Marriage Is Murder

by Nancy Pickard

  The sergeant relayed a copy of the message to Geof’s office. Willie, who had returned to the station instead of going home, intercepted and read it. He walked out in his shiny green suit to the desk and instructed the sergeant, “If there’s a problem at Sunrise House tonight, I want it.”

  “You got it, Liz,” the sergeant promised.

  “And tell the dispatcher that, too,” Willie ordered. “I’ll be cruising near Sunrise House, they can raise me on the radio.”

  “You could raise the dead in that suit, Liz.”

  “Just do it, Sergeant.”

  “Done, Detective.”

  And Willie left the station to get back in his car. He headed, ready for trouble, for the general vicinity of Sunrise House.

  Trouble, as they say, didn’t take long to find him.

  The way we pieced things together later, it looks as if the next step on the escalator of violence that Ernie McEachen rode was the front step of Sunrise House. By that time, Smithy was inside.

  Ernie rang the doorbell once, politely.

  Smithy went to the door and called out, “Yes?”

  “I’d like to see my wife, Marsha McEachen,” he called back.

  “She’s not here, Ernie. Go home.”

  He pounded the door with his fist and raised his voice. “You lying bitch! I got no home now! I want my wife! I want my kids! You let ’em out of there, you got no right! Listen, I don’t have to see her, just let me talk to her through the door, all right? I won’t touch her, I promise, you don’t have to let me in, just. . .”

  His words followed Smithy back into the hallway as she said sharply to the night staff member, “Wake everybody up, and get them downstairs, right now, and into the kitchen. They can bring blankets and pillows for the children, but don’t let them take the time to get their purses or stuff, just get them down here!”

  “Okay, Smithy.” The staff member stumbled on the first step of the stairs, then raced on up to the second floor. Outside the house, Ernie was ringing the doorbell over and over; the women and children upstairs were already rousing. One of the babies began to cry. Smithy ran into her office and called the police.

  “Abuser on the premises,” she said. “It’s McEachen.”

  “Has he got a weapon?” the sergeant asked.

  “I don’t know. He’s pounding on the door and yelling. I’m getting the residents gathered into the kitchen downstairs, and I’ll lock us in. For Christ’s sake, hurry up.”

  “Have you got a phone in the kitchen?”

  “I’ll plug this one in.”

  “Call me back when you’ve done that,” he said, and hung up.

  Then he called the dispatcher.

  “Get hold of Detective Willie Henderson,” he told her. “And tell him there’s an abuser on the premises at Sunrise House. It’s that Ernie McEachen kid. We don’t know if he’s got a weapon.”

  The dispatcher raised Willie.

  “Do you want a backup?” she inquired.

  “Not yet,” he told her as he sped toward the shelter.

  Willie didn’t turn on his siren or light but drove quietly onto the block, turning off his headlights at the corner and parking several houses away. He saw, illuminated by the front porch light at the shelter, the figure of a slightly built man.

  Willie got out of his car and shut the door, trying to move as silently as his nickname suggested. He walked around to open the trunk, reached in, and took out a rifle. He glanced around the raised trunk lid and saw that the man was still standing on the shelter’s front porch. Willie then loaded the gun with ammunition, stuffed extra rounds in his pockets, and fitted onto the rifle a seven-power scope. Then, using trees, cars, and shrubbery to shield himself, he crept forward toward the front of Sunrise House.

  Ernie suddenly stepped back off the porch.

  Willie froze where he was, hunched down behind a car. Through the car’s windshield, he watched Ernie look up at the second story of the shelter, then to each side, and then pivot on one heel to look behind, as if he were checking to see if anybody was watching. Then he walked over to where a tricycle lay on its side in the yard, picked it up, and began to carry it around to the east side of the house.

  Willie began to move forward again. His intent at that moment—and in spite of the sharpshooter weaponry—was only to stop Ernie McEachen, arrest him, and to draw attention away from the shelter by taking Ernie into the station.

  Willie sneaked closer to the house.

  He began to raise himself slowly to a standing position, and to sight through the scope, preparing to identify himself as police, and to command Ernie to turn around and put his hands up.

  “Police! McEachen.”

  Ernie raised the tricycle and hurled it at a window, which shattered as noisily as a bomb going off in the quiet neighborhood. Willie lost him in the scope as Ernie crawled over the broken glass and disappeared inside the shelter.

  “McEachen!”

  Willie lowered the rifle and ran the remaining distance.

  At the sound of glass crashing, Smithy called the police from the kitchen, as did several of her neighbors from their houses. She was whispering her report to the sergeant when Ernie shouted that if somebody didn’t unlock the door to the kitchen, he’d shoot his way in. The sergeant, on his end of the line, heard what sounded like chairs scraping, and startled cries, which he perceived to be the noise of frightened women hurrying their children away from the line of fire. Then the sergeant heard two gunshots, followed by a sound like a door crashing in, accompanied by women’s screams, overridden by a man’s unintelligible shout. And then the police sergeant’s line went dead, as mine had earlier that night.

  Shortly after that, the phone beside our bed rang.

  20

  GEOF GRABBED IT, AS WAS USUAL WITH NIGHT CALLS THAT came to the house—very few people ever called me at two in the morning to request funds for their favorite charity.

  “Bushfield,” he said, and then, after a moment, “Hostages?”

  At that word, which was an extraordinary one to hear in our town, I sat up in bed, too, and paid close attention to Geofs next questions. “Anybody hurt? How long’s he been in there? Who’s he got in there with him? What about weapons? Has anybody talked to him, do you know what he wants yet?”

  He listened, then said, “I’m coming,” and hung up.

  “What?” I asked. “What, what?”

  “Ernie McEachen has broken into Sunrise House.”

  “Oh, Christ!”

  Geof began pulling clothes out of drawers and off hangers. “Somebody’s fired a couple of shots, we don’t know who, and we don’t know who’s in there with him, or if anybody’s hurt, and nobody’s got communication with him yet. Willie took the call alone, which was pretty damned stupid if you ask me, and now they’re calling in the cavalry.” He strapped his shoulder holster in place, slipped the gun in. “Jesus, what a mess that kid’s got himself into now.”

  “He wants his wife and kids.”

  Geof was slipping on a suit coat and heading for the bedroom door. “Sure. And by now, he probably also wants an armored car, a helicopter, a jet plane, four passports, diplomatic immunity, a suitcase full of cocaine, three million dollars, and one-way tickets to Kabul.” He had a hand on the doorknob when he turned around to say, “Listen, I’m sorry to drag you further into this, but you’re going to have to do something for me—keep Marsha sequestered here. Don’t let her out of your sight, don’t turn on the radio or TV where she can hear it, don’t give her the car, and for God’s sake, whatever you do, don’t let her near that shelter. I’ll send somebody over, but I’m going to have them park outside until morning so they don’t wake anybody up. But they’ll be there if you need them. All right, Jenny?”

  I spoke quickly. “Doesn’t she have a right to know what’s going on?”

  “Probably.” He lowered his voice, to keep from waking the little family across the hall. “But he’s not getting near them, and we can handle this situ
ation better if we don’t have a hysterical wife on our hands. Let her sleep, okay? She needs it, and God knows she’ll find out the bad news soon enough.”

  “Who’s your negotiator?”

  “You’re probably looking at him,” he said, and departed.

  But he stuck his head back into the room.

  “I’m sorry. I love you.”

  “Be careful. I love you.”

  He was gone then, leaving me with a heart that had tightened to the size and hardness of a marble. I couldn’t understand how such a small, constricted organ could beat so damned painfully against my ribs. I felt suddenly in a league with young Marsha McEachen, just another one of the women holding their breath on the sidelines while the men of this world made war on each other. Talk about your raging hormones.

  I got out of bed and padded across the hall to check on the mother and children. They were sleeping peacefully, the little ones looking cherubic against the pillows. No wonder he wanted them back. But why couldn’t he take better care of them when he had them? Now, would he ever have them again?

  It would be morning before local TV or radio had any news.

  I decided that I should go back to bed, especially since I might need all my wits to calm—or console?—Marsha in the morning. I returned to the bedroom and took a couple of Tylenol tablets to help me relax. I set the alarm. Once in bed, I blanked out my imagination so that it couldn’t keep me awake by playing morbid scenarios in my mind, and then I fell asleep.

  I dreamed that a baby was crying across the hall.

  “Damn,” I thought, “somebody feed that kid.”

  Then I woke up and realized it was a real child, really across the hall. I waited for Marsha to make whatever moves mothers make to quiet their babies, but the baby just kept on wailing. The crying got louder and more insistent, and then it was joined by the crying of a second child. Knowing I’d be about as much help as a Band-Aid on a broken arm, I stumbled across the hall to offer assistance

  Shawnie, the baby, was about to roll himself off the bed with the force of his crying. I raced to’ catch him. The toddler was sitting up in bed, looking frightened.

  “Where my mommy?” she sobbed.

  I grabbed the baby as he tumbled off.

  “Marsha?” I called out.

  “Where my mohimy?”

  It was a good question, and in a few moments, I had a second and then a third question: Where were my keys, and where was my car? A hastily written, nearly illegible note in my purse informed me: “Dear Ms. Cain, I’m sorry, Marsha.” With a baby in my arms and a toddler by the hand, I ran out of the house to look for the police car that was supposed to be parked at the front curb. It wasn’t there, either. I finally looked at my watch, only to see that it was only about twenty minutes since I’d gone back to sleep.

  That meant that Marsha must have been awakened by the phone call, overheard us talking in the bedroom, waited for Geof to leave, pretended to be asleep, found my keys in my purse, and then sneaked out of the driveway with my car. Tugging at the toddler, I tried to hurry back into the house to call the dispatcher to warn her that Marsha was probably on her way to the shelter to try to see her husband.

  “Me dirty,” the toddler said, pulling at her diaper.

  “Me desperate.” I picked her up with my left arm and started to haul her back inside with her little brother. At that moment, I heard a car pull up and park at the curb behind me, and I wheeled, babes in arms, to find the police car right where I wanted it.

  “Down! Want down! Dirty!”

  The baby squirmed against my chest and began to cry again, too.

  A short, husky cop hurried out of the car toward us.

  “What’s going on?” she called out to me.

  “Catch him!” I yelled, as the infant squirted like ointment from a tube out of my grasp. She saved him from the second fall, and then held him out from her at arm’s length while he squirmed and cried. I set the little girl back down, but held firmly to her hands.

  “Jeez, I don’t know anything about babies,” the cop complained.

  “Their mother took off with my car, and I think she’s on her way to the shelter. You’ve got to let Geof know about it.”

  She thrust the baby back at me and loped back to her car, handcuffs flopping against her left hip. I watched her make radio contact. When it was done, she gave me a high sign and peered out the car window at me.

  “Let’s take the kids over there,” she called out to me. “Leverage “

  “Is that what Geof said?”

  “No, but. ..”

  “No,” I said, and began to back with them toward the house.

  “Come on!” There was excitement in her voice. “They won’t get hurt!”

  “Mommy! Dirty! Want!”

  I shut the door, feeling no pity for the cop who wanted to be where the action was.

  First things first, I thought, and headed upstairs to change the first diaper of my life. It scared the hell out of me—I was sure I’d either cut off the kid’s breathing, or I wouldn’t get it tight enough and, somehow—don’t ask for details—she’d drown in it. I didn’t have the slightest idea, either, how to mix the formula I found in the little bag the hospital had given Marsha, but I followed the directions on the can, prayed, and stuck the nipple in Shawnie’s mouth. It seemed to me a bona fide miracle on a par with walking on water when he instantly, magically, stopped crying. But that left the toddler, who was now dry on one end but still flowing tears out of the other. I tried kisses and awkward hugs, all of which she fought by going stiff as a door, and then I tried calling the only person I could think of at the moment who could cope surprisingly well in tough situations.

  Tommy Nichol promised to come at once.

  When he arrived, he took the wailing toddler away from me, kissed the tears on the plump red cheeks, and rocked her against his pillowy chest until the little body gradually began to relax, to fold, soften, crumple, sleep.

  “Abracadabra,” I muttered.

  But now, with the child and the accompanying sense of helplessness removed from me, I began to really see her. I realized I didn’t even know her name, and I couldn’t recall what Marsha had called this plain, plump little girl. Like her mother, she had thick blond hair and a face as round as a melon; also like her mother, when she cried, her entire face got red, and her nose ran copiously. It was not an attractive family; none of them was physically appealing. But the children had some of their mother’s sweetness. Looking at her pillowed against Tommy’s chest, my throat closed over the thought of what her parents were doing to her life, and to that of her little brother. I was tired and suddenly near tears.

  “Jenny.” Tommy spoke softly over the child’s head, calling me out of my contemplation of the child’s bleak future. I looked up to find him gazing at me sympathetically. “You’d be surprised how tough, children can be, honestly. Kids survive worse circumstances than these.”

  For some reason that annoyed rather than reassured me, and I found myself snapping ungratefully at him, “Well, let’s just make it as tough for them as we can, shall we, Tommy? Let’s set up the burning hoops and see how many goddamned obstacles we can make these kids jump over before they grow up!”

  He blinked, looking confused and hurt.

  “Oh, God, I’m sorry, “tommy.” I patted him in apology. “You’re so kind to do this for me. I’m worried about their mother, that’s all, and about Geof.”

  “He’ll be all right, Jenny.”

  His facile comfort again triggered an unreasonable flash of anger in me, but this time I clamped my teeth shut on it. Instead, I said, “Believe it or not, I need one more favor, Tommy—your car.”

  His eyes widened. “Are you going over there?”

  “Yes. I can’t stand it. I have such a bad feeling.”

  He gave me the keys. I patted his arm again, and turned to leave.

  “Jenny . . .”

  I glanced back over my shoulder.

  Tommy look
ed like a man who had something he needed to get off his chest—and it wasn’t the child. I turned around to hear what he had to say.

  “Ernie came to my group counseling session tonight, Jenny,” he said in the tone of a reluctant confessor. “He was drunk. And mad at everybody. It was wild! He’d been out drinking with his buddies, and they’d primed him to ‘be a man’—you know, that tell-the-little-woman-who’s-boss sort of macho stuff.” An expression of pain and guilt crossed Tommy’s soft features. “So ... so I tossed him out. Because I don’t let them stay if they’re high on anything or acting up. Maybe I goofed, Jenny. Oh, God, maybe I should have let him. stay! Maybe this wouldn’t have happened!”

  “Don’t blame yourself, Tommy.”

  “These guys are power-hungry!” He said it pleadingly, as if my belief might ease his doubt and guilt. He didn’t have to beg; I believed him, all right. “1 have to keep the upper hand every minute with these guys, or I’ll lose the war!”

  “Well, you didn’t start this particular battle, Tommy.”

  “I hope not,” he said miserably.

  “You didn’t tell him the location of the shelter, did you?”

  “Tell who, Ernie? Gosh, no, Jenny, I’d never do that. She must have told him.”

  “She says she didn’t.”

  He shrugged and, for Tommy, looked cynical. “Well . . .”

  I left him standing there with the child in his arms, looking as if he would sway all night long if he had to, both tree and cradle. The cop outside challenged my right to leave. I ignored her and sped off in Tommy’s old blue Firebird.

  21

  AS I DROVE, I SEARCHED THE STREETS FOR MY OWN CAR.

  What did Marsha think she was going to do? Talk the cop into letting her speak to Ernie? Try to persuade him to come out? Try to get into the shelter to see him? I knew” what she might actually manage to do—foul up the negotiations, at the least, or get herself killed, at the worst. And why, after everything that had happened to her because of him, did she still want to save the moronic, mean little shit?