Mustard on Top

by Wanda Degolier

  Trees grew larger as they accelerated. The bird’s-eye view, the weightlessness was something she’d never forget. She counted to ten before checking her altimeter: 8,000 feet. They were moving faster than she ever had in her life, yet time seemed to slow. They dropped 500 feet in the second she’d watched the altimeter.

  Her broad view shrunk, as everything below her grew. The tops of individual trees in the forest came into focus, and she could discern the difference between a sailboat and a fishing boat in the ocean. She inhaled and exhaled twice before checking her altimeter again. They were at 6,300 feet. She watched the gauge move as they plummeted. At 5,500 feet, she snapped the altimeter into place, grasped the parachute pull with both hands, and yanked. The pull came free, detaching from her suit.

  She had been instructed that one- to- two seconds would lapse before she’d feel as if she’d been yanked upward. When nothing happened, she probed the place where the parachute pull had come free feeling for the broken end of the pull. There was nothing.

  Helen checked her altimeter: 4,500 dropped to 4,300 in the blink of an eye. She wanted to communicate with Seth, but if she opened her mouth, the air pressure could blow her cheeks out. Seth would never hear her anyway. If she twisted to face him, and after he’d activated the back-up parachute, she could throw the parachute out of position causing it to malfunction.

  She had to trust he knew her parachute hadn’t opened and that he’d activate the backup. He’d done hundreds of jumps and was a certified instructor Helen reminded herself. She checked her altimeter—3,900 feet.

  They had precious few seconds. Helen closed her eyes and sent up a silent prayer. She refused to spend her last moments in terror, watching the ground speed toward her. Helen conjured her mother. She had clear, creamy skin, silky, dark hair, and straight, white teeth. She was smiling exactly the way Helen wanted to remember her.

  She recalled Theo’s birth. The joy, the pain, the scary excitement was vivid. Theo’s fourth birthday entered her mind. He sat in a kid-sized, pedal-powered Corvette. His excitement and pure innocent smile made Helen’s chest swell. A memory of her with Ben. They were sitting in his car holding hands and gazing at the sunset. Her dad popped into her mental theater. He’d been gone so long, she didn’t think a vision of him existed in her mind, but there he was in a photo she’d found on her mother’s nightstand. She flitted back to an eight-year-old Theo laughing as she tickled him, then a sixteen-year-old Theo working with her at Hot Diggitys and flashing one of his goofy smiles. Then Ben at his current age, standing in her bedroom doorway watching her sleep. He had a look of abject sadness on his face. Sadness? She remembered her mother at the airport, when Theo was six weeks old, leaving. Then Theo: nine years old and laughing as she chased him down the boardwalk.

  A sudden jerk jolted her from her reverie. She seemed to be floating. Had she died? She opened her eyes expecting to find herself levitating above the grisly scene of her and Seth’s deaths.

  The ground was rushing at her. They were close, too close. Her altimeter read 500 feet. The wind was gone and Seth’s ragged breathing rushed across one ear.

  “We almost died,” he said. “We almost fucking died.”

  They hit the ground hard and ran several steps before the parachute flew over them, knocking them down. The impact knocked the breath out of Helen, and she gasped for air.

  Seth tugged at the harnesses, unhooking himself from her with the speed only a practiced hand could conjure. He rolled off her and wrestled with the parachute. Helen, gasping for air, sat up.

  Seth gathered great armfuls of the parachute and shouted, “We need to get out of the way. Other jumpers are coming down.” He grabbed her wrist and yanked Helen to her feet. Indeed, jumpers were raining down. Pulling free from his grasp, Helen helped gather the parachute. When they had it off the ground, they ran side-by-side toward a trailhead that led back to the parking lot.

  The trail ran through a sparsely treed area. Once they were out of harm’s way, Helen tried to slow down and catch her breath, but Seth continued barreling ahead. “Seth, slow down!”

  He turned on her, his eyes blazing.

  Surprised by his rage, Helen’s jaw dropped. “Are you okay?”

  “We almost fucking died.” Seth turned and began walking.

  “But we didn’t,” Helen called out before tossing her side of the parachute toward him. “I’m not running a mile back because you want to throw a fit.”

  Seth gathered the rest of the parachute and continued at a slower pace. He stayed silent the distance back to his Jeep and when they arrived, Seth opened the driver’s door, shoved the parachute into the back seat, then slammed the door.

  “Seth, tell me what’s wrong.”

  He stared at the ground.

  “What happened to us up there?” Helen asked.

  Seth bent over and unzipped a pocket on his suit that ran down his calf. He pulled out a small bottle of champagne. “For your first jump,” he announced, hurling the bottle into a stand of trees.

  The sound of breaking glass annoyed her. A temper tantrum, Seth style.

  “What were you thinking up there?” He jutted his chin skyward. “When your parachute didn’t open?”

  “Not to be cliché, but I guess my life passed before my eyes.”

  “Yeah, and what did you see?”

  “People I loved when they were happy. Theo mostly. Why? What happened to you?”

  Seth clenched his hands into fists. “And you were okay with that?”

  “With what?” Helen asked, confused.

  “Dying. You didn’t seem the slightest bit rattled when we landed.”

  “I was plenty rattled, believe me.” She tilted her head to the side. “I didn’t want to spend my last seconds panicking. What happened to you?” she repeated the question.

  Seth rotated to face the Jeep. His tall frame slumped over the hood as he stared off into the distance. Helen stepped closer and touched his back. Seth, with tears in his eyes, turned and enveloped her in a tight hug.

  Chapter 11

  Ben likened Seth to an oily rattlesnake, slippery, stupid, and lethal. That Helen trusted him enough to go skydiving with him put Ben in a sour mood. He decided not to analyze his frenzied worry too much as he plodded around town shopping for medicines and food to help Jeremy through the worst.

  Upon returning to Helen’s home, Ben was relieved to find Jeremy sleeping. Instead of waking him, Ben triaged his email and voice messages, read a disposition, prepared a response, and shot off an email to a colleague before delving into a spreadsheet from another client. He’d had no success in his bid to get help with his caseload, and had fallen dangerously behind.

  Even so, he couldn’t muster the energy to care. He hoped his apathy was simply exhaustion, but he’d grown cynical since arriving in Nalley. His corporate clients sometimes dealt with true justice, but more often than not, he was the mouthpiece for wealthy bullies.

  Ben forced himself to comprehend the figures on the spreadsheet until he heard Jeremy’s wailing. Ben snapped his laptop shut, grabbed the groceries he’d bought, and started down the stairwell. He’d gone a few steps when Jeremy vomited. The retching sound and the stench made him gag. He backed up and went into the backyard.

  In the fresh air, he drew in long, deep gasps until he was lightheaded. He sat in one of two green, plastic, lawn chairs on the patio. The idea of cleaning up Jeremy again filled him with disgust. What am I doing? he wondered. He’d come to Nalley to nurture a relationship with Theo, not worry over a diabetic woman, repair a home, eat aphrodisiac hot dogs, and care for a drug addict.

  When Ben realized he was smiling, he chuckled. What I’m doing is having the time of his life.

  The wailing from the basement had subsided and Ben got to his feet, collected several towels, a pair of rubber gloves, and Jeremy’s medicine. Mentally bracing himself, he went down the stairs.

  Jeremy was lying on his side on the beanbag. A tattered, fleece blanket, decorated with r
ace cars, lay over his shoulders and covered his back and half of his head. His hips, abdomen, and legs were bare except for the makeshift diaper Ben had fashioned from a towel. A fuzzy, blue blanket lay in a heap at Jeremy’s back.

  The bucket was balanced at an angle on a bookshelf that Ben had turned sideways. Jeremy’s knee jutted out with his leg suspended in air between his hip and the bucket. His pasty-white skin was decorated with bumpy blue veins.

  Glistening orange Gatorade vomit fanned out in front of Jeremy’s face. Nausea would be a mainstay for Jeremy through his withdrawals. Ben hated the situation, but supposed the humility of going through withdrawals was nothing compared to the humility of being dependent on heroin in the first place.

  The tray of food he’d delivered to Jeremy that morning, sat untouched. Ben snapped on rubber gloves, went to the sink, and turned on the hot water. From where he stood, he had a clear view of Jeremy’s face. His vacant, open eyes were dark holes in pasty skin.

  An hour later, Ben laid a clean blanket over Jeremy’s prone body. While Ben had washed him, Jeremy stayed quiet, seemingly trapped in his own private hell. Ben crushed several magnesium-caltrate pills and mixed them with Immodium, Gatorade, and water. He poured the concoction into a child’s sippy cup with a lid and a two-inch straw.

  Ben wedged the straw between Jeremy’s cracked lips and instructed, “Drink.” Jeremy’s cheeks went concave as he sucked down the contents.

  “Can you eat something?” Ben asked.

  For the first time in two days, Jeremy looked Ben in the face. The grief in his eyes, stabbed at Ben’s conscience. The shake of Jeremy’s head was barely perceptible.

  “Okay.” Not wanting to leave Jeremy in solitary confinement again, Ben scooted to the wall opposite and sat. Listening to Jeremy’s ragged breathing and watching the blanket shake from his tremors, Ben wished he could do more to help.

  As the minutes ticked away, Ben’s nose acclimated to the smell and his mind wandered. He had clients to contact and a roof to finish, yet he couldn’t leave Jeremy alone. Not yet.

  Ben leaned his head against the wall behind him and closed his eyes. He drifted into a light sleep, ready to awaken at the first sign of distress.

  “Thanks,” Jeremy said, sounding as if his vocal cords were covered with gravel.

  Ben’s eyes flew open. Jeremy had contorted his body in order to face him. Oddly, the gesture ingratiated him to Ben.

  “We’re not so different, you and I,” Ben said. “We’ve both been hiding. You behind heroin and me behind my job. What drives you to do it?” Ben asked.

  Jeremy drew in a ragged breath, his body shaking from the effort. He closed his eyes and turned away. Ben waited as Jeremy’s breathing grew deep and his trembling slowed. Ben was thankful. The man would suffer less asleep.

  Not wanting to wake Jeremy, Ben crept upstairs. He tried again to work, but worry over Jeremy and Helen distracted him. It had been hours since Helen had left. Frustrated and concerned, Ben researched Seth on the Internet.

  Aside from the TV series that had cemented Seth’s fame, he’d been in a few movies before a bloody attack on a fellow actor had been caught on film. The actor never filed charges, but Seth’s reputation as a hothead had gotten him blacklisted. Afterward, Seth moved back to Nalley, bought a mini-mansion overlooking the water and settled into his role as Nalley royalty.

  When the front door opened, Ben rushed to the living room. Helen had her back to him and as she took off her jacket. Her long, dark hair tumbled into a shiny, beautiful mess. An unbidden image of her silken locks gliding over his skin gave way to Ben’s arousal. The effect unnerved him.

  She turned. “How’d things go this morning?”

  “With Jeremy?”

  She nodded. “Yes.”

  “He’s miserable. I got him to drink a little at least. How was your jump?”

  Helen scrunched up her face. “More than I bargained for. At least it’s over, and we’re still alive.”

  “What happened?”

  “We had an equipment malfunction.”

  Even though she stood before him vibrant and healthy, Ben’s heart raced, and his anger toward Seth surged. “What happened?”

  “One of the parachutes didn’t open correctly. Seth had to cut it free before he could launch the second one.”

  “I’m going to murder him.”

  “Murder him?” Annoyance flashed across Helen’s face. “He saved our lives.”

  “He packed the parachutes didn’t he? Knowing him, he packed it wrong on purpose.”

  “Oh, come on. I can’t imagine anyone doing that.”

  “You don’t think anyone is capable of being devious.”

  Helen scowled. “I’m going to check on Jeremy, then go over and see what’s happening with Agatha.”

  “I’m going with you.”

  “Going where?”

  “Everywhere.”

  Helen eyes flashed anger. “I don’t need that.”

  Ben blew out a breath. Her near death made him protective. “I know.”

  Helen passed by him and went into the kitchen. Like a puppy, he followed and watched as she gathered crackers, granola, and milk.

  “Jeremy’s fine. You don’t need—”

  “I have to see him for myself. When I visit Agatha, she’s going to ask.”

  Ben trailed Helen downstairs where Jeremy still slept. The basement reeked of vomit and diarrhea. Helen frowned, set the food by his face, and whispered, “Why’s he in the bathroom?”

  “It’s easier.”

  Ben accompanied Helen back up the stairs and to the front door.

  “Seriously Ben. Stop following me.”

  Ben sighed. “Sorry.”

  “I’ll be fine.”

  He watched her walk to Agatha’s door and knock. No one answered. Helen peered through the windows then jogged toward the rear. Ben hurried through Helen’s house, and observed her from the back door. She checked the garage windows. Her features were pinched in consternation as she returned to the back porch.

  “Agatha’s not home?” Ben asked.

  “She could be at the store or something.” Helen’s mouth screwed up, and she scanned her yard as if Agatha might be hiding behind one of her bushes. “She’s involved with quite a few organizations.”

  Ben stepped outside. “It’ll be okay.” He touched her shoulder.

  She turned toward him, and for a moment he thought, hoped anyway, she would lean in for a hug. Instead, she said, “I better get to work.”

  “Is it that time already?”

  “I’m going in early, I’m betting we will be slammed again. Will you call me at Hot Diggitys when Agatha gets back?” Helen asked.

  “Of course.”

  ****

  They were well on their way to setting a new sales record when Ben called two hours later to report Agatha had come home. The news boosted Helen’s ailing spirits.

  Although the DerFoodle Dogs were padding her bank account, Helen had decided to pull them from the menu as soon as her inventory ran out. She wouldn’t peddle aphrodisiac hot dogs to an unsuspecting public. Minutes ticked off like seconds, and soon the sun was setting. When Ben arrived thirty minutes after closing to pick her up, a few customers still lingered.

  Ben let himself in and began wiping down the counters. Once the last customer left, she touched his arm to get his attention. “How’s Jeremy?”

  “About the same.”

  “Poor guy.”

  “He should feel better by morning,” Ben said.

  “I hope so. Thanks again for calling me about Agatha. You put my mind at ease.”

  Ben frowned and Helen’s shackles went up. “What happened?”

  Ben glanced over her shoulder at one of her employees who was cleaning the hot dog maker. “We’ll talk later.”

  “Tell me now.”

  Ben pursed his lips then said, “Moe came by to pick her up around six in a Lincoln Town car with a chauffeur.”

  “Ugh. I wan
t this to be over.”

  “I agree.”

  “I sure hope Agatha knows what she’s doing.”

  “Have you talked to Theo? I haven’t seen him today,” Ben asked.

  Helen wondered whether Ben knew Emma planned to move to New York and that Theo was upset. “He stopped by today. He seems fine.” She stretched the truth. In reality, his normally buoyant disposition had been deflated.

  “Did you take your insulin today?”

  “Oh jeez.” Helen walked to the register. She didn’t need a babysitter. Besides, she usually remembered, she just had a lot going on.

  “When we get home, you take your shot,” Ben admonished.

  She had no idea how he’d guessed she’d forgotten. “I will. I will,” she said testily.

  ****

  Back home, Helen took her insulin shot before returning to the living room and flopping onto the love seat. Across from her, Ben sat in the chair typing on his laptop. He was and had always been striking, but her attraction to him was more than physical, he had brains and a commanding presence.

  The premature streaks of gray in his hair gave him an added maturity. She could envision him pacing in a courtroom, enchanting jurors. Ben’s jaw clenched, he stopped typing, and looked up. Abashed, Helen glanced away until he began typing again. Abruptly, he snapped his laptop shut and leveled a questioning gaze at her.

  Helen asked, “What?”

  “You’re staring at me.”

  “I was? My mind was elsewhere,” she lied.

  Ben frowned. “What were you thinking?”

  “How many hours a week do you spend in the gym?” Helen asked.

  Ben straightened his posture. “That’s what you were thinking?”

  Helen didn’t know why his near perfection bothered her. “How many?”

  “There’s a gym in my office building,” Ben said.

  “Fess up.”

  “Seven-ish.”

  “With a personal trainer I bet.”

  “Is that bad?”

  Helen sighed. “I guess not. You’re lucky you have the time. I bet you have women falling all over you.” She wasn’t jealous, just curious and wouldn’t have given voice to her thoughts if Ben hadn’t asked.