by Amber Kay
“Neither of you ladies bothered to tell me how you spent your day,” Adrian says in the silence afterwards.
I glance at Vivian wondering if she’ll respond to his inquiry. After a sip of her wine, she replies, “Business as usual.”
Adrian pauses with the brim of his glass pressed to his lips as if he is on the verge of drinking, but changes his mind.
“What about that fundraising gala you have in store for that scholarship program at Northham?” he asks.
Vivian continues gazing at her plate with a deadpan expression to match the listless tone of her voice. Something about her appears haggard, lethargic. She tucks a handful of hair behind her left ear and swallows a spoonful of peas before directing her focus to Adrian.
“I’m leaving those preparations to Cassandra,” she says. “You have everything under control, right?”
She glances at me. I nod to avoid adding to the tension.
“Sure, um…it should take no time to organize most of it. The guest list is finalized. We should probably discuss the seating arrangements.”
She nods with somewhat of a smile, confirming my suspicions. Of course, this was a test. It looks like I’ve just passed it. Adrian reacts to the sound of my voice. I feel his eyes on me as he slips a bite of steak into his mouth.
“What do you have in store for the entertainment? I'm curious to know just what kind of musical act a collegian can summon up for a roomful of judgmental middle-aged socialites and their boring husbands.”
I sip more cider to clear my throat and refuse to look at him when I answer.
“You might be surprised.”
He chuckles then gobbles another bite of steak.
“I sincerely hope I will be,” he murmurs beneath his breath. “Though I'm sure you’re full of surprises.”
I turn, scowling at him as he gulps the rest of his wine with a smarmy smile. He upturns his glass to empty it completely into his mouth then pours himself more wine. Vivian slips a cigarette between her lips and lights it. I’m starting to see a pattern with these two.
Five servants enter the room at once to retrieve our dirtied plates just as a butler enters carrying a large three tier German chocolate cake. He sits it at the edge of the table and cuts it into several generous portions before distributing a slice onto each of our plates. After making his rounds, he looks at each of the Lynchs expecting further instruction.
“More wine, please,” Adrian announces. Seconds later, someone arrives with a bottle reserved solely for him. This time he doesn’t use a glass. He pops the cork and drinks straight from the bottle. Vivian sneers and dumps cigarette ashes into a napkin near her plate.
“Darling, isn’t it a bit too early in the evening to drink like that?” she says.
“I could say the same about those damn cigarettes,” he mutters.
Vivian silences. Her face flushes red, but she says nothing else. I gape at her, wondering how a single comment was enough to shut her down. Passivity is something I'm not used to seeing from her.
Adrian must be the only person with enough pull to tame the ferocity in her. If he can do that with a single insult then there’s no wonder how he has managed to sucker her into this troubled marriage for so long.
The music kicks into high gear again, dropping then rising from one dramatic jolt of notes to the soft whistle of a single flute. It’s enough to get the adrenaline pumping and obviously enough for Adrian. As he downs red wine, I watch him close his eyes and hum the sonata aloud.
Vivian abruptly jerks out of her seat so fast that her chair jolts backward, hard enough to hit the wall behind it. I flinch at the noise whereas Adrian merely leers across the room at her, smirking. Vivian’s shoulders tremble. I can tell by the clenching of her jaw that she is repressing a rant of irate words.
She glowers at Adrian, but she doesn’t say a word before leaving the room in a huff.
At first, I don’t move. I'm not sure how I'm to react or what I'm supposed to do. I glance at Adrian who continues drinking and I wait for him to say something. When he doesn’t, I push away from the table, but he grips my forearm to stop me from leaving.
“Don’t bother,” he says. “She’s just throwing another silly tantrum.”
“Shouldn’t you go check on her or something?” I say.
His expression turns into something else. Something sardonic at Vivian’s expense. He definitely knows something that I'm unaware of. I'm not sure if I'm brave enough to inquire about it. The more I ask questions, the more I discover and the least I want to know afterwards.
“I’ll handle Vivian,” he says. “Please, finish your dessert. Don’t let her petulance ruin your meal.”
“You’ll handle her?” I say. “What does that mean?”
“Finish your dessert,” he repeats then sets aside the wine bottle, stands from his chair and slides his hands across his tuxedo to smooth the wrinkles. This peculiar tendency is starting to become obsessive compulsive. Why does he feel the need to stroke everything he touches?
As he exits the room, I notice his fists clenched at his sides. His gait appears much too graceful for a man who has been guzzling liquor all night. That amount of alcohol should be enough to impair every function in his body. He shouldn’t even be able to stand let alone walk.
The door slams behind him. The noise it makes causes me to flinch. I sit alone at the big table, staring at my uneaten cake as that boisterous omnipresent orchestra continues playing through the speakers in the room.
Four more symphony pieces play after Adrian leaves. I glimpse the grandfather clock across the room. It’s been forty minutes since he left. I glance at the kitchen door, listening to the servants whisper. I can’t resist my curiosity. I tiptoe to the door and press my ear against the crack to eavesdrop.
“Did she through another temper tantrum?” asks one of the maids. “I swear she’s going to kill herself someday.”
“If Adrian doesn’t kill her first,” jokes another. They all laugh. I step away from the door when it opens. Adrian appears in the doorframe, smiling down at me. Despite that disarming smile, something is different about his appearance.
He fidgets with his tuxedo jacket to tidy himself. After running his fingers through his hair to neaten the disheveled strands, he saunters past me and stalks across the room toward the dining table.
“You’ve been gone for almost an hour,” I say when he doesn’t explain himself. He turns toward me after retrieving the wine bottle from atop the table and stealing a quick sip.
“And you missed me?” he asks in a slurred voice with a smirk. I cross my arms over my chest for some reason, perhaps after remembering how low-cut my blouse is. Only he provokes this involuntary reaction from me.
“Where is Vivian?” I ask.
He shrugs at first then his eyes widen like he’s just remembered something.
“She’s asleep,” he replies. “Thank god for that.” He upturns the bottle into his mouth and swallows a mouthful. His lack of concern for Vivian seems like the status quo around here. It’s time I give up on trying to invoke any kind of spousal concern from him especially when he’s drunk off his ass.
“It’s almost seven,” I say. “I should get home. Vivian drove me so I need you to call me a taxi or something.”
He staggers toward me with the bottle turned on its side in his hand. With each step, droplets of wine trickle onto the floor behind him. He doesn’t seem to care because he is too busy leering at me. I step back as he continues to bridge the gap between us. I don’t want him near me while he’s an intoxicated mess. These kinds of situations never end well.
“You want to leave already?” he asks. I want to retain some measure of composure to avoid any hostility. I force a polite smile while continuing to distance myself. He doesn’t take a hint and continues forward, stopping as I'm backed into a corner with nothing, but him blocking my way.
“Adrian, call me a taxi,” I say and I flinch away when he reaches at me. This method of evasion doe
sn’t last for long. The second time I turn my head away from him, he grasps my chin to jerk my head back around.
“You won’t stay for a nightcap?” he asks. “We provided you dinner. It’s only fair for you to stay for one last drink.”
Forced to look him in the eye, I glare at him, deciding that it’s time I put him in his place.
“I told you that I don’t drink,” I say. “If you don’t let go of me, I will be forced to kick you in the one place no man ever wants to be kicked.”
His hand releases my chin as his eyes drift south, following mine to the area below his belt. When he finally steps away from me, I assume he’s gotten the picture. He’s not as drunk as I thought.
While sauntering back toward the table, he slips a small remote control from his pocket and presses a single button. Somehow, the music playing sounds louder afterwards. I’ve seen enough of this drunken display. I stalk after him, fuming.
“Adrian, call me a taxi,” I demand again.
“Not until you have a drink with me,” he says while turning toward me. In his state, he can’t walk a straight line any longer. He staggers backward into the table, gripping it to prop himself up. He presses the wine bottle to his lips and swallows another mouthful. The bottle slips from his hand and splashes the floor, shattering into a puddle of glass shards.
When he kneels to clean the mess, he grabs handfuls of the shards, ignoring the blood dripping between his fingers. I sigh at this pitiful mess of a man and know that I can’t just leave him here with bloodied hands.
“Vivian isn’t the only one with issues,” I say. After swiping a couple napkins from the table, I kneel beside him and wrap his bleeding palms in them. Blood soaks through instantly, forcing me to grab more.
“Follow me,” I order while helping him down the hall. Adrian’s inebriated body leans against me. Like a falling tree, he tilts, briefly pinning me against the wall and knocking the framed pictures onto floor.
“Shit, Adrian,” I mutter while pushing him back. In his drunken stupor, he clamps onto me, draping his arm around my shoulders as we lumber into the living room. I shove him onto the Camelback sofa. His body collapses into the leather cushions; each of his visible muscles unwind in unison. Adrian chuckles as I step away for a breather. I move toward a nearby lamp to flick on a light.
“Don’t,” he says. “I like it better in the dark.”
There’s no reason to argue with this. I only want him stable enough so I can escape this house. If not for my overwhelming sense of obligation to take care of him, I’d already be gone, but I can’t bring myself to leave him like this alone. I’ve experienced several nights like this with Sasha who’d returned on drunk on the arm of some stranger looking to take advantage of her.
Babying Adrian Lynch won’t be any different than taking care of Sasha. He looks like he’s already on his last leg. It won’t be long before he passes out. I plait my hair into a braid to keep it out of the way, as Adrian begins to hum.
“Do you always do this?” I ask after sitting in the recliner across from the sofa. He pulls himself upright while removing his tuxedo jacket and unbuttoning the top three buttons of his collared shirt. I note the sparse patch of hair coating his chest. My eyes linger for a moment on the wispy strands and I scold myself for noticing it at all.
His eyes drift half close. Near the peak of his forehead, I spot a veil of sweat soaking his hairline. He proceeds to tidy his tousled hair. This is more than obsessive. For him, it’s essential that he remain well groomed. I hear muffled music from the other room and listen until Adrian clears his throat to get my attention.
“Are you babysitting me?” he asks.
“Someone has to keep you from accidentally killing yourself,” I say. “Where is the bathroom?”
His eyes widen, expressing surprise.
“Why?”
“We should get your hands bandaged,” I say. “They’ll get infected without proper care. Surely, you have some kind of first-aid kit in the bathroom. Either that or I call 911 and I'm sure you’d rather I didn’t.”
He quickly replies, “There is a bathroom down the hall.”
I nod and head out, down the hall past a procession of family portraits. One is of Adrian and Vivian in formal attire feeding each other cake at one of their weddings. Vivian is beautiful. Adrian is handsome, clean cut and exuberant. Each of them polished with aesthetic smiles, seemingly happy.
I continue down the hallway, rivulets of cool sweat coasting down the nape of my neck. This house could use a tune-up. Every step I take hurts the floorboards, causing them to cry out beneath the weight of my feet.
The echo of this place saddles me with the eerie sensation of isolation. Upon entering the restroom and opening the medicine cabinet, I notice that it’s full of half-empty pill bottles all prescribed to Vivian. There are some I recognize by their names—Alprazolam, Topiramate, Xanax and…Lithobid.
The restroom door widens with a loud, creaking sound. I flinch as Adrian appears in the doorway, staring in at me.
“Vivian is stubborn with her medication,” he says. “Sometimes, I have to force it down her throat.”
I stagger backward, losing my balance and plopping atop the toilet in a daze. Adrian strokes the doorknob. His bloodied palm slathers the knob with red that drips down the side of the door and onto the bathroom floor. Insufficient lighting in the dim hallway casts a shadow across his face, masking half of him.
“Where’s Vivian?” I ask. “Did you do something to her?”
“She’s asleep. I already told you that.”
“That’s not what I asked!”
He chuckles at my anger.
“She’s fine,” he says. “I had to do something to calm her down.”
I rise from the toilet seat, glaring at him.
“Adrian, if you hurt her—”
“I’d never harm my own wife…not in a house full of witnesses around,” he says.
“Then what did you do?”
He leaves the room, abandoning my question. I swipe the first-aid kit from the cabinet and follow him. He’s walking without much difficulty this time. No longer a limp in his step or a tilt in his gait. No longer hindered by the liquor in his system.
“Hey,” I say. When he doesn’t acknowledge me, I raise my voice, “Don’t ignore me!”
He turns abruptly, forcing me to remember that he’s much more of a threat than I am. His anxious hands crave some satisfaction. If ever given the chance, he’d consume me with them. I stagger backward, widening the space between us, making certain to note where his hands are.
“Don’t turn away from me,” I say. “Give me that much respect at least.”
“You just accused me of hurting my wife,” he says. “I feel that earns me the right to be a little disrespectful.”
He’s much more coherent, clearly in a better state of mind than minutes before. It must have been an elaborate hoax to get me to stay with him and I fell for it.
“You were never drunk at all, were you?” I ask. “It was all an act!”
“It would take a lot more than wine to intoxicate me.” He swipes the first-aid kit from my hands then proceeds down the hall back into the living room where I follow and watch him bandage his own wounds.
I linger in the doorway, unsure of what else I want to do with myself. He has managed to make a fool out of me twice today. No wonder Vivian remains wrapped around his finger. This guy is an expert at controlling women.
He knew how to get inside her head, pinpoint her one weakness and exploit it. What is worst is that I let him do it to me. With a deep breath, I pull myself together, hoping to cut the puppet strings he’s had tied to my limbs all night.
“Don’t worry about Vivian,” he says. “She’ll probably sleep through the night after that sedative.”
“You drugged her?”
“I medicated her,” he says.
I roll my eyes, unconvinced by his answer.
“You say that like you think it’
s normal to roofie your own wife,” I say. “What kind of man does that?”
He ties the bandages wrapped around his hands and leans back against the sofa pillows. Mental exhaustion is the only thing that gets me to sit down. As I gather my composure, Adrian shifts his focus to me.
“You have no idea what Vivian is really like,” he says. “All you see is what she wants you to see.”
“I know that Vivian isn’t the easiest person to deal with,” I say. “But I don’t condone drugging her.”
“It wasn’t a roofie,” he says. “It was a sleeping pill. I slipped it into her orange juice. It didn’t hurt her and she needs to sleep anyway. She refused to sleep for the last three nights. What I did was in her best interest.”
“Excuse me for not believing you, but I tend to discard the words of a convicted murderer.”
He laughs. It’s not what I expected from someone confronted with an allegation like this.
“You have been reading the tabloids,” he says. “I'm disappointed. I figured you were smarter than that.”
“You murdered a woman,” I say. “The tabloids weren’t lying about that, were they?”
He grins which is probably meant to clear some of the tension in the air, but when I peer into his eyes, all I can think is that he’s a wolf, setting his trap and sharpening his teeth, ready to devour the first unsuspecting boar he can snag.
“Let she without sin cast the first stone,” he remarks.
“You don’t know anything about me.”
“From where I'm sitting, I’d say that you’re pretty easy to read, Miss Tate.”
I relax my stance, allowing myself to humor him. I could use a laugh.
“Oh really? What do you think you know about me?” I ask.
He leans forward on the sofa, watching me. I stand stranded under the weight of his focus; each of his eyes are like spotlights glaring in my direction.
“You are a highly judgmental young woman, maybe even a little neurotic,” he says.
“I sense a mild inferiority complex. Very common characteristic in an only child. Your parents probably divorced when you were young, leaving you with some severe trust issues. That’s why you’re alone, why you don’t associate with people your own age…because they don’t ‘get’ you. Am I right?”
