by E H Davis
He clapped a calloused hand over her mouth, dragged her to a chair, and roughly plunked her down. He put a finger to his lips, to shush her. She knew better than to scream. A look in his eyes told her that he would kill her — and enjoy it.
“What do you want? Money? Jewelry?”
He stared at her, coldly appraising her.
“One word — Teddy.”
“What?” she cried.
He smiled, enjoying his easy dominance, her fear.
“Oh, I don’t want your son. You do — you want him home from that pool he goes to every day. And when school starts, you’ll want him back home, too, every evening. And when he goes out on dates, or basketball games, or whatever, you’ll want him home then, safe and sound.”
She tried to keep the fear from choking her up.
“My husband, he’ll be home soon.”
He looked at her askance.
“Really? Then who was it I watched load up his trusty Subaru yesterday morning, no doubt headed for the hills?”
She recoiled, shocked: he’d been the stalker in the hunter’s blind in the orchard. Somehow, he knew about Jens’ cabin retreat.
“I’ll give you whatever you want —” She caught herself, realizing he could take that, too, if he chose to.
“Maybe,” he leered. “But for now, I just want the keys to the castle.” He gestured about. “To everything of worth.” He glared at her fiercely. “Everything!”
She nodded through her tears.
“Why?”
He shrugged.
“I need money — you have more than me.”
“I don’t know where you got that idea, we —”
“Stop!” His ferocity blasted her into silence.
“Good. Shall we head on up to the house and begin? We can start with the cash and jewelry and move on to the art, which I’ve heard so much about ...”
He paused. She looked at him quizzically.
“From my associate Laurent.”
She jolted at her ex-lover’s name.
He pulled her to her feet. His vise-like grip discouraged her from running.
“That’s another thing — you are to have no more contact with Laurent. Understand? You’ll let me know if he bothers you anymore. I’ll take care of him.”
He shoved her in the direction of the farmhouse.
“Consider it part of the service, quid pro quo.”
She shook her head, not knowing what to think. Had he been tapping her phone and listening to her conversations? Had Laurent shared privileged information with him about her and Jens’ finances? She searched her memory for what she might have let slip to Laurent.
“Obviously, no police, and leave your husband out of this, too.”
They stepped into the sunlight and onto the path back to the house.
Where was Bruzza? she wondered. He ought to be barking his head off.
“What have you done to my dog?” she asked, peeking into his kennel as they approached the house. Bruzza lay there, snoring and whimpering.
“He’ll be fine in a couple of hours. We need to get going — before your son comes home.”
Vivian tried to stifle a sob.
He slid open the glass door to the kitchen and stepped inside, pushing her ahead. Violating the sanctity of her home.
“Now, let’s start with the safe. You do have a safe, don’t you?”
Chapter Thirty-Four
For Jens, the time at the cabin unfolded in a chrysalis of inner dialogue about Forsake Me Not and played out over the course of the day with his usual discipline: at his laptop by 7 AM, done with his word quota by 1 or 2 PM.
He modeled his afternoons after “the Hem,” fishing to catch his supper, which afforded him the illusion of killing to survive and the satisfaction of economy. Such notions were inherited from his undergraduate writing teachers, outdoorsmen and novelists, who extolled the virtue of entering the woods and stream with humility, taking only what you needed.
But no amount of rationalization would permit Jens to take up a firearm ever again, with the intention of slaying a large mammal, like a deer. Nils’ death had closed that door. Protecting his family from harm was the only exception. The incident with the bear had put his resolve on trial. He hoped it would never be tested again, especially not with a human target.
In the evenings he cooked and ate leisurely, reading police procedurals or surfing the internet, until it was time to call home. Vivian filled him in on the events of the day: Bruzza’s antics, her job search, Teddy’s activities. She encouraged Jens to talk about the progress he was making on his book, an interest she had never taken before. Jens remarked the change to himself, afraid that calling attention to it would embarrass and discourage her.
“Jens ...” she began casually. “Do you happen to know where Teddy’s doctors’ assessments validating his ADHD are? I need them for school to get him his accommodations.”
Jens mentally shuffled through his memory, organized in folders not unlike the ones on his laptop and computer, remembering that he’d transferred them to an electronic document to reduce paper. They were on his desktop, in his office.
“Ah ... they’re on my computer ...”
He kept the password to himself because his backup writing was stored there too. Though it was paranoid, he knew, he didn’t trust anyone, not even Vivian, with the password; there were things in his files there — half-baked ideas, autobiographical sketches, story tangents that he felt uncomfortable sharing. The detritus of an active, imaginative intellect, but for his eyes only.
Oh, well, he told himself, I can change the password when I get home.
She thanked him for sharing it with her, reassuring him that she wouldn’t write it down. Besides, it was easy to remember— “Forsake Me Not”.
Jens asked her if Teddy was available. Most nights, if he could be persuaded to pause his Xbox playing, he would come to the phone, reluctant to share at first but then open up. Jens was concerned about his transfer to Oyster River High.
Tonight, his son talked with enthusiasm of the book he’d been assigned for summer reading. Without being heavy-handed, Jens applauded Teddy and encouraged him to read more. Teddy sounded excited about the prospect of making new friends at school and had resolved to turn over a new leaf in his studies.
Jens was in shock. Had his absence from home opened up a space for family members to fill with their own initiative because he wasn’t around to micro-manage? Was he that overbearing? Or was it because they had risen to his call for support?
“Still there, Dad?”
Jens reacted to the shift in his voice. “Something the matter?”
“Nope, I just wondered ... when are you coming home?”
“I’m not due back for another couple of weeks. Why, do you need something?”
Jens wondered if Teddy had something to report about Laurent; Vivian had promised she was done with him.
“No, I just ... I miss you, Daddio,” he blurted. “Like, when can we go fishing?”
“How about the weekend after next, when I get home? How’s that?”
“Great! Can we take the boat out on the bay? The stripers are running.”
“What’re they biting on?”
“Mackerel, I hear”
“Then plan on it.”
Jens started to tell him to put his mother back on, but Teddy had already hung up. Jens considered calling back, but then thought better of it. Everything was going brilliantly; he would call tomorrow, try to get Teddy alone. Seemed like there was something he wanted to tell him.
Sometime in the night Jens awakened with a feeling of dread, which he could not connect to anything in particular. He sat up in the dark and probed for the answer, reviewing the usual culprits — Nils, Teddy, Vivian, his story, money.
Once his eyes adjusted to the dark, Jens found his way into the living room and turned on the light. He made himself a strong gin and tonic, and sipped it as he recomposed his thoughts.
He tos
sed back the rest of his drink, shrugging off his silliness — a momentary lapse, a night fugue. The story was going well; his family was behind his decision; his finances would work themselves out. Vivian was done with Laurent.
So what was bothering him?
PART TWO
Chapter Thirty-Five
A week later around noon, his answer came at the end of a long and fruitful writing session.
It came in the form of a letter, delivered midday, by a process server in a bad suit, with crooked, yellow teeth — why in God’s name did he smile, wondered Jens — knocking loudly on the door to the mudroom.
Jens had stopped typing and gone to the door, thinking there was an emergency and his help was needed with a car accident, a missing dog, or a hunting accident. He stared at the man, unable to account for his presence.
“Sir, are you Jens Corbin, 16 Black Mountain Rd., North Conway, New Hampshire?”
“I am! And just who might you be?”
He took an envelope from the inside breast pocket of his suit and presented it to Jens.
“This is for you, Mr. Corbin.” He held out the official looking envelope bearing the seal of the Court of New Hampshire, Division of Divorce Proceedings.
Jens stared at the seal. “Divorce?”
The man pushed the envelope at Jens until he took it, mostly in self-defense.
“I’ll need you to sign here, acknowledging receipt.” He produced a clipboard with a release form. “Please,” he insisted.
“Is this a joke or what?”
The server shook his head. “No, sir, it’s not.”
It was a stand-off — with the server proffering the clipboard for Jens to sign and Jens balking.
“All right, sir, I’ll have to sign it for you, noting your lack of compliance.”
Jens glared at him for his answer.
The server turned on his heel and began walking to the rusty Crown Vic, a retired plain-wrapped cruiser, engine idling, blue smoke puffing from the exhaust.
Jens watched, speechless, as the car lurched away, kicking up gravel from the drive. Jens stood there, flummoxed.
“Aw, hell!”
As he walked back inside, he barely took notice of a northern mockingbird foraging in the brush bordering the driveway. Its distinctive wings, with contrasting black and white chevrons, were spread wide in a gesture intended to startle insect prey out of hiding. When Jens let the door slam shut, it startled the bird into flight.
“Chuck-chuck,” it called, as though taunting.
________
Jens lost track of time sitting in the living room, the envelope containing his divorce papers crumpled in his hand. When he came around, he discovered it unfurled beside him. He took it up and slit open the top. The document was printed on linen paper, embossed with the seal of the State of New Hampshire. He unfolded it and smoothed out the pages, began to read.
“Claimant, Vivian Corbin brings complaint against Jens Corbin ... claims for divorce under state law ... respondent is ordered to cease and desist from contacting the plaintiff via phone or letter, except through an attorney ... physical abuse ... reasonable apprehension of physical abuse ... barred from the home ... restraining order ... custody to be determined...”
The cliché of the insensitive male who never sees his divorce coming struck him as glaringly apt. Hadn’t he and Vivian patched things up? Why now?
Why was she doing this? He began to review her actions of the last few months, sickened by the unavoidable conclusion that she was still cheating on him with Laurent. She’d been playing him until she was ready to make her move.
A stone crushed his heart. He turned his thoughts to Teddy. Now, he knew the wrenching anguish a parent feels when offspring are torn from them by the law. He would fight her tooth and nail for his son.
He took out his cell, which had better reception lately, aware that he was violating the terms of the divorce claim, and rang Vivian. Her thumbnail image seemed to glare back from the small screen, accusing his folly. She surprised him by picking up.
“What do you want?”
“I want to know one thing — why you’re doing this,” he said, partially successful in suppressing the emotion in his voice. “Is it because of the book? Or is it because of Laurent?”
After a long pause she answered slowly and deliberately, as though talking to a child.
“No ... yes ... it’s everything. It’s you, it’s me, it’s us!” Her voice was rising. “Jens, I want my life back; I don’t know who I am anymore.” She seemed on the verge of tears.
“You‘ve been seeing Laurent, haven’t you?” In his mind, he screamed bitch.
“Get yourself an attorney.” Her voice was frigid. “I don’t have to talk to you.”
“And Teddy, our boy. What about him?”
“The court will decide what’s best for him.”
He had a sudden epiphany — remembering that she had asked him for the password to his desktop at home in Lee, on the pretext of getting documents for Teddy’s ADHD accommodations. He realized that not only was his writing exposed in the files, but also all his financial business — his passwords for banking, credit cards, annuities, 504’s. Everything!
“I’m coming down there!”
“Jens, don’t you dare!”
“You can’t do this — ”
“I’m hanging up.”
“Please, let me talk to Teddy.”
The line went dead. He jumped up from the couch, paced; twice he stopped himself from hurling the phone into the fireplace.
“You bitch!” he bellowed. “You rotten bitch!” he cried, collapsing back onto the couch. He squeezed his temples and rubbed his eyes until he was seeing stars. Then he cried like a baby.
________
After a while, cold resolve settled over him. First, he would contact the bank and alert them to his wife’s threat to his money.
When he called his bank, he was informed that he no longer had access to his accounts, as they had been transferred out and the name on the account changed.
“Hold on a minute,” he screamed into the phone. “I’m co-owner of that account, with my wife.”
“Not anymore, sir. I’m sorry. Would you like to file a complaint?”
“I’d like to report criminal activity.”
“By your wife, sir? If you didn’t want her to have access to your account why did she have the password?”
When he demanded to speak to a manager, he was reminded that it was Saturday, and he might have to wait for his call to be transferred to corporate.
He ended the call, impatient. Stunned. He stared at his hands, noticing that they were clenched tight. He forced himself to breathe deeply, in and out.
Who could he call for help? Ferdie? The last time they’d met, he’d walked out on her. Would she, a woman and a law officer, be willing to advise him?
His cell phone rang on the coffee table repeatedly before he answered, thinking it was Vivian calling back, to tell him what?
Jean Fillmore-Smart’s image appeared on the screen.
“Jens?”
All that came out of him was a hoarse whisper.
“Jens? Are you there?”
“Hello,” he croaked.
“Am I calling at a bad time?”
“Vivian ... she ...” he was unable to go on.
“Oh, dear. What is it?”
“She’s filed for divorce.”
“Oh, no!”
“I’ve just been served. All lies ... she’s been cheating....”
He stifled the urge to blurt out that she’d been cheating with a convicted murderer, no less.
“I’m so sorry, Jens. What are you going to do?”
“Fight it! Can’t afford not to! For Teddy.”
Jean waited for him to cool. “I have some news that might cheer you up ... but I don’t know if this is the right time.”
Jen sighed. “What?”
“You have a fan at Cathcart — Gabbie.”
Jens realized she was talking about Gabbie Halliday, the editor-in-chief of fiction at his publisher.
“When I told her that your new book was from a woman’s POV,” Jean continued, “she was excited ... said she always wanted to suggest it.”
Jens scoffed. “Must be because I’m such a feminist.”
“Don’t let this throw you.” After a beat: “Jens?”
“I’m still here.”
“She went to bat for you and got the legal department to apply your advance to the new book on two conditions.”
“Which are?”
“One, you send them the first 200 pages in ninety days, with a chapter outline of the rest of the book.”
“Okay. Not a problem. What’s the second part?”
“They reserve the right to refuse the book if they don’t like it. In which case, you return half the advance.”
“I can live with that.”
“Good.”
There was another long pause.
“Jens, are you going to be alright?”
“The book is going well.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“I gotta go, Jean. Thank you.”
“Keep in touch. Please.”
Afterward, he wondered why he hadn’t asked her for advice about his compromised bank account and his desktop computer back in Lee.
He deliberated about calling Ferdie, but he knew what she would say: stay away from Vivian. Period. Not what he wanted to hear.
________
In the end, he decided not to pack an overnight bag. If Vivian wouldn’t let him stay the night, at least she’d let him have some of his things to go to a motel. He drove well over the speed limit, anxious to get home to Lee before dark. He nearly got caught speeding, at the last minute spotting a state trooper’s cruiser lurking behind a billboard.
Ironically, the billboard was an advertisement for a divorce attorney. Jens found himself amused by the symbolic juxtaposition of the law, represented by the cruiser, and the ad for an attorney. Tomorrow he’d contact his own attorney in Portsmouth, an old friend from college. It’s going to be alright, he told himself.
