What I Remember Most

by Cathy Lamb

  “Well, I care.” I grabbed my purse. I wondered if I stunk. I danced last night. I sweated. I probably stunk like sweat. “How do I get out of here with the least number of your neighbors seeing?”

  He laughed. “None of my coffee before you make your escape?”

  I sighed at him and rolled my eyes.

  “Okay, Grenady, you can take the back roads. There are no neighbors here to see, anyhow. I’ll drive my car and you can follow so you don’t get lost—”

  “No. I do not want to be seen this early in the morning with you, Kade. Come on. Think.”

  “I always think.” He saw my expression and sighed. “Take a right at the end of my driveway . . .”

  I took the back roads home, over a hill, behind a meadow, then I followed the river. I didn’t see anyone I knew, the streets pretty deserted.

  I did see a long rope looped over a fence. I rubbed my neck as it automatically tightened.

  I pulled into my driveway. Liddy neighed at me and I neighed back, then I darted up the stairs. I wasn’t worried about Rozlyn seeing anything. She would think it was fantastic that I “got some action.” She wouldn’t gossip about it, either.

  I scrambled up the stairs, past the saddles, and shut my door, as if by moving speedily I could out run any rumors. On one hand I don’t care what people think of me, either. On the other, I don’t need people thinking I’m sleeping with Kade Hendricks. He’s too well known, I’m too new, and I don’t want any crap at work.

  I exhaled and leaned against my door.

  I didn’t have to go in until ten. It was eight. I hopped in the shower, washed and cream-rinsed my hair, then pulled on a robe and a jacket and sat out on my deck drinking coffee. I watched the earth painting move, the soft colors blending over the horizon, while I thought about Kade and my possible upcoming stint in the slammer.

  If I went to jail, it would be nice to have sex beforehand.

  But Kade was my boss and he would never date or sleep with an employee. He was honest and had integrity. Even with me, he was friendly, and professional, but there was a distance there, and sex would be totally against his company rules and against his values. I knew that.

  My mind raced.

  Aha! I could quit working for him before my trial and ask him to pop into his bouncy, cuddly bed with me and bounce and cuddle about.

  But daaaaang. It would be wrong to have sex with him and not tell him that I had been arrested for fraud, embezzlement, and other beastly charges and simply wanted him for prejail sex. I could not do that. He would feel used. It was already wrong that I hid my unfortunate arrest record from him when I applied for a job.

  He would not want to sleep with someone who was going to jail for stealing from other people anyhow—no, he would not. He would have no respect for someone like that. He would not want me around him, especially not naked.

  Finally, even if I didn’t work for him, even if I didn’t have a dandy arrest record, there was a high probability he wouldn’t want to sleep with me in the first place. One must not forget that part.

  Well, now, shoot.

  I tipped my head back to the winter sun. I would have liked to have coffee with Kade. He’s a private, reserved, calm, thoughtful, introspective, kind man. He was laid-back but in a serious, I-Have-Seen-a-Lot-of-Life sort of way.

  I wondered what Kade was doing. What did he think of my darting out like a fool?

  On my way to work I reminded myself to be friendly to Kade, like normal, but not too friendly. Say hello. Don’t stare at his chest. Don’t smile too long. Keep your nose down and do your job. Don’t think about him as anything other than your boss, not a well-hung stud. Be professional. Be respectful. Be efficient. No envisioning the cuddly bed.

  I would do that.

  I could do that.

  Ho-ho-ho. Sure ya can, Grenady.

  Ho-ho.

  “ ’Morning, Grenady,” Kade called out as he walked past my office with Sam discussing something ’er other. Sam waved at me. “Hey, Grenady. Great party.”

  “ ’Morning.” I thought of Kade naked in his bouncy bed, with the married bald eagles, his third leg swinging.

  That was not a professional image, Grenady! Shut it down! I blushed, head to foot. I thought of his buttocks. That wasn’t respectful! I thought of those strong, creative hands. That was not efficient!

  42

  The tracking devices in my car and on my phone that Covey had installed were bad enough. The only reason I didn’t leave was because we’d been married for only six months. A divorce already? Had I failed that quickly? Covey, sensing my running instinct on high, turned on the charm again, too. Thoughtful. Caring. Listening.

  But about six months after that, I found out he’d strategically placed cameras in the house. One was facing our bed, the other faced our shower and tub area, and a third had a view of the family room and kitchen. The fourth was pointed at the front door, probably to detect my multitude of lovers sneaking in and out of the house.

  The cleaning lady accidentally found the first camera. She was dusting and knocked a vase over on a high shelf in our bedroom, and the camera came tumbling down with it. She thought it was some funky thing Covey and I were doing—recording ourselves in bed. She thought she’d damaged the camera. “I so sorry, señora. So sorry.”

  I have zero problem with couples recording themselves having sex. But both people should know about it and feel comfortable with it. It should not end up on YouTube.

  For me, that camera was it. I called a client who ran a security firm. Tommy came right over. He put the tape in, and there I was. Naked on top of Covey, him on top of me. Rolling. Having sex. It was our bed.

  I was livid. I felt so violated. I didn’t even feel embarrassed in front of Tommy. He was in his sixties, former Marine, and was not even remotely shocked. He leaned towards me. “Dina, there are other cameras here. We need to find them. We also need to find the other tapes. Guy like this, if you leave him, he’ll hang these tapes over your head, threaten to put them on Facebook or YouTube, anything to get you back. I know this kind of man. He’s dangerous. Probably a personality disorder under it all.”

  While Tommy went to find the other cameras, I went to a corner in the garage. I’d seen Covey in that same corner, on a ladder, several times. I found the box. Tommy found the other cameras.

  “Lady, you need to get out of this marriage.”

  “No kidding.”

  When Covey came home that night I had the cameras, which I’d smashed with a sledgehammer, on the kitchen table. I had also smashed the CDs and cut all the tapes.

  I told Covey I was leaving and I no longer loved him. I told him he disgusted me.

  Covey flipped out. He had come home stressed, even I could see that, and he cried, he clung, he dropped to his knees and begged. That handsome face that I had fallen in love with was now the face of a clingy, obsessive, sneaky man. It was pathetic. His reaction made me more sure that I was doing the right thing. I knew what unhealthy looked like, and we were swimmin’ in it. We were rotten because of his diseased mind.

  I had loved living on my own in my green house with my upstairs attic studio. I loved teaching the kids art. I loved the independence, the peace, the quiet, the control over my own home and mind.

  I had given it all up for Covey. I had sold my house because he’d insisted, and now I wanted it back. I wanted that life back. I wanted this life to disappear, as I’d wanted so much of another life to disappear, too.

  I locked myself in the guest bedroom, then locked myself in the guest bathroom and turned on the bath. I climbed in to get away from his pleading, the way he was trying to twist this into being my fault, that I was overreacting, overly sensitive. I had pushed him into spying on me because of my evasiveness, my secretiveness, not letting him call me all the time. He kicked both doors in, wood splintering.

  I lay in that tub, covered in bubbles, and watched him lean over the bath, crying, still crying, begging me to stay.

  I
was weary beyond weary. I was exhausted from the last months, the last weeks, the last days, the last hours. I had had my doubts about marrying Covey, but I had smashed them down in favor of hope and love.

  To get him back under control, I told him, okay, I had changed my mind. I would forgive him. We would work it out.

  He went limp with relief and left the bathroom to take some antidepressants. When I climbed out of the bath, I deliberately turned toward the mirror to see the scars on my back. By shots and by fire, those scars gave me courage. I would not be with someone who treated me badly. I had made that promise to myself long ago.

  I stayed up and planned. Divinity Star and her past lives were coming tomorrow for the carousel collage, then I would leave. What would I pack? What would I leave? Should I rent a truck? Where would I go until I could buy myself another little green home or persuade the new owners to sell it back to me?

  Covey kissed my cheek in the morning, game face back on, three thousand dollar gray suit all buttoned up, and went to work. “We need a vacation, Dina. Name a place, I’ll plan it.” Which meant his secretary would plan it. He was the tough guy again, in control. It was two people in one.

  That morning it all went straight to hell.

  At lunch on Wednesday Rozlyn told us she had seen Leonard in town the other day. “After menopause some studies say that the female libido goes down. Others say it goes up. Mine is up. I’m in the up group.”

  “Mine has never dipped,” Eudora said, breaking apart a roll. “I’m not that type of woman.”

  “Any man on the horizon for you and your non-dipping libido?” I asked.

  “Not yet. I’m looking.” She leaned toward me and whispered, “You should look at Kade.”

  I whispered back, “I already have.”

  She nodded with approval. “He’s a gentleman. I’ve known him for years. Honest. Fair. Kind. He’s a man who wants a wife, if you ask me.”

  “I will never be a wife again.”

  “Then you can role-play being a wife in bed,” she said. “And Kade can play the role of passionate husband.”

  I could do that!

  “I think women’s sex drives dip in menopause because the man they’re sleeping with doesn’t turn them on, the lazy oaf, the inconsiderate dragon, the mean mongoose,” Rozlyn said. “Leonard turns me on.”

  “Where did you see Leonard?” I asked.

  She squirmed. “At the Cassidy and Butch Café.”

  “And?”

  “I had a hot flash and had to leave before I ordered my nut berry muffin and could talk to him.”

  “That’s unfortunate,” Eudora drawled. “Next time, fan yourself, then get back in there. Don’t hide unless it’s life threatening.”

  Life threatening?

  “If it is life threatening, do not return to your home. Change your appearance. Assume someone is tailing you. Avoid airports, trains, and bus stations. Get a private party to drive you out.” She stopped. “That’s all.”

  I furrowed my brow and studied Eudora.

  She shrugged her shoulders, that elegant profile giving nothing away. “It’s proper advice.”

  “I want Leonard to tail me. Next time I see him, I’m going to ask him out,” Rozlyn said. “I don’t have the time not to anymore.”

  “Go for it,” I said, though I felt a piercing pain in my chest.

  “Smile. Show him the cleavage of your porn star boobs,” Eudora said. “And I think you’ll get your yes.”

  “Yep,” Rozlyn said, wriggling her chest. “That’s the plan.”

  That night I studied my unfinished collage of the girl in the magnifying glass dressed in lilies, the looming lighthouse in the distance.

  I set it on my table and painted some of the lilies. I used thick paint. I thought of it as butter paint. It made the lilies seem alive. I painted the red, crocheted shawl in her left hand and used an old toothbrush to get the texture I wanted. I added glitter to form the Big Dipper rising from her right hand. I painted her hair auburn, like mine, then I made tiny daisies from scrapbook paper and put them in her hair.

  I could not finish the lighthouse.

  Or the trees.

  What was there? What memory was trying to plow its way through? Why had I never been able to retrieve it? Was my subconscious holding tight to it? Would it ever let go? Was it too traumatic to handle? Did my six-year-old brain lock it out forever?

  Run, Grenadine, run!

  On the day I was released from the slammer on an unsuspecting public, I shed the blue scrubs stamped with JAIL, the squishy sandals and the jail-issued pink bra, worn underwear, and socks in the bathroom. How many other bottoms—with what sorts of problems—had been in my underwear? Yuck.

  I had been arrested on a Friday, in the afternoon. Gee. No judges available to talk to me, so the assistant U.S. attorney got his wish and had me in jail for the weekend. The timing was done to crush me. I get it.

  I was supposed to be in front of a judge on Monday, but because of my unfortunate encounter with the Neanderthal Woman, and the pending assault charge, I spent three days in isolation. Then another three days because of the next fight. The charges were dropped when it was determined it was self-defense.

  Ten days in jail.

  I was processed back out, paperwork signed. They handed me my clothes in the dark blue bag with the black zipper; my envelope with my silver bangles, wedding ring and diamond studs; and, to my relief, my lily bracelet.

  In the bathroom, I stood naked in front of the small mirror above the sink. My face was sad and defeated, as if I’d aged ten years. My eyes were tired, with purplish circles underneath them, and my face had a grayish cast to it. I’d lost weight, and my cheeks were sunken. My bruises from my fights were purple, green, and blue. The scars near my hairline seemed to glow against my paleness.

  I leaned against the sink, head bent, my hair half covering my ghastly face. My heart fluttered, my stomach churned.

  I was bad. I was stupid. Stupido Grenado. Less than. Poor. White trash. Nothing. Doesn’t fit in.

  And yet, this time, I raised my eyes to the mirror again. I wasn’t bad. I wasn’t any of that.

  Covey was. This was all him. Not me. I was not at fault. I had signed papers because I trusted him.

  Maybe I should have found a hit man, or, more accurately, a hit woman, when I was in jail. That would have made the last ten days of hell worth it.

  I brushed my blond hair and put it in a loose bun on top of my head, the first step in making myself look like Dina, artist, not con artist. I pulled on my skinny jeans and belt with the silver buckle, my knee-high black boots, a white tank, and the white lace top without the white ribbon that the officers had taken in case I wanted to use it to hang myself.

  I slipped in my diamond studs and put my silver bangles back on my wrist. I kissed the lily bracelet because no one could see me doing it, so therefore wouldn’t think I was insane. I pocketed my wedding ring.

  Better.

  Better, at least, for a battered jailbird who was going to flap her torn wings and fly out of town as soon as she was allowed.

  After I was dressed, Millie and her assistant, Glory, met me in the jail lobby and we walked up the stairs to the third floor. I had told her to tell Covey and his attorneys he was not to be there or I would attack him.

  There were four courtrooms. We went into the second one. It all blurred together because I was shaking, but I was soon in front of a U.S. magistrate judge for a detention hearing and an arraignment. The judge told me what I had been charged with, I pled not guilty, and he set the trial date for ninety days down the road.

  Millie whispered to me, “That’ll never happen. Don’t worry. I’ll get it changed. We have at least nine months, count on waaaaay longer.”

  It was determined that I was to be free until my trial. I was not a looming danger to the public, had no record, and I said I would not skip town to Mexico, although Millie told me later that was exactly what they were worried about with Covey.
He had a home there, and money in foreign accounts. I agreed to give up my passport.

  A pretrial release person named Lavinia Slade had already met with the judge about me and said I was not a flight risk. I met with her, too.

  Lavinia had blond hair and was about five feet tall. She told me I could travel within the state of Oregon. I had to check in with her regularly, which I agreed to do. She told me the rules and regulations and the consequences if I didn’t follow the rules and regulations. I heard about legalities and received warnings. She said a whole bunch of other things, but they faded and blurred.

  I nodded, but all I could think about was that I never, ever wanted to return to jail.

  Millie and Glory each took my elbow as we left the Justice Center jail. We were greeted by both a reporter and a photographer. “Look this way, Mrs. Hamilton . . .” the photographer told me. I turned my head in the opposite direction.

  The sun was shining. People were walking around, cars driving by. Teenagers were laughing on the corner, a mother was pushing twins in a stroller, a group of preschoolers were being led down the sidewalk. All normal. I had lost out on all of this. I had lost out on life. I had lost out on the weather. I had lost out on roses, daisies, lilies, coffee with whipping cream, paints and canvases.

  More time in my life, lost. Gone.

  The reporter started pestering me as we made our way to Millie’s car. “You’ve been charged with theft, fraud, embezzlement, and money laundering . . . are you guilty, Mrs. Hamilton . . . what do you have to say to your victims . . . your husband was released seven days ago from jail, why weren’t you . . . your husband said he’s innocent . . . is it true that you were in two fights during your stay in jail and had to go to solitary... is that where all your bruises are from . . . who hit you?”

  I turned to tell the reporter that I knew nothing about what Covey had done, nothing about his illegal activities.