by Kaira Rouda
All she had to do was tell me she had a boyfriend, the slut.
I swivel around to her computer and it is on. I click on a file on her desktop, CC, and voilà, it’s all Chad and Caroline all the time: hundreds of photos of the happy couple. I open her email and search my name. At least fifty emails load. I scan through them. Some are account-related, to me or from me. Some are not. I refine the search to Paul and Chad.
“There’s a guy here, older, named Paul. He scares me. He’s always watching me, pretending to bump into me. Creepy.” Caroline typed this to Chad. I scare her? I wanted to make love to her. Bitch.
I exit out of her email and open her web browser. She must be lonely without Chad. He lives in Virginia, and although they’ve discussed marriage, he wants to finish law school before he proposes. How sweet. This should keep her busy in the meantime. I watch as my chosen site loads, and as I keep clicking, like a nasty virus porn explodes across her screen.
And I open more sites, and the debauchery keeps loading. I don’t know how much her computer can take but I’ll keep giving it to her until she can’t handle any more. I smile as I hear the computer running hard. I want to be sure she shares her secret sex perversion with everyone. I create an email, you know, between her and Chad. I attach some of the most interesting photos to her love note. And then for fun, I blind copy everyone in the office. Oops, Caroline.
I schedule the message to send Monday, early afternoon.
HR has a strict no-porn rule. Everyone might understand, I suppose, that poor Caroline was alone, her boyfriend two states away. What was a girl to do? But still, a rule is a rule, even for perfect Caroline. Rebecca, still grieving the loss of her plant babies, will be forced to fire her. I can almost imagine the scene, the rent-a-cop’s arm on Caroline’s shoulder, ushering her out the door as her tears fall on the dark green stain on Rebecca’s rug.
I check my watch. It’s time to go. I step into the elevator one last time and ride to the first floor. I am at peace with this place now. Perhaps I’ll even send a postcard to the team once I’m settled in Florida, or maybe not. I reset the alarm and stroll out into the still-black night. It’s truly amazing how much one can accomplish in a day when one is committed to tying up loose ends, when one has a plan.
Gretchen will be happy to see me. Sure, she’s confused—thanks to fucking Buck—but once she sees me, she’ll realize who she can trust, who she can believe in. Fortunately, her apartment is a block from my office, and I am in front of her building in less than two minutes. I hop out of my car and hurry up the familiar walkway. Gretchen’s building is one of a series of old brick brownstones, charming and decaying at the same time. Gretchen has planted pink geraniums in the window box next to her front door. Her next-door neighbor, an elderly woman I’ve said hello to a couple of times, has chosen to plant red ones. The look is homey, very Americana.
I wish Gretchen had given me a key. She keeps forgetting to ask her landlord, she says. She also says she’ll remember when I remember to divorce my wife. Cute, huh? A little bit of a power play going on with her, I realize, and feel my fists clench. I take a deep breath, calming myself. I need to hurry.
I knock softly on the thick front door, imagining Gretchen sleeping in a soft silk nightie. I don’t want to frighten her, but I need her to wake up already. I resist the urge to bang my fist on the door, deciding to go around back. I walk between the carports, my feet crunching on the gravel driveway. Her window is sheltered by a large pine tree that she likes for privacy, but it scratches my face as I push my way inside its branches. She doesn’t even have a curtain on her window, relying on the pine tree to shield her from prying eyes. I need to tell her that isn’t safe; I mean, all it takes is breaking a few branches off and you have a clear view.
I tap on her window a couple of times, harder with each tap, and watch as she stirs. She sits up in bed, looking toward the window but not seeing me. I knock again. I’m here, my love. She turns on her bedside table lamp, her eyes squinting in the bright light. She’s disoriented, poor thing. She picks up her phone, perhaps checking the time. It is late, or early, depending on your perspective, almost four thirty in the morning. I myself have been fighting waves of exhaustion whenever my adrenaline rush fades.
I knock again, three times, and then wave a hand so she’ll know it is me, a friend, a lover, not a Peeping Tom or some other creep. She stands up, her short nightie revealing her gorgeous legs. Gretchen has her phone gripped in both hands in front of her. Too late I realize she may be dialing 9-1-1.
“Gretchen, it’s me, love. It’s okay, no need to call the police,” I yell through the glass. Fortunately it’s the old leaded glass, beautiful but thin. No storm windows, of course, since her landlord is cheap.
She leans forward and then takes a step toward the window, trying to see me in the dark, phone still positioned defensively.
“Paul? What are you doing here?”
“Hey, yes, it’s me,” I say, relief flooding over me. “I came to whisk you away to the happiest place in the world, my love.” Even to me that sounded a bit corny, but women love this sort of thing.
“I asked you to leave me alone, to let me think.” Gretchen steps back. “You need to go now, Paul.”
Buck has done this. He has poisoned everyone with lies. I may need to make a stop in Nashville, just to say hello to Lois, make sure she isn’t going to do anything crazy. But first, I need to get Gretchen back on team Paul.
“My love, listen, let me in. Let’s talk. I’ll help you pack up. We’ll have so much fun!” I put one hand on the window, enjoying its cool smooth texture. I want to touch Gretchen’s cheek, feel her warm body beneath mine. I smile my winning smile, adding a wink.
She does not return my enthusiasm and takes another step back, toward her bedroom door. “I’m not going anywhere with you. If you don’t leave now, I will call the police.”
Lights suddenly flood the driveway and carport area, and I am illuminated as if it’s daylight. Next door, the old lady’s brownstone pulses with light as her back door opens.
“Who’s out here? I’m gonna call the cops.”
She’s an idiot. If I were a bad guy I would jump her now that her door is open, bash her head in and take any money she might have around. But the old lady has balls. We are feet away from each other, but my pine tree is protecting me.
I look back through the window at Gretchen. She mouths two words: “Go away.” Fine. I hear her, loud and clear.
The old bat closes her door and turns off the outdoor floodlights, and once again I’m shrouded in darkness. I’m fine. I don’t need Gretchen. She’s not even rich. No, it’s best to start over, just the boys and me: the three musketeers against the world. Fuck you, Gretchen, my love. I flip her the bird but I don’t think she saw me, retreating as she did into her living room.
I cut through the yard on my way to my car, and for good measure, for fun, I pop my head into her living room window.
“Boo,” I say, with a wave goodbye.
The look on her face is priceless, and I laugh all the way to the car.
Women are so predictable, so easily manipulated. I’m glad we didn’t have any girls. Boys are transparent, easy to read, easy to raise. They’ll have so much fun in Florida, or Nashville, wherever we end up.
I pull away from Gretchen’s apartment thinking fondly of all the great sex I had there, enjoying the little zip of desire that courses through me as I make my way onto the familiar street that leads to home. Norah Jones sings “Come Away with Me” as I cruise down Lane Avenue. The street takes me on a straight path through my beautiful suburb, a place filled with high-end shopping, cozy restaurants, country clubs, lucky children and spoiled housewives. My boys will carry memories of this place forever. Come away with me in the night, boys. We’ll build our new home in the sunshine.
That’s the only negative thing I ca
n tell you about Grandville—I mean, it is never sunny. From October to the end of April, it’s perpetual gray. And then, when the sun does start to shine, it’s great for a couple weeks until it turns to unbearable heat and humidity. We’ll be better off someplace else. Anyplace would be better than here.
The light is green and I turn onto my street. I haven’t seen another car since I left the office and I still don’t. It’s just the Ford Flex and me, cruising my neighborhood, heading for home. I only have one more little detour to make.
I pull over to the curb, and turn off my headlights. The Boones’ Grandville home isn’t as special as their cottage. Like you, I’ve checked the value of all of my neighbor’s homes online and I know ours is one of the top two. The Boones’, on the other hand, is in the middle of the pack. In fact, if you’d never visited their lake house, you would think they were barely hanging on.
Maybe they are. It seems Greg made a bad business investment, and he’s overleveraged. One little thing could push them over the edge, especially since they cut their homeowner’s insurance to a minimum. I don’t know that for a fact, it’s just what I hear, since we share the same insurance agent. I was only asking for myself, of course, since I’m in a bit of a pinch and wanted to save somewhere. My agent, Bob, took me to lunch, but advised against cutting coverage as much as my neighbor.
“What do you mean?” I asked, sipping my too-hot diner coffee—Bob’s a big spender—scalding my tongue in that annoying manner that makes you unable to taste food for the rest of the day. Thanks, Bob.
Bob leaned forward in the booth, conspiratorially. One good buddy to another and said, “Your neighbors, the Boones, well, confidentially, he cut his insurance to barely anything. I mean, he’s totally exposed. I wouldn’t recommend that.” Well, thank you, Bob. Great guy. Bob was such a helpful font of information. “Don’t say anything, please.”
I smiled, happy to have this newfound knowledge, my taste buds a small price to pay. “Oh, of course not. Not a word. What policy would you recommend, if I were to cut back? I know, not what the idiot Greg Boone picked.”
We laughed and then Bob droned on about his recommendations, of course, but all I could think of was how exposed Doris and Greg were.
“You’ve convinced me,” I said once Bob finally stopped talking. Our eggs had arrived, signaling the end of his diatribe. I couldn’t taste anything of the meal, but it was very satisfying. You know I don’t believe in gossip, but sometimes it comes in very handy.
Like now. The Boones’ home is lifeless, all of the family members nestled in their grand cottage at the lake. Unfortunately for them and lucky for me, the nearest streetlight is a house away, across the street, so their home is masked in darkness. I’m familiar enough with their home to maneuver in the shadows, of course.
Like most of us in the neighborhood, the Boones had a cord or two of wood delivered in September, preparing for the winter ahead. And, like most of us, the Boones hadn’t burned through all of the logs yet. I reach the side of their yard, and the neatly stacked pile that’s shaped, ironically, perfectly for a fire, tucked up against the house, kept dry by the overhang of the roof. With the warm, dry May we’ve been experiencing, it wouldn’t take much kindling for this to combust. I need a slow burn, though. I don’t want to draw attention to this little flame until it has made its way into the walls of their home, fingers of fire pulsing along the electrical wiring, shooting up the walls.
I glance up and notice the back door, with its intricate stained-glass window pane perfectly positioned for a break-in. This will be easier. I pull off my shirt and wrap my hand. I punch through the window, reach down for the doorknob and welcome myself into their kitchen. Greg is too cheap for security monitoring, another cut he shouldn’t have made, and he’ll be sorry. I find the designer knife set displayed on the counter in a wooden block and grab the large serrated knife. I pull out the stove, find the hose connecting the appliance to the gas line and easily cut through it, smiling when the familiar mercaptan chemical scent begins to fill the room. It doesn’t take me long to find a candle. I light it with my Frank’s grocery matches, bringing back such good memories of my time there waiting in line with the little people and the man with the yellow hands. I swallow and look around.
The candle looks lovely here, burning bright on the honed black granite island. I take a moment to appreciate the kid art tacked to the refrigerator door. A small handprint dipped in paint pushed onto construction paper to make the shape of a tulip. Precious. The little Boones are quite the artists, but not as good as my boys. I look around once more, appreciate the flickering candle and the strong smell coming from behind the Viking stove: only four burners compared to our six-top. But still, a nice brand. Kudos, Greg.
My work here is done.
Time to go home.
4:45 a.m.
31
I’m just half a block away and I still haven’t been able to figure out how to let Claudia know I’ll be coming in the door. No doubt she has set the alarm and I don’t want it going off and waking the entire neighborhood at almost five in the morning. There is about a minute before the thing blares, but that means I need to hope she hasn’t dead-bolted the back door, or the door to the garage.
There really isn’t a choice, though. I need to see my boys, get my boys. Take my boys. And no one is going to be able to stop me, that I can promise. Between the Boones’ house and ours there are plenty of streetlights illuminating the street, something missing in Lakeside, so it seems lighter, happier here. I will appreciate this place more now, I vow to myself. At least enjoy it until I sell. Enjoy the final hour here until we leave. I check my watch. There isn’t much time left before sunrise.
In the driveway I turn off the headlights. Again, I don’t want to scare Claudia by shining my headlights into the guest bedroom. Who knows how a druggie would react to that? Our guest room is above the garage, around the corner from the boys’ bedrooms. I decide against opening the garage door, as I know that sound will alert her. Instead, I will check the back door. She is lazy, Claudia. Perhaps she didn’t lock it at all.
I put the car in Park and get out of the car. It’s nice to be home. Slowly I walk to the back door. I take a moment to admire the green grass and the trimmed bushes, the tulips blooming in celebration of spring. I look to my right, at my parents’ former home, dark and filled with sleeping strangers. Good old Buck didn’t know that part of the story, I realize with a smile. He has underestimated me, as usual. He shouldn’t.
The alarm isn’t set. The light of the panel is green. This is brilliant news, even if it is news that would lead me to fire Claudia under normal circumstances. These aren’t normal circumstances so I’m grateful for her lack of competency, the druggie. I push the key into the lock and hear it click; I twist the knob and walk into my home. I flip on the back hall light and I’m momentarily thrown off by the simple fact that the back hall table, an expensive antique that was a gift from Mia’s parents, is gone. This is the spot where I place my keys every day after work. But it is not there. I am certain it was here this morning when we left.
This is odd. Why would Claudia move a table? I wonder. I walk slowly, quietly down the hall and arrive in the kitchen. Here, everything seems to be in order. I swallow a growing feeling of unrest, of concern. There is no mess here, no dishes. No signs of little kids. No blocks. No booster seat at the kitchen table.
Where is Sam’s booster seat? I leave the kitchen and head for the stairs, taking them two at a time. I start to go to the master bedroom, but think twice and instead quicken my steps to Mikey’s room. I quietly turn the handle of his closed bedroom door, and push it open gently.
The room is completely empty.
“What?” I say aloud before hurrying through the Jack-and-Jill bathroom connecting the boys’ rooms. I throw open the door to Sam’s room. It’s empty. No furniture, no Sam.
Where are my boys?
“Claudia!” I yell, marching to the guest room. There’s no one in the guest room, though. The door is open. The furnishings—furniture, lamps, paintings, even the small Picasso nude from Mia’s parents that we hung in the room to impress guests, everything—are gone.
I stand there, in the empty guest room, in shock. For a moment. I rub my hand through my hair before pulling my phone out of my pocket. I dial Mia’s number. My call rolls to voice mail.
“Mia, what have you done with my boys? Where is my furniture? My antiques? My artwork? Where is my Picasso? The Alice Schille beachscape on the wall, it’s gone, too. I need an explanation. Call me immediately,” I say. My voice is calm. I am in control. She will be as alarmed as I am. She will obey me.
I walk at last into the master bedroom. The bed is still there, as are the side tables. The walls are bare, gaping holes where art used to hang. The happy family portrait, the four of us posing in the gazebo at the lake, that was hanging just inside the door is missing, too. I touch the spot where it should be, where it always was. Who could have done such a thing? Violated our private spaces?
I storm into the walk-in closet. Only half of the room is full. All of Mia’s things are gone. On the bathroom counter there is a red envelope with Paul written on it in Mia’s writing. I grab it, feeling the thick texture. This is a love note, of course. And, perhaps, an explanation. Maybe we are moving somewhere together, and this is all a big surprise.
I tear open the envelope and pull out the letter.
Dear Paul,
By now I’m sure you’re anxious to know what’s going on. It’s hard being one step behind, I know. Trust me. Because of you, I’ve learned. So welcome home, and welcome to your new reality.
