by Merry Jones
Sunlight didn’t penetrate the dining room, and oddly shaped shadows lurked all around, made her skin prickle despite the heat. Wait right there? Uh uh. No way was she going to stay in that room. Instead, she climbed back out the window on to the porch where at least there was light and she could sit on the bench and wait.
The bench was one of those rocking things; she swung back and forth, wondering how long Larry would be. Man, she was sick of him, his moods, his pimples, his pills, his short height and his huge temper. The things he made her do. Her head still smarted where he’d pulled her hair. It was time to break up with him. But, for now, she waited in the heat, swaying back and forth, lulled by the motion, relaxing, closing her eyes.
She opened them as the knife penetrated her throat, and she recognized the person holding it. While her blood spurted, she tried to ask, ‘What are you doing here?’ and, ‘Why are you cutting me?’ But, with her neck so deeply sliced, Monique couldn’t speak, so she died with her eyes still open, her questions unanswered. Even unasked.
Vicki’s jaw dropped. ‘What the hell happened to your face? Bar fight?’
‘You should see the other guy.’ Harper smiled. ‘I like your hair.’
Vicki had dyed it again. Auburn this time. And she’d cut off about five inches; now it was short, spiky. Funky. Like Harper’s.
‘Do you? It’s the new me.’
They hugged a greeting, Vicki, taller than Harper, slouching to embrace. Harper was surprisingly glad to see her. She’d missed Vicki, her broad grin, her painted red nails and bright red lipstick that often clashed with her clothes. Vicki, despite her new do, remained rock solid, unchanged.
‘So really. What happened to your face?’
Apparently, Trent hadn’t told her about the mugging. Maybe he’d been too hungover.
‘Not a big deal.’ Harper didn’t want to go into it yet again. ‘Somebody mugged me.’
‘You got mugged, but it’s no big deal? Oh God, that guy sure picked the wrong victim. Did you go after him? Of course you did. How bad did you hurt him?’
‘Let’s go inside.’ Harper led the way into the Lost Dog Café, where a young guy in jeans seated them and recommended the special veggie chili.
Harper picked up a menu; Vicki took it from Harper’s hands, dropped it on to the table. ‘Uh uh. You’re not looking at the menu until you tell me why you haven’t returned my calls.’
Harper’s neck got hot. ‘Sorry. No excuses. It’s just the same old, same old.’ The same old suicides, muggings, murdered waitresses, stolen drugs. Oh, and husband with a damaged brain.
Vicki didn’t back off. ‘How’s Hank?’
Vicki’s eyes probed, genuinely concerned. And familiar. And comforting. It was good to see her again. Harper had missed their daily breakfasts and walks, their easy companionship. Vicki had been with her when Hank had fallen, had spent long hours with her in the emergency room, had stayed by her side as the doctors gave her the news. Vicki had been a steadfast, reassuring presence during the onset of Hank’s ordeal. So what had happened? How had they lost touch, not talking for weeks?
In the back of her mind, Trent piped up, answering her questions, elaborating on Vicki’s ‘thing’ for Hank. Harper began talking, drowning Trent out.
‘He’s doing OK.’ She stopped herself from urging Vicki to visit him. Not that she believed Trent, but just in case. ‘Little by little.’
‘So back up. When were you mugged?’ Vicki’s voice had its usual creamy tone. ‘Why didn’t you call me?’
Harper hesitated. Where should she start? With the mugging? Graham’s suicide? The horrid flashbacks? Chelsea’s murder? Or Trent’s drunken assertion that Vicki was attracted to Hank who, by the way, had recently mentioned that he was horny?
‘Ready, ladies?’ The waiter appeared out of nowhere. He looked exotic, multi-ethnic. His wrist bore a Chinese character tattoo.
Vicki ordered a tofu burger and iced tea. Harper still hadn’t looked at the menu, ordered the chili. They sat silent for a while. Out of sync.
‘We should go shopping,’ Vicki tried. ‘Get massages. Pedicures – no, makeovers.’
Harper didn’t respond. The suggestions were ludicrous.
‘Makeovers would be fun. And, honestly, you could use a new look. Enough military drab, Harper. Get some clothes with bright, cheerful colors. You’ll feel better.’
Harper said nothing.
‘What?’ Vicki persisted. ‘You think that’s superficial?’
‘I don’t need a makeover. New clothes won’t change anything, and, besides, I don’t—’
‘You don’t wear bright colors. I know all about your camouflage chic. But that’s nonsense. You should. You’d look spunky in red or yellow.’
Harper didn’t answer, had explained to Vicki about her wardrobe many times.
‘Come on. This is Ithaca, not Iraq. Bright colors won’t draw the attention of snipers.’
‘You never know.’ Harper closed her eyes, saw the boy with no face. ‘So what’s new with you?’ she changed the subject. ‘Pulled any wisdom teeth lately?’
‘Don’t be like that, Harper. It was just an idea, a way to have fun.’
More awkward silence.
‘OK, cut the crap, Harper. Something’s eating at you, and it isn’t just Hank’s condition. I can see it on your face.’
She saw it on her face? Reflexively, Harper’s hand went to her cheek, feeling for the something.
‘Dammit, Harper. Talk to me. I ask how Hank is; you say, “OK.” I say, “Let’s go do something to cheer ourselves up”; you say, “No.” That’s it, the whole extent of our conversation, after all these weeks? And don’t blame it on the war and how you don’t feel comfortable around people. I’m not “people”. Our friendship is deeper than that. But since the accident, you’ve – I don’t know. Withdrawn. Disappeared.’
She had withdrawn? She had disappeared? Harper stiffened. No way, it had been Vicki who’d done the disappearing, never visiting Hank. Not stopping by. Calling only rarely when she knew Harper would be out. Not that Harper had returned those calls. ‘What do you want from me, Vicki?’ Her voice was chilly.
‘I knew you’d react like that, all pissy and defensive—’
‘I am not all pissy—’
‘Listen, Harper. Here’s some news: you weren’t the only one affected by Hank’s fall. Trent and I – things haven’t been easy for us, either. And I want my friend back. I want to drop by with scones and share bottles of wine. I want to be the way we were.’
Harper remained quiet, hearing echoes of her own voice in Vicki’s. She wanted their old lives back, too. And Vicki was right; lately, she had been too self-absorbed. But, hell, what did Vicki expect? That, with Hank so badly injured, Harper would still meet her for ladies’ lunches or trips to the farmer’s market? Why didn’t Vicki understand? Harper stared at Vicki, saw thin spidery lines around her eyes, vulnerability all over her face. And suddenly, she understood: Vicki needed a friend. They both did.
So, hesitantly at first, Harper listed the events of the last few days, omitting only the conversation with Trent. Vicki sat riveted, not speaking until Anna finally woke up in Harper’s office.
‘Wow.’ Vicki reached across the table and squeezed Harper’s hand. ‘My God. It’s a good thing you’re Superwoman. Nobody else could deal with all that.’
Two huge glasses of iced tea landed on the table. ‘Your lunches are coming right up.’
Vicki gazed into her drink, diddled with her straw.
‘What? You OK?’
‘Me? Sure.’ Vicki took extra napkins from the container and passed a few to Harper. ‘Compared to you, anyhow.’
‘Compared to me? Why? What’s going on?’
‘Harper, I can’t complain, not after hearing what you’ve been through. Suicide, murder, a mugging – not to mention Hank. No, everything’s peachy with me.’
‘Go to hell.’
‘How did our lives become such disasters?’
&n
bsp; ‘What’s your disaster?’
Vicki sucked on her straw. ‘Trent. He’s a mess. A drunk. Hasn’t been sober since the accident.’
Harper remembered Trent gulping Scotch in her kitchen.
‘You know how pumped Trent and Hank were, being up for tenure?’
Of course she did. Before the accident, Hank and Trent had constantly razzed each other, trying to make light of the competition. But they’d known that only one of them would receive tenure; the other would probably have to move on.
‘Well, that was nothing. Now, Trent’s obsessed with tenure. It’s all he talks about. And he doesn’t mention Hank. Ever. If Hank’s name comes up, Trent dives into the liquor cabinet.’
‘Tofu burger.’ The plates slid on to the table. ‘Chili. Anything else, ladies? Enjoy.’
The place was filling up. Four men sat across from them; a couple ate behind them. Somewhere, a baby cried. People waited in line for tables to open up.
‘You know –’ Harper waited until the waiter walked away – ‘what happened to Hank wasn’t Trent’s fault. I’ve told him that.’
‘So have I. Don’t you think I’ve told him that? But . . .’ She shifted on the seat to better face her friend. ‘Harper, this is beyond guilt. Trent’s changed. He’s not the same man.’
‘Of course he is—’
‘No. It’s not just the tenure thing.’ Vicki sipped her tea. ‘This goes way beyond work. He wakes up and has a beer for breakfast. He’s bitter and depressed, and, frankly, I’m scared.’
‘You’re scared. Of Trent?’ The idea seemed preposterous. If Harper exhaled on him, he’d fall.
‘Of him. For him. Whatever.’
‘As in, you think he might hurt himself?’
Vicki shook her head. ‘I don’t think so; dead men don’t get tenure.’ She smiled sadly. ‘Trent and I – we have no relationship anymore. We don’t talk. Don’t have sex. He’s not the guy I married. Poof. First Hank. Now Trent. In a way, they’re both gone.’
Harper closed her eyes, heard distant gunfire. Vicki took a bite of her burger and chomped.
‘Trent’s not gone, Vicki. Maybe it’s a phase. I mean he had a bad trauma.’ Harper lifted a spoonful of chili to her mouth, wondering if Trent had flashbacks, too. Maybe he drank to stop them.
Vicki said something, but her voice was muffled, full of French fries.
‘Sorry?’
‘I can’t, Harper. I can’t live with him anymore.’
‘What?’ It was all Harper could manage to say. Trent and Vicki had been married for – what? Fourteen years? More? They’d been part of her life since she’d met Hank, were Hank’s best friends, a single unit. ‘You’re not serious.’
‘He’s unbearable. He gets drunk and belligerent and accuses me of all kinds of stuff.’
‘Like what?’ Like having a crush on my husband? Harper crushed crackers into her chili bowl.
‘Like anything. He gets so mad, the veins pop out in his head, and I’m scared he’ll have a stroke.’
‘What’s he mad about?’
‘Here’s one: he insists I’m having an affair.’ Vicki chewed as she talked.
‘An affair?’ Harper swallowed chili too fast, almost choked. Was Vicki going to confess to a relationship with Hank? She remembered him insisting, ‘Vicki. Screwed.’
‘He’s absolutely convinced. He doesn’t believe anything I say—’
‘Well, are you?’
‘What? Having an affair? Are you kidding?’ Vicki dodged.
‘Because, if you are, you can’t blame him for suspecting—’
‘No. I’m not.’ Her tone was forced. ‘Of course I’m not.’ She looked away, nipping off the tip of another French fry. ‘Not anymore.’
Harper froze, spoon in the air.
Vicki crossed her legs, toyed with an earring. ‘Last winter. I had a thing with somebody. Trent knows about it. It didn’t last long – a few months. It’s over.’
Harper told herself not to jump to conclusions or out of her chair to yank Vicki’s hair out. There were lots of men in the world besides Hank. And if it wasn’t Hank, it wasn’t her business. Even so, she wanted to grab Vicki by her auburn spikes and demand that she tell her whether the ‘somebody’ she’d had a ‘thing’ with had been her husband.
Instead, she maintained a calm, as if she were barely curious. ‘Who was it?’
Vicki met her eyes. Her mouth opened, then closed. She grabbed her glass of iced tea. ‘I can’t tell you.’
Harper clenched her jaw, deciding whether or not to choke her.
‘It wouldn’t be right.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because – well, because you know him.’
Oh God. It was true?
‘And I don’t want to mess up his reputation. There’d be . . . repercussions.’
‘What, you think I’ll put it on the six o’clock news?’
‘It’s just . . . I better not say, OK?’ Vicki sipped.
So. Harper knew him. Was Vicki playing with her, hinting that her affair had been with Hank, making her squirm?
‘How well do I know him?’
‘What?’
Eyes drilling into Vicki’s, she repeated the question slowly, enunciating clearly.
‘Oh. Not very.’ She sounded cautious. Lying?
Go ahead. Ask her, Harper told herself. Just come out and ask. But to ask would be to admit that Harper didn’t trust her husband. That he’d given her reason to doubt him and suspect that he might cheat. And, especially if Vicki had betrayed her, Harper didn’t want to give her that satisfaction. She formed the question, but stopped herself.
‘Anyhow, Trent thinks I’m cheating again. He interrogates me every time I go out. Where were you? Who were you with? He calls my beautician to see if I really had an appointment. He checks the mileage in my car to see if it matches with where I said I went.’
‘That’s freaky.’
‘Oh, but that’s nothing. Listen to this. He smells me. I’m serious. He pretends he’s hugging me, but really he’s smelling me to see if I’ve taken an unexplained shower. You know, to wash away some guy’s scent.’
Yikes. Harper pictured Trent sniffing at Vicki for traces of another man.
‘I can’t live this way.’
Of course she couldn’t, not with Trent’s nose at her neck. Maybe his comments about Vicki and Hank were just part of a larger obsession, an invention of Trent’s jealous mind. He must have had some kind of breakdown after the accident. Hank’s fall seemed like the first in a row of dominoes. Hank, Trent, Vicki. Who’d topple next? Oh, right: Harper. Her head ached. She smelled ashes.
Maybe they all needed makeovers.
Vicki took a breath. ‘Anyhow, I needed to tell you . . .’ She picked up another fry, bit its head off.
‘Of course, you did.’ Harper touched her friend’s arm, noticed the softness of Vicki’s skin. And pictured Hank touching it, Hank noticing its softness. She heard him again: ‘Screwed. Vicki.’ Stop it, she told herself. Nothing happened. The whole idea of Vicki and Hank was a creation of post-breakdown Trent, without merit or substance. Even so, the image nagged at her, buzzing like a rabid mosquito.
After lunch, Vicki and Harper hugged goodbye, promising not to lose touch again. Vicki waved from her Mini Cooper and drove off to fill cavities. Harper lingered on Aurora Street before climbing on to her Ninja. The air was perfectly still, suspended. Not a car drove by. Clouds still hovered above, darkening the sky, but the air didn’t smell like rain.
Harper stuffed her bag and Hank’s computer into the storage case, straddled her Ninja and looked around. The street, Ithaca, the world – everything was altered, off kilter. Nothing was stable. Even Trent and Vicki were breaking up. Harper didn’t feel ready to start her bike, didn’t want to take her feet off the ground yet. While she hesitated, centering herself, her cell phone rang. LESLIE.
‘You didn’t call me. You were supposed to check in.’
She was? Harper didn’t remem
ber.
‘I’m fine.’ She reminded herself that Leslie was her shrink. She didn’t need to say she was fine. ‘Nothing big. Murmurs mostly. Distant gunfire.’ But no more freshly warm pieces of Marvin on her belly. No visits from Sameh or the boy without a face. ‘They’re not gone. But on the perimeter, not right in my face.’
‘Hmm.’
Hmm?
‘Harper, I want to try something with you.’
Harper waited.
‘It’s called Rapid Eye Movement Therapy.’
Harper had heard of Rapid Eye Movement. ‘Wait. REM. Does that have something to do with sleep?’
‘Yes, REM occurs when people dream. But we’d do this while you’re awake. It sometimes helps PTSD symptoms.’
Leslie had a cancellation the next afternoon, wanted Harper to come and talk about it. Maybe, Harper dared to think, just maybe there was hope for ending her flashbacks. And if there was hope for her flashbacks, maybe there was hope for other things, too. Like for Hank. Their future. Harper started her bike and rode home, humming oldies, resting her mind, focusing on the open road.
Halfway through her rendition of ‘Stand By Me’, Harper pulled into the driveway, parked her Ninja, hung her helmet on the bike and her sack on her shoulder. Walking to the house, she glanced at the porch and was surprised to see someone there, sitting on the swing. Wearing all pink. Monique? But what was Monique doing there? As far as she knew, her students didn’t know where she lived, let alone feel free to drop by uninvited.
‘Monique? Is that you?’ Harper called from the path.
Monique didn’t answer. She didn’t seem to hear.
Harper continued toward the house, watching the person in pink, seeing the bandage on her arm. Yes, it was definitely Monique. She was slouching, asleep.
‘Monique?’ Harper called gently, not wanting to startle her. It wasn’t until she climbed the steps to the porch that she noticed a puddle clotting on the blue wooden slats, not until she rounded the banister that she saw a large dark stain along the neckline of Monique’s no longer pink shirt.
‘Monique—’ Harper dashed over, trying to rouse the tall, muscular girl, feeling for a pulse. Then, backing away, she tripped down her porch steps into the overgrown grass, pawing through her bag for her phone even though Monique was beyond help. Monique was dead. Murdered, and the killer might still be around.
