Listen

by Rene Gutteridge

  “First of all, that awful Web site . . .”

  “I know of it.”

  “One of my conversations is on there. I mean, I’m not named but I know it’s me. I remember saying it. We’d gotten into a fight and—”

  “We? You and I?”

  She bowed her head. “No.”

  Frank sipped his drink, glancing away to try to hide the pain that was surely surfacing. He saw Gavin across the room staring at them.

  “Things are getting very . . . complicated. I think I’m in way over my head.”

  Frank studied her. One shoulder slouched, a sign of perhaps a bigger imbalance in her life. “You’re going to have to be more specific. You have to tell me what’s going on. Is your life in danger?”

  “I think so.”

  Frank’s chest tightened and his ears burned, probably turning bright red. “All right, I’ll handle this. What’s his name?”

  “It’s not him. It’s her.”

  Frank sat back. What was she trying to say here? That she was dating a—

  “It’s his wife.” She clutched the napkin on the table. “Not my finest moment, I know. But they were in the middle of separating, and he swore it was over. But then she found out.”

  “How?”

  “I’m not sure. I think maybe the Web site . . . She probably figured out it was Mike in that conversation.” She looked at Frank now, her eyes begging for forgiveness, understanding. “She’s very angry, threatening a lot of stuff.”

  “What kind of stuff?”

  “You know . . . she’s going to kill me.”

  “Does he think she’s serious?”

  Angela tore the edges off the napkin. “I don’t know. I just don’t know. He’s acting weird too.”

  Frank tried a calming breath. This was a lot to take in. “Weird how?”

  “He’s very upset that the conversation is on that Web site. I don’t blame him. I would be upset too. And . . . you’re going to be upset also.” The napkin was in shreds. Usually when she said he was going to be upset, she was right.

  “What?”

  It took three false starts, but finally Angela said, “The conversation on the Web site is about you.” She opened her hands up, trying to explain. “I was angry with you. I didn’t mean what I said. I was upset and I said some things. I never intended for anyone else to hear them.”

  “What exactly did you say?”

  “Mike’s scared of you, okay? It’s no secret what you put Vincent MaLue through.”

  “Get to the point.”

  “We were having a fight, and he said he wasn’t going to put up with you harassing him. Things were already getting weird. I was aggravated, and I said some things about you, all right?”

  Frank felt his nostrils flare. That wasn’t a good sign. “All right.”

  She reached for his hand. “I knew you’d understand.”

  “I don’t understand why you’re here.”

  Tears again, shiny and plump, balanced on her eyelashes. “I’m scared. I’ve made a huge mess here. His wife is furious, and I’ve heard a few things about her. I think she’s unstable. And Mike . . . he’s got a temper. He’s never hit me or hurt me or anything like that, but he keeps getting more agitated, and when he’s agitated, he doesn’t seem to think clearly.”

  “What do you want?”

  “I didn’t mean all that stuff I said to Damien.” Angela stared at the ceiling for a moment.

  Frank’s heart thumped heavily with dread.

  “I would never sue you. And even though I saw you there, over the fence, I know deep down inside you’re a good—”

  “What are you talking about?”

  They exchanged a tense stare, even as the waitress came and refilled Frank’s Diet Coke.

  “Don’t act like you don’t know,” Angela said.

  “Know what?”

  “I’m trying to have an adult conversation with you. I came here, told you what’s going on, even though really, you already knew, didn’t you? Because you were spying on me.” She took a deep breath. “I thought you were the one that put the conversation on the Internet. But when I went to look at the Web site, there are so many conversations. I don’t know . . . I don’t think you did it anymore.”

  “You thought I was the one doing this?”

  “I saw you that day. You were behind the fence of Mike’s house. You were walking away when I came out the back door.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “You’re telling me you weren’t spying on me and Mike?”

  “I don’t know who Mike is. I didn’t know you were seeing someone. If I did, I wouldn’t have filed a missing person report. Because I would’ve known you’d probably moved in with him after the fourth date.”

  Angela’s eyes widened with offense. “That was cruel.”

  “What do you want from me? Why are you here?”

  She wadded up what little bit was left of the napkin and threw it on the table. “I don’t know. You act like I’m the only person in your life, and then when I need your help, suddenly you’re not interested?”

  “You need my help to get yourself out of this tangled web you’ve created; is that it?”

  Her voice reduced to a whisper. “I’m scared. I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t think that woman might do something crazy. I’m going to break it off with Mike, but I don’t really know what he’s going to do either. I just thought . . .” She bit her lip, smiled sweetly at him. It was that very smile on a Sunday in May that had made Frank realize he would marry this woman. “I need your help. That’s what I’m saying. I need your help to get out of this.”

  Frank’s elbow went into his plate and came out with sweet and sour sauce dripping off it.

  Angela grabbed his napkin, stood, leaned across the table, and dabbed. She was close to him, her hair swinging in front of his face, her perfume filling his nostrils.

  He closed his eyes, trying to find clarity, but all he saw was their wedding day. Her dress, with a lovely, blissful train of white, flowing with life as she gracefully strolled down the aisle. The wispy veil, with tiny pink flowers dotted across it, fluttered against her face, giving him only glimpses into her eyes. The moment he lifted the veil and smoothed it over her beautiful hair, his heart had skipped a beat and caused a deep devotion that he couldn’t explain to this day.

  She stared at him as if there were nothing else in the room. “Frank?”

  Frank fled the memory, snapping back into reality.

  Angela sat across from him. A smile belied her unblinking eyes.

  “Angela, you know that I’ve always loved you. And I always will.”

  Her smile spread into a grin. “I know.”

  “But I can’t help you with this. I can’t step into this situation. I can’t. I won’t.”

  Few things ever seemed to surprise Angela Owens Merret. Or at least she’d always had the ability to play it cool.

  Not today. She stood, her chair falling backward and rattling against the floor. She dropped a few expletives on the table before she stomped out, leaving Frank with a plate full of cold food and a room full of people staring at him. Including Gavin.

  Frank rose, throwing some money on the table.

  Gavin hurried over, carrying his plate. “I’m not quite done here. We just—”

  “Don’t wet yourself, kid. I’ll be back to get you.”

  “You’re leaving me here? Again?”

  “Eat your lunch. I’ll be back.”

  There was someone he desperately needed to see. And nobody else would do but her.

  15

  Damien stood in Edgar’s office, hands clasped behind his back, lips pressed together to hide any disappointment.

  Unfortunately Edgar was not being as gracious. His gaze zipped back and forth, up and down, over the entire page. He slapped the paper down on his desk on top of the other piece of paper he’d already slapped down. “What is this?”

  “It’s my op-ed an
d my investigative piece on—”

  “I know what it is,” Edgar growled. “I also know what it isn’t. It’s terrific writing. Insightful. Poignant at moments. Humorous.”

  Damien smiled. “Thank you.”

  “It isn’t the least bit interesting or relevant.” Edgar’s voice, baritone and full, sounded loud without much volume. “Why would you write a piece about church?”

  “Well, I—”

  “About your memories of your father and mother dressed up, all this nostalgia bull. Do you really think people care about this?”

  “I don’t understand. This isn’t any different from what I’ve written in the past.”

  “Exactly. Except, if you haven’t noticed, this town is in an uproar.” Edgar looked out of breath. His eyes seemed unusually frantic. Edgar was a loud guy, but it was usually just for show. Something was different.

  “The Web site.”

  “Yes! Yes, the Web site! It’s all anyone’s talking about! Two nights ago there was a conversation on there that I’d had with an old college buddy of mine. We were at a restaurant. Luckily it was innocuous, but can’t you see what’s on everyone’s mind?”

  “Well, sure. I figured a nice piece about the way things used to be—”

  “It’s now! It’s in the moment! And this?” He held up the investigative piece. “This is all you’ve got?”

  Damien fumbled his words. This investigative thing was harder than it looked. Lots of people wanted to talk, but it didn’t tend to be the people with helpful information.

  Edgar leaned across his desk, the wood creaking underneath his heavy arms. “I’m desperate to keep this newspaper going. It’s been in my family for three generations, and it’s not going down on my watch. Do you understand me?”

  Damien nodded, holding his breath as he watched the veins in Edgar’s neck pulsate.

  Suddenly Edgar said, “Hush,” just as the religion editor walked by the door.

  “What?”

  “You gotta be careful what you say and around whom you say it. Now, you get out there and get me some real news. And write me a piece that drives a stake through my heart. What is this Web site doing to our town? Is it a good or bad thing? Dig deep.”

  Damien’s phone vibrated with a text message: Harmon’s Grocery. He opened the office door. “I’m on it, boss.”

  Edgar smiled eagerly.

  * * *

  With flashing lights and wailing sirens, Frank and Gavin raced toward Harmon’s Grocery on the corner of Twelfth and Medlane.

  A small crowd had gathered in front of the store, with several baggers and clerks talking with customers. Frank pulled to the front curb, and they got out.

  The store manager, the only one in a tie, greeted them with a handshake. “We tried to stop them. They’re still going at it. Things are crashing in there. I removed everyone for safety.”

  “Any weapons?”

  “Not that I saw.”

  Frank glanced around and noticed Pastor Caldwell standing in the crowd. He held a Bible and seemed to be praying.

  Frank put his hand on his holster and walked in. Gavin followed close behind. A crash sounded, followed by raining glass.

  The manager trailed them. “I think they’re in aisle nine.”

  “Police!” Frank shouted. “Break it up!”

  More glass shattered. Frank rushed to find the source. It was aisle ten, near the pickles. What he saw stopped him in his tracks. “Stand down!” Frank shouted.

  The two men tangled on the floor were soaking wet from the contents of broken containers of vinegar. Bright red blood pooled and snaked through the vinegar and over the laminate floor like small rivers. The smell caused Frank to cough into his sleeve. Both men were hardly recognizable with cuts and bruises and bulging eyelids. Shards of broken glass caught the fluorescent light above, glimmering like diamonds.

  Frank walked forward, his hand on his gun. “Move away from one another.”

  Both men groaned like that could hurt a lot. The man on the left had a long, dark line of blood from the top of his chest down to his belly. He clutched his shirt and moaned. The other man grabbed his own shoulder. Blood seeped through his fingers, but his attention was still on the other man, a glare frozen on his face.

  Frank turned to Gavin. “Get two ambulances here.”

  The manager stepped around Gavin, inspecting the floor and then the two men. “There’s a lot of blood,” he whispered.

  “I know. Get me some clean towels. A lot of towels. Hurry.” Frank pointed to the man holding his shoulder. “Don’t make a move. Stay right there.” He stooped over the man who bled from the chest. “What’s your name?”

  “His name’s Rob Tereau.”

  “Your name?” Frank asked.

  “Randy Benjamen.”

  Rob’s eyes turned glassy. Frank knelt next to him and grabbed his shoulders. He felt Rob’s body go limp. He made certain there wasn’t any glass behind him in case he fell backward. Frank’s pants, right at the knee, began soaking up vinegar mixed with blood.

  “Get a mop over here!” Frank yelled.

  Gavin rushed up. “They’re on the way.”

  “Take care of that guy,” Frank said, nodding toward Randy.

  The manager returned with some towels. Frank pulled up Rob’s shirt. Two deep gashes, one over his sternum and the other above his navel, continued to gush. He grabbed a towel and pushed it against the top wound, then grabbed another one and pushed it on the bottom.

  Ambulance sirens wailed through the skylight above them.

  Gavin helped Randy up, checked him over, then took a towel and gave it to him.

  Frank, still stooped over Rob, looked at Randy. “What happened here?”

  “This man attacked my sister.”

  Rob mumbled. “No, I didn’t.”

  “He did.”

  “Where is she?” Frank asked. “Is she hurt?”

  “He called my sister a . . . I can’t even say it. I won’t say it.”

  Frank glanced down at Rob, whose eyes periodically rolled back into his head. “I said . . . I didn’t say it to him . . . or her. I said it at a . . . it was a party . . . I was in the back room . . .”

  “The Web site? That’s where you read it?”

  Randy nodded. His glare turned to Rob again.

  The EMTs scooted through the crowd that had come in from outside. Frank stood and backed away.

  Both men looked like they’d been tossed into a meat grinder.

  Gavin stepped beside him, pointing at his pants. “You’re going to have to change.”

  Frank stared at the two men. His stomach turned at the sight.

  “All this over a Web site?” Gavin asked, handing him a clean towel.

  Frank tried wiping the blood off his hands, then handed Gavin the towel. “I’m going to need a minute.”

  “But—”

  “A minute, Gavin. Take care of this mess.”

  * * *

  Damien threw his briefcase onto the entryway chair and tossed his jacket on the armrest. He was too tired to hang it up now. The flavorful aroma of spaghetti and meatballs mingled with the smell of fresh basil from Kay’s garden.

  He walked to the kitchen.

  “Hi.” She hugged him with her elbows. “Sorry, have sauce on my hands.”

  “Smells good.”

  “You look exhausted.”

  “I am.” He plopped himself on top of a barstool. “This town has gone insane.”

  “Bad day at work?”

  “Depends on your perspective, I guess. Edgar hated my piece on how church used to be.”

  “Sorry, sweetie.”

  “He’s obsessed with this Web site thing going on. And apparently so is the rest of the town. Two guys got in a fight over at Harmon’s. Then an elderly lady got a threatening letter on her door. Dispatch said that today they actually had people calling 911 to report their conversations on the Web site. Tires are being slashed. Cars being keyed.”

  Kay had
turned, giving him her full attention. “Let’s make sure we park our cars in the garage.”

  “Let’s make sure we don’t say anything that would offend someone,” Damien said.

  “Time to eat!” Kay called.

  “Yet should we censor ourselves in our own home?” Damien helped her carry the dishes to the table. Jenna arrived from upstairs, slumped and bored-looking. Damien sat down and engaged her. “What do you think?”

  “About what?”

  “Should we censor ourselves in our home because of the fear of what might be heard?”

  “I dunno.”

  “It’s a good question,” Damien said. “Would make a good op-ed piece. I mean, aren’t we entitled to private conversations?”

  “Of course we are,” Kay said, joining them at the table. “Where’s Hunter?”

  The front door opened. Hunter came in, barely managing his skateboard and backpack.

  “I thought you were upstairs,” Kay said.

  “Nah. Went down the street to skateboard a little.” He set his backpack and skateboard down. “Yes! Meatballs!”

  Damien passed them over as Hunter sat. “So the question is, Hunter, do we have a right to say whatever we want behind closed doors?”

  “Sure. I guess.”

  “It’s the old saying, if a tree falls in the forest and nobody’s there to hear it, does it make a sound?”

  Jenna sighed. “Dad, why does everything have to go deep for you? Why can’t you just admire a tree and be done with it?”

  “So you think this is admirable, this Web site? Be honest. I want your honest opinion about it.”

  Jenna sliced a meatball but looked like she was thinking it over. “I don’t know. I guess it is. I think it’s good.”

  “You do? Why?” Damien slid his plate aside, giving Jenna his full attention.

  She glanced up, blinked like she was surprised. “Maybe people shouldn’t say mean stuff. Like they don’t think about what they’re saying; they just say stuff and don’t care what happens or how it makes people feel.”

  Damien leaned back, crossing his arms. “So you think this is calling attention to how we use our words?”

  “It’s right up your alley,” Jenna said. “You know how you’re really into the whole power of words thing.”