Cold Tears

by AR Simmons

  “Do you know how to do that?”

  “Nothing to it. Easy as falling off a roof,” he said with a laugh.

  “I see you still have your dreadful sense of humor.”

  That, at least, was comforting.

  •••

  It was still light out when they arrived at the house, but Jill was tired, having been up for nearly twenty-four hours. She left the bathroom door open, and Richard sat on the edge of the bed. While she showered, they talked about a possible move to Georgia in the fall. He held a bath towel open for her when she stepped from the shower. He draped it around her as she came forward and leaned into his embrace.

  “Shower and come to bed,” she said. “I bought something I want you to see.”

  “I haven’t had an offer like that in a long time.”

  “Too long?” she asked, offering him her lips.

  “Way too long.”

  When they kissed, she realized that it was for the first time since her arrival. Jill began to believe that everything really was all right, or was at least on the way to being all right.

  While he was in the shower, she put on the negligee she had brought back. It was white (his favorite color on her), mid-thigh with a plunging neckline; the semi-concealing design was more alluring than complete nudity. Of course, it was as comfortable as loosely tied burlap, but comfort wasn’t the point. Wearing it, she felt something that she would have scoffed at before Richard came into her life. Where such scanty attire would have left her feeling vulnerable and demeaned, it now aroused her.

  She lowered the lights and threw back the sheets, anticipating what a psychologist might dismiss as only mutually reinforced behavior. Richard came into the room, and stood staring at her for the longest time. Wordlessly, he came to her, and she rose to pull him down. Everything was as it should be—for awhile. Then he rolled away with a mumbled curse, and sat up to turn off the lamp, almost upsetting it in the process.

  Jill put a hand gently on his shoulder.

  “It’s okay. You’re just … you have eaten almost nothing since I’ve been gone.”

  He jerked away from her touch.

  “Richard, it’s all right. Things will be better when—”

  “When what? When I go see your shrink?”

  “They told us that it might take time for us to …”

  “Why do you say us? It’s me! I’m the one who’s screwed up!”

  She heard him searching for his clothes in the dark. “Don’t leave, Richard. I want you in my bed. I want you to hold me.”

  “What’s the point, Jill?”

  “The point is that I love you and I need you. This isn’t your fault.”

  “Then whose is it?” he asked as he headed for the door. “I know. We’ll get the shrink to prescribe me a combination of Viagra and Prozac. Why stop there? Get him to prescribe the whole pharmacy, a pill for every damned thing that’s wrong with me!”

  •••

  Jill lay awake and alone, dressed in pajamas now. The costly negligee was stowed at the bottom of her drawer, where it wouldn’t remind her of her bad judgment. She knew that Richard’s problem wasn’t physical, nor did it stem from a lack of desire for her. It was the depression. Was it any wonder that he still couldn’t function fully? How whole could anyone be when forced to do what he had done? The scars on his neck and shoulders were as nothing compared to those on his psyche. Depression was probably inevitable given the kind of person he was. It shouldn’t have happened, but it did. Someone had to be blamed, and Richard blamed himself. That was what the doctor had told her, and it seemed right. Yet, Jill’s self-doubt remained. She could no more shrug off responsibility than could Richard.

  Maybe I’m not as attractive as I was. Maybe I’m doing something wrong. Maybe I’m being too aggressive or too coarse or doing something that turns him off. I just wish I knew.

  •••

  Richard lay on the couch, angry and confused—but mostly ashamed.

  Look at what she’s gone through compared to me, and she’s holding it together. She comes home from burying her aunt and finds a basket case. Now this!

  She doesn’t need me—not like this.

  He heard something outside.

  A voice?

  He heard it again and sat up, anticipating a knock at the door while wondering whom it could be, and what they could want. None came. Nor did he hear the voice again.

  Probably just a couple walking by on the sidewalk, he thought.

  He looked toward the bedroom. Sleeping separately was no way to solve things. But what can I say if I go back to bed?

  Hoping that Jill was already asleep so that he wouldn’t have to say anything, he started for the bedroom.

  If neither of us says anything, then in the morning, we can go on pretending nothing is wrong. That will sure solve things, won’t it?

  He delayed re-entering the bedroom, detouring to look through the blinds. A heap of rags or something lay on the shadowed lawn between their house and the one next door.

  Dogs turned over the trash barrel.

  Then the object moved.

  “Jill,” he called out. “Come here! I think there’s someone laying out in the yard.”

  She came from the bedroom. “What did you say?”

  “Look at this?” he said, separating the blind for her. “Is that what I think it is?”

  “It’s a woman,” she said. “Should I call the police?”

  “Let’s go see what’s wrong first.”

  “No.” she grabbed his arm. “If someone hurt her, he may still be out there.”

  “I don’t see anyone. We’ve got to see if she’s hurt.”

  He got a flashlight from the closet. “Stay here,” he said as he opened the door.

  Richard played the beam, searching the shadows for someone hiding. Jill followed him outside. Satisfied that no one was near, he went to the woman and knelt. Jill stood close behind, her hand on his shoulder while she continued to glance around nervously.

  “I think she’s all right,” he said.

  The woman breathed noisily as if she had a cold.

  “No apparent injuries. She’s breathing steady. I think she’s just passed out.”

  Jill knelt beside him and wrinkled her nose. “She reeks of alcohol.”

  “Look at the way she’s dressed,” he said. “Running shorts, T-shirt, no shoes—she hasn’t been out on the town, I don’t think.”

  He shined the flashlight around the lawn, easily picking up the crooked path of feet dragging through the heavy dew. Tracing backward, he saw they came from the porch of the house next door.

  “I thought so. She’s the lady who lives over there. I’ve seen her a couple of times at a distance.”

  He shook her lightly. “Hey! Wake up. Come on. We’ve got to get you back in the house.”

  He couldn’t rouse her.

  “We can’t leave her here. Help me carry her back to her house.”

  “Maybe we should call the police,” suggested Jill again.

  “Probably just get her taken to jail. She already looks kind of down and out,” he said, struggling upright as he hoisted the woman’s dead weight. “Help me get her back to her house,” he grunted.

  “If there was some kind of trouble with a man, he might be over there and as drunk or high as she is. He might attack us as well, Richard.”

  That made sense, but the woman didn’t appear injured.

  “I’ll go see,” he said, lowering her to the lawn. “You stay here while I clear the house. If there is someone there, I’ll … Well, I’ll determine what the situation is.”

  “Be careful, Richard.”

  As he stepped onto the porch, he called out. Getting no response, he knocked at the half-open door and called again. Through the doorway, he could see light coming from an interior room. He went in, continuing to call out and explain his entry as he flipped on light switches. The place was untidy but not dirty. Most importantly, it was empty.

  �
�There’s no one here,” he said when he came back. “Let’s get her inside.”

  “Are you sure it is her house?”

  “It’s where she came from,” he said as he knelt to get his arms under her shoulders and knees. “Help me stand up with her.”

  He struggled up onto the porch and through the door into the living room.

  “Let’s just leave her here,” he said, lowering the limp woman to the couch. “We ought to lock the door before we leave, don’t you think?”

  “Yes. Let’s go,” said Jill, leery about being in a stranger’s house and eager to leave.

  “I would have just called the police,” she said when they got back inside their own home. “I think that’s what most people would do. Your heart always seems to be in the right place, Richard.”

  “Too bad my head doesn’t follow suit, huh?”

  “Come back to bed with me,” she said softly.

  “I’m not much use to you, Jill.”

  “Of course you are. We must have patience. They told us that.”

  “What if … this never gets any better? How fair is that to you?”

  “I don’t want us to be apart anymore. I thought I was going to lose you once. I couldn’t bear it. Come to bed. I need you to hold me and tell me things will be all right.”

  “But I’m what’s wrong, Jill,” he said dismally.

  “That will only be true if you don’t come back to bed. You did nothing wrong tonight. You never have. Things have happened to you, Richard. They have happened to us. Come,” she said, taking his hand.

  He nodded.

  Chapter 2

  September 1

  Richard worked a flat bladed shovel under the last of the old shingles and pried them loose. Despite an aching back and the sweltering late-summer heat, he was enjoying his first day of hard work. After popping out the remaining nails, he began carrying shingles across to his coworkers who were using the nail guns. Instead of detouring around it, he stepped onto stack of plywood decking. The top sheet slid immediately. He lost the shingles and tried to gain his balance, visions of an improbable surfboard ride to the ground danced in his mind momentarily as the sheet gained speed. Better sense prevailed, and he jumped to the side but continued his slide toward the edge. Desperately seeking traction, he caught the rain gutter with his boot at the last second, preventing a fall to the concrete patio two floors below.

  He heard something pop in his ankle, but felt nothing as he congratulated himself on his agility and good fortune. As he scooted back from the edge, the world suddenly receded toward darkness and silence. He realized that he was approaching shock.

  “You okay, Carter?” yelled someone behind him.

  “I’m fine,” he called back although he was sure the ankle was broken.

  His painful descent by ladder did nothing to dispel the possibility, but once on the ground, he found that he could stand on it. He hoped it was only a sprain.

  At home, he downplayed the increasing pain for Jill’s sake, doing nothing more than to treat it with an ice pack. When it woke him in the night, Jill got him some Tylenol from the bathroom. That took the edge off, but he was unable to fall back asleep. In the morning, she helped him to the car, and then drove him in to urgent care.

  While he waited to be examined, Jill went to a medical supply store to rent crutches. He told her that he could walk without them, but she’d heard enough of his assurances. The sight of the grossly swollen ankle and his obvious pain made her brush aside his objections. The good news was that injury was only a sprain, albeit a serious one. A small bone chip also showed clearly on the MRI. The doctor suggested an operation to remove it, but without insurance, they would have to eat the entire medical cost. The office visit charge was minimal, but the MRI cost was not. Richard decided that an operation was financially impossible, and omitted telling Jill of the doctor’s suggestion of surgery.

  “I’m glad they’ll let us make payments for the imaging,” said Jill as she drove him home.

  “Why does that cost so much?” he grumbled. “We’re barely making it, and now this. It’s only a little sprain.”

  “It could have been broken,” she reminded him. “An untreated fracture can develop necrosis. You could lose your foot.”

  “Ah, the virtues of being members of the working poor. If we were indigent, we wouldn’t have to pay anything.”

  “And if we were rich we could afford good insurance,” she said. “Complaining about things you cannot help does no good. It only makes one less capable of remedying things.”

  “We were remedying things.”

  “Why can’t you be thankful?” she asked sharply. “You said yourself that it was a stupid thing you did. You could have been killed. Think about that.”

  “Sorry. I’ll try not to add to your burden by crabbing around.”

  Jill wondered how well he would cope without having anything useful to do.

  “Perhaps you could do some of the cooking and cleaning while you recuperate,” she suggested.

  “Instead of playing video games,” he said, studying her in profile. “I’ll hop right to it.”

  When she took her eyes from the road, she saw his smile.

  “When you’re able,” she said, relieved. “Today I want you to stay off it. Keep it elevated.”

  •••

  Jill had to be at the university for a two o’clock class. She fixed Richard a sandwich and tea before leaving, and took it to the living room. Through the window, she saw him in the glider on the porch. He was reading, his foot resting on an upturned five-gallon bucket.

  “Good idea,” she said as she handed him his lunch. “The fresh air will do you good.”

  “What time will you be back?”

  “Around four,” she said, looking dubiously at the title of the book in his lap. “That is not exactly light reading.”

  “It’s just an interest, Jill. I know stuff like that’s all over for me.”

  “Well, take care of yourself,” she said as she bent to kiss him on the lips.

  “I will, Babe.”

  “I love you,” she said.

  “Me too.”

  He watched until her car disappeared around the corner. Then he took a bite of the sandwich and turned back to his textbook. He was lost in his thoughts when a weak, hesitant voice recalled him.

  “Excuse me.”

  Richard looked up to see a thin woman on the lawn in front of him. Lank hair framed a pale, somber face, one badly in need of makeup. Bony arms enfolded almost nonexistent breasts. It was the woman he and Jill had found passed out on the lawn.

  “Oh, hi,” he said. “Can I help you with something?”

  She looked at his book and frowned. “You a cop or something?”

  “A cop? No. A roofer with bum ankle,” he said, smiling at her. “How about you?”

  “Waitress or bar maid,” she said dispiritedly. “Take your pick.”

  “So we both work for a living,” he said. “I’m Richard Carter. You’ve probably seen my wife. Jill’s going to SMSU in Springfield.”

  She looked away in the direction Jill had driven a half-hour before.

  “Must be nice to be that smart,” she mumbled. “Oh, I’m Molly Allsop—I mean Molly Randolph. Allsop is my ex’s name.”

  “Glad to meet you, Molly. I don’t have another chair, but you’re welcomed to sit on the edge of the porch.”

  She made no move to come forward. “Did something happen the other night?” she finally asked.

  “What do you remember?” he asked gently.

  “You took me back in the house, right?”

  “My wife and I did. We found you … uh … unconscious out there on the lawn.”

  “Drunk,” she said. “Sorry—I mean, thanks for helping me and all. I didn’t use to be like that, but … Well, I guess I am now … but I … just—look, thanks. It was real nice of you to help me out like that.”

  “Sorry,” she said for the second time. “Tell your wife
that I’m real … That I appreciate her too.”

  Something in the woman’s manner cried out to him. Perhaps everything was her own fault. He had no idea. She reminded him of a dog that had been mistreated and abandoned simply because it belonged to the wrong person.

  “Do you like tea?” he asked impulsively.

  “It don’t look like you should be getting up.”

  “No, but you could do me a favor,” he said, holding up his empty glass. “I need a refill. Jill probably left the tea on the stove. If you could get me some ice out of the fridge and pour me another glass, maybe you could get some for yourself too. There’s sugar on the table.”

  “I shouldn’t be bothering you.”

  “What bother? You’re doing me a favor.”

  “You sure?” she asked, coming up on the porch.

  As she passed on her way inside, he noticed a tattooed chain on her forearm. Some of his friends had skin art, but it had never appealed to him.

  “Why are you reading that book?” she asked when she came back outside and handed him the tea. “You in college too? Gonna become a cop, right?”

  “I don’t think that’s going to happen,” he said. “Thanks for bringing me the tea.”

  “But you’re still interested in that stuff. Why?”

  Good question, he thought. “I’m not sure. I wanted to go into law enforcement.”

  He let it hang there.

  “You ought to be a cop,” she said decisively. “You probably wouldn’t turn out like most of them.”

  The brittle distaste suggested unpleasant experience with the legal system. Richard imagined arrests for disorderly behavior, perhaps drug stuff, even prostitution.

  “They don’t give a damn about people unless they got money,” she said bitterly.

  “They’re not all like that,” he said, thinking that he was wasting his time by saying it.

  “Around here they are,” she insisted. “They didn’t even try when I needed them.”

  “Somebody hurt you?”

  “You mean like beat me up?” she mumbled. “I wish. No. Someone stole my baby, and those bastards didn’t even try to find out who it was. They don’t care. Nobody cares.”