa’s to check on your little guy?”
“Please.” I can feel the booze now. Not quite strong enough to slur, but strong enough to make the world softer. Thank God.
He takes my hand and shakes it. “I’m sorry. This sucks. It just plain ol’ sucks. Sorry this happened to you, buddy.”
I nod. “Me, too.”
“Take a taxi home, would ya?”
Chapter Forty-eight
Cold rain pitter-pattered on my jacket. I didn’t take a cab. Didn’t drive either. I needed to walk. I splashed through puddles as I wound through downtown, all while Kraya sat in a cell somewhere, sitting idle in a stale orange jumpsuit. What is going through her head right now? What is she thinking? Better yet, what was she thinking?
Cars passed me, spraying waves to the curb. Everyone looked so busy. Some on their phones, others jamming to music. Some drivers spaced out, watching their windshield like a television set. How many others are going through tragedy? How many of these drivers are feeling pain? Probably not many. They all seem so numb and happy, sipping coffee or singing along to the radio.
I’d been walking long enough for my pants to be heavy with rainwater. A neon sign lured me across the sloppy road to the Paddy Whack Tavern, a place that looked as luxurious as a homeless shelter. On the plus side, it had drinks. Drinks I desperately needed to become as numb as those idiots driving next to me. I bummed a cigarette from a thick, short-haired gal out front. I couldn’t tell if she was a motorcycle chick or a lesbian… or both. I smoked, oh did I ever. She handed me a Marlboro red and half a pack of matches. It’d been too long since I’d had one of those things. My lungs hurt in such a fantastic, familiar burn. I stood outside with her for ten minutes, chatting and laughing under the small awning that shielded us from the rain. She snorted when she laughed, sometimes sending little smoke rings from her mouth. I snubbed my cig and went in after my breath tasted like weed whacker exhaust.
I ordered a bloody Mary, a coffee, and some chicken wings. It was late enough to want dinner now, but there was no way I could go home yet. The bloody tasted good. The chicken did not; all rubber wings and strings. The coffee was gross, too, but no one is showing up to this tavern to drink coffee. I slurped the bloody and looked at the police documents. I read the initial report and the drug analysis. It said she “appeared to be intoxicated as she was pulled from the vehicle. Further medical tests proved she was under the influence of heroin…” They also found “…a tarry substance consistent with the smell, texture, and feel of heroin in the trunk. Field tests confirm heroin. Needles. A tie-off tourniquet.” Geez! It’s all here. It’s been happening right under my nose.
I set the police packet on the battered wooden table and moved farther into the stack of documents. Next I see photos of the damage. A building, light pole, parked car, and a mailbox were all in her path. None survived. The report estimated four hundred thousand in damages, but that was some cop’s estimate. Rob told me they usually ballpark it. Farther into the stack was a letter from child services. Fuck, I never considered CPS. I read. Yadda, yadda, yadda, drugs in home, blah blah, we need to perform a home inspection to evaluate the safety of your child/children, yadda, blah, yadda. The rabbit hole just kept getting deeper.
I finished my bloody Mary and asked my waitress for another. My friendly waitress asked, “What are way celebratin’?” with a sweet Southern drawl unnatural to hear this far north. I just smile like an idiot. Despite my silence, she smiled back and told me she’d be “rot back” with my drink. I hope so.
I flipped to another set of pages from the DMV. A license forfeiture form and demand for insurance were at the top of that stack. “Kraya Louise Miller, your license has been hereby revoked by the state of Minnesota and will remain suspended until your hearing. If you have any questions, contact, blah, blah, blah.”
I pressed my fingers to my temples and closed my eyes.
Buzz! I didn’t look. Instead I grabbed my fresh bloody Mary and took three monster gulps. Who was texting me? Who was texting me tonight? Of all nights? I check my phone. Alexa Livingston. Awesome. Just what I need right now.
“Let’s chat.”
I typed back: “I’m in the middle of something, Alex. I’ll call you next week.” Another bite from the basket of wings. Yep, just as disgusting as the last.
Buzz!
“It’s been months since we’ve talked. I’d like to make you another offer.”
I sipped my gross coffee and typed back: “It’s a bad time.”
Almost immediately. Buzz!
It read, “$650,000.”
Nothing more in the text, just that number. The screen is blurry. I need more coffee, pronto. I was just starting to enjoy my buzz, too. I slapped myself and told the waitress to get me three glasses of water and another coffee. I have work to do, and Alex isn’t helping.
“Let’s talk next week, Alex.” I can’t dedicate any extra brain cells to this right now.
Then came: “$750,000”
Again, just a number. I wondered how much more I could tick up this dollar amount. Can I get her to a million?
“Final offer, Vick.”
That answers that question. I flipped the pages back to the damages sheet. It’s going to be expensive, Kraya. Why did you do this?
Seven hundred fifty thousand dollars. It’s even a lot of words. Seven. Hundred. Fifty. Thousand. Dollars. I’ll need at least four or five hundred thousand just to get through this mess.
“Final offer. Valid for twenty-four hours.”
Chapter Fou4ty-9i9e
The red dot moves on the map. Vick is a few blocks from me — how exiting! He stopped at that shithole saloon on Fourth. Poor Vick. What a day. I’ll take care of you. Let me take care of you! I bet you’ve had a lot to drink, too. My poor baby is soooooo stressed.
Now, Alex, this is it. Send the offer. I’m so excited I can barely see. I type “Final offer. Valid for 24 hours.” It isn’t about the money. It’s about timing. He needs something right now. He needs someone to be there for him. My body is that conduit. Me, Vick! Me!