by Meg Lelvis
“Okay, keep in touch.” He walked across the spacious foyer and let himself out the door. Jack felt upbeat. Great sex. Good breakfast. Terri was forthcoming about Brooke’s connection to Kaplan, and confided in Jack what she and her family endured the past two years. His conscience nagged him.
Why was he risking his job, or at best a demotion, by sleeping with a woman connected to an investigation? Not to mention his integrity and moral fiber? But he was human. He too had suffered since his tragedy. Didn’t he deserve minimal pleasure?
. . . . .
The rest of the weekend loomed before him, a vast wasteland. On the drive home, Jack thought about yesterday’s progress on the case. Moose said when he talked to the cat lady again, he noticed a fifth of bourbon on an end table in the living room. Slurring her words, she offered him a drink, and when he declined, she continued sipping an amber liquid in a highball glass. She wasn’t sure if she really saw a figure at the murder house, and did not wish to make an official statement. Moose thought the encounter was a waste of time and put her and her cat to rest. Besides, the damn thing rubbed against his ankles leaving orange hairs on his new pants.
The team did not talk to Derek or his girlfriend, Amy, since they were out of town for the weekend according to Dan Reed, their boss at the Olive Garden.
. . . . .
Jack spent the rest of Saturday catching up on minor tasks, including updating his calendar.
Joan Ford called on Friday and said Dr. Clemons wanted to see Jack Monday if possible, as well as Thursday of the coming week. Jack reluctantly agreed, convincing himself that getting this whole therapy thing over was in his best interests.
He considered calling Terri, but convinced himself to wait a few days. He didn’t want to admit to Clemons he’d seen her. He was uncomfortable with the idea, but damn, she was hard to resist.
When dispatch called regarding two burglaries, Jack foisted them on Tilford. He had no family in town, so intruding on his weekend was no big deal.
Sunday evening Jack’s cell buzzed, interrupting his dinner of Guinness and pizza as he watched a recording of Breaking Bad. He reached over Boone’s head and read the screen. Tommy.
“Yeah, Tommy.” Jack pressed the pause button on the remote and put the phone on speaker.
“Hey, Jack. Doin’ okay?”
“Not too bad. How’s Ma?”
“Full of piss and vinegar, the usual. In the rehab place, hating every minute of it.”
Jack chuckled. “Bad food, bad service, staff doesn’t know what the hell they’re doing.”
“You got it. Listen, Jack. Got something to run by ya. That job in Janesville’s gone. Got filled a few days ago. But there’s another one here in Bridgeport. It’d be a step down, homicide detective, but more exciting than that backwater town you’re in. I’ll send ya the link from the department.”
Jack’s interest piqued. “Okay, like to read it.”
“Really? Thought you’d say bullshit and hang up. Something happen down there?”
He knows me well, thought Jack, visualizing Tom’s chiseled face, similar to Jack’s own, with black wavy hair. Maybe flecked with gray by now. “The job’s gettin’ me down, the whole place is too laid back. Tell ya more some other time. Gotta finish eating.”
“Gotcha. And Jack, I know what tomorrow is. Ma reminded me. We’ll be thinkin’ about ya.”
“Thanks, buddy.” As if he could forget that day.
Chapter 29
Jack dreaded anniversaries. His attempts to forget them, to busy himself with inane activities never worked. He crawled into bed, thinking his appointment with Clemons tomorrow might be beneficial, even though he fought against talking about the past.
Several hours later Jack tossed and writhed, the sheets winding around his legs.
A green meadow with daffodils, a brown pony, a small girl running toward it, sun-kissed hair flying in the breeze. Daddy, look, can I have a pony for my birthday? One like that? Come back, Elizabeth, come back. No, don’t go. Pony and girl fade, smaller, smaller. Stop— Bursts of yellow, orange fireballs light up the sky—
“No!” Jack yelled and bolted awake. He struggled to unwind the sheets. Boone whimpered and nuzzled against him. He hugged the big dog’s neck. “Sorry, buddy.”
Drenched in sweat, Jack staggered into the bathroom and splashed cold water on his face. “Shit. Thought the fuckin’ nightmares were over. Shit.” The face in the mirror stared at him, lines by the mouth pulling the cheeks down to a web of wrinkles carved around his chin.
“Look like hell.” The wall clock read 5:00. Damn, morning already. Never get back to sleep.
Jack stumbled into the shower; the water surged over him for what seemed half an hour. He hoped to cleanse himself back to normalcy, as if that would ever happen.
Dawn dragged a shroud of gloom as it crept into the air. Swollen gray clouds crowded the sky, but no rain fell. It felt hot and soupy, even though the sun went missing.
. . . . .
Within two hours Jack walked into the station. Jill called to him as he approached her desk.
“Just got a call about a home invasion last night on Crestwood Drive near Smith Elementary. Night cops responded, got their report here.”
Jack grunted. “I’ll get Moose or Hector on it, they can get the report.”
Jill eyed Jack’s crisp white shirt and smiled. “You’ve looked pretty spiffy lately, Jack. Anything going on I should know about?”
Jack rolled his eyes. “Spiffy? Who says that anymore? You’re seeing things.”
She reached for her ringing phone. “Whatever you say. Have a great day.” That knowing smile again. Damn, she could be irritating.
Ten minutes later when Jack walked in the break room, Denise and Kathleen were helping themselves to coffee.
“Bailey, have a nice weekend?” Denise looked him over and smiled.
“Not really. Why?” He poured himself a cup.
Kathleen said, “Just being polite, Lieutenant.” Her blond hair was pulled back in a bun.
“Since when is Williams polite?”
Denise laughed. “Say, is that a new cologne you’re wearing? Musk?”
“Cologne’s for wimps. Now if you ladies will excuse me, some of us have work to do.” He nodded at Kathleen. “You should be more picky about your friends.”
“Have a good one, Bailey,” Denise said as he walked out of the room. He heard them giggling.
Just what I need, he thought. Women at work noticing my clothes. Gotta be damn careful.
By mid-morning Moose was following up on the home invasion, Hector and Tilford were on their way to talk to Derek Walls, and Jack fielded several calls to patrol cops; they’d handle the ubiquitous fender benders, shoplifting, and public nuisances.
He sat at his desk, but focus on work eluded him. In spite of job-related distractions, the day was veiled in a thin layer of sadness. Sorrow crept into his bones, into the seams of his clothes.
Unwelcome memories fluttered around like a trapped moth. Today he could not compartmentalize her, couldn’t distance her, his little girl, his Elizabeth. Never saw her fifth birthday, only days away.
Her blue eyes, Jack’s eyes, pleading for a birthday pony. He’d get her ten ponies, if only— Don’t think.
Can’t unring a bell. Why the hell did they take that fucking trip? His fault. He’d heard the goddamn warnings, but they were vague; nothing definite. Not a chance, they’d be fine—
Jack jumped at the ringing phone. “Shit.” He took a couple deep breaths and looked at the screen. “Yeah, Hector.”
“Jack, we’re
at the Olive Garden. Talked to Derek and Amy, they’re both working. Amy came up with another name, another girl she thinks went out with Kaplan a few times. Says it wasn’t more than a year ago. The name’s Abby Sivika.” Hector spelled her last name for Jack.
Jack drained his cold coffee. “Sounds Czech. Finnish? Whatever. See if you can find her.”
“Yeah, Amy thinks she moved back to Schulenberg, maybe cuz of Kaplan, she doesn’t know.”
“Schulenberg? Where the hell is that?”
“Jeez, Jack, you’ve lived here six years. Never heard of it?”
Jack grimaced. “Just tell me already. Can’t keep track of every one-horse town around here.”
“On the way to New Braunfels. Sorry, San Antonio. You heard of that? Less than 100 miles, about one and a half, two hours, depending on the route.”
“Well, what are you waiting for? Get your asses in gear and go.” Jack stood and stretched. “And Hector, this’ll give you and Tilford quality time to bond.”
“Screw you, Jack.” Hector hung up.
. . . . .
Two hours later, Jack drove out of town headed for Clemons’s office. He thought of Terri as he passed by the street to her house, but his thoughts kept floating back to the days when grief ate him alive. Elizabeth, his first and only child. He was forty when he and Karen married, his third time, her first. At forty two he became a father to this magic, golden child. Elizabeth Maureen Bailey, her middle name after his mother. She’d be sixteen today if— Almost the same age as Brooke when that Kaplan bastard ruined her life. He allowed himself to remember his daughter as she was, beautiful like her mother, the same porcelain skin, azure almond-shaped eyes. After ten years, Jack could not look at little girls. He avoided Moose’s invitations for cook-outs, mainly because the sight of his youngest daughter pierced his heart. He resisted the temptation to turn around and ditch Clemons. Soldier on, he told himself, as his old man used to say. Soldier on, be a man. Damn easy to say, Pa. Easy to say.
. . . . .
At 3:05, Jack loosened his collar and settled into Clemon’s soft leather sofa. “Wish you had something stronger,” he said in response to the doc’s offer of water.
The doctor smiled. “I could do Pepsi, Sprite, or lemonade.”
“Lemonade sounds good. I’ll pretend it’s a vodka sour.”
Clemons poured two cold cans of lemonade into large tumblers and added ice. He handed one glass to Jack and set the other on a side table.
“Thanks, doc.” Jack took a gulp. The drink tasted tangy, refreshing.
“How have things been since you were here last week, Jack?”
“Okay I guess.” He waited. “Not a good day. It’s my daughter’s birthday.” Odd speaking of her in the present.
“I see.” Clemons crossed his legs. “Those anniversaries are tough. I’d like to hear about her.”
Jack was afraid of that. The last thing he wanted to talk about. “She’d be sixteen today.”
After waiting several seconds, Clemons asked, “She was your only child?”
Jack cleared his throat. “Yeah. We were gonna try for another one, maybe a boy this time, but— never happened..”
“How old was she when you lost her?”
“Almost five. Nine days short of her birthday.” Jack watched his hand as it rubbed against the smooth leather armrest as if he were studying its texture. “I had another nightmare last night—thought they were almost over.”
“Do you recall it?”
Jack stopped feeling the armrest and brushed the side of his hair back. “We were on our trip, the last trip before—there was a pony in a green field. Elizabeth was running toward it, I yelled at her to come back. She wanted the pony for her birthday.” He coughed. “She loved ponies. Been begging for one. So excited.” He took a drink. “But she didn’t come back and then—then everything blew up, exploded, and I woke up.” Jack’s heart raced. He panted. “Shit, doc, is this supposed to help?”
“In the long run, yes, Jack, it’ll help. This is leading into the exposure therapy we discussed last week. Did you think of any more questions about the process?”
“No. I get that you have to go through pain and confront it—can’t go around it. But it’s a bitch to think about going there.”
“That’s a common reaction, Jack, and we’ll take it slowly. Will you lean back and take two deep breaths for me?” Clemons waited. A siren wailed in the silence. “That’s good. Breathe in through your nose for three seconds, then let it out through your mouth.”
Jack did as Clemons directed and felt better. He sat up and gulped a couple swallows of lemonade. Thoughts of a Marlboro and Jamesons raced through his mind. Don’t you wish, he told himself.
“Tell me about that trip, Jack. I gather it was where your trauma occurred?”
“Yeah. The trip, the fatal trip.” He paused. “I told you my grandparents came over from Ireland, around Belfast. Still have relatives over there, mostly in small towns.” He reached for his lemonade and drained the glass.
He held it up. “Need more.”
Clemons rose, took the tumbler, filled it with ice and lemonade, and returned it to Jack.
“Thanks, doc.” He took a drink. Better watch himself; don’t want to run to the john. “So, Karen loved to travel, been to England and other places, and wanted to visit Ireland, Where your roots are, Jack, she’d say.” He cleared his throat. “When our seventh anniversary was coming up, her parents wanted to give us a trip to Ireland. We went back and forth about it, was Elizabeth too young, blah blah. Finally decided to go for it.” Jack felt waves of anger rising. “You have no idea how many times I’ve wanted to kill myself, yes, kill myself for taking that motherfuckin’ trip. It destroyed everything I loved. My life’s been crap ever since.”
Clemons gazed at him. “Take a couple deep breaths, Jack.”
He complied, stared at the floor, and continued, a monotone. “You might guess it was a plane crash—wasn’t though. We got there okay, stayed with cousins around Belfast and Dunmurry and several other towns. We rented a car. Took awhile to get the hang of driving on the wrong side, but turned out fine.”
Jack paused and made himself think of fond, cherished memories. He told Clemons of car rides through lush green countryside, rolling hills, shining blue lakes, rocky cliffs, grazing sheep, with occasional light rain. He remembered Karen and Elizabeth marveling at stone bridges, medieval churches, cobblestone streets. I can see why they call this the Emerald Isle, Jack, Karen said over and over. An idyllic, poetic season,...walking through the parables of sunlight and the legends of the green chapels. She quoted the Dylan Thomas poem time and again. How could he be this lucky? The simple answer: he couldn’t.
Jack felt his heart racing, he found himself panting. He stood and walked to the giant windows and looked out at rooftops and trees, buildings in the distance. “All those people out there. I’ll bet none of them have been through the living hell I have. Sorry, doc, I hate self-pity. Not who I am.”
“Nothing to be sorry about, Jack. Feel whatever you damn well please.”
Jack turned and looked at Clemons, surprised at his departure from the Queen’s English.
The doc smiled. Jack sat again, reached for his drink and took a sip.
Clemons said, “Ireland’s a beautiful country, but I’ve never been to the northern part; just the Republic. Sounds like a strong family community you have there.”
“Yeah, great people.” Jack nodded. “We headed west to visit an uncle who lives in another nice little town, the brochures call them ‘charming’, of course. Not a word in my vocabulary, but gotta admit, they are that, all right. Anyway, it was gonna be great becaus
e there was a special carnival in town, Elizabeth would enjoy it. I heard the warnings off and on. You know, like if you go to Israel, people say, watch out for shit. I never paid attention, even though two weeks before, it happened in Banbridge south of Belfast.”
“What happened, Jack?”
He took a deep breath. “Ah—sorry, doc.” He stood. “Can’t do this, can’t do it.”
. . . . .
That evening Jack took Boone for a walk around the neighborhood. The sun hid behind gray clouds all day, and now in the west pink-orange rays mingled with edges of smoky billows and made silhouettes of oak treetops. A chorus of cicadas filled the air. Jack felt sticky, but he needed to be outdoors to clear his head.
He thought about his embarrassment with Clemons earlier, he damn near bolted from the office, overtaken by anxiety. Laid back as usual, the doc assured Jack everything was okay, and he made good progress in spite of his quitting mid-stream in the session. He barely remembered the drive home, or heavy traffic on I-10. He sure as hell was in no hurry to go back for more therapy in three days.
Holding a plastic bag, Jack bent down to rid his neighbor’s lawn of Boone’s call to nature.
“Good boy.” Jack tied the bag. “I guess.”
They walked for another fifteen minutes. Boone panted, tongue hanging out, saliva dripping.
Sweat rolled down Jack’s face, his shirt clung to his back. “Time to go in, buddy.”
Baumgartner lay in wait as they approached the driveway. “Yoo hoo, Mr. Bailey. Boone’s a lucky boy. He had two walks today.” She stood like a sentry by his front porch, hand on her ample hip.
She mopped her face with a hanky, her gray hair in strands, glued to her cheeks.
Her ruddy face glowed. “Are you going to be around next weekend?”
“That’s a loaded question, Baumgartner. Why?”