Don't Ever Tell

by Brandon Massey

  She grasped his shirt, began to pull it off.

  Although he wanted to learn the reason for her sadness, he understood on an intuitive level that she needed this intimacy with him, that it would salve her wounded spirit better than any words he might possibly speak. He would ask her questions about what had happened and many other things later. For now, he would do only what he had vowed to do on the day they married: love her.

  19

  Afterward, they lay together, tangled in bed sheets. The room was submerged in shadows, their slow breaths the only sound in the room.

  Lying on her side as he lay on his back, Rachel placed her hand on his chest and playfully walked her fingers upward to his chin. He took her fingers and kissed them.

  “We need to get together more often in the afternoons,” he said. “This is much better than taking a nap after lunch. Although I could use a nap now—you wore me out.”

  “We won’t be able to do this when the baby comes along. Hard to be spontaneous when you’ve got a newborn that needs constant attention.”

  Her sadness, whatever its cause, seemed to have faded, for the most part, as though their bodies had burned it away during their lovemaking.

  “Why you were so upset earlier?” he asked.

  She looked away to the shadowed ceiling. “I don’t want to ruin the mood, baby. We’ll discuss it at dinner.”

  “Fair enough.”

  108 Brandon Massey

  But an internal voice immediately rebuked him: You’re too soft, man. What was all that crap you talked about putting Rachel on the spot and asking tough questions about how she’s been acting lately?

  It was true, of course. There was much that he needed to speak to Rachel about, from her behavior that afternoon to her recent lies, but as much as those things upset him, he didn’t necessarily want to talk about them.

  His tendency to avoid conflict had long been a character flaw of his. Sometimes he was convinced that was partly why Rachel was drawn to him. She loved him; he believed that. But it was reasonable to assume that she also loved how he never pushed her for answers to hard questions. Someone like her, whom he suspected had never been completely forthcoming about her past, would be attracted to a spouse who never probed too deep.

  He’d thought his parents had a dysfunctional marriage, but in a way, his own marriage was equally screwy. That he was aware of it and was reluctant to force changes, however, made him question how solid the foundation of their relationship really was. Was it built on firm ground, or sand? And did he really want a truthful answer to that question?

  She bent her arm and propped her hand against her head. “Speaking of dinner, what would you like me to cook?”

  He yawned. “I can eat anything. Whatever you want to make is cool with me.”

  “I think I’ll go to the grocery store, then.” She sat up.

  “Right now?”

  “It’s almost four. I want to beat the after-work hordes.”

  “I’ll wait here. I’m going to take a nap.”

  “These hips worked you over, huh?” She rolled off the bed and tapped her bare backside. “Respect the booty, baby.”

  He laughed. “True dat.”

  He watched her dress in a powder blue jogging suit, At

  DON’T EVER TELL 109

  lanta Braves cap, and sneakers. She came to the bed and kissed him.

  “I love you.” She squeezed his hand. “Always.”

  “Always.”

  She left the room. He turned over in bed, closed his eyes, and fell asleep almost instantly.

  When he awoke, it was half-past six. Coco sat on her haunches at the closed bedroom door. She was shivering in the distinctive way that Chihuahuas did when they were anxious.

  “What’s wrong, kid?” he asked.

  The dog whimpered. Frowning, he got out of bed and opened the door.

  “Rachel? Are you here?”

  There was no answer. The house was dark and silent.

  She’d been gone for over two hours. He couldn’t imagine that a routine trip to the grocery store would take so long.

  He hurried downstairs.

  On the kitchen table, he found a letter.

  20

  The letter lay on the table, framed by the hurricane lamps they’d burned at dinner last night. A small silver key rested at the foot of the paper; it resembled one of those keys you might use to open a padlock.

  He began reading.

  Dear Joshua,

  It is with deep regret that I’m writing this letter to you. I’ve prayed that things would never come to this. But one lesson I’ve learned, unfortunately, is that prayers sometimes go unanswered.

  There’s a lot about me that you don’t know, baby. I’ve lied to you about many things in my past. I never lied with the intention of hurting you. I lied because I was ashamed of my past. I lied to protect myself. Most of all, I lied because I was afraid of losing you.

  But it looks like my past has finally caught up with me. So I’m going to be leaving, for a while. This is for your safety, mine, and most of all, the safety of our baby. (Yes, I truly am pregnant with your child. I would never lie about that.)

  As terrible as it will be for us to be apart, this is the best decision for our family. You must trust me on this. It is for our protection.

  I can’t tell you where I’m going, and I can’t say when I will be able to come home. I wish I could tell you these things, but I can’t.

  Please don’t try to find me, or to contact me. I will get in touch with you when it’s safe. Again, this is for our protection. Please, trust me on this.

  I’ve left you a key. It will unlock something that I pray you won’t need.

  I may have lied about many things, to my everlasting shame, but I never lied about how much I love you. Please know that. You are the only man I’ve ever truly loved.

  Your wife,

  Rachel

  P.S. Please take good care of Coco. I’ve left her with you as proof that I’m going to come home soon.

  He read the letter again. Then once more. Numbness traveled through him, starting from his fingers that grasped the letter and traveling in an icy current up through his wrist, into his arm and shoulder, through his chest, and then spreading through the rest of his body. Like an overdose of anesthetic.

  His legs became deadened tree stumps. Swaying, his knees folding under him, he slid down the cabinet doors and dropped to the floor on his butt, barely registering the pain that stung his tailbone.

  My wife’s left me.

  He couldn’t believe it. Wouldn’t.

  He rose on quivering legs and wandered around the house, dazed.

  None of what she’d said in her letter made any sense. He was going to get to the bottom of this and prove that she was bluffing, playing a sick joke, suffering from a mental illness of some kind ...anything other than what she’d claimed in her note. This could not be happening to him, to them.

  He lurched into the garage. Her Acura was gone. He’d figured it would be missing, but he’d needed to see the vacant space, to believe what she’d written.

  He tried to call her on her cell phone. She didn’t answer; her voice mail picked up immediately, indicating that her phone was shut off.

  He left her a message anyway: “Rachel, it’s me. I got this letter. Listen, baby...I don’t understand this. I can’t believe it. Whatever’s going on ...I need you. Please, call me. Please...”

  He couldn’t go any further; a sob was boiling up his throat. He hung up.

  He turned around and around in the family room, as if lost in his own home. The Christmas decorations, the holiday cards clustered on the fireplace mantelpiece, the photographs of their wedding day and their happy times together, seemed to be exhibits of someone else’s life, not his.

  Coco was perched on the sofa she’d shared with Rachel only a few hours ago. She watched him, her big eyes apprehensive.

  The little dog was as anxious as he was. Coco had probably seen
Rachel write her letter, had stood nearby as Rachel had prepared to leave, had watched Rachel leave her behind in the house as she entered the garage and got in her car and sped away to an unknown destination.

  Rachel had, in a real sense, abandoned both of them.

  His erratic behavior had probably thoroughly unsettled Coco. Seeing the dog forced him to realize that he had to get himself together, because he was on the verge of coming unglued.

  He made another phone call, this one to Rachel’s salon. Tanisha told him that she hadn’t spoken to Rachel since she’d left for her appointment earlier that afternoon.

  “If she gets in touch with you, call me right away,” he said. “It’s very important.”

  “Sure, honey,” Tanisha said. “Is everything okay?”

  “It’s fine.” He was in no shape to answer a barrage of questions. “Remember, call me, okay?”

  In the master bedroom, he checked the walk-in closet. It was a large chamber—the walk-in closet was one of the areas that had sold Rachel on the house—and half of it was dedicated to her belongings.

  Rachel was fastidiously neat. Her clothes hung inside, arranged by color, season, and occasion. Her shoes were tucked away in a stackable shoe organizer, and her purses and other accessories sat on built-in shelving. Nothing was out of place.

  Would she have run away with only the clothes on her back?

  He rushed out of the closet, entered the guest bedroom. Flung open the closet door.

  They kept their luggage stored in this closet; his aunt and uncle had given them a set of luggage as a wedding gift. One of the large suitcases was missing.

  The vacant garage space could have meant only that she was out running errands. The missing luggage was proof of her serious intent to go away.

  Although she apparently hadn’t taken any of her clothes, she could easily purchase clothing on her way to wherever she was going. It seemed like the kind of thing she would do—start fresh.

  His heart banging, he went into her study. She’d left behind the laptop, but the computer was off, and he remembered the password lock from that morning.

  He searched her desk, seeking a Post-it or some other note of where she might have gone. He found nothing. Her desk was clean, and even the trash can was empty.

  Back in the kitchen, a laminated list of emergency telephone numbers was pinned to the refrigerator by a magnet for Coco’s veterinarian. He picked up the phone, to dial the police, and then he paused to reconsider.

  What could he possibly tell the cops? That his wife had left him a letter? He’d watched enough TV police dramas to understand that it wasn’t illegal to leave your spouse.

  Further, there was no evidence that someone had forced her to leave—though it was obvious that her fear of someone had sent her on the run.

  As terrible as it will be for us to be apart, this is the best decision for our family. You must trust me on this. It is for our protection.

  Who was she running from? The man in her nightmare? Someone who had been in prison in Illinois?

  And what was the key for?

  He just didn’t know.

  But he could predict what the police would think of her cryptic letter. They would be suspicious, not merely of Rachel, but possibly of him, too. They might suspect foul play, might think that he had done something to Rachel and written a phony letter to hide the evidence. Everybody knew that whenever something awful happened to a married person, conventional cop wisdom assumed that the spouse, especially when the spouse was a man, was always the prime suspect.

  Although he could avoid mentioning the letter at all and could report her as a missing person, he was pretty sure that she had to be missing for at least forty-eight hours before the cops would even talk to him about it.

  No, he couldn’t call the cops. Not yet. Maybe not at all.

  He started to put down the phone, but then, out of vain hope, he dialed Rachel’s cell again. Voice mail picked up right away.

  He hung up without leaving a message, his hand shaking.

  A vibrating noise came from a darkened corner of the kitchen. He hurried over there, nearly tripping over his feet.

  The noise came from the side counter, where they stored mail, a glass bowl that held their keys, an erasable task list, and their respective cell phone chargers. His BlackBerry lay on the counter, vibrating rhythmically.

  Rachel’s cell phone stood there, too, nestled in the recharging cradle.

  His calls to her had been pointless. Not only had she left him behind—she’d left him no means to get in touch with her, either.

  A check of his BlackBerry confirmed that he’d received only a stupid text message advertisement from the phone service provider. Nothing from Rachel.

  He stumbled into the family room and collapsed on the sofa.

  A photo sat on the coffee table. It was a wedding shot of them walking down the aisle at his family church, arms interlinked, the pastor having recently declared them husband and wife.

  He cradled the photo in his hands. And wept.

  Drawn by his wracking sobs, Coco wandered into the room and hopped onto the couch. She crawled into his lap.

  He set aside the picture and held the dog close. He rarely cried, but the tears poured out of him from a deep chasm in his heart, scalding his cheeks like a purifying fire ...and soon, concentrating his thoughts as sharply as a freshly smelted iron sword.

  Wherever she had gone, whatever this was all about, he vowed that he was going to get to the truth, no matter what.

  PA RT T WO

  . . .Will Come to Light

  21

  Like a manta ray gliding through deep sea waters, Dexter plied the night-darkened streets of St. Louis, Missouri.

  At a Wal-Mart outside Chicago, he’d purchased several items, including a StreetPilot GPS navigation system. With the technology available these days, it made no sense to pore over an unwieldy paper map, and there was a strong likelihood that he had a lot of driving ahead of him.

  He also bought another pay-as-you-go cell phone. After speaking with his wife on the other cell, he discarded it in the flatbed of a pick-up truck bound in the opposite direction. The law could use cell signals to trace his location.

  He’d taken care to avoid toll booths, too. Cops loved to nab felons who blithely passed through toll plazas and let surveillance cameras snap their photos and tags.

  The GPS system directed him to a subdivision on the outer limits of St. Louis. A tall, wrought iron fence ran along the perimeter of the community, festooned with holiday lights. Shrubbery garlanded with more lights flanked a large sign

  that read HAWTHORN ESTATES.

  There was no gate; he drove through the wide entrance. The community’s grandiloquent title was misleading. The residences were hardly estates. They were modest ranches and two-story homes with partial brick fronts and Hardiplank siding.

  He followed a gently curving road. The houses and lawns were dusted with snow that resembled cake frosting. Most properties boasted light displays; some of them had representations of little baby Jesus in the manger, reindeer, Santas, and snowmen.

  The home he sought was ahead, on the left. It was a twostory model with an attached garage, and neatly maintained shrubbery entwined with Christmas lights, which happened to be shut off.

  The rest of the house was dark, too.

  Thanks to Betty’s message, Thad knew he was on the prowl. Had he gone somewhere else to spend the night? Perhaps in the arms of a lover?

  It was only half-past eight, however. Thad could have been out to dinner, or working.

  He parked around the block and shut off the engine.

  An hour ago, using a tool kit he’d picked up from the store, he had removed the Illinois license plates and replaced them with a set of Missouri tags that he had stolen off a car parked at a strip mall. The Chevy had the further advantage of being so nondescript, it was virtually invisible.

  He loaded his pockets with items he anticipated he would need
, and got out of the car. Pulling his knit cap low over his head, he walked briskly back to Thad’s house, wisps of breath puffing in front of him in the frosty night air.

  None of the neighbors were out. It was dark, and too damn cold.

  Arriving at Thad’s property, he headed straight to the backyard. Pine trees bordered the rear perimeter, shielding him from view of the homes on the other side of the lot.

  The patio was a snow-mantled slab. It was accessed via a basic, sliding glass door.

  He tore away several strips of duct tape and affixed them to the glass. Then he banged a hammer into the center of the taped-over section, punching through the window without the accompanying sound of broken glass raining to the floor.

  He stuck his gloved hand through the hole and unlocked the door.

  It was a lavishly decorated home, which he would have expected of a man of Thad’s orientation. The rooms were painted bright colors. The furniture had soft edges, smooth lines, fluffy decorative pillows on the sofas and chairs. Lots of photos of Thad and another brother. An abundance of live plants. Colorful artwork, many pieces featuring depictions of chiseled, bare-chested black men.

  No one was home.

  Leaving the lights off and making use of a utility flashlight, he rummaged through a bedroom set up as a home office. He searched through the file cabinet and the stack of paperwork on the desk. Nothing.

  But there was a paper shredder in the corner, the bin bristling with destroyed documents. His wife would have urged Thad to shred the record of each payment she sent him. He appeared to have been dutifully following her instructions.

  He went to the kitchen. In the refrigerator, he found bacon, eggs, butter, orange juice. He located a couple of pans and a bottle of Crisco, and fired up the gas burners on the stainless steel cook top.

  Cooking by the bluish glow of the flames and a soft light above the range, he prepared eight strips of bacon, four fried eggs, and two slices of buttered wheat toast with grape jelly. He sat at the pine dinette table and ate, drinking the juice directly from the carton.

  He loved breakfast food, especially at night. It reminded him of his old man, who would stumble in after a long night of hustling and boozing and drag his mother out of bed to cook for him, always breakfast stuff. As a man, he had taught his own wife to do the same thing.