“Kahlil Gibran.”
“You know it.”
“I read it years ago. He wasn’t a member of the ‘two hearts that beat as one’ school.”
“I got a copy of it. The part that struck me was the end, where he talks about the oak and cypress not growing in each other’s shadow. I asked myself why he didn’t say ‘two oaks’ or ‘two trees,’ since the rest of it uses generic images.
“I realized that was the point, that they were different, that he saw strength in the differences. And I thought about how, if trees are too close, one of the trees gets stunted. He was saying it was wrong to want your spouse to be like you, and you had to give each other room to be who you are.”
“I never thought about it so deeply.”
“I showed it to Dad.”
“Not your mother?”
“Like I said, Dad’s more flexible. He said no matter what, never show it to Mom. He said most couples build space in their marriage, even if they don’t know that’s what they’re doing and never admit it.
“I told him Susan was pressuring me about law school, and the longer I was at college, the less I liked the idea of being a lawyer. He said most women feel it’s their mission in life to save men from themselves and mostly it’s okay but a smart man knows when to put his foot down.”
“What did you think when he said that?”
Peter laughed. “I didn’t know what to think except I knew I wasn’t going to like fifty years of Susan saving me from myself. It wasn’t long after that the furniture king lured her away and it was a moot point.”
“A narrow escape.”
“True, that. It’s a bad sign when you feel the walls closing in and you aren’t married yet. When I first saw you, you were so nakedly real, vulnerable in a way Susan would never allow herself to be.”
“I thought she played the fragile southern belle quite well.”
“Susan’s as helpless as Rambo with a rocket launcher. When I saw you on that picnic table, you were so devastated, it made all of Susan’s pouts and hurts look as trivial as me pitching a fit because I had to drink Coke instead of Pepsi.
“Then I saw how you made your own life, your way. For the first time I wanted to know all the corners of someone, inside and out. I’ve never felt about anyone the way I feel about you.”
“Back atcha, Kentucky Boy. You’re my rock. I never had a rock before.” Lia leaned against Peter’s chest, her head against his shoulder. “What happens when Susan tells everyone you’re sinning it up in Cincinnati?”
“I blackmailed her into keeping her mouth shut. No telling how long that will last. Maybe we can spread a rumor on the internet that I died in the line of duty.”
“Died tragically in the line of duty. If we’re going to do it, we need to get it right. Did you interrupt a convenience store robbery on your day off, or get crushed shoving a child away from a runaway semi?”
“Let’s go with number two. If we have to produce a body, it won’t have to look like me.”
Day 14
Friday, May 3, 2019
Bailey’s phone lay in the center of the usual dog park table, surrounded by a dozen avid human and canine faces. Gypsy, given the run of the table top, sniffed the phone and pawed at the screen, where Susan sat between Commodore and Dick Brewer, her elegant suit an anomaly in the comfortable jumble of the Mill Creek Alliance office.
Lia scooped Gypsy up and handed her to Jim. “Keep her out of trouble, will you?”
On the screen, Susan said, “Commodore, tell my viewers what you have in store for them.”
Commodore grinned. “Tomorrow we’re retracing our steps down Mill Creek to the shallow grave we discovered two weeks ago—”
Terry bellowed. “Foul betrayers!”
Kita yelped and leapt off the table. Gypsy objected with puppy ferocity from her perch in Jim’s arms, barking and struggling.
“Shhh!” Bailey hissed. “You’re upsetting the dogs.”
Terry grumbled. “It was my idea. I suggested it to Susan. Now they’re doing it without me. Cretins!”
Susan traced Dick’s biceps with a manicured finger. “I can tell you’ve done your share of paddling.”
On the screen, Dick’s chest expanded. He gave Susan an aw-shucks head duck. Today he’d ditched the straw hat and silver medallion for a neat golf shirt. Lia wondered if Susan would still flirt with him if he had on sweaty creek clothes.
“I hate to break it to you,” Lia said. “Susan has her sights on bigger game.”
“The perfidy of women!”
Bailey tilted her head, considered Terry’s competition. “Younger, better looking. Didn’t you say he owns a business?”
“Bah! Man think’s he’s God’s gift to the universe.” Terry stormed off, Jackson and Napa trotting behind.
Steve sighed. “My weekend is ruined. If he stays home, I get to listen to him sulk. If he goes with them, I’ll get to hear all about it after he gets back.”
Jim scratched his beard. “Sounds like she used Terry. Can’t blame him for being upset.”
José, maintenance supervisor and lifelong Westsider, stared after Terry. His biker mustache added a mournful note to his perplexed expression. “Woman like that, how’d he think he had a chance?”
Lia snorted. “I’m sure she cooed all over him before she dug her stilettos in his back. I hear it’s her specialty.”
Bailey tilted her head. “Do you think she’s really after Dick? Maybe she wants to make Peter jealous.”
Elvis grinned at Peter as he entered his office. Peter turned the ghoulish bust to face the wall every evening before he left. Every morning, Elvis greeted him when he arrived, like an evil, animate doll that moved in the night. He couldn’t decide if he should continue facing Elvis to the wall, ignore the prank, or pitch Elvis in the trash. He narrowed his eyes, searching Brent for signs of guilt.
Brent threw up his hands. “Not my problem if you’re too stubborn to toss it out.”
“Cynth?”
“Maybe. She’d think it was funny. She say where she and the caveman are going for their parkour date?”
“What possible reason could you have for wanting to know?”
Brent lifted a shoulder and looked at the permanently closed blinds. “The park’s too tame for Cynth. I’m sure it’s a route known only to counter-culture types, involving chain-link fences and condemned buildings. Hypodermics and discarded condoms will be involved.”
“If it matters so much, ask her.”
“The woman disdains me.”
“Try apologizing for whatever idiot thing you did five years ago to piss her off.”
“Think I haven’t? Woman holds a grudge longer than anyone I know.”
Peter’s phone beeped. The desk sergeant didn’t bother with niceties when he picked up the receiver. “You got another one. Line four. Why can’t these folks go through the tip line? I have actual work to do.”
“Your mouth, God’s ear.” Peter annoyed himself by looking at Elvis' mocking leer as he punched the extension. “Detective Dourson speaking. How may I help you?”
“Hi. My name is April. April Howard. I saw your interview with Aubrey Morse.”
It was hard to tell about voices, but the woman on the line sounded too young to know anything relevant. “Are you calling about Andrew Heenan?”
“Do you watch Midsommer Murders?”
Huh? “I caught an episode or two.”
“You remind me of Ben Jones. He was my favorite Detective Sergeant on the show.”
“Umm … thank you?”
“All earnest and buttoned up—”
“Ma’am—”
The voice turned breathy. “You’re really cute. Like a Beatle before they went psychedelic.”
Peter schooled the impatience from his voice before he spoke. “Do you have information about Andrew Heenan?”
“Ask me to lunch and find out.”
Peter remembered his mandate to promote community relations and resisted
hanging up the phone. “Can I bring my girlfriend along?”
Dead air. Peter counted to three, then hung up. It should be illegal to sell phones that don’t make a noise when you disconnect.
At the other desk, Brent lifted an eyebrow. “Now they’re hitting on you? Sure you don’t want to trade cases?”
“In a heartbeat, but Parker won’t allow it. What’s going on with Jamal?”
“I’ve been watching him all week. He never carries anything into his crib, so it’s a good thing I didn’t get that warrant. I have to figure out where he’s taking the packages after little sis hands them off. I can’t backtrack him because he never comes home the same way twice. I zig, he zags. If Bender was still involved, she could tell us where they’re going to be.”
Peter caught the hopeful look and shook his head. “She’s out of it. Period.”
Brent sighed. “I’m tempted to put a GPS tracker on his car, but that way lies madness.”
“Unauthorized, illegal surveillance. Definite career-killing move. Social media?”
“No photos of Jamal sitting on a pile of Amazon boxes. If he’s bragging, it’s in code.”
Maybe she wants to make Peter jealous. Peter wouldn’t be manipulated by such silliness. Even so, more than twelve hours after her talk with Peter, Lia had a knot in her stomach the size of—well, bigger than Gypsy if not as big as her favorite schnauzer. Which was why she found herself climbing the steps of the repurposed clapboard house where her therapist, Asia Lewis, practiced.
Asia met Lia on the porch, embracing her tightly and without regard for her jewel-toned silk caftan or the gravity-and-logic-defying edifice of her hair. Lia continually marveled over Asia’s hairdressing adventures, assembled through some mysterious process that could survive mortar fire and qualifying as an art form.
Despite a level of personal maintenance that suggested they did not live in the same universe, Asia was comfortable in her skin and easy to be with. Lia appreciated her combination of empathy and straight talk.
She’d relied on the therapist to carry her through acute stress disorder after Luthor died. Now she made the occasional appointment when the support of friends wasn’t enough.
Like today.
Once inside her office, Asia eyed the paper shopping bag Lia carried and pressed a mocha hand against her chest. “For me?”
Asia’s fine eye and weakness for color led to the women trading services. Both felt they came out ahead.
Lia held the bag out. “Absolutely.”
Asia took it and removed the twelve-inch canvas square, holding it at arm’s length. Her mouth made a moue as she studied the dragon’s mouth orchid, an exotic fuchsia flame in a dark, misty forest.
“It reminded me of you.”
Asia’s face went soft. She propped the painting against her desk lamp. “It’s lovely. Have a seat and tell me what’s going on.”
Lia sat on the edge of the cushy visitor’s chair, her mouth suddenly dry. She looked down at her hands, twisting together like something apart from herself.
“Thank you for finding time to see me.” She consciously stilled her fingers before continuing. “I feel so ridiculous.” It took time to recount the Susan saga, but she felt better afterward. “Peter and I talked last night and we were fine. Today, I have this knot in my stomach. I don’t know what to do about it.”
Asia leaned back in her chair. Between the angle of her head and the towering hair, she reminded Lia of Nefertiti.
“Do you know the difference between envy and jealousy?”
“Aren’t they the same thing?”
“In fact, they’re opposite. Jealousy is the feeling you get when someone threatens something that belongs to you. It’s protective.”
“Jealousy is healthy?”
“In tiny doses, applied to something that genuinely belongs to you.”
“Getting angry because Susan is going after Peter is a good thing?”
“Depends on how you handle your anger. The anger itself is natural. Anger is healthiest when it motivates positive action. You have a tendency to turn anger inward, and it eats at you.”
Not something Lia wanted to think about. “How is envy different?”
“Envy is wanting something someone else has. It can be healthy if it’s used to motivate someone to work toward the things they desire.”
“But?”
“Envy becomes toxic if a person operates from a poverty mindset. She assumes there are a limited amount of goodies to go around. Toss in a sense of entitlement, and instead of saying, ‘I want a wonderful husband like Julie’s. I’m going to work on my relationship so I can have a brilliant marriage,’ this person says, ‘Julie has a great husband. I deserve a great husband, so I’m taking Julie’s husband and to hell with Julie and the husband I already have.’”
“That’s rude.”
“At the very least. They prefer to tear down the people they envy and steal what they want instead of creating it for themselves, not understanding the value in the fabulous job or the wonderful marriage comes from what they put into it. She might steal Julie’s husband or job, but they will never be the same in her hands. In fact they might never have been what she thought they were to begin with.”
“So Susan envies my relationship with Peter and wants to take him and I feel the threat and get jealous?”
“It’s possible. She may blame you for her failures: if Peter wasn’t with you, he’d be with her. The next step is the decision to tear you down, which she tried to do with that scene at the park.
“Meanwhile, you tend to avoid intense feelings, and you just lost Honey. Honey was your family before Peter. I suspect being hit with her rage and another potential loss at the same time has tossed you for a loop.”
“I don’t know what to do about it.”
“What do you want to do?”
“I want to rip her internal organs out and feed them to the Mount Airy vultures.”
“Your feelings are natural, even if the plan isn’t practical.”
“What can I do that won’t land me in prison?”
“You can’t control Susan, but you can change the way you think about her.”
“How so?”
“The threat is a mirage, and it only exists in Susan’s mind. She can’t take Peter from you. If she can, Peter isn’t yours and you’re better off without him.”
Lia folded her arms. “That makes me feel so much better.”
“Let’s put this another way. Think of everything you know about Susan, everything you feel from her when she’s around. Do you want a man who prefers her to you?”
Lia pictured herself in three-inch heels, scolding Chewy because he put nose prints on her car windows. She thought about wearing lipstick, or worse, hair goop, and clothes you could never wipe your hands on. “Ugh. No.”
“Exactly. Has Peter ever given you any indication that he’d like you to be more like her? Expressed a desire for you to dress less casually, for example?”
“He was engaged to her. Doesn’t that mean anything?”
“And he left. Is there any reason to think he regretted it?”
“He never talked about it before now.”
“Does he seem dissatisfied with you now that she’s here?”
“He’s frustrated, but that’s work.”
“Any truth to the things she said to you?”
“By her terms, I’m pathetic.”
“Forget her terms. This is your life, your terms.”
“I wouldn’t want her life if you handed it to me on a platter.”
“There you go.”
“I still don’t understand why I’m feeling this way. I never felt this way with Luthor, and plenty of women fawned over him. They irritated me, but I didn’t feel gut-punched.”
“That relationship was very different. Luthor was fungible.”
“What?”
“Fungible. Fungible items are easily interchanged with like objects. Your paintings are not fungible, bu
t car parts are.”
“You’re saying I treated Luthor like a human widget?”
“Essentially, yes. A penis widget. You needed a boyfriend, someone who would give you your space, someone you didn’t need to invest emotions in. Other women may have irritated you, but they also served to reinforce the idea that Luthor was not your Mr. Right, only your Mr. Right Now. In a way, they made you feel safe.”
Fungible. An ugly description of the parade of Mr. Right Nows in Lia’s life before she met Peter. But the men in her life felt no differently about her, had they? Did that make it better or worse?
“Peter is not fungible. For the first time you’ve let someone in emotionally. You’ve allowed yourself to trust Peter. If Susan can take him from you, it undermines your foundations. Luthor was never your foundation, so losing him was never a threat. And, in your heart of hearts, you didn’t want the relationship to last.”
“That makes me sound like an awful person.”
“Not awful. Human. And you had your reasons. You’ve been navigating new territory since you met Peter, healthier territory. The fact that a threat to this relationship is affecting you so much is proof. I think part of what you are experiencing is the shadow of grief, the realization of what loss of Peter would mean to you.”
“And?”
“What does Peter mean to you? One word.”
Unexpected and right, the word presented itself with a warm glow.
“Home.”
“A very big word for a woman who never had one.”
“But what do I do? How do I handle Susan?”
“You don’t. You handle you. What are your options?”
“I can blow up and look like an idiot…”
“Or?”
“Keep my cool and try not to burst a blood vessel.”
“There’s a middle option. You can let Peter know how you’re feeling. Let him help you through this.”
Swamp Monster Page 15
