Time Off for Good Behavior (11 page)

I nodded and recalled stabbing Walter
’
s name onto a sticky note for Blaine.
“
Yeah. That was me.
”

“
Well, Blaine mentioned it to his dad, and Edgar Dowd came busting into my office this morning, talking about countersuits and getting me disbarred, et cetera, et cetera.
”
Walter rolled his eyes, but he looked more amused than annoyed.

I took a sip of my iced tea.
“
How
’
d you end up with a check?
”

Walter chuckled.
“
Beats the hell out of me. I just let him rave until he ran out of gas, and he dumped it on my desk before he left. We didn
’
t sign any paperwork, but cashing it would indicate a
cceptance of a settlement. Since you said you weren
’
t planning to sue, it looks like a win-win to me.
”

“
Are you kidding?
”
I picked up the check and stared at it. It felt strange in my hand. It was just a piece of paper, but it had weight. I felt jumbled, c
onfused, off balance. Things like this didn
’
t happen to me. I was never the recipient of good fortune unlooked for. Everything I
’
d received up to this day I
’
d gotten off stupid choices and a great smile, and most of it had been well deserved or hard-earne
d
, respectively. I put the check down. It was making me dizzy.

Or maybe I was dizzy in the presence of the guy who delivered it. I looked up at Walter and felt my throat clench as my smile grew, and I knew that I was in what my mother would describe as deep
doo-doo.

Walter looked up and caught me staring at him. He met my gaze, smiling back. We were silent for a few moments while I fought with myself over what to say and eventually said the very worst thing possible.

“
I
’
m sorry about your wife.
”

His smile dr
opped. His jaw tightened. His eyes withdrew.
“
I
’
d rather not talk about that.
”

I held up my hands.
“
Look, I
’
m sorry. I just wanted you to know...
”

“
It was a long time ago.
”
He avoided eye contact, and I had to fight the instinct to reach out and touch him.
And then the phantom music began. I closed my eyes.

“
Are you okay?
”
Walter
’
s voice blew gently away against the force of the music. Crescendo approaching... so close...

Gone.

I felt Walter
’
s hand on my arm.
“
Wanda?
”

I opened my eyes.
“
I
’
m sorry. Phantom m
usic. I know the tune, but it always goes away before I can place it.
”

“
Are you seeing anyone?
”
he asked. My heart did another
ba-doo-boom-chaaa
until I realized he was speaking of my mental health, not my sexual availability.

“
I
’
m not crazy.
”

“
I never sai
d you were.
”

I shrugged. Whatever. I picked up the check and waved it in the air.
“
How much do I owe you?
”

Walter shrugged, and I could see the tension ebb.
“
By my count, nothing. I didn
’
t do anything, I didn
’
t say anything. I
’
m just a messenger.
”

He stood
up. His gray suit fell in perfect straight lines along his body, and I was picturing the form underneath it before I could stop myself.

“
I have to give you something,
”
I said quickly, waving the check again.
“
I mean, I
’
ve been in an office with Edgar Dowd
before. The man
’
s certifiable. You deserve to be compensated.
”

He smiled.
Hoo-wah.

“
I don
’
t need anything. I just wanted to give that to you.
”
He put his hand on my shoulder and squeezed, the kind of awkward gesture a Pee Wee football coach gives to the
runt he wouldn
’
t put on the field.
“
I have to go. Just thought you could use that. Thought it might give you a little breathing room. You know, while you look for a job.
”

Ouch. I could see a slight flinch when he realized he probably shouldn
’
t mention my e
mployment, or lack thereof. The same way I shouldn
’
t have mentioned his wife. We were in a dead heat for Most Awkward Moments in a Single Conversation. I pasted on a smile.
“
Thank you.
”

He was gone a moment later, and I was standing in the middle of my liv
ing room, holding ten thousand dollars and having no idea which foot to step with first. Then the phone rang. I grabbed it off the counter, still staring out the open door where Walter had just been.

“
I
’
m calling about the ad.
”
The voice was male. Husky. S
ounded like the kind of guy who puts up drywall.

“
Ad?
”
I was confused. This definitely wasn
’
t Laura, who had already called, confessed, and been forgiven. The case was closed.

“
Yeah, from the paper? Is this Wanda?
”

“
Yes, this is Wanda, but...
”
Maybe Laura
had been calling about the wrong ad. Or this guy was. Maybe everyone in Hastings was dyslexic. Maybe I shouldn
’
t have paid for two weeks. I cleared my throat and tried to put some meat into my tone.

“
Yeah, this is Wanda. Are you the one...?
”
I trailed off,
distracted by some movement across the street that I thought for a moment might be Walter. I stepped closer to the door and saw it was Manny, my mailman.

“
Well, I don
’
t know, baby. Are
you
the one?
”
He was trying to sound seductive, but the chewing noises
, followed by the distinct
patooey
of what I imagined to be a tobacco-laced loogie, kind of ruined the effect. I cringed.

“
Ewww,
”
I said, and hung up the phone. Thirty seconds later I was listening to a tinny ringing, waiting for Jennifer to pick up at the
Hastings Daily Reporter.

“
Hi, this is Jennifer with the classifieds department at the
Hastings Daily Reporter
? I
’
m not here right now, but if you
’
d leave a message, I
’
d be glad to call you back?
”

I hung up and looked at the clock: 12:47. Catching another
whiff of Lysol and Scotch, I tossed the phone on the counter and headed for the shower.

Chapter Four

“
Forgive me, Father, but I
’
m not Catholic.
”
I blew my nose into the handful of tissues I had been swiping my face with since the crying jag hit. That wa
s the danger of the shower: if your life sucked, you were most likely to take notice when you were naked and wet. Might be the reason why depressed people tended to go so long between showers.

It all started with the damn Ivory soap. I haven
’
t bought Ivory
in three years, because it was George
’
s brand and the smell tended to turn my stomach.
“
So why buy it?
”
you ask?

Good question.

My stupid but honest answer was that I bought it on an internal triple-dog-dare, a game of emotional Russian roulette in the
personal hygiene aisle. I did it to prove to myself that I was not going to allow my choice of soap to be dictated by a shitty ex-husband.

It made sense at the time.

The package of Ivory sat in my bathroom while I showered with a dwindling sliver of Dove.
A week of Albert was more than the sliver could handle, and so I opened the Ivory, took one whiff, and spent the next thirty minutes curled up in the tub in a fetal position, flooded with vivid memories of the worst years of my life.

Those years started wh
en George and I met in college. Well, I was in college, anyway, he was a bouncer at Pappy
’
s, the bar my friends and I used to frequent. He was ten years older than me, sexy and dangerous, a biker guy with a tenderness hidden deep inside, a tenderness only
I could see. The reason I was the only one who could see it, of course, was that it existed only in my imagination, but that
’
s neither here nor there.

Okay, maybe it
’
s a little there.

George used to flirt with me at the door at Pappy
’
s, tease me about my f
ake ID, make jokes about how tight my ass was. Looking back, I find it mortifying that I was charmed by that. But a nineteen-year-old who memorized facts about Sarasota, Florida, just in case anyone questioned her fake ID was not someone with her finger o
n
the pulse of reality.

George had a motorcycle. He wore leather jackets, and he knew the cousin of the drummer from Whitesnake. He smoked and ate greasy food and drank until he passed out. He had long hair and a beard, and my parents were going to hate him.

In other words, he was perfect. Exciting and dangerous for a start, but then once we got married, he would change and settle down and be an exemplary husband and father, and we would laugh about the old days and how rough around the edges he had been bef
ore love changed him.

Yes, I really was that stupid.

Even after he hit me the first time, I still had a Pygmalion-style future in mind. He proposed to me after he broke my arm, and I wept as I said,
“
Yes,
”
over and over again, just knowing that marriage wo
uld change him for good, and he would be the George I knew he could be, and we would spend forever lounging naked on the floor, smelling of Ivory soap and watching our dreams come true before our eyes.

I was right about one thing: my parents did hate him.
When I told them George and I were getting married
—
less than twenty-four hours after I promised over the hospital telephone lines that Id never see the bastard again
—
my mother stopped talking to me. My dad cut off most of our communication but occasionall
y
still sent birthday gifts with cards that said things like,
“
Everyone has days for which the only cure is Scotch.
”
Turned out he knew much more about what my future held than I did.

George had successfully accomplished step one in the
Abusive Shit Heel Ha
ndbook
: he separated me from my family. From there, it was a short ride to driving off all my friends. And then when I finally dumped the deadweight, I was alone in Hastings, Tennessee, where the smell of Ivory soap would turn me into a pathetic sobbing fe
tal mass in a sage-green bathtub.

I managed to complete my shower and get dressed, but I couldn
’
t stop crying. I
’
d pull it together for a minute, then I
’
d remember my mother
’
s face when I first told her I was moving to Tennessee with George. I
’
d get a few
solid calming breaths in, and then I
’
d remember how my father
’
s voice cracked when I called to tell him that George and I were getting married. Dad
’
s last words to me were,
“
Go ahead and marry that bastard if you want, but don
’
t expect us to watch you thro
w your life down the shitter.
”
Or words to that effect.