Behind the Walls

by Merry Jones

  ‘Well, of course she did, Salih. Nobody’s parents arrange marriages for them in America—’

  ‘My family is not American.’ Salih cut her off. ‘We were raised here and in Britain, but we are Syrian. Traditional and proud. Zina was part of our family. She knew our ways, but she resisted. When she turned her back on the family interests, my parents declared her dead. So there it is: why would they come to a memorial service for her when, to them, she’d already been dead for some time?’

  Harper sat straight. ‘What do you mean they declared her “dead”?’ Had they issued her death sentence?

  ‘I mean “dead”. They cut off all ties. Including funds, even for education. I’m the only one who even talked to her. I kept urging her to make amends. To perform symbolic acts of humility and penance. I did it secretly, but I suspect my mother knows – knew.’

  Again, he took a drink, passed the bottle to Harper.

  ‘Who do you think killed her?’ Harper took a sip, watching his eyes.

  ‘That’s a question, isn’t it?’ Salih shifted positions. ‘Trust me, I think about it every minute. About who killed her . . .’ He lifted the bottle, gulped booze. ‘I know several who might have done it. Including close members of my family.’

  Oh God. He suspected an honor killing, too? ‘Are you talking about an honor killing?’ Had she just said that out loud?

  Salih didn’t answer, didn’t seem surprised or offended by the question. He took another long drink, looked at Harper with a resigned smile. ‘Honestly, you want to hear the truth? Whoever did it, my sister understood why. And whoever did it, no one else will ever know.’

  By the time Harper returned to her Ninja, Salih had put away much of what was left in the Cutty Sark bottle. And among other things, he had confided that he believed his family was behind Zina’s murder, that despite living in the West, they still held to the old ways of their heritage. His aunt had wanted a divorce and had been stabbed to death years before – no doubt at his uncle’s hand. Before Harper had thought about the time, the sun had dipped to the horizon.

  Salih promised he was perfectly fine and able to drive, but Harper insisted that he leave his car parked on the main road where it was. She was sober, having swallowed only a few sips of liquor, but Salih was slurring his words and teetering, in no shape to get behind the wheel. Harper insisted on taking him to his hotel. She dropped him at the Embassy Inn on Dryden Road, and, as darkness fell, watched him wobble inside. Then, she headed home.

  Oh dear. Hank. What was she supposed to say to him? Maybe she should call and let him know she was all right. Then again, if he was ready to break up their marriage, he ought to get used to not knowing how she was. A hot pang ripped through her belly, into her chest. Was Hank really doing this? Why? ‘Why’ didn’t matter, she scolded herself. It wasn’t about reasons or arguments; it was about feelings. Needs. And she couldn’t make Hank need her or feel for her. Maybe Leslie was right that his healing required him to rediscover himself. Maybe his fall had damaged not just his bones and brain, but his ego. Before she’d met him, Hank had been quite a player. Maybe he needed to prove that he could still be one. That he was still hot, could still score with the ladies – well, if so, if that was what he needed, they were over for sure. Done. No way she’d stick around for that.

  Cut it out, she told herself. She had no reason to think that Hank wanted other women. She was imagining things, needed to stop.

  Harper revved the engine, sped down Dryden to Hoy, along Hoy to Campus Road, Campus to East. East to Thurston. Along the way, she passed Homecoming events, parties in transition from happy hour to Halloween Eve bashes. Something was going on at the Alumni House. Music pounded out of fraternities, sororities. Dorms. Harper kept moving, zipping past. Going home.

  Finally, she pulled into the driveway. Saw the house dark. The Jeep gone.

  Damn.

  Harper got off her bike and stood, arms folded, feeling the chill of the night, dreading going into the empty house.

  ‘Hey, Mrs Jennings!’

  She turned, saw a kid from the frat next door. Dressed as a chicken. ‘We still got some beer – come on over!’

  Harper waved. Thanked him and backed off. Turned away and headed toward the house. The last thing she wanted was to hang out with drunk college kids in Halloween costumes.

  Or no. Maybe not the last thing.

  Inside, she turned on the hall light, took out her phone and checked her messages. Nothing more from Burke, thank God. But Hank had called. Once. An hour ago.

  Harper hesitated, afraid to hear the message. What was wrong with her? Why was she scared of a damned telephone message? Squaring her shoulders, she braced herself and played it back.

  ‘Damn. Hoppa. Answer.’ That was all. Not, ‘Come home. I’m worried.’ Not, ‘I’m sorry. I love you.’ Just a curse word and a command.

  She played it again. His voice sounded strained. Hank was upset.

  She pushed the ‘send’ button, returning his call. Waited, breathing unevenly for him to pick up. Heard his phone ringing in the kitchen.

  Lord. Hank hadn’t taken his phone? Where had he gone without it? And when was he coming back?

  Or more to the point: was he coming back?

  Harper closed her eyes, imagining their bedroom. His half of the closet empty. His razor missing from the bathroom sink. No. He wouldn’t have moved out. Not so suddenly. It hadn’t – couldn’t have – come to that yet.

  Even so, she didn’t want to go upstairs. Damn Where had he gone? She thought of calling Vicki and Trent to see if Hank was there. But if he weren’t, she’d have to explain why she didn’t know where he was. And she wasn’t ready to do that.

  Cursing, Harper flung her phone into her bag, stomped into the kitchen. Her stomach felt hollow; she’d been drinking but not eating. She opened the refrigerator, took out an apple, bit into it. Gagged. Her stomach was empty and rumbling but her body rejected food, refused to eat. Fine. She opened a cabinet, found the Halloween candy. Ripped open a mini-bag of M&Ms, poured them into her mouth. No gagging. Her body didn’t object, accepted chocolate. Grabbing a second bagful, she didn’t know what to do with herself, where to be. She couldn’t stay in the kitchen. Couldn’t stay anywhere. Walked in circles until she finally went back outside, on to the front porch.

  She watched the street for a while, saw cars drive by, none of them Hank’s.

  The music from next store had quieted; it was dark now, and their post-game party was over. Alumni and their wives had gone; pledges were filling trash bags and folding tables, cleaning up. A few couples in Halloween costumes lingered in the yard, drinking and smoking dope among the plastic tombstones and hanging skeletons. A guy in a hoodie darted across the lawn, activating a mechanical witch who cackled and danced.

  Harper wandered off the porch, down to the sidewalk, not ready to go back into her empty house. The night air was brisk. Harper shivered as a gust of wind picked up leaves, swirling them around. Maybe she should reconsider calling Vicki and Trent. She could call just to say ‘hi’, not even mention Hank. If he were there, they’d tell her, wouldn’t they?

  Harper stopped mid-thought. Something was out there in the trees – running. An animal? No – a man. He wore a blazer and khakis, and, though he didn’t seem to notice her, he was running right towards her.

  Harper froze, gaping as he sped past. It had to be the darkness. She had to be mistaken. She turned, walking after him, staring into the night long after he was out of sight.

  He’d been moving fast, she reminded herself. And it was dark; she hadn’t gotten a good look. Even so, she could almost swear she’d recognized him. She was almost positive it was the guy Burke had said was following him: Rick Owens, from their detail in Iraq.

  But that made no sense. Obviously, it hadn’t been Rick. Why would Rick Owens be hightailing it out of the woods behind her house in the middle of the night? In Ithaca? Burke had colored her thinking; she was taking on his paranoia.

  The
wind was picking up. Harper went back to the house, hearing sirens nearby, wondered what college pranks had gone too far this time. Inside, she changed into flannel PJs and listened for Hank’s car. She went downstairs to make a sandwich. Found a can of tuna, a half-empty jar of mayo. A lone bagel, not too stale to toast. Mindlessly, she went through the motions of preparing food, on alert for the sounds of tires on the driveway.

  Waiting, she chewed tuna. Swallowed beer. Thought of Salih and Zina. Her family alienated enough to declare her dead. Even to kill her. Thought of the relics to get her mind off of that.

  Finally, headlights flared through the windows. Harper heard a car in the driveway and couldn’t help it. She ran to the door, expecting to see Hank climbing out of his Jeep.

  But the car wasn’t Hank’s. It had red and blue lights on top, and letters on the side, spelling POLICE.

  And the person walking along the path to the house wasn’t her husband. It was the homicide detective, Charlene Rivers.

  Hank? Oh God. Something had happened to Hank – Rivers was in homicide. Had Hank been – oh God . . .

  Harper couldn’t move, couldn’t speak. She watched Rivers’ approach in slow motion, through a haze. This wasn’t real. The detective wasn’t actually there. Neither was Harper. Her mind was tricking her. Snipers fired; she felt the whizz of bullets flying past her cheek. Heard men scream. Smelled smoke as Rivers took a step, then another, wading through thickened air. And then, ever so slowly, Rivers smiled.

  Wait. She smiled? How could Rivers smile at a woman whose husband had just been killed?

  ‘Good evening, Mrs Jennings.’ The words were dim, distant. The smile disappeared. Rivers kept coming. Spoke again, asking a question.

  Harper’s heart raged against her ribs, threatened to burst through.

  Rivers stood facing her, watching her. Making words.

  Harper strained to hear her over the roaring sounds of her blood.

  ‘Mrs Jennings? You all right?’

  She moved her head up and down, yes. Hugged herself, shaking.

  ‘Well? Can I come in?’

  Oh God, oh God. Rivers wanted to come in? Bad sign. Obviously, she didn’t want to deliver bad news on the doorstep. Harper wanted to refuse her. To say, no, you can’t come in. Because, somehow, if nobody told her that Hank was dead, he wouldn’t be. Officially, anyway. As far as she knew, he’d still be alive. Wouldn’t he?

  Rivers took a step forward.

  Harper’s head moved again, up and down. She opened the door. Rivers went in. Harper hesitated, gripping the doorframe. Making herself breathe. Finally, she followed the detective into the house.

  ‘Can we sit?’

  Harper had to read Rivers’ lips; blood rushed through her head like a waterfall, drowning out all other sounds. She was shivering violently, couldn’t get warm so she pulled Hank’s parka from the closet, put it on. Hunkered into it. Smelled Hank. Oh God.

  Rivers was touching her arm, asking questions. Moving her lips: ‘What’s wrong? Are you sick?’

  Harper wrapped the jacket around her. ‘Chilled,’ she managed.

  They sat at the kitchen table, Rivers across from her. Studying her.

  Harper waited, aware that time had slowed. That each moment was stretching and distorting. She heard her pulse, her lungs. She felt like screaming. Dammit, why couldn’t Rivers just get it over with and tell her what happened to Hank?

  Ask her, she told herself. Just go ahead and ask.

  But she didn’t have to. As soon as she opened her mouth to speak, Rivers reached into her pocket and took out an envelope. ‘Mrs Jennings,’ she began. ‘I’m afraid I have some unpleasant news. There was a suicide tonight.’

  Suicide?

  ‘A man jumped off the Thurston Avenue Bridge.’

  A man? Harper waited for Rivers to utter Hank’s name. Why was she being so oblique? Shouldn’t she be more empathetic? Shouldn’t she prepare the widow for her loss, offer condolences?

  ‘A bunch of students saw him. A man was there, trying to talk him down. The kids tried to help.’

  Harper strained to listen to Rivers’ details. Apparently, as the students approached, the man had tried to help him, offered him a job. But the jumper had refused, cursing and shouting that he’d never take a deal with ‘that fucker’. Promising that ‘your boss is going down’. Then he’d jumped.

  The kids had called 911; in a matter of minutes, the body had been retrieved from the gorge.

  Harper’s pulse slowed. Rivers still hadn’t said Hank’s name. Hadn’t even hinted at it. And the story – well, the guy didn’t sound like Hank. For one thing, Hank wouldn’t have made such coherent statements. His words would have come out differently, in short spurts. So this dead man wasn’t, couldn’t be Hank.

  Relief washed over her, made her giddy. Hank was alive. Although, if he didn’t come home soon, he might not be that way long; she might kill him herself. Where the hell was he? She pictured him out at a bar. With another woman. His head too close to hers. Damn, she needed to stop imagining—

  ‘Mrs Jennings?’

  Lord. She hadn’t heard a word the detective had been saying.

  ‘I gotta tell you, you don’t seem like yourself. You might be coming down with something.’

  ‘Sorry. I’m . . . fine.’

  ‘As I was saying, his cell phone shows that he’s called you several times today.’

  What? Harper felt blood drain from her head.

  ‘And there’s another reason we think you know him. He had this in his pocket when he died.’

  Rivers held up a piece of scrap paper. Handwritten letters spelled: HARPER REYNOLDS. Reynolds was crossed out, replaced with JENNINGS. And her address and phone number.

  The realization hit Harper hard: it was Burke. He was dead. Burke Everett had jumped off a bridge.

  Harper couldn’t get warm. She wrapped Hank’s parka around herself and heated up some coffee, but kept shivering anyway.

  Burke was dead? Oh God.

  If she’d taken his phone calls, agreed to help him, would he still be alive? Was his death her fault?

  She pictured him flying off the bridge. Lying limp and lifeless in the gorge.

  A detail about his death resonated in her mind. She tried to figure out what. But Rivers kept interrupting, asking questions. Wanting to know who Burke was, how Harper knew him. Why he’d been calling her.

  Harper told the detectives about serving with Burke in Iraq. About his recent visit and urgent need to talk with her.

  Damn you, Harper. Don’t tell them another word. She heard Burke’s voice as clearly as if he’d been sitting beside her. They won’t believe you anyway. They’ll tell the Colonel anything you say – you’re digging your grave.

  Rivers frowned. ‘After all these years, Mrs Jennings? Isn’t it strange that Mr Everett suddenly came all this way for a visit?’

  ‘Not really. Another guy we served with just died. Burke came here after the funeral.’ And suddenly, Harper knew what had been bothering her: Peter Murray. He hadn’t simply died; he had hanged himself.

  First Pete, now Burke. Both dead. Both suicides. Harper shivered.

  Rivers nodded. ‘I see.’

  ‘Actually, our friend committed suicide.’

  Burke hissed: Shut the fuck up, Harper – you can’t trust her. Baxter has the cops—

  ‘Suicide?’

  Harper swallowed hot coffee. Felt it cool as it made contact with her icy gut. ‘His name was Peter Murray. He hanged himself.’

  Rivers met Harper’s eyes.

  ‘Also a suicide.’ Rivers repeated.

  Harper nodded. Hugged herself inside the parka.

  ‘And when was this funeral?’

  ‘Recently. A week or two ago.’

  Rivers jotted down notes. Raised an eyebrow, waited for Harper to go on.

  ‘Burke was torn up about Pete’s death. In fact, he . . . he sounded paranoid. Truthfully, I think he’d lost it.’

  Stop, Harper. I me
an it – button your trap.

  ‘What do you mean “lost it”?’

  Harper slid deeper into the parka. ‘He had a theory about why Pete died. He was positive everyone who’d served on a special detail was in danger from a retired Colonel who was having us followed.’

  Shut the fuck up, Harper!

  ‘He said that, with Pete dead, he and I were the only ones left who could bring this Colonel down – he was irrational.’

  Rivers watched her for a moment, then sighed. ‘Some of these military guys, they come home changed. They can’t readjust. My cousin’s kid is like that. Can’t hold a job, doesn’t want to do anything. We worry about him.’

  Harper wrapped her hands around her coffee mug, trying to warm them. ‘Burke said his marriage broke up.’

  ‘See? That might have been what sent him off. What about work? Do you know if he had a job?’

  Harper didn’t. But she knew something else: that Burke’s death was her fault. ‘I told him to get lost. He was calling constantly, warning me about the danger we were in. He even showed up here at the house and got Hank upset – the guy was out of control.’ She paused. ‘But instead of getting him some help, I told him to buzz off. I just . . . abandoned him.’

  Rivers crossed her arms. ‘So you’re blaming yourself for this man’s death?’

  Maybe. A little. Yes. ‘He needed help. I didn’t look out for him. I left him on his own.’

  They sat in silence for a few moments, drinking coffee.

  ‘It wasn’t your job to take care of this guy.’ Rivers finally spoke. ‘You’re not in Iraq any more; he’s not your responsibility.’

  But he was. He’d been one of her guys; he’d come to her and she’d let him down.

  ‘You couldn’t have known what would happen and probably couldn’t have stopped it anyway.’