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Something about
the way the keys skittered as he tossed them on the sofa table sent that
old familiar jangle of anxiety and regret crackling up Dick’s spine
and into the still-wary, reptilian part of his brain.
Shit! Jane!
But of course Jane wasn’t here now.
Nor would she be anytime soon – ever, if Dick had his way about
it. This was insane.
Jane in the nut-bin for months now, and he could still smell
fucking Chanel.
He was always
torn as he remembered the first time he had smelled that perfume, mixed
with the heat and sweat of their clothes-ripping, furniture-skidding
lovemaking. Jane had been
everything he had dreamed of in a lover; more than he had even imagined.
And even better, she had been the perfect partner with her
clothes on, too. Brilliant,
quick, and witty, Jane had been Dick’s best friend.
It couldn’t have been better.
For a while.
Dick could see
the door to Nell’s room and the bright primary colors he and Jane had
painted in her father’s former study.
He tried to remember when the “dark days” had started.
Was it when she had learned she was pregnant? Or was it the year before that, when Eldon had finally lost
the last of his few marbles and Jane, as the only surviving family
member, had moved him to the Alzheimer’s center?
Dick couldn’t remember. That
was the way it was with hell, he thought.
Nobody could get sucked into a lake of burning fire and blazing
brimstone without remembering it. It
just didn’t happen like that. But
they say if you put a live turkey in a pan and bring the water
temperature up real gradually, you can boil that sucker and he’ll
never even see it coming. That’s
the way it had been with Jane. It
wasn’t there, and then it was
When was the
first time she had bitched at him about throwing his keys on the antique
cherry sofa table? He
couldn’t remember. At
first it was so out of character he just dismissed it.
Then it got lost in a swirl of little things that didn’t count
squat one at a time, but added up to a major malfunction before he even
knew what had happened. The
great sex was a cover for so long.
The fighting would be forgiven and forgotten in the desperate,
soul-draining clenching of their coupling.
He thought at first that the re-ignition of that un-maintainable
fire was fueled by Jane’s remorse and hope.
But it wasn’t long until he recognized that, at least for him,
it was the drug that dulled his mind to the constant aching pain of the
loss of his friend, his “normal” life, and his certainty and freedom
from fear.
When had she
first started questioning his loyalty?
My god, how could anyone who wrung a man out like Jane did think
that he would want or seek more? It
was ludicrous. But it was
real. The traffic report had somehow become the barometer of his
well-being. Let I-405 be
backed up and Dick was fucked! Or
fucking, according to Jane. That
started before she was pregnant. He
was sure of that. Because
that was the first thing he asked himself when she told him that Sunday
that she was pregnant. Could
this be the explanation for her sudden mood swings and accusations?
No, it wasn’t that simple, and it had started before that. In fact, for a while things had actually gotten better.
Little Nell was good for Jane; seemed to soften her.
Dick never saw the wildness in Jane’s eyes when Nell was lying
in her arms, looking up at her mother.
Not at first. He allowed himself to believe it would all be OK.
Sure, Jane had a few bad months there, no doubt about that.
But hey, her father was drooling all over himself.
She was living in her father’s house and boxing up his things
and painting the dark oak wainscot in his old study powder-freaking blue.
That had to screw with somebody’s head, didn’t it?
Dick realized he
had been sitting in the chair without moving for a long time. Twenty minutes? An
hour? It was starting to
get dark. He had dropped
Nell off at Tiffany’s birthday party over an hour ago.
The three hours he had looked forward to having to himself were
slipping through his fingers without his paying much attention.
He sat up, surprised at the numbness in his butt and the tingling
in his feet. Dinner. That’d be a good thing.
Dinner and a shot of MacCallan.
Not necessarily in that order.
He found the dining room light switch and flicked it on as he
shuffled into the kitchen, legs still tingling.
His slacks were wrinkled and he had a nagging boxer wedgie that
needed a good tug. He
slipped off his jacket and tossed it over the back of the dining room
chair. Crack! His
lethargic synapses suddenly fired in a knee-jerk reaction to the
still-expected outburst from the non-existent Jane:
“That’s my father’s chair, shithead!
You think since you’re fucking his daughter in his old room you
might at least let him have his chair?”
His heart
pounded as the adrenaline slammed into his coronary arteries.
Had he actually heard her? Even
as one part of his brain tried to send the calming message that Jane was
locked away, he snatched the jacket off the chair, jamming his pinkie in the
process. His other arm flew
up, bent at the elbow to block the expected blow, (or the flying object,
depending on today’s mood). The
uncharacteristic quiet, as he cringed in anticipation of some kind of
madness, reminded him that this part of his life was over.
Jane was involuntarily committed.
“Paranoid schizophrenia” was the latest diagnosis.
So many big words for FUBAR.
And so she had been. Fucked
up? You bet.
And certainly unrecognizable when at her worst.
But gone now. Gone for good. So
why did her perfume still hang around just at the edge of consciousness?
Try to sniff it and nothing, but forget about it and there it was
on the edge of everything. Crazy.
Dick flipped
through the microwave-able options in the freezer and settled on Hungry
Man Salisbury Steak. Eight
minutes ‘til dinner, no cabernet required.
And he was going to need his strength.
Nell would be running on cake, ice cream, and candy when he
picked her up, and bedtime wouldn’t be 8 pm tonight.
Not likely. He
wouldn’t get away with a cursory flight through Where the Wild
Things Are. Probably
have to toss in a little Horton, and maybe even some Goodnight
Moon. He had to admit
that single parenting had never been in his plans.
Hell, parenting at all was something they had hardly discussed.
But here she was, and there Jane was, thank god, and the powers
that be had declared him the sole custodian.
That was just the way things were.
He poured the scotch – just two fingers – and returned to the
living room. As he passed
by the foot of the oak stairway he caught the scent again.
Stronger. No way,
man. No way.
Get hold of yourself here, big Dick!
(He smiled in spite of himself at the memory of Jane’s play
with his name AND the good fellow himself).
Better get that third finger in the glass and catch up on the
local news. It’ll be all
Maurice Sendak and Dr. Seuss before you know it.
He instinctively
picked up his keys and hung them on the key rack as he headed to the TV.
Grabbing the remote from the top of the cabinet, Dick sagged back
into the chair and sighed deeply. God,
the remote. Remember that one? Out
of the blue one Saturday afternoon, Jane had nearly blinded him in his
right eye.
“How you doin’,
baby?”
“OK, I guess.
We landed a huge new client yesterday, and Stevens wants me to be
point guy.”
“That’ll
probably keep you late a lot, huh?”
“I don’t
really know, Jane, but it could. It
could also be the one that leads to a partnership.
Something we need to talk about for sure.
Right now I’m just blasted.
Would you hand me the remote?
I want to check the game.”
“Sure,
honey!”
He still
didn’t know how he had missed the tone in her voice when she asked
about the late work. Lulled
into a false sense of security by the “baby”, he guessed.
When the remote came it was moving just a little slower than a
Randy Johnson fastball. It
caught him on the upper lid and the bridge of the nose.
The combination of surprise, pain, and outrage was an icy,
blinding blackness that became a raging, spreading fire.
He threw his arms up to block whatever might come next, but she
had gone around behind him, grabbing his hair and wrenching his head
back so hard he didn’t know if the hair would come out, or a piece of
scalp would tear loose, or if the back of the chair would suddenly
flatten like a hydraulic failure in the dentist’s chair, leaving him
off balance, vulnerable, arms flailing, throat and genitals exposed, and
oh-fuck-oh-dear what comes next?
What came next
was her voice. Or something
like her voice, anyway. A
hot, choking, spittle-spraying blast so near to his throbbing orbit that
he couldn’t even think to strike out or defend himself.
The fury and passion in that alien voice blotted out his reason
as she threatened him.
“Hey Mr.
Dick-sucker, lookie here! Wifey
isn’t real pleased about picking up your shit and doing your dishes
and washing your jizz-crusted shorts while you play grabass with Susan
at the office over some new account.
You’re fucking with the wrong Marine, boy.”
This was
followed by a fierce yank and another searing blast of pain in his neck
and scalp, and a crunching that he feared was the sound of permanent
damage; then she was gone. The
front door stood open. Later,
with time for reflection, Dick couldn’t say why he had followed her
out the door. Was it to see if she had become Linda Blair, all green skin
and carbuncles? Or if she
had somehow acquired a trained gorilla to help her maul scalps and throw
remotes? He never knew. What he did know was that the right front wheel of the
BMW cracked as she gunned it up over the curb and straight for him as he
ran across the front lawn. The
right front fender hit him in the thigh and tossed him like a rag doll
into the driveway where he landed on his hip.
The searing pain temporarily blotted out sound and sight.
It occurred to Dick that he should get up and run, just in case
she came back to finish the job, but he had regained enough hearing to
recognize the squeal of her tires around the corner at Maple and
Torrance and he knew she was gone.
He looked at his leg, marveled at the odd angle, then forgot
to flinch as his newly-unconscious head thumped once on the concrete
drive and all was dark.
Dick had
traveled a lot in his work. As
the news theme blared from the surround-sound speakers, and the talking
heads filled the big screen, he marveled that no matter where he went,
the local news at five sounded and looked and felt the same:
Sound bites from stand-up politicians.
Local violence. Sports
and Weather. Local interest
stories. All sandwiched
into a format so familiar and so repetitious that even having turned it
on with the intent of watching, the program soon became background to
Dick’s ongoing memories; his continued amazement at how completely
alien the plot twist had been.
Who’d have thought?
After the car
incident there was no way to hide the dirty laundry anymore.
Hell, Mrs. Pettibone had called 911 and half the fucking
cul-de-sac had watched the paramedics poke him with IVs and splint his
fractured leg. His neighbor
Judy had gotten there before the Medics left for the emergency room and
had taken Nell over to her place, but not before grabbing Dick’s arm,
stopping the gurney and pleading with him, mascara running down her
cheeks, to do something, anything, before Jane hurt herself, or Nell, or
him. Then realizing that
Dick was already pretty well hurt, she wiped her face and straightened
up and said she’d see him at the hospital.
The police
almost beat Dick to room T3 at Sacred Heart’s emergency room.
The cop was a nice enough guy, but Dick’s plan to cover for
Jane and try to salvage a normal life went down the toilet pretty quick.
Jane had stuffed a guardrail not a mile from the house, and
though unhurt, was in custody at the west precinct.
Dick’s efforts to downplay the incident at the house were
wasted as the officer assured him he had enough witness accounts to take
a charge of vehicular assault, maybe even attempted murder, to the
prosecutor. He wanted to
know if Jane had access to assets:
how much money could she get her hands on?
Dick told him that he was pretty sure that with lines of credit
and funds in joint accounts that she could probably have 80 or 100 grand
in a day. This seemed to
upset the cop, and he took a form from a leather binder.
He said that Dick was going to have to request a restraining
order; Something to make
sure that Jane couldn’t come around until she got some help – got
herself under control a bit. He
played the whole thing off on Nell, and Dick couldn’t very well argue
about that, now could he? He
really had no idea what Jane was capable of at this point.
Nobody did.
She was out in
19 hours. She beat Dick’s
release from the hospital by almost a full day.
When Dick got home the house was all picked up and there was a
note on the table. “Dinner
in the frig. Nuke it.
Don’t order out. I’ll
bring Nell over in the morning. Get
some rest. Judy”. The restraining order was there, too. Signed by the judge. Jane
was not to approach within 100 yards of either Nell or Dick.
The hearing was set for Wednesday afternoon, the day after
tomorrow. So much for work.
His head hurt anyway. The
black eye was already shrinking in size and turning from purple/black to
a really disgusting yellow/brown.
It was a great time to be off work.
The beep of the
microwave brought Dick back to the present, and he pushed out of the
chair to get his Salisbury Steak. Carrying
the foil-covered tray on a cutting board, he passed by the stairs again
on his way back to the chair. The
whiff of Chanel was still there, but he dismissed it with a wry smile
and a shake of his head. He
had to go get Nell in about half an hour.
He’d better pound this meal and forget about a nap.
How much time had he lost in the last few months reflecting on
the crazy days? Nell never
asked about Mommy, and Dick was relieved.
What was he supposed to say, anyway?
Mommy had nearly killed Daddy with a can of ravioli?
On the courthouse steps, no less?
Thank god he didn’t have to tell her about that one.
None of them, probably, now.
Ever.
No one could
prove that Jane had stopped by the market on the way to the hearing with
the intent to purchase a potential murder weapon.
It looked like dinner to most folks.
Still, it WAS the only thing in the bag.
No salad-makings or bread to go with.
No bottle of Chianti. Just
a family-size can of cheese Ravioli in a nylon-web shopping bag. It looked strange, but not threatening. Still, he should have realized that Jane was too loose - too
cordial - on the courthouse steps; All apologies and promises of
counseling; Saying she
hoped to see Nellie-girl right after getting things all straightened out
in the hearing. Dick was
cautious, but so willing to believe that the woman he had loved - the
quick-witted, funny, ardent lover of his dreams - had just been delayed
in some strange wayside; that he didn’t even think twice when she
dropped her sunglasses on the step;
Hardly even noticed the lunacy in her eyes as he rose up with the
glasses in his hand, and the ravioli caught him full on the temple.
That had been
almost 3 years ago. Nellie
was almost four. The
hearing was forgotten, of course, and Jane had been held without bail.
The court ordered a psychological battery and Jane had been
committed. Since then, lots
of therapy, lots of drugs, a lot of visits, and still as far as Dick
could tell, no Jane. The
lights were on, sort of, but the person that was home was no longer
Jane. She looked like Jane,
for the most part. There
were times when she would laugh or brighten for just a second, and Dick
would feel his world tilt, and his heart begin to hope, and then the
dullness would descend like a translucent curtain and she would be gone
again. He hadn’t even
bothered to visit for over a year.
What was the point? Time
to move on.
The breaking
news bulletin came on while he was rinsing his glass and dropping the
last of the TV Dinner into the kitchen trash.
He reached for the remote and pushed the “VOL+” button as he
left the kitchen. The
voiceover was something about “an orderly dead and two of three inmates
recaptured after an escape at the Eastern States Psychiatric
Hospital.” This time the
scent of the perfume was stronger as the oak staircase creaked.
With a strange certainty Dick knew that this time it wouldn’t
be a remote. There
wouldn’t be any canned ravioli at the Rogers’ house tonight.
He scarcely noticed the shotgun as she raised it to hip level.
He did, this time, notice the strange sparkle in her green eyes. She was so unlike his old Jane.
The last thing he heard was her new, not-quite-Jane voice as she
called out, “Hello, big Dick!”
This
time the flash, and the warmth, and the darkness didn’t surprise him
hardly at all.
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