Behind the Walls

by Merry Jones

  ‘Where’s Hank?’ Harper looked down the hall, toward the kitchen.

  ‘Wow. Hello to you, too.’

  ‘Have you seen him?’

  Vicki nodded at the front door. Harper went to the window, looked out.

  Hank was in the front yard, raking leaves. What? She stood, frozen, watching. He was off balance, his movements short. But they were steady. Persistent.

  ‘Are you sick?’ Vicki came up behind her, frowning. ‘You look terrible.’

  Really? ‘Hank took the Jeep out last night.’

  Vicki’s mouth dropped. ‘What?’

  Harper kept watching him, amazed. ‘He drove. He was gone for hours, alone. In the middle of the night. I have no idea where he went. He wouldn’t tell me. And now, look.’ She pointed at the window. ‘He’s . . .’

  ‘He’s raking. He had half the yard done when I got here.’ Vicki stood beside Harper, watching Hank. She shrugged. ‘So. This is all good, right?’

  It was?

  Harper turned to Vicki, about to tell her about Hank’s moods, but her voice choked and her eyes had filled. Why? What was wrong with her? Hank was fine, working outside on a brisk October morning. Recovering, testing his capabilities. Getting a renewed sense of self. She should be glad.

  ‘Oh, Harper.’ Vicki hugged her. ‘You’ve been a soldier through this whole ordeal. Thanks to you, Hank’s come back from hell. Look how strong he is. He’s out there, pushing himself. Not giving up. You guys are going to be fine – both of you.’

  Harper gazed out the window. Watched Hank work the rake, pulling leaves into speckled heaps of red, yellow, orange.

  Vicki seemed convinced that there was no problem. That Hank’s exertion was unremarkable, a positive sign of progress. She led Harper to the kitchen. Freshly baked scones – a variety of cinnamon nut, chocolate chip and cranberry orange – were set out on a plate near butter and honey and jam.

  ‘So.’ Vicki poured coffee. ‘Hank’s driving again. Doing lawn work. He’s full of surprises. What do you think he’ll do next?’

  Vicki meant well, but Harper tensed. Grabbed a scone, forced a smile. ‘I can’t even guess.’

  Leslie hadn’t called back yet. And Harper needed to talk. Vicki knew Hank well; she’d probably have insights as to his moods and behavior. Would have ideas about how Harper should respond.

  ‘What do you think?’ Vicki primped her chin-length hair. ‘You like it?’

  Harper thought it looked witchy, appropriate for Halloween. ‘It’s different.’ She shrugged. ‘Something new.’ Two days ago, it had been auburn. Vicki was constantly changing her look.

  ‘Different good? Or different bad? Maybe I should cut it real short—’

  ‘No, it’s good. It’s a change – it’s fun.’ Kind of. ‘Look, Vicki. Can I talk to you? About something . . .’

  ‘Of course you can talk to me. What a question. What’s up?’ She bit into a chocolate chip scone. Crumbs tumbled on to the table.

  Harper took a breath. Didn’t know where to start. Maybe she should back up to yesterday, her visit to Professor Langston’s house. As soon as she began, Vicki stopped her.

  ‘Wait. You took that assistantship? Are you crazy? After Zina was killed there? I thought—’

  ‘No. It’s OK. Turns out, her family probably did it.’ Harper explained that Zina had refused an arranged marriage. That it was likely she’d been the victim of an honor killing.

  Vicki’s eyes widened. ‘Wait. You’re saying her own brothers killed her?’

  ‘Maybe. Or an uncle. Or her father – even her mother.’ Harper began to move on. ‘Anyway, when I got there, the collection—’

  ‘Hold on.’ Vick shook her head. Bit her lip. ‘Her own parents might have killed her?’

  ‘I know. It’s horrible.’ She pictured Zina’s slumped, mutilated body. Blinked the image away. Picked up her coffee. ‘But the thing is that, if they did it, then Zina’s death wasn’t a random murder. Which means there isn’t some crazed killer out there.’

  Vicki shook her head. ‘Imagine.’

  ‘And if there’s no crazed killer out there, there’s no reason I shouldn’t take the assistantship. So I decided to accept it, and I went there to get—’

  ‘No wait.’ Vicki frowned. ‘Remember the night before she died, when Zina came here, terrified of that newel—’

  ‘Nahual.’

  ‘Whatever. Do you think . . . maybe she had real reasons to be afraid. Maybe somebody was actually there – one of her brothers or her father might have been stalking her, and she thought it was a nowl.’

  ‘Nahual.’ Harper didn’t want to dwell on the murder. She wanted advice about Hank and had mentioned the honor killing theory only to explain why, instead of turning down the assistantship, she’d gone to Langston’s where she’d lost track of time and not come home, infuriating Hank, setting him off on a rampage of unpredictable activity. ‘Anyway, I’m sure the police are—’

  ‘Did Zina ever mention the arranged marriage? Did she talk about problems with her family?’

  ‘No.’ Harper sighed. ‘Not to me. But we weren’t close. Vicki, can we please talk about—’

  ‘What about her roommates? Did she tell them? Did she say she was afraid of her family?’ Vicki swallowed coffee. ‘Because, I mean, if it were me, I’d carry a gun and mace and pepper spray. I’d be petrified – wouldn’t you?’

  Harper chewed her lip, impatient. ‘Yes. I’d carry a damned arsenal. But can we come back to this? I want to tell you what hap—’

  ‘Hold on a second, OK? We’ll talk about whatever you want, but this is important.’

  ‘And what? I’m not?’ God, had she just said that? It sounded whiny and petulant. Like a jealous kid. She bit into a scone.

  ‘Don’t be stupid.’

  ‘I’m not being stupid.’ Her mouth was full. ‘I just want to talk to you. A lot’s been going on.’

  ‘Fine. A lot’s been going on with me, too. I haven’t told you about the drama in my office now that Pam’s leaving.’ Vicki was a dentist and Pam was her office manager. ‘Or about Trent’s promise to stop drinking and join AA. But Trent and I and Hank and you can wait until we talk about Zina.’

  Harper put the scone down, wiped her hands. ‘We aren’t going to accomplish anything by—’

  ‘I didn’t say we were. But honestly, Harper. We were with her the night before she died. So I want to talk about it, OK? Can’t you put your devastating, earth-shattering problems on hold for just five minutes?’

  Her devastating, earth-shattering problems? Vicki was mocking her? Really? Harper’s jaw tightened. She was tempted to say or do something regrettable, maybe hurl the rest of the scones at Vicki’s perky little nose. But she refrained. Zina’s death wasn’t a topic to be glossed over; it deserved respect and attention. So, calming herself, Harper picked up her cup. Sipped. Sat silent, stiff. Drummed her fingers on the table.

  ‘So here’s my thinking.’ Vicki leaned forward, elbows on the table. ‘From what I’ve heard, Zina wasn’t carrying any weapons. Was she?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Not even scissors or a steak knife. Not one thing to protect herself?’

  ‘No.’ Harper bit off a chunk of scone, unsettled. Wondering what mood Hank was in. Why he hadn’t even said ‘good morning’ before going outside.

  ‘So?’ Vicki seemed to think her point was obvious. ‘So, I think that means that Zina wasn’t afraid of her family. She didn’t believe she was in danger.’

  ‘Well, I guess she was wrong.’ Harper drew a breath. Maybe she was being selfish to want her issues to take precedence over Zina’s. Maybe Vicki was right that discussing the murder was more important. Even so, Harper drifted away, thinking about Hank, how she should approach him. What she should say. She looked out the kitchen window. Didn’t see him. Wanted to go outside. To talk to him.

  Vicki went on. ‘But, obviously, she knew her family and their beliefs. She had to know—’

  ‘Maybe she didn’t take
the beliefs seriously, Vicki.’ Harper finished her coffee. ‘No one had any reason to think her family would commit an honor killing until after the murder.’

  ‘Well, that’s just weird.’ Vicki held her cup, sat straight. ‘Imagine you come from a family – from a culture – that dictates the death penalty for certain acts. And you knowingly commit one of those acts. Can you imagine not considering that? Not taking precautions to protect yourself?’

  ‘No, I can’t.’ Neither could she imagine Zina’s mindset, her background and its conflicting values. ‘But we’re Westerners. We really can’t know what Zina was thinking. We can’t comprehend being part of a culture where women get killed for having relationships with men. Or wearing make-up. Or going out alone, or—’

  ‘But Zina wasn’t a fool. She was a bright woman. Worldly. Educated. And yet she seems to have been oblivious to the dangers of going against her culture.’ Vicki broke off a piece of scone, toyed with it.

  ‘What are you saying?’

  ‘I guess I just don’t want to believe her family would, you know . . . do that.’

  ‘You’d prefer it if a random stranger had killed her?’ Harper didn’t want to consider that possibility.

  ‘You know what?’ Vicki chewed slowly. ‘I would. Yes.’

  Harper felt a chill, pictured the moment Zina realized that her own flesh and blood was taking her life. She imagined meeting the killer’s familiar eyes, searching them for compassion, feeling cold steel pushed through her body . . .

  Harper stood, went to rinse out her coffee mug, realizing that, yes, she no longer wanted to talk about Hank. Compared to Zina’s death – the betrayal by her family – she and Hank had no problems at all. She looked out the window, saw Hank pushing a wheelbarrow filled with leaves. A year ago, he’d struggled even to walk. Now, he was doing yard work. And driving the car.

  Vicki had stopped talking, was waiting for a response. ‘Harper?’

  ‘Sorry.’ She had no idea what Vicki had been saying. But, suddenly, watching Hank, she thought she knew why Zina hadn’t been afraid. She’d known the culture and its rules, but had been too close to her family to see them objectively. Zina had underestimated the people closest to her, hadn’t grasped the extent of their passion or the depth of their resolve.

  Zina made a fatal, though not uncommon mistake.

  ‘I have to go out,’ Harper ran to the closet and pulled on a fleece jacket.

  ‘What? Harper?’ Vicki stood up, gaping. ‘I thought you wanted to talk!’

  ‘Not now. Don’t have time.’ Harper hurried to the door. ‘Sorry to run off. Just leave everything, OK? I’ll clean up later . . .’ And she was out the front door, rushing over to Hank.

  He looked up as she approached, didn’t say anything. Nodded, as he balanced carefully and pulled the rake, gathering leaves. Harper went to a pile a few yards away, ordered her left leg to bend, and, despite its complaints, began picking up arm-loads, dropping them into the wheelbarrow. When it was full, she rolled it to the back of the house, tossed them over the fence on to the floor of the woods. Then she returned to the front yard, repeated the process. Again and again. And again.

  At some point, Vicki came out, looking confused. ‘So. I guess I’ll go.’

  Harper picked up some leaves, wiped her brow. ‘OK. Yeah. I have to do this. Thanks for the scones.’

  ‘Trent. Say. Hi.’ Hank called.

  Vicki wandered off. ‘Dinner Tuesday?’ she shouted.

  Harper nodded, waved back. ‘Bring dessert!’

  At some point, Harper noticed that her left leg was seriously throbbing. But she didn’t give in, wouldn’t stop until Hank did. And Hank wouldn’t stop.

  It took a few hours to clear the front lawn. Finally, they returned the wheelbarrow and the rake to the garage.

  Hank was sweating, flushed with exertion. But his eyes twinkled with energy. And as he put an arm around her, he was smiling. ‘Talk. Now.’

  Harper’s phone was ringing when they went inside, but Harper let it go, interested only in talking to Hank. He led her into the kitchen, poured coffee. Two mugs. Sat at the table. Waited until she sat. Met her eyes. The twinkle had faded.

  ‘I was mad.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘I was. Wrong.’

  ‘No. You had a right to be mad. I was wrong. I should have called and—’

  He put a hand up. ‘Me first. Talk.’

  OK. Harper lifted her coffee, took a sip.

  ‘I’ve been. Thinking. Hoppa.’

  She waited.

  ‘Whole year now. I’ve. Not had a. Life. Too much on. On you. Leaned on you. Burden.’

  ‘No, you’ve never been—’

  He covered her lips with his finger, hushing her. Harper wanted to assure him that he had never been, never could be a burden, but he wouldn’t let her speak.

  ‘Me first. Talk first.’

  OK.

  ‘Hoppa. You.’ He stopped, took a breath, rearranging his lips and tongue. ‘You need your life.’ He swished coffee in his mouth, moistening it. Swallowed coffee. ‘To do. Your thing. Go where you want. Not worry. Poor. Hank.’

  What? Harper’s chest fluttered a warning. ‘But I don’t—’

  ‘No. Listen.’ Again, he stopped her. ‘Change. We need. We. Both need change.’

  Harper’s throat tightened. Her hand rose to her mouth. What kind of changes? What was he saying?

  ‘I can’t be. Any more. Pris–prisoner.’

  A prisoner? ‘You haven’t—’

  ‘Not your fault. Not about. You. About. Me.’

  Her stomach flipped, heart raced. Was Hank giving her the old ‘it’s not you it’s me’ line? Dumping her? No, of course not. He couldn’t be.

  ‘I need to. Go. Work. Do. Man be.’

  Harper couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. She sat riveted. Frozen.

  ‘You do.’ He strained to form the syllables. ‘What you want. Where. And when. You want.’

  Was this really happening? Was Hank telling her to just go wherever she wanted? Tears filled her eyes, blurred her vision.

  ‘I need also. Need to go. Drive. Do. What I want.’ He paused, watching her. Not looking quite like himself. Altered in some way. Hank, but not Hank. He inhaled. ‘Indy. Pendent.’ Exhaled.

  Harper’s eyes swam. Do not cry, she ordered herself. You are stronger than that. You love this man, and if he’s dumping you to prove he can be independent, that sucks. But at least sit up straight and show some spine. Harper sat up, but blinking, she sent a single fat teardrop spilling on to her cheek. She slapped it away.

  ‘Crying? Don’t.’ Hank reached out, touched her face. ‘Not bad. Change. Good. Both. For us.’

  Really? Harper’s chest hurt when she breathed. She crossed her arms, bracing herself. She wondered what she could say. Whether she’d even be able to speak, with her throat so choked.

  ‘The truth. I’m saying. Not. Pretend.’ Hank who wasn’t quite Hank paused to lick his lips. Moved them around as if limbering them up. This was more than he’d said at one time since his accident. ‘You need, Hoppa. To tell truth, too.’

  Hold on. Was he saying she hadn’t been honest with him? ‘What are you talking about?’ Instantly, hurt became anger, and Harper’s finger rose, jabbing the air. ‘I have never lied to you, not ever. About anything.’

  ‘No.’ His eyes were steady, his voice grave. ‘But truth not said. Same as lies.’

  Harper felt as if he’d slapped her, covered her cheek. ‘Hank, I have not hidden the truth!’

  ‘Burke.’ One syllable. It struck like a thunderclap. ‘And took Zina’s. Job.’ His voice was a low rumble. Or no – was that gunfire?

  Harper heard shots, felt the ground explode as she scanned the area for something – anything to fend off the flashback. She saw napkins, jam. Leftover scones. A butter knife. Picked up the knife, pressed it deep into the palm of her hand until sharp pain pushed the encroaching battle away, grounding her. She closed her eyes, wincing, and made a fis
t.

  ‘Told me. You weren’t taking. Job. But took. It.’

  Harper listened, heard no guns. Looked around for snipers, saw only her kitchen walls. Focused. ‘We’ve already been over this, Hank. I was going to tell you about all of that, but I didn’t get a chance. Let me explain everything now—’

  ‘Missing point.’ Hank cut her off.

  What point? ‘No. You said I’m not truthful. But that’s not fair; I haven’t tried to hide anything from you.’

  ‘Me either.’

  ‘You? You mean you’re hiding things from me?’

  ‘No. Just do. Now. My thing. Own. Like you.’

  Harper pictured him backing out of the driveway in the night. Staying out for hours. Raking the leaves. Doing things without her for the first time in over a year.

  ‘Two lives. Do own things. Each. Apart.’

  ‘Apart?’ Her voice wobbled.

  His eyes hardened, held on to hers. ‘Each. Hoppa. I love. You.’ He paused. ‘But we can’t. Like before. Be. Need change. Big.’

  Harper drew a breath. She understood Hank was going through dramatic changes. But did that mean he wanted to separate? Was he breaking up their marriage in order to prove he could be independent? And who put him in charge of dictating what was to change? Was he saying that things had to be his way or no way, putting her on some kind of ultimatum, a wife probation? Well, no thank you. That wasn’t going to fly. She stood, pushed her chair away from the table.

  ‘Listen, Hank. It’s my turn to speak now. Maybe I’ve screwed up. Maybe I’ve done something – or a bunch of things – that really pissed you off. But I have never ever deliberately hurt you or stood in your way. I have been your staunchest ally since I married you. I love you. If that’s not good enough, then fine. Be as independent and apart as you want. Do your thing. You want change? You got it.’

  She spun around, accidentally knocking the coffee mug off the table. Heard it shatter on the floor. Heard Hank call, ‘Hoppa, wait – look. Hand. Bleeding,’ as she sped from the room.

  He stood, yelling, ‘Hoppa, stop. Come back – please!’ But Harper didn’t hear him; she’d already left the kitchen and was halfway to the door.