Keep Calm and Kill Your Wife

by Lucky Stevens

  They were at about mid-bridge at this point and the swaying was getting worse and for a moment Hart and Summer just looked at each other. They were both out of breath. She wanted to ask him ‘why?’ but she restrained herself, not wanting to hear some smug answer.

  It was Hart’s eyes that first broke contact as they drifted downward to something he hadn’t really absorbed before this—not since Summer had removed her sweat suit jacket. Running vertically down Summer’s chest were two straps connected by one horizontal strap. I thought her backpack was off. And he envisioned her suddenly reaching back like a samurai and pulling out a sword.

  But instead she turned her back to him and began heading back to the south end of the bridge.

  “Give me the cutters. Quick, quick,” Hart said to Brandy, who was wailing in pain. He slapped at her leg with great impatience until she passed them to him.

  “Wait,” he yelled to Summer.

  She turned around.

  Hart looked down. “Help me. Please,” he said, barely able to get out the words.

  Summer sighed. “That’s what I’m doing, Hart. I’m going to get the police. They’ll get you off of here.”

  She only hoped they’d believe her. After all, she’d been the one to cut the bridge, Hart’s confession was gone and it would be two against one. Maybe getting the police wasn’t such a great idea after all.

  “No. No cops. Help me off this bridge or I swear I’ll cut this last rope.” He had positioned the cutters and was holding the handles at the ready.

  “No!” Brandy screamed as she began to drag herself toward the north end of the bridge.

  “Shut up, Brandy!” he shouted, looking over his shoulder. The simple act of turning around and then back again made him wince in pain. “I’m not kidding, Summer. If I die, you die.”

  “Hart,” she shook her head. “You can’t hurt me anymore.”

  “Don’t test me, Summer. I got nothing to lose.”

  By now Brandy had gotten herself onto her one good foot and began to hobble her way toward the end of the bridge.

  Summer turned around again and began walking away. “Stop talking and do what you have to do, Hart.”

  “Dammit,” he said, rubbing his face.

  “Don’t do it Hart! Don’t do it!” Brandy wailed over her shoulder, hopping on one foot, trying to speed up.

  Hart squeezed the cutters slowly hoping Summer would feel the collapsing bridge and know he meant business. If she did feel anything, she didn’t react.

  He was about to give it a final squeeze when the bridge gave way, the final rope unable to do the job of all the supports anymore.

  As the rope snapped, gravity took over. Brandy tried to scream but anything audible that was there caught in her throat as the north half of the bridge went pummeling toward the wall of the gorge.

  She wasn’t sure what was worse, falling straight down to her certain death or crashing into the side of the gorge and then falling to her certain death. Unable to think clearly, by pure instinct, she squeezed whatever rope she could wrap her hands around and held on for all she could.

  She clenched her teeth and right before hitting this natural edifice, an image flashed in her mind of her holding on and using the bridge like a ladder that would carry her to safety. But that idea was smashed, along with her body, as she drove, like a human wrecking ball, into the great wall of the gorge and was subsequently flicked away.

  And even though Hart had contributed greatly to knocking over that last domino, he couldn’t help being taken off guard. It felt like a trap door had been triggered and the effect was instant and terrifying. The ultimate helplessness. He was moving faster than he could comprehend. He looked down and to the side and finally up. And that’s when he saw it. The sky was being blocked out by a big green canopy. And just below it was Summer. And she was yelling.

  “Is this enough dramatic flair for you, Hart?”

  He probably didn’t hear her but it sure felt good to say it.

  THIRTY-TWO

  SUMMER WOULDN’T HAVE much time. In what would seem like a counterintuitive move under any other circumstance, she pulled on the toggles and was actually trying to steer her parachute into—or more technically, toward—the south wall of the gorge. If she could pull this off it would save her an innumerable amount of time and heartache.

  She had two things going for her. She had put her hand on the ripcord right after her last conversation with Hart and her reflexes in pulling it without much delay— whether out of skill or fear—had been excellent.

  The second fortunate thing was that she had been moving down the bridge in the right direction, toward the south wall, when the final rope had given way. As a result she was almost directly over her target when she had yanked the cord.

  Her idea was to grab onto the rope that was now hanging down from the tree that she had tied it to when she had switched things up on Hart. If things had gone according to her original plan, she would have gotten Hart and Brandy’s confession on tape and cut the bridge when they had been on the north end of the gorge. Then she would have returned with the police and they would have used the rope that was tied to the tree to reel up the bridge.

  The rope in question, that was now hanging down the south end of the gorge, was close to two hundred feet long and had now taken the form of a giant loop.

  This brainstorm was all improvisation of course. Other than having the foresight to put on a parachute container under her sweat suit jacket, the way everything had unfolded would have been impossible to have planned out and if this didn’t work she would have had to have found a way back up the gorge from the bottom.

  At a certain point Summer could no longer steer as she needed both hands to grab the rope, so she was forced to let go of the steering toggles.

  When she finally did grab the rope she was about ten feet from the bottom of the loop and while the parachute slowed her down she was still moving pretty quickly. Forced to slide down the rope, as the parachute descended, was painful and she was scared of losing the skin on her hands. In order to slow down more, she wrapped her legs around the rope. At least her pants would protect her somewhat. This turned out to be a good move because as she slid downward, she simply guided her feet into the bottom of the loop. Then she bent her legs slowly and came to a relatively gradual stop.

  By this time Summer was drenched in sweat. As she looked down into the gorge as far as she could, she was grateful that she was up here.

  Using the rope and the natural texture of the walls in front of her, Summer took her time as she scaled what was just another hurdle. Back on top again.

  EPILOGUE

  The top of the newspaper read: The Local Buzz

  Cardsdale, CA

  Circulation 438

  It had a graphic of a bee next to the word ‘Buzz’. Summer sat with perfect posture at her desk. She studied the insect for a moment before allowing her eyes to drift downward to the headline. It blared with excitement:

  CORRECTION: HUSBAND AND WIFE’S COUSIN DIE IN FIERY EXPLOSION

  It had been the biggest story to hit Cardsdale since Huncke’s stopped serving homemade pie.

  Summer scanned down the page when she felt a pair of hands rest on her neck. Hart’s face flashed in her mind and without hesitation she dropped the newspaper, seized the intruding fingers, whirled around and pinned them behind the offender’s back in one fluid motion.

  “Okay, okay, take it easy. I give up,” he said.

  “Oh, Mr. Day. It’s you,” said Summer releasing Bob’s fingers. He spun around and embraced her.

  “I asked you not to call me that, Mrs. Day,” he said, his lips moving close to hers.

  “Sorry,” she said, in between kisses. “Old habits die hard.”

  “Mommy! Mommy!” the two girls yelled as they skidded into the room, breaking Bob and Summer’s embrace like bowling balls rolling into a couple of pins.

  “And?” said Bob, feigning anger.

  They both screamed o
ut Daddy! and everyone hugged everyone goodnight.

  “Now off to bed now. It’s getting late. I’ll tuck you girls in, in a minute.”

  The girls ran giggling off as the couple drifted back into each other’s arms.

  “Coming to bed?” Bob asked.

  “Soon. I just have a few briefs to look over first.”

  “Can’t it wait ‘til tomorrow?”

  Summer kept one arm around Bob’s waist as she nudged the yellowing newspaper out of the way and reached for a file on her desk.

  “See this?” she asked, with a good-natured twinkle. The file read Day and Day Attorneys at Law

  “Alright, I get you.”

  They hugged again and exchanged kisses, before he turned and headed toward the door.

  “Goodnight, Counselor.”

  “Goodnight, Counselor.”

  “Hey, Bob.”

  “Yeah, Sweetheart,” he said turning his head.

  “You ever regret making me a partner?”

  He smiled. “Not on any level.”

  LUCKY STEVENS’

  THE PULL OUT METHOD

  IS NOW AVAILABLE

  Turn the page for a sneak preview…

  THE TIMING, DEPENDING on how you look at it, was perfect. They entered just like anyone else, and no one paid any attention to them at all. Two men dressed in brown UPX uniforms, hauling boxes, generally don’t raise too many eyebrows. Both men wore dark sunglasses, which was pretty normal, considering the blazing sun outside, and both sported full goatees.

  The shorter of the two approached the security guard, who looked like a walking cliché. He was about seventy years old or so, and looked as though he’d have trouble guarding his own breakfast. The shorter man mumbled something inaudible to him, which made the guard chuckle. Now that had to be a courtesy chuckle, the man thought to himself. Even I don’t know what I said.

  By now, the taller of the two men decked out in United Parcel X-press uniforms was bending down and tying his shoe a few feet behind the guard. The first man looked at the guard and repeated his gibberish as if expecting an answer.

  The guard squinted and, getting the feeling that more than just a chuckle was required of him, craned his neck forward, turning his head in the process. By then it was too late. The guard’s tie was securely clenched in the man’s strong grip, and the taller man had already bounded over and removed the guard’s gun from its holster. With their free hands, both men reached under their caps, grabbed their sunglasses, and pulled ski masks over their faces, both of their “goatees” dropping to the floor as they did so. They then replaced their sunglasses back over their masks.

  “On the floor, Pops,” the taller man, Duke, said to the guard, giving him a little nudge. Then he fired the guard’s gun into the ceiling while the shorter man, Bobby, ran over to the doors and wrapped a cable and padlock around the handles.

  “Everybody get down on the floor!” yelled Duke, his voice loud and gravelly.

  “Down on the floor,” repeated Bobby, brandishing his own weapon, a nine millimeter.

  Both men pointed their guns around the room. And as if it had been rehearsed, the screams, whimpering, and uncontrollable sobbing began immediately. “And just so there aren’t any misunderstandings, yes, this is a bank robbery. Now the good news is, we just need some walking-around money. The bad news is, we do a lot of walking,” said Duke.

  Fran McDougal, a veteran teller, was shivering, her finger hovering around the silent alarm button before finally pushing it.

  Duke’s eyes were on fire as he zeroed in on a closed office door toward the back of the bank. The sign on the door read, “George Sullivan Bank Manager.”

  “George!” bellowed Duke as he stomped toward the door, thrusting it open. George Sullivan was cowering in the corner, his arms moving up and down in front of his face like a flinchy boxer.

  “I’m sorry, I thought you said, ‘Come in,’” said Duke. “Come on, George.” He grabbed the back of George’s neck and led him out, back into the main lobby. “Or do you prefer Mr. Sullivan?” George’s lips were moving, but nothing was coming out. “Whatsa matter? You act like this is your first robbery. Get over there.” Duke pointed to the floor, near some other hostages.

  By now, Bobby had placed thick black bags over all the security cameras that he could reach and had spray-painted over the lenses of those he couldn’t reach.

  “Now, what the hell is this ladder doing here?” asked Duke. “Don’t you people know this is dangerous?” And then to Bobby: “Number Two, get everyone into a circle over there, around the corner, near Mr. Sullivan’s office. Take care of their cell phones.” Duke looked at the orange fiberglass ladder. “Gonzalez A/C” was written down its side. Then he looked up at the opening in the ceiling.

  “I need all employees of Gonzalez A/C to get their asses down here!”

  ONE

  WHEN LIFE GIVES YOU SHIT, make lemonade. Never in my life would I need those words more than last Sunday. Especially as I was on my way to see her. Hard to believe at the time, but she would almost be the least of my problems.

  She was a wild girl. Lulu. Absolutely balls-to-the-wall crazy and fun. And she excited me to no end. Hell, I was only eighteen years old when we had met and I’d been running with the bottom end of the lineup by then for a good three years. I saw no end in sight, a false sense of invincibility having snuffed out what little common sense I had at the time.

  At nineteen I joined the army.

  “What’re you nuts, baby?” I remember my grandma saying at the time. Then again, that’s what she said about my going out with the previously mentioned her, too. I guess at the time, I didn’t care what anybody said. You see, those were the good old days—when I knew everything.

  Anyway, I joined the army. It seemed like the thing to do. And all throughout those four miserable, yet fairly educational, years, Lulu and I were going strong, or so I thought.

  Yeah, that was the life, all right. Free room and board and weekend furloughs. And of course, the drinking, drugs, and small petty crimes. It must have been fun, because I don’t remember it that well.

  All that changed, though, on February 22, 2007. That’s the day Trevor was born, and the day I decided to try to be a better person. It didn’t even occur to me until a few years later that he might not actually even be mine. But by then, it didn’t matter. I saw his tiny face, little fingers, and curly hair, and I guess I was hooked.

  Now, when I said that everything changed that day, I need to be more clear. It was more like the beginning of a change. One that would come slowly and, I guess I hate to say, still seems to be going on. That’s me. Lulu is, and was, a different story.

  She hadn’t changed a bit after Trevor was born. I guess I was a little surprised, but couldn’t really blame her. I mean, I was “smart” enough to pick her, right? And she was exactly what the outside wrapping advertised—a crazy, stupid, out-of-control train wreck waiting to happen. In other words, everything I had been on February 21, 2007.

  Anyway, these were the thoughts that rolled around in my mind as I drove down Laurel Canyon toward her apartment on Highlander Street. Now I’m going to be completely honest with you. At that moment, I still hadn’t totally adjusted to the idea of being a father. I mean, I always loved my son, but, I don’t know, I guess the responsible, “picket fence” lifestyle is what was tripping me up.

  In any event, things were happening that suggested I better quickly get used to the idea of fatherhood and all it entailed. It was Sunday, and the next day was my hearing in front of a judge in downtown L.A. Depending on what his decision was, Trevor could be coming to live with me full-time.

  I’m actually the one who set off this legal action and even my lawyer didn’t give me much of a chance. I’ve seen Kramer vs. Kramer. The system almost always favors the mother. But I had to do it. I just didn’t like the way my ex was doing things—nothing terrible, or so I thought, but I just knew Trevor deserved more. And it didn’t take long for me to r
ealize I knew I was doing the right thing.

  It all started when I first mentioned to Lulu that I’d like to spend more time with Trevor. For $100,000 to cover “child support,” I could keep him permanently, she said. And I guess as her idea of a bonus, neither one of us would ever see her again. Her bizarre twisting of the term “child support” aside, her meaning came in loud and clear. I filed for custody the next day.

  So why head over to her apartment? All I can say is that morning when I woke up, I felt strange. Empty. I had a bad feeling about it, and I kept telling myself that the hearing was tomorrow. Just wait and see what happens. But I couldn’t. An overwhelming desire came over me like I just had to see my son. The anticipation gnawed at the back of my brain.

  I started thinking about my ex and how nicely she can put herself together when she wants to. I thought about the great front she can put up. A born actress. And for the first time since this whole thing began, I thought about the $100,000. I thought maybe it would just be better to give her the money. Make a clean break and start all over. I guess the fact that I was about $99,000 light didn’t really occur to me at that moment in time. And the idea of avoiding a courtroom certainly appealed to me as well, having never had a good experience in any of the courtrooms I’d ever been in.

  As I turned right onto Highlander, my stomach dropped. I had only been there once before, and that was at night. The sun hung in the sky like an over-watted light bulb, shining brightly as the cockroaches dove for cover. Only these cockroaches weren’t going anywhere. They felt too at home among the abandoned cars, appliances, and skin-and-bone mattresses that decorated the trashy sidewalks and curbs of this semi-suburban Beirut. The cover of night did this place justice.

  As I turned my head from the filth of the sidewalks back to the filth of the street, I suddenly slammed on my brakes, barely missing a gang of young boys who had bolted out of nowhere to cross right in front of my car. They were completely unfazed by the screeching of my tires, floating by like crashing waves. They seemed to almost bounce off of each other in different directions, but yet they somehow seemed to be all gummed together. The small stack of books that sat on the passenger side of the front seat weren’t so lucky, as they scattered in all directions—Fitzgerald, Faulkner, and Orwell one way, Steinbeck and Dr. Seuss, another.