Nutcase (25 page)

Nobody moved. Dead silence. I watched the minute hand on the wall clock make a full rotation.

“You first,” one of the men said, leaning back in his chair, arms crossed.

I blinked. “Excuse me?”

“You come in here expecting us to spill our guts,” he said. “Maybe you should tell us a little about yourself. I kinda get the impression you’re not too happy.”

“Shut up, Larry,” the elderly woman said.

Mona looked at me. “He’s right, Kate. This would be a perfect opportunity to unload all your pent-up hostility.”

I felt my jaw go slack. “I don’t feel hostile.”

Mona shrugged. “Okay, stay in denial.”

My face felt hot. I shot her a dark look. Mona had been watching Dr. Phil for years—she recorded all of his shows—and had become an armchair psychologist. She took careful notes, not only so she could advise my patients behind my back, but because she dreamed that one day I, too, would have a TV show.

I shifted uncomfortably in my seat and clasped my hands together in my lap. “Well, I admit I’ve been a little annoyed. My husband is a firefighter, and—” I was interrupted by applause from the group. “Thank you,” I said. “I’m very proud of him,” I added. I decided not to mention we were divorced, that it had sort of been an accident since I’d intended to stop the proceedings. Too complicated.

“Anyway, it’s very stressful at times because I know his job is dangerous. In fact, he was injured six weeks ago.” The group murmured a sound of sympathy. “I’m happy to say he has fully recovered.”

Mona raised her hand. “What Kate probably won’t tell you is how she took care of him on top of holding down a full-time job. It wasn’t easy for her.”

“Is that what made you angry?” a young woman asked.

I shook my head. “No, I was happy to do it. But I sort of hoped we would have more time together. I wasn’t counting on every fireman within a twenty-five-mile radius using my house—I mean
our
house—as an after-work meeting place. Believe me; I’ve picked up my share of beer cans and peanut hulls.”

Chuckles from the group. “I’m trying to work through my resentment,” I said, “by reminding myself how much my husband loves his work. I’m sure it was hard on him, sitting home day after day. And it meant a lot to him that his buddies cared enough to visit so often. I know it didn’t mean he loved me less.”

Several heads nodded. Mona beamed.

I took a deep breath and was surprised how much better I felt. “But please,” I said. “I don’t want to hog the floor. Would someone else like to share?”

A woman who appeared to be in her mid- to late forties slid forward on her chair. She looked nervous. “My name is Sarah-Margaret,” she said, voice trembling. “I attend St. Francis, and I heard our church was offering this group. As I’ve shared with the others, I’m going through a divorce. Nobody in my family gets divorced,” she added, “on account of we’re all Catholic. But my husband—he’s Catholic, too—doesn’t seem to care that he’s committing a mortal sin by shacking up with some woman half his age. So, yes, I’ve been very angry.”

She pulled a tissue from her purse and dabbed her eyes. “But I finally realized that, like Ruth said, I’ve only been hurting myself.” She shrugged. “That’s all I have to say.”

“Thank you, Sarah-Margaret,” I said gently, giving her a warm smile. “Divorce is hard,” I added, since I’d been there. I looked at the man sitting next to her. He was casually but neatly dressed.

“I’m Ben.” He gave a small wave. “Also going through a divorce,” he said. He gave a rueful smile. “There seems to be a lot of it going around.”

It was Hal’s turn. “Hal Horton,” he said, and pointed to the patch over his pocket. “I own a tire company. Some of my customers can be a real pain in the ass. As long as everything is going well and my customers like their service, I don’t hear anything. Most of them don’t bother to say thank you, know what I mean? But if somebody is unhappy, they rake me over the coals. I had it out with the last guy who complained.”

“He broke the man’s nose,” the bearded guy said.

Hal frowned at him. “I was getting to that part, okay? How about you mind your own friggin’ business and let me tell my story?”

“Could we please not curse?” Sarah-Margaret said. “We are, after all, in the Lord’s house.”

Hal looked at her as if she had the word
idiot
written on her forehead.

I glanced at the wall clock. Only ten minutes had passed.

“I punched the guy in the nose,” Hal said. “He pressed charges. My wife told me to do something about my temper or she was going to hit the road.” He paused and stretched. “Anyway, Ruth said we needed to keep a journal and write down what triggers our anger,” he added.

“Have you found that helpful?” I asked.

“Yeah,” Hal said. “My trigger is bitchy customers.” Several people laughed.

I wondered if Hal was serious about the class or merely taking it because his wife had threatened to leave.

After a moment, he shrugged. “I guess I’m most likely to get angry if I’m tired or hungry,” he finally admitted.

Sarah-Margaret raised her hand. “I suggested to Hal that he keep protein bars in his desk. Also, I’ve started walking an hour every day. It has really helped me with stress and fatigue.”

Hal gave a grunt. “Sarah-Margaret is our star pupil,” he said, sarcasm ringing loud in his tone. “Which is why I wonder how come she keeps coming,” he added.

Sarah-Margaret pressed her lips together in irritation. “There’s no need to be rude, Hal.”

“I think Hal would rather punch people in the nose,” the bearded man said.

Hal flipped him off.

“Oh, that’s real mature,” Larry said. I looked his way. “I’m Larry, as you’ve probably guessed. I don’t feel like sharing tonight.”

“That’s fine.” I chose to ignore Hal’s bad behavior. Some people liked being a bully, and I suspected Hal was one of them. If it were my group, I might have tried to work with him, but I admit I was just trying to get to dinner.

The older woman with the walker spoke. “My name is Bea. I think it’s real special that you decided to share your personal problems,” she said in a tone that suggested otherwise, “but I paid good money for this class, and I’m not interested in hearing about them.”

Mona and I exchanged “uh-oh” looks. “And you have every right to feel that way,” I said, thinking it best to validate her feelings and move on. She was rough around the edges. Her face was unmade and dotted with age spots. Her gray hair fell to her shoulders in no particular style. She wore a denim dress and tattered white sneakers.

“Would you like to share, Bea?” I asked.

“Yeah. I’m here because my daughter-in-law is a bitch.” She indicated the professionally dressed young woman beside her.

“I resent that remark!” the woman said. “How dare you.”

Bea shrugged. “You can resent it all you like, Sandra, but you’re still a bitch.”

Sarah-Margaret raised her hand. “Could we
please
not use foul language in our Father’s house?”

“Shut up, you little wimp,” Bea said, and looked my way. “I moved in with Sandra and my son six months ago because I’ve been having trouble getting around. Bad knees,” she added. “My daughter-in-law makes my life miserable.”

Sandra looked at me. “Trust me; she’s fully capable of being miserable on her own. The only reason my husband and I let her move in is because none of her other children would put up with her.”

“That’s a damn lie!” Bea said, grabbing her walker and pulling herself to her feet. “My kids love me. The
reason
I live with you and Brandon is because you have the biggest house and I don’t have to use the stairs.”

“Brandon is the poor sucker who lives with them,” Larry said, rolling his eyes. “He made them come here because they were driving him up the wall.”

Bea ignored him. “And my son is working his ass off trying to pay for that house because my daughter-in-law is selfish and materialistic.” She turned to Sandra. “Let me tell you something, young lady. Brandon could have looked under any rock in Atlanta and found somebody better than you.”

Sandra bolted to her feet as well and planted her hands on her hips. “Well, I—”

“Hold it!” I said, cutting off Sandra’s response. Things were quickly getting out of hand. The two had anger down to a T. It seemed that it was up to me to manage it. “Perhaps it would be a good idea if both of you calmed down and took a deep breath.”

“You’re rude and obnoxious,” Sandra said to Bea, ignoring me. “All you do is watch game shows while Brandon and I support you. Your room is a pigsty. Living with you is like living with Satan’s daughter.” Sandra looked at me. “She keeps a gun under her pillow, even though she knows Brandon and I don’t approve.”

“Deep breath!” I said loudly.

“Maybe it’s time I let you have a good look at my gun!” Bea said, snatching a pistol from her pocketbook and aiming it at her daughter-in-law.

Fear hit me like a brick. “No!” I yelled, jumping up as everybody in the group ducked. Sandra screamed; Hal was up and running with lightning speed. Mona and I made a mad dive toward Bea, trying to wrestle the gun from her hand. Hal grasped her from behind, and Mona gave her wrist a karate chop. I pulled the pistol free.

Somehow, my finger accidentally hit the trigger, and a deafening shot rang out, followed by the sound of splintering glass.

Sandra ran screaming from the room.

Bea swung her walker hard and its legs slammed against Hal’s shins. Ben joined him, trying to restrain the woman who was obviously not as frail as she appeared.

“Oh, my God!” Sarah-Margaret screamed at me. “You shot Jesus!”

I glanced over my shoulder. The large picture of Jesus holding the lamb lay shattered on the floor.

Sarah-Margaret crossed herself. “This is bad,” she said. “This is really bad.”

I didn’t have time to think about it. “Somebody call nine-one-one!” I shouted, and saw several people reaching for their cell phones.

Sarah-Margaret cradled what was left of the portrait and sobbed hysterically. “Did you see that!” she demanded of the group. “She shot Jesus!”

The man with the beard fell to his knees and began praying.

I dropped the gun and sank onto my chair, my own knees no longer able to support me. I suspected I was going to miss dinner.