by Merry Jones
Harper stared at him, then the street. She took several slow deep breaths, muttered some curse words, and walked the Ninja through parked cars, on to the asphalt, climbed on and rode home. Finally, prepared to gush apologies on to her husband, she pulled into her driveway and noticed that, though the fraternity next door was decorated and blazing with light, the windows of her house were completely dark.
Harper parked her bike and stood for a moment, chewing her lip, watching the house. Picturing Hank sitting inside, alone in darkness, deep in another bout of depression. Maybe drinking? And it was her fault – she’d known his moods were fragile; Leslie had warned that he was struggling emotionally.
And then, she’d disappeared on him. She’d said she was coming home, but hadn’t, reminding him, once again, of how dependent he was, how powerless he felt. He couldn’t reach her by phone. Hadn’t driven since his accident, so couldn’t go looking for her. Couldn’t figure out where she’d gone, why she hadn’t returned. Could only sit and wait, helplessly.
Oh God. She’d really messed up.
But, hell, she’d only been gone a few hours. Was that a crime? Was Hank so fragile that he’d panic if she spent one single afternoon somewhere without telling him? And if he was indeed that fragile, how long could he – how long could either of them – stand it?
Music blared from the fraternity. The Monster Mash. A Halloween oldie. Oh Lord. It was going to be a long party weekend. Homecoming Saturday. Halloween Sunday. Hank’s depression every day . . .
But she was getting ahead of herself, making assumptions – she needed to go inside and talk to Hank. Turn on some lights. Apologize. Taking in a deep breath, Harper straightened, took her bag out of the Ninja’s storage box and started along the row of Hemlocks toward the house. The music had changed. The trees, the ground, and Harper’s nerves vibrated to Bad Moon Rising.
Harper let herself into the house, turned on the light in the entranceway. Called out Hank’s name. Heard no answer. Tossed her bag on to the hall table and saw light spilling from his office near the back of the house. She hurried toward it, eager to see him. Passing the kitchen, she realized she’d underestimated him. She’d been wrong to think he’d so easily fall apart and mope, sitting alone in the dark. Hank was strong, resilient. He was in his office, no doubt, reading some obscure geology journal article on his computer. Everything was fine; she’d apologize for being late, for losing track of the time. And he’d understand.
‘Hank?’ She approached his office door. Again, Hank didn’t answer. Didn’t come out to meet her. Harper stopped, listening to his silence, remembering his accident, his fall from the roof. She closed her eyes; saw him sliding over the shingles, falling. Hitting his head against concrete. Oddly, in the same moment, she saw a black sedan close in on her Ninja, nearly hitting it . . . Felt the surge of the motorcycle as she swerved away just in time . . .
‘Hank!’ Still she didn’t move. She stood at the door, calling his name louder this time, again picturing the car coming out of the darkness, straight at her. Deliberately. Accelerating. Aiming? Was it possible that Burke was right? Were people actually coming after her? Had they already been there – was Hank all right?
‘Hank?’ This time, her voice was edgy and ragged. She thrust herself into the office, scanning the desk chair, the big leather easy chair, the carpet, the corners . . . ‘Hank,’ she called as she spun around, looking again. ‘Hank,’ she repeated over and over. First as a question, later as a wail. But Hank didn’t appear. Nor did he answer.
Oh God.
Harper went through the house, quietly now, turning on every light as she went. Hank wasn’t in the kitchen. Not in the powder room, dining room, living room. Harper’s chest tightened; breathing was an effort. She kept seeing his accident, watched him fall, over and over. No, she wouldn’t go there, wouldn’t relive it. Needed to stay in the moment. To find Hank. Climbing the stairs, to the dark second story, she felt a sharp pang in her stomach. Clutched it. And heard Leslie’s voice: ‘He’s struggling more than he lets on . . . I’d keep a close eye on him if I were you.’
Harper stopped, suddenly chilled. Shivering. Again picturing Hank alone in the house, depressed. Unable to reach her. Feeling abandoned and hopeless . . .
No. Ridiculous. Unthinkable. Hank would never hurt himself. Never. Not ever. No.
Still, Harper remained on the steps, unable to move. Unable to shake her icy paralysing fear of what she might find at the top of the staircase.
‘Hank?’ Her voice this time was thin. Broken.
He probably just dozed off, she told herself. Probably was asleep.
Unconvinced, her feet refused to move, and she had to force them up the final few steps. Had to push herself on to the landing, down the hall into the bedroom.
Where she found Hank.
He was standing by the window, staring out at the fraternity. His back to her.
‘Hank?’
He didn’t answer. Turned slowly to face her.
‘Didn’t you hear me?’ Harper was annoyed. ‘I’ve been calling your name – why didn’t you answer?’
His voice was low. ‘Why didn’t you? Answer? Phone.’
Harper switched on the light. Hank was still in his robe. Unshaven. Hadn’t gotten dressed all day.
‘Called you.’ Hank glowered.
‘I know – I’m sorry. I didn’t hear the phone.’ He hadn’t gotten dressed again. Had he stayed in the bedroom all day? ‘Look, I’m sorry. I messed up. I got involved with the Langston project – it turns out Zina was most likely killed by her own family. Some kind of horrible honor killing. But, if that’s the case, there’s no danger to anyone else, and I might as well take it. So I went over just to take a look for a few minutes, and I lost track of—’
‘Friend came. Here.’ Hank’s eyes sizzled. He wasn’t even listening. ‘Burke. Iraq from.’
What? ‘Burke? Came here?’
‘Told me. You saw him.’
Damn. What had Burke done? Had he shown up at the house and told Hank the whole cockamamie story about Colonel? That his militia was out to assassinate them both? No wonder Hank had been upset when he couldn’t reach her.
‘I told you about him, remember? Burke’s got some serious mental issues. I guess the war messed him—’
‘Not told me. Burke’s story. About. Not told me. Zina’s job. Took. Lots. Hoppa.’ Hank didn’t move. He stood at the window, broad shoulders stiff. Jaw tight. ‘Why? Don’t trust. Me?’
‘That’s ridiculous.’ Harper wanted to go to him, touch him. She took a step forward, but stopped, held back by his glare. ‘Of course I trust you.’
‘Then tell me. Now.’
Oh God. Where to start? ‘OK. Burke came into town. We met for coffee, and he started making wild accusations about some guys we knew in Iraq. He’s paranoid.’
‘And?’
And?
‘Burke. And. What else?’
What else? ‘Oh. You mean the assistantship?’
He stared, didn’t reply.
‘OK.’ She swallowed. Took a breath. ‘I know I told you I’d turn it down. But that was because of the murder, right? But this morning, I found out about Zina’s family – they thought she’d disgraced them by refusing an arranged marriage and probably killed her.’
‘And? Also?’
‘Also what?’
Hank stepped forward, a towering, lumbering infuriated bear. His mouth twisted into a grimace. ‘Also. About. Us.’
Us?
‘Not tell me. Not talk to me. Not trust. Not good. Not. Us.’
Oh God. ‘Hank – how can you say that? We’re good. I do trust you . . .’
He moved past her, toward the door.
‘OK. Lately, I’ve held things back. But the only reason I’ve done that is that you’ve been depressed. I haven’t wanted to upset you—’
‘Depressed. Me?’ He spun around more quickly than she’d thought he could. ‘Think. So?’
‘Yes, but I get it
– you have a right to be.’ She stepped toward him. Again felt the invisible wall. ‘I understand you have to work through your feelings after everything—’
‘Think I can’t. Manage? Need my. Wife. Protecting. Me?’
‘Of course not, don’t even—’
‘Think. I’m not. Strong. Man?’
‘—suggest that!’
‘Maybe. Hoppa.’ He turned, walked out of the bedroom. ‘Maybe. Right.’
Harper followed him down the hall, talking to him. Telling him to stop. To sit down and talk. But Hank ignored her. Pulling off his bathrobe, he pulled on jeans, a jacket, stepped into his new boots, stopped at the door to point to the hall table.
‘Burke. Phone. Number,’ he said. Then he left.
Harper started after him, opened the front door, but stopped. What was she going to do – wrestle him to the ground? Force him back into the house? She bit her lip, refused tears. Hank was going through a phase, wavering between sadness and anger, just as she’d done after her war injuries. His moods were natural, inevitable. And he needed to work through them on his own. She hadn’t helped by going AWOL that afternoon, but he’d forgive her in time. They’d talk. He’d be all right. They’d be all right.
Wouldn’t they?
She stood in the hall, facing the door, hoping he’d come back inside. After all, Hank wouldn’t go far. Would he? She watched the door.
Damn. Harper couldn’t help it. She hurried after him on to the front porch; Season of the Witch blasted from next door. But where was Hank? She looked around. Scolded herself for upsetting him. She was supposed to be there for him, helping him through this crisis. Instead, she’d gone off on her own without even telling him, just to look at some relics – well, some incredible relics. But she hadn’t even considered how he’d feel . . .
Nearby, through the music, she thought she heard the revving of a car’s engine. And suddenly, Hank’s Jeep, parked for months in the garage beside the house, zoomed in reverse down the driveway into the street, jerked into drive and sped away.
Harper stood in the middle of the front yard, chilled and ankle-deep in leaves, her mouth hanging open. Hank hadn’t driven in over a year, not since his accident. His right side was weaker than the left. Would he be able to steer? To control the gas and brake? Damn it. What was he doing?
Cursing and worried, she ran to the street, saw tail lights disappear around the corner. Stood there, staring. Considered taking off after him on the Ninja, pictured catching up with him, how he’d react. Not difficult to figure out: he’d be furious. Would feel emasculated, as if she didn’t think he could manage on his own.
Amplifiers screamed, ‘Must be . . . must be . . . the season of the witch!’
Harper trudged back to the house and slammed the door, refusing, absolutely refusing to cry. She paced. Took out the Scotch. Walked away from it. Paced some more, feeling helpless and furious about being helpless. Worrying about Hank. Pouring a drink. Staring into the glass as she drank. Seeing Hank fall from the roof, hit his head . . . No. Refusing to relive that. Closing her eyes, thinking of Leslie . . . Oh God. She needed to call her. That was, if Leslie would even speak to her after her missed appointment.
Quickly, unsteadily, Harper dug her phone out of her bag, made the call. Got Leslie’s voicemail, of course. Left a message apologizing, saying she’d gotten caught up earlier but really needed to talk, asking her to call back. Hearing herself sound needy.
Damn. Harper stood in the front hall, phone in hand. Where had Hank gone? She pictured him driving, taking a turn too fast, losing control of the car. Thank goodness it was a Jeep, sturdy. Not likely to get totaled if he crashed. Unless it rolled into the gorge. Or the lake. Harper clutched her phone, walked in circles, waited for Leslie to call. Get a grip, she told herself. Hank is fine. He’s just proving himself. Testing himself. He’ll come back, having shown that he can still drive. He’ll be in a better mood. She needed to calm down, be patient.
But she couldn’t. Tossing her phone on to the table beside her bag, she noticed a piece of paper there. A number was scrawled on it. Burke’s number. Lord. She’d almost forgotten about him, how he’d shown up at her house, gotten Hank all riled up. Furious, she made the call, waited for him to pick up so she could yell at him. But he didn’t pick up. A computerized voice told her to leave a message at the tone. So she did.
‘What the hell’s wrong with you, Burke?’ The words flew out, unplanned. ‘What did you say to my husband? Did you share your genius theory about Colonel Baxter? Did you say that he’s trying to kill us? Have you completely lost it? Did you not happen to notice that my husband has his own problems? Could you not realize that maybe you should leave him out of your damned paranoid bullshit?’ She paused to catch her breath, composed herself. Lowered her voice. ‘Here’s the deal, Burke. Don’t . . . do not bother me or my husband again. Ever. Don’t come over, don’t call. Don’t send obituaries in the mail. Just take your frickin’ conspiracy theories and sign yourself into a VA hospital. Get help. But go away.’
Harper felt a pang. Pictured Burke, how jumpy and pathetic he’d been, almost twitching with fear. The guy was sick; he hadn’t deliberately caused harm. She was being too harsh, didn’t want to be cruel.
‘Sorry, Burke,’ she softened. ‘It’s just too much right now. I’ve got my own stuff, can’t help you with yours.’
And then she hung up.
Waiting wasn’t easy. Harper waited on the front porch, on the living room sofa, at the kitchen table. She poured another finger of Scotch, blinked at it, gulped it down, poured another. Left the glass on the table. Walked up and down the hall, looked out windows, sat down, stood up, went to her phone, picked it up, thought of calling someone – but couldn’t decide who. Leslie again? Vicki? Detective Rivers? What would she say? That she was frantic, almost hysterical because Hank had left their property?
Even she could hear how irrational that sounded. Clearly, she was overreacting. Didn’t need to be frightened. Hank was fine. Would be fine. But she kept seeing him fall off the roof. Kept imagining him crashing the car. She put the phone down, tried to ignore the rumble of gunfire closing in on her. Too late . . . Suddenly, to her left, something exploded; burning air scalded her face, and she smelled burning flesh, heard screams of pain. Started to run for cover – no. Damn it. She fought back. Closed her eyes. Wouldn’t, couldn’t allow a flashback. But the bullets still flew. Whizzed past, barely missing her head. Ducking, hunkering low to the ground, Harper dashed back to the base – or maybe the kitchen? She grabbed a grenade from the cold drawer in the arsenal, and bit off the pin. Dug her teeth in. Instantly, the grenade’s sharp sour taste jolted her, banishing the battleground. Returning her to the moment where she stood by the refrigerator, holding a half-eaten lemon.
Even so, her skin still burned. Her lungs felt raw, and she tasted copper. Danger reared up and roared, but no matter how much she wanted to, she didn’t know how to confront it. Not this time.
This time, the battle wasn’t hers. It was Hank’s.
So Harper stood and sat and stood again in her kitchen, downed another glass of Scotch, poured another. And waited.
At ten before two in the morning, Hank pulled into the driveway, parked the Jeep in the garage. He came in, looking frazzled. Relieved, Harper didn’t say a word. She just ran to him.
‘Sorry.’ Hank seemed straighter. Taller.
‘No. I am.’
‘Both. Should. Be.’
He was right. They broke apart, stood awkwardly near the front door.
‘Want a drink?’ By then, she’d had more than a few.
‘No. Late.’
‘We should talk.’ She needed to apologize, explain. Tell him about Burke, the assistantship – about her selfishness.
‘Not now, Hoppa. Sleep.’
He headed to the stairs. Acted like nothing had happened. Harper was drained and exhausted. Unable to let go.
‘I was worried about you.’ She followed him.
‘Why?’
Why? Really? ‘Because you were upset. And you haven’t driven since—’
‘Fine. I’m. Fine.’
They went upstairs, got ready for bed. Harper stayed close to him, needing to connect. Uneasy about his silence. But Hank simply got into bed, rolled over and turned out the light. Harper snuggled against him.
‘No kiss?’
He turned and kissed her. A dutiful peck on the forehead.
‘Uh uh.’ She pulled his face to hers, kissed his mouth.
But even though he lay facing her, their arms and legs entwined, Harper felt his distance. In seconds, his breathing became deep and even. Harper tried to but couldn’t relax.
‘Hank?’
‘Huh.’
‘Where did you go?’
Hank didn’t answer. Softly, he began to snore.
Harper had just fallen asleep when the doorbell rang. She opened her eyes, looked around. The sun blazed through slats of the bedroom blinds. Clock said nine thirty. Hank’s side of the bed was empty.
Oh God. Harper jumped out of bed, raced to the window, looked outside for the Jeep. Saw it there, right where Hank had parked it, inside the open garage – thank God.
But where was Hank?
‘Harper?’ Vicki’s cheery voice floated up the staircase. ‘Get your lazy butt down here!’
Damn. It was Saturday morning. She and Vicki usually had coffee during the week. But this was Homecoming; Trent was attending a brunch, glad-handing alumni to stimulate contributions. Vicki didn’t want to go, so she’d offered to come by with scones.
‘What, were you out partying all night? Get up!’ Vicki called.
Harper groaned. She ached all over, didn’t feel like getting her butt anywhere but back to bed. Her left leg ached as she dragged herself to the bathroom; the rest of her complained as she splashed water on to her face and moved her toothbrush around her mouth. The face in the mirror was blotchy; her hair clumped into tangled blonde stumps. Harper stuck her tongue out at the reflection, ran her fingers through the tangles, and plodded down the stairs, looking for Hank.
Finding Vicki. She’d dyed her hair again. This time, too dark. Almost black.
