by Sarah Lovett
"I told them to screw the interrogatories!"
Sylvia couldn't take the noise level and the crowd; the wet bar adjoining the conference room was less congested. Several people mouthed greetings, and she had a brief conversation with a young lawyer she hadn't worked with in almost a year. When he alluded briefly to the ethics complaint and expressed embarrassed sympathy, Sylvia gulped her drink and excused herself. As she set her empty glass on the counter, she felt an arm insinuate itself around her shoulders.
"Hey, there, beautiful!" Using two hands, Herb Burnett turned Sylvia so she was facing him. She had her back to a very tight corner. His eyes worked their way down her body and returned slowly to her face. His whites were bloodshot and the pupils dilated and contracted. He lowered his voice. "You just missed Duke. I want you to know I don't feel good about what's going on."
"What is going on, Herb?" Burnett was the last person Sylvia had expected to run into at this party. Juanita had represented Herb's ex-wife in divorce proceedings.
"Those pictures . . ."
"Billy Watson took them, Herb. He's taken pictures of other women before, or didn't you know that?"
"Please don't be mad at me," he said. His words were beginning to mud at the edges; he wasn't as drunk as he was going to get.
"Out of my way." She tried to squeeze past him.
"You always break my heart, Sylvia. Forgive and forget?" He leaned closer, exuding alcohol fumes. "You were nicer to Lucas than you are to me, Sylvie."
Sylvia's reaction was swift and deliberate; she stomped the heel of her shoe directly down on Burnett's toe.
"You're an asshole, Herb." She left him with a flabbergasted look on his face.
THREE HOURS LATER, Sylvia saw the headlights flash off her living room wall. She frowned. She'd had enough holiday festivities for one day; she was in the middle of wrapping her small cache of presents, a strand of silver ribbon caught between her teeth. She switched on the porch light and peered out the front window. The car was familiar, a Bronco. When Sylvia saw Herb Burnett stumble out of the driver's side, she shook her head in exasperation.
Before Herb made it very far up the walk, a snarling mass of fur came charging from behind the coyote fence. Herb started and raised his arms defensively. The momentum propelled him backward and he landed, butt first, on the ground. Sylvia swung the door open and yelled at Rocko. The terrier gave her an injured look, then the ruff on his shoulders stood straight up, and he lunged at the inebriated lawyer's ankles.
"Rocko!" Sylvia grabbed him by the collar. "Enough!" From his horizontal position, Herb grinned up at Sylvia.
"Lookin' good." He held out a hand, too drunk to be fazed when she ignored him. "I feeeeeel good!"
"You're drunk, Herb."
"As a skunk! Christmas martinis," he said. His speech was surprisingly lucid now, as if he'd gone beyond intoxication. "Make it a double shot of Beefeater, two olives, two cherries."
For a moment, Sylvia was tempted to laugh at the absurdity of the situation. This man had pursued her in high school, he'd introduced her to Lucas Watson, he'd delivered a complaint to the ethics board, and he might be about to file a lawsuit that named her as defendant. Now he was crawling on hands and knees toward her feet. She sighed. "You're going home in a cab."
"Wait!" He managed to hoist himself. "You shouldn't be all alone here." He tried to embrace Sylvia. She kept out of reach and lured him toward the door away from his car. She couldn't let him kill somebody on the highway.
"Herb, give me your keys."
"What for, Sylvie? Mind if I call you Sylvie for old times' sake?" He stuffed the key deep into his hip pocket.
"I'm calling you a taxi."
"Okay, I'm a taxi."
They were almost to the stoop when Rocko began to bark again; the terrier charged around the side of the coyote fence.
"What's his problem?" Herb mumbled.
Sylvia didn't bother to call her dog back; he wouldn't come. She eased Herb through the door and had him positioned over the couch when she pushed him down physically. "Stay here."
"Whaaa?"
Sylvia scanned the phone book for taxi companies. She placed the call and hung up as Herb entered the kitchen.
"You got a nice bedroom," he said with a wink.
"The taxi's on its way."
"Why'd you do that?" Herb breathed closer, exhaling gin fumes. "You want to go somewhere, Herb can drive you. I got a great set of wheels."
Sylvia steered the lawyer back toward the living room; he moved like a sailboat tacking side to side. "The cab is for you, Herb."
Herb tapped the couch with his right hand. "Your stupid dog's barking again. C'mon, sit down."
Sylvia ignored him. She moved toward the window and heard Herb struggle to his feet behind her. She was about to turn around when she smelled his breath. The alcohol fumes were overpowering. She jumped as his hands slid around her waist to cup her breasts. Herb tightened his grip and kissed her on the neck. Sylvia pulled away, but he managed to swing her around, strong-arm her, and thrust his tongue into her mouth. She brought her knee up and caught him below the groin. She moved her thumb to his eyelid and pressed hard. Herb let go with a groan, a balloon losing air.
"Jesus, Herb," Sylvia snapped, "I could bring charges against you."
"I jus' stopped by to wish you a Merry Christmas."
She sighed. "You always manage to fuck things up. You never grew past high school."
". . . and to tell you, Lucas was right."
"What?" She turned, but he was through the front door before she could stop him. Herb ignored Rocko, who was barking fiercely at the rear fender of the Bronco. He climbed up into the driver's seat, slammed the door, and managed to start the engine. As he drove away, he honked the horn three times.
Sylvia screamed after him, "Right about what?" Frustrated, she watched as the Bronco disappeared in the distance. She locked her door and leaned her back against cool wood, every muscle aching. When she closed her eyes, she saw her father instead of Herb. She was all too familiar with binges.
From the kitchen, Sylvia canceled the taxi. She dialed again, but no one was home at the second number. She checked the clock: 10:45. It was an hour earlier in California, and her mother would be playing bridge and celebrating the holiday with other widowed and retired women. Sylvia would call again in the morning.
Ten minutes later, when she was getting ready for bed, she saw two words scrawled in the vapor that covered the windows. HERB + SYLVIA. They were contained inside the outline of a heart.
AS THE BRONCO bounced over the cattleguard at the end of the dirt road, Herb had to swallow to keep bile from rising into his mouth. He felt suddenly sick, could taste the alcoholic stew in his stomach, and he was cultivating a nasty headache. He lowered the window so the cold air could ease the nausea. The lights of Rodeo Road seemed to melt and lengthen into luminescent strands; they reminded him of when he was a kid night-writing with sparklers on Independence Day. The lump was growing larger in his throat, but he resisted the impulse to cry. Not the time to lose control. On the overpass above St. Francis Drive, he swerved to avoid a twenty-five-ton truck. Stupid driver, can't keep his rig in the stupid lane.
Lights gleamed from the foothills directly ahead. The signal at Old Pecos Trail turned red just as he entered the intersection; there were no other vehicles in sight. Herb smiled; he needed a drink—that's all he needed. He turned east onto dirt at the cutoff.
The Bronco was well named; it kicked and bucked over potholes like a green colt; the right road could realign vertebrae and strain muscles. Herb caught sight of himself in the rearview mirror. He scowled at his reflection—the thick bridge of his nose, the small eyes. He felt gross, ugly; no wonder a woman like Sylvia wasn't interested in his attentions. Out of your league, buddy—she always was—she's the majors and you're the minors.
Mountain Drive traveled straight for a mile, then it began a switchback ascent to the top of the ridge and home. He thought about how go
od it would feel if he were bringing Sylvie home. He'd met her when he was eleven, and he'd loved her a little ever since then. Was it doomed from the first moment he saw her? Probably. Everything in his life seemed to go to shit—his marriage, the kids he never saw, his work. He was a lawyer for Christsake! What did he expect? Lawyers did what they were paid to do; he'd filed Duke's complaint against Sylvie. Herb laughed, then caught himself. Don't lose control now.
He pulled the Bronco back on center and cut into a sharp turn. He'd veered perilously close to the drop-off. Shift down, grind gears, roll her over the top. His driveway was here somewhere. The car eased onto asphalt, a smooth relief. Herb fumbled for the electronic garage opener; the Bronco slowed to a stop.
The car door flew open with too much force and he half fell out, stumbled, then caught himself. The house key was on the ledge above the door where he always kept it. He managed the lock, entered, and switched on a hall light. Behind him, the door to the garage didn't quite close. The car door hung open and the space was softly illuminated by the Bronco's overhead light.
Herb was already in his kitchen, a double shot of gin in hand, when the other man rose from the backseat floor of the Bronco, slid silently out the open door, and entered the house.
Herb, barefoot now, sprawled in the white chair by his pathetic effort at a Christmas tree; sparse branches draped with clumps of tinsel and cheap red bulbs. Pen in hand, he began the outline of a letter to Duke, but the effort was too much for his boozy mind. He'd finish it tomorrow. He sipped his martini with eyes closed and thought, Don't forget to call the kids, Birdbrain.
He stood suddenly, lurched, caught his balance, and weaved his way through the house to the master bedroom. The buttons on his shirt were hard to manage, but soon he'd scattered every stitch of clothing across the plush carpet. The lights of Santa Fe flashed in his floor-to-ceiling windows. A million-dollar view. In the master bathroom, Herb turned the faucets and began to fill the Jacuzzi tub. One-hundred-degree water—that's how he liked it.
Back in the living room, he put on a CD of Steely Dan, Aja, and turned the music up. He wanted to top off his drink, but he couldn't remember where he'd left the gin. He did remember to check the back door; it was open. He locked it and padded down the hall toward the bath.
The wet heat eased the pressure in his neck and head. His body hugged the porcelain of the tub, and the jets massaged aches and pains. Maybe the headache would back off so he could breathe. He let his face muscles go slack. It surprised him to think there might be tears on his cheeks; he dunked his head underwater and came up for air. Maybe he could actually remember back—remember a time before he'd begun to hate himself. Was there such a time? He should ask his mother if he'd been a happy baby. Right.
The bathroom lights were controlled by a dimmer switch; a warm white glow barely illuminated the blue-tiled sinks. Through the narrow window facing west, he thought he saw stars. Perhaps the clouds were breaking up? He heard Cassie, his youngest daughter, walking in the master bedroom. It was too late for her to be up. It slowly occurred to him that his daughter wasn't really here; she was living with her mother in Albuquerque. He dunked himself underwater again to clear his head. When he came up for air, opened his eyes, the room was dark. For a moment, the man was no more than a shadow arched over the tub. Herb's recognition registered in one word: you.
The shadow pulled back suddenly, arms extended, gripping a solid rod that came rushing down with brutal force. The impact forced air from Herb's lungs and propelled his body underwater. He struggled to reach the surface, air, but the next blow crushed his skull. The water turned dark with blood.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
"GOOD KING WENCESLAS looked out on the feast of Stephen. . ."
The Christmas carol—sung in Spanish to a rap beat—echoed through the cell block. The jackal hummed along as he worked. He remembered the real words from elementary school. Ah, the holiday season, a time of reckoning, sacrifice, and redemption.
There was the business of Andre Miller. The man had forced him to strike in the open. He should have ignored the jackal's stash in the freezers. But Miller was nosy, and he'd stolen Angel Tapia's little finger—a tiny yet integral piece of a complex plan.
After so many shared evenings when they'd engaged in spiritual talk, Miller had become a Judas. Well, the jackal had taken care of that Judas in a jiffy.
Nevertheless, this was a very special Christmas because last night the jackal had received another message from the Lord. The Lord said, "The disciple is not above her master, nor the servant above his Lord." The jackal knew he was the Lord's servant, and now he was going to obtain his very own disciple: a female. He was glad he hadn't hurt Sylvia Strange or Rosie Sánchez. In His wisdom, the Lord had held him back. And soon, he could announce himself to the world.
He stared down at the blueprint he was working on and removed a pencil smudge with spit; the sternocleidomastoid needed work—what was a man without laughter?
He compared his efforts with the medical textbook that lay open on his bed. The trapezius would be a breeze, but the cricothyroid was another muscle altogether.
This was no simple design. Compassion, intelligence, creativity, the ability to love, all were crucial to the final product; but the will had to be intact or nothing was created. And it was imperative that everything be created.
He ran his tongue over his lips and sang quietly. "God rest ye merry gentlemen, let nothing you dismay, remember Christ our Savior was born on Christmas Day."
CHRISTMAS MORNING. SUN streaked through cirrus clouds and reflected off a lace coverlet of snow dusting cottonwoods and junipers. Piñon smoke perfumed the crisp morning air. A fat bluejay shared the bird feeder with four sparrows. Sylvia wandered the house in her robe, brewed coffee, and mixed the ingredients for a batch of cookies. She sent Rocko outside with a steak bone and he gnawed contentedly near the deck of the hot tub.
She selected a radio station playing Christmas music and called her mother. No one answered, and she imagined the sound of the telephone reverberating off pastel walls adorned with her mother's oil paintings. Sylvia had seen the condominium just once, three years ago. That visit had ended with harsh words, mother and daughter each blaming the other for past mistakes.
Sylvia hung up the phone. Less than thirty seconds later, it rang.
She dusted flour from her hands and picked up the receiver; she expected her mother. Instead, she heard Matt England's voice.
"Merry Christmas."
Sylvia laughed. "Same to you."
There was a silence before he said, "I'm having dinner at Rosie and Ray's tonight. Rosie said you might be stopping by." Matt England coughed and cleared his throat.
"I plan to," she said.
"I thought you might want to do something after? A drink or a walk or something?"
Sylvia hesitated, then said, "Why not?" Because I can give you fifty good reasons why not, she thought. The sudden aroma of cookies brought her back to reality. "Listen—"
"See you tonight," England said, then he hung up as if he sensed she might change her mind.
A walk was no big deal. Liar, she told herself.
Thirty minutes later, when the doorbell rang, Sylvia was showered and dressed. She opened the door and found Monica and Jaspar with his arms around Rocko. Several days earlier, Sylvia had agreed to spend the holiday morning with Jaspar while Monica visited her aunt at a rest home north of Santa Fe. It would give Jaspar and Sylvia time to exchange gifts. December 28 marked the two-month anniversary of Malcolm's death; Jaspar had a lot to deal with this holiday.
"Merry Christmas," Monica said. She smiled and held out what was clearly a bottle gift-wrapped in silver foil. "It's not much, really. But I want you to know I appreciate what you're doing."
Sylvia dropped her arms to her sides. It hadn't occurred to her to give Monica a present, but now it seemed like such an obvious gesture of respect. Flustered, she scrambled to recover. But it was Monica who rescued her.
&nb
sp; She said, "I have a policy of no gifts between friends, but this year I broke my rule. Forgive me." Monica's smile was charming and warm.
Sylvia took her first real look at her lover's wife.
Dressed in a fur cloche, wool jacket and skirt, and fur-lined boots, Monica Treisman resembled a cossack princess. Sylvia couldn't resist a mental pairing of husband and wife. The vision was incongruous: the big, broad strokes of Malcolm shaded his dark, Russian ancestry, his boundless intellect, and his insatiable ego; in contrast, the delicate brushwork of Monica highlighted pale, delicate features, her attention to the needs of others, her quiet intelligence. For the first time, it occurred to Sylvia that Malcolm had been in love with his wife when he died.
The realization hit her like a blow. It made her feel jealous, naïve, inadequate. It also made her grateful that Monica had been there to care for Malcolm when he was dying.
"Open it," Monica said when they were seated in the living room.
While Sylvia unwrapped the gift, she noticed Jaspar eyeing her intently. She smiled and patted the couch. He plopped down next to her, Rocko in his lap, and waited until the foil was off. The present was a bottle of 1978 Bordeaux.
"Delicious." Sylvia smiled. "Where was I in 1978 . . . in school?"
"Malcolm bought a case years ago. It's been in the basement under cobwebs, dust, and furniture. It's drinkable until 2010."
"How far away is that?" Jaspar asked.
Monica patted his head. "Not very." She glanced at her watch. "I'll pick Jaspar up in about three hours." She kissed her son on both cheeks and squeezed Sylvia's hand good-bye.
Jaspar, Rocko, and Sylvia stood together on the doorstep while the gray Mercedes disappeared in the glare of sun.
"Want to open presents?" Sylvia asked.
Jaspar gave her a slow smile, exposing the gap between his front teeth and led the way inside.
Sylvia pointed to three packages placed on a pile of pine boughs in one corner of the living room. "That's the Christmas tree."
Jaspar sat down quietly and began untying ribbon. Sylvia absorbed the delicate lines of his face, the glow of his skin. What was it like to give birth to such a perfect child? How could anyone bear such vulnerability in their lives?
