Don't Ever Tell

by Brandon Massey

  He was chewing the last piece of toast when he heard the garage door grumble open. He had placed the Glock beside his plate. He picked it up and rose from the table.

  The garage door clambered shut. He heard two voices outside, both men. One was deep, authoritative; the other was lighter, and quasi-feminine—Thad’s. Apparently Thad wanted his partner to search the house before he entered.

  Dexter moved into the hallway that led to the garage entry door, standing beside the light switch.

  “You smell bacon?” the deep-voiced lover boy asked.

  Dexter didn’t hear Thad’s response.

  A key jiggled into the keyhole. The knob twisted, and the door creaked open.

  Dexter flicked on the light. The guy from the pictures—a tall, athletically built, dark-skinned brother with dreadlocks— stood in the doorway. He wore jeans, a leather bomber jacket, and Timberlands. He had gray eyes.

  When he saw Dexter, his eyes opened wide with surprise. “Who the hell...”

  Dexter shot him twice in the head. The guy tumbled back into the doorway.

  From the garage: “Malik!”

  Dexter stepped over the dead man and moved through the door. There was a Honda Civic parked on the left. Thad sat on the passenger side of a Toyota SUV on the right, his mouth gaping in terror.

  Stepping closer to the truck, Dexter aimed the gun at him.

  “Step out of the vehicle. Put your hands up where I can see them.”

  Crying, Thad opened the door. He was brown-skinned guy, about five-nine, thin-boned, with a clean-shaven face, a fade haircut, and diamond stud earrings in both ear lobes. He wore a pink sweater and jeans.

  “Please don’t kill me,” Thad said. Tears slid down his cheeks.

  “Move away from the vehicle. Keep those hands up.”

  Hands in the air, Thad edged away from the Toyota. He glanced at his lover sprawled on the floor, and choked back a sob.

  “Please...Dexter...”

  Grunting, Dexter roughly grabbed him by the scruff of his neck.

  “Let’s go talk inside, Thad,” he said. “Malik’s nose wasn’t fooling him, by way. I did cook bacon, and that’s one of the things I’d like to talk to you about.”

  22

  That night, Joshua went to his parents’ house. He couldn’t bear to stay home. Unavoidable reminders of Rachel filled the house, from the largest elements to the minutest details: from the colors she had elected to paint each room to the silk flower arrangement on the dining room table; from the wedding photographs on the fireplace mantelpiece to the selection of food in the refrigerator.

  Even his office, the only room that was exclusively his, was a testament to her influence. She had selected the furniture, her framed bridal portrait stood on the edge of the desk, and when he switched on his computer, the screen saver was a stunning photo of a volcanic mountain in Hawaii, where they’d honeymooned.

  He needed to get away from his wife, away from it—it being the home they had created together. It felt like a giant, living creature to him, in much the same way that houses were often supernaturally alive in haunted house movies; the place was suffocating him, walls pressing in on him from all sides, until his only recourse was to throw some clothes and toiletries into an overnight bag, pack up Coco in her pet carrier, and flee to his parents’ house.

  He considered going to Eddie’s, but only for a moment. Eddie would be sympathetic to his troubles, but seeing Eddie, his wife, and their young children in their comfortable home, enjoying familial bliss, would be another poignant reminder of everything he seemed to be losing. Going to his parents was the least upsetting choice.

  His mother answered the door. Although it was only nine o’clock, she was dressed for bed in her bathrobe and nightgown, and multicolored rollers bounced in her hair.

  Over her shoulder, he saw his dad. As expected, the old man, clad in his pajamas and thick white socks, was dozing in the recliner, ragged snores rumbling from his chest.

  He went inside and settled on the sofa, placing Coco’s pet carrier beside him.

  “What you doin’ here, boy?” Mom asked. “Somethin’ wrong?”

  “It’s like this, Mom.” He cleared his throat and started to fabricate a story of how Rachel had gone out of town for a business trip. But his mother stopped him with one declarative sentence.

  “You been cryin’.”

  Before leaving the house, he had squeezed a few drops of Visine into his eyes, and during the drive over, he’d repeatedly checked his eyes in the rearview mirror to make sure they looked clear and normal.

  “What are you talking about, Mom? I’m fine.”

  “You don’t look fine.” Standing in front of him, she bunched her fists on her wide waist. “I’m your mama, boy. I know you, and you been cryin’. What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing.” Shrugging, he turned toward the television.

  “You can talk to me, baby.” She sat beside him on the sofa. “It’s trouble with your wife, ain’t it?”

  He couldn’t look at her. Tears hung like lead weights in his eyes. Why did his mother have to be so damn perceptive?

  “I know it is.” Gently, she rubbed his broad back. “Let it out, baby. Let it all out. Mama’s here for you.”

  He sucked in a hitching breath—and then he told her what had happened, leaving out the part about Rachel’s pregnancy. Rachel had sworn him to secrecy, and though she was gone, he wanted to keep his word.

  “That bitch!” Mom rocketed off the sofa and stormed across the living room. “No, she didn’t!”

  His dad, who normally slept so soundly an atomic bomb blast couldn’t rouse him, cocked an eyebrow.

  “This is why I didn’t want to tell you,” Joshua said. “I didn’t want you to overreact.”

  “That low-down, lyin’, dirty bitch!” Eyes blazing, Mom tilted her head back to the ceiling, shrieking so loudly it was as if she wanted Rachel to hear her, wherever she might be on the planet. “Bitch! No-good harlot! How dare she leave my son? How dare she?”

  His dad’s eyelids slid shut. It was typical—once he confirmed that the uproar had nothing to do with him, he tuned out.

  Mom paced heavily across the room. In her rage, the belt of her robe had come unloosened, her nightgown flapping like a sail as she moved back and forth.

  “I told you that woman was low-down, boy, I been tellin’ you from the beginning that she was no good. Black-hearted heifer!”

  “Mom, please calm down.”

  “What kinda woman leaves a good husband behind? You’re a good man.” Mom snatched a tissue from a box of Kleenex on the cocktail table and honked into it.

  “I’m going to work this out,” he said. “It’s going to be fine, Mom. Trust me.”

  “Trust you?” Mom crumpled the tissue in her meaty fist. “I trusted you not to marry that bitch heifer in the first place. Now look what happened. She done run off with another man!”

  “Another man?”

  Mom glared at him with fanatical conviction.

  “She ain’t runnin’ scared from somebody like she want you to believe. She’s runnin’ off with somebody. The same dog she’s been sleepin’ around with from the very beginning—dogs run in packs, baby. They run in packs.”

  “Mom, that’s crazy. Rachel isn’t cheating on me. I know her better than that.”

  Mom sneered. “Hmph. Just like you knew you and her would always be together, huh?”

  “I know she’s not cheating on me.”

  “Did I raise you to be a fool? You need to find her man’s dirty draws ’fore you’ll believe it? Use your damn head, boy!”

  He bowed his head. Hot blood pounded in his ears, and he was beginning to develop a headache.

  Mom sat beside him again. She patted his hand.

  “It’s gonna be all right, baby. You with Mama now.”

  “I just need some time to think about things, Mom. Clear my thoughts.”

  “You ain’t gonna want to hear this.” She clenched his hand
tightly. “But you need to let her go.”

  “What?”

  She leveled her thick finger at him. “Get this straight. She walked away from you. And let me tell you—ain’t no judge in divorce court gonna give a damn thing to a woman that’s done run out on her husband to be with another man. You’ll get to keep the house, if you want it.”

  “I’m not even thinking about divorce.”

  “You better start thinkin’ ’bout it—’cause she probably ain’t comin’ back.”

  “This situation is . . . it’s not like you think it is at all, Mom. It’s complicated.”

  Mom shook her head sadly, as if embarrassed for him.

  “Baby, you deserve a woman who appreciates you.” She glanced at Coco in the pet carrier, and her mouth twisted. “Not some heifer who’ll leave you high and dry, and then expect you to take care of her pissy little rat dog.”

  In the kennel, Coco whimpered. His mother had always despised the dog, probably because she belonged to Rachel.

  “I’m going to take things one day at a time,” he said. “That’s about all I can do right now.”

  “You welcome to stay here long as you want. You eat dinner?”

  Although he hadn’t eaten anything since earlier that afternoon, stress had stolen his appetite.

  “Not hungry, thanks.”

  “You need to eat somethin’.” She shuffled toward the kitchen. “I’m gonna heat up them chicken and dumplins. Go on and put your stuff in your bedroom. I’ll get the bed ready in a bit.”

  He sighed. When she was in full mothering mode, there was no stopping her.

  “And take that little rat dog outside to pee ’fore you let it out that cage. If it pisses on my carpet, we gonna have us a problem.”

  “All right, Mom.”

  From the kitchen doorway, she smiled at him. “In spite of what’s done happened, it’s real good to have you home again, baby. I hope you stay a while.”

  Don’t count on it, he thought.

  23

  Dexter turned on the track lights in the kitchen. He spun a chair away from the table and pushed Thad, still weeping, into it. He bound Thad’s hands behind him with duct tape, and taped his ankles together.

  Dexter set the roll of tape on the counter and headed to the living room, Thad’s fearful gaze following him. An entertainment center housed a wide-screen TV, DVD player, stereo system, receiver, speakers, and a collection of DVDs and CDs.

  The CD library included many of Dexter’s favorite artists from the seventies and eighties. Scanning the album titles brought back good memories.

  “You can’t decorate worth shit, but you’ve got great taste in music, my brother,” Dexter called into the kitchen.

  Thad mumbled an incoherent reply.

  Dexter selected a classic Stevie Wonder album, Songs in the Key of Life, and placed it in the CD player. “Love’s in Need of Love Today” kicked out of the Bose speakers. He turned up the volume higher.

  Snapping his fingers, he strolled back to the kitchen. Glistening sweat saturated Thad’s face.

  “You know one of the things I enjoyed most about being a cop?” Dexter said over the music.

  Teary-eyed, Thad shook his head.

  “Interrogating suspects,” Dexter said. “I had a real knack for it, if I do say so myself. When my partner and I played the old good cop, bad cop routine, guess who played the bad cop?”

  Thad shook his head again. Sniffled.

  “I did, of course. But the thing was, even though I really knew how to make a guy spill his guts, I was still bound by departmental policy, for the most part. I would sometimes think to myself—the things I would do to this asshole if I wasn’t a cop and he was hiding vital information from me.”

  “But I don’t know anything!” Thad shouted.

  Dexter gave him a patient smile. “I know, Thad, I know. At first, you guys never do.”

  Dexter had left the frying pan full of bacon grease on the cook top. He switched on the burner underneath to the highest setting.

  The grease began to sizzle and pop.

  “Nothing like bacon grease,” Dexter said. “Back in the day, my mother used to fry chicken and catfish in it. Damn, that was some good eating.”

  Thad had stopped crying. His reddened eyes were almost comically huge, and he was panting.

  He struggled to break his bonds, but to no avail.

  “What...what do you want from me?” Thad asked in a fragile voice. “I’ll do anything. Please...”

  “You’ve been in communication with my wife, Thad.”

  “I don’t know where she is, I swear, I don’t.”

  Sighing, Dexter gripped the handle of the frying pan and lifted it off the burner. Tiny spatters of grease jumped onto his hand, stinging him, but it was nothing compared to the hot, thick oil bubbling in the depths of the pan.

  He brought the pan across the kitchen toward Thad. Thad reared back in the chair, lips peeled back from his teeth in terror.

  “Oh, God, no...please...”

  Dexter tipped the pan, dribbling some of the oil onto Thad’s leg. Thad screamed and rocked wildly in the chair. The grease sank into the denim of his jeans, smoking and searing, and Thad’s thigh quivered as if gripped by seizure.

  “You jumped ahead in our discussion,” Dexter said. “I haven’t asked you where she is. I only said you’ve been in communication with her.”

  “Yes!” The thick veins on Thad’s neck stood out like cables. “Yes...I’ve talked to her...oh sweet Jesus...”

  “Stick to the order of the questions.” Dexter returned the pan to the burner and lowered the heat to prevent excessive smoking. He wiped off his grease-spattered hand with a kitchen towel.

  Head lowered, Thad was muttering weepy prayers and rocking. The oil had eaten through the denim and scorched his flesh. A sweet, meaty aroma flavored the air, and it wasn’t bacon.

  “Next question, Thad,” Dexter said.

  Thad’s head snapped up, sweat flying.

  “Why have you been sending money to Betty?” Dexter asked.

  “Joy... she wanted me to do it.”

  “Why you? She has a handful of other relatives. She could have sent the money to them to give to Betty.”

  “I...I don’t know. She trusts me, I guess.”

  “Probably true. I also think the fact that you aren’t in her family was a factor. She thought I would be less likely to track down someone like you than I would one of her relatives.”

  “I don’t know. I...I guess so.” He hissed in pain.

  “You talked to Joy today?”

  “No.” Thad whipped his head back and forth. “I haven’t talked to her in a long time... months.”

  Dexter returned to the stove and picked up the frying pan.

  “Okay, okay, it was...it was today!” Thad yelled.

  Dexter brought the pan near Thad’s face. Frantic, Thad actually tried to blow on the bubbling grease, as if that would cool it off.

  Dexter walked behind him. Thad craned his head around, watching, whimpering.

  “God...no...”

  Tilting Thad’s head forward with one hand, Dexter poured a generous measure of oil down the back of Thad’s neck.

  “Aaaaahhhhh!” Thad thrashed so frantically that he tipped the chair sideways. Man and chair crashed against the tile. Thad knocked his head against the floor, but didn’t pass out. He probably wished he had—the flesh at the nape of his neck was bubbling like a slab of fatback, and the air was thick with the noxious fumes.

  Dexter placed the pan on the burner again. About a quarter inch of grease remained.

  “Tell the truth, that’s all I ask,” Dexter said. “It’s a simple matter of respect, Thad.”

  Sobbing, face mashed against the floor, Thad said, “I talked to her today.”

  “Of course. You know how I know? Because she called Betty, not long after Betty left you her lovely message. I talked to Joy, myself, I sure did.”

  “Then why...why are you doin
g this to me...”

  “We’ll get to that.” Hands on his knees, Dexter knelt so that he could gaze into Thad’s anguished eyes. “Listen to my next question very carefully. Don’t fix your lips to tell me another lie, because if you do, I’m going to pour some sizzling bacon drippings into your ear canal, which I think would be pretty damn excruciating and might even kill you.”

  “Oh, Jesus...”

  “Where does Joy call you from?”

  “Atlanta! God, forgive me... she calls me from Atlanta...”

  “Atlanta.”

  “Yes!”

  Dexter turned over the answer in his mind, like a jeweler examining the quality of a diamond with a loupe. Atlanta. The so-called Black Mecca. It was such a popular city for black folks that she probably figured she could blend in there, get lost in the chocolate masses, and start her life anew.

  “Do you have a record of her address?” Dexter asked. “An envelope from a recent payment?”

  “Shredded... all of them...like she tells me to do...”

  “Can you remember if she lives in Atlanta proper, or a suburb?”

  Thad squeezed his eyes shut. Gasped. “Not sure . . .”

  Dexter pursed his lips. “She using a different name now?”

  “Rachel...”

  Rachel was his wife’s middle name.

  “Last name?” Dexter asked.

  “Hall...”

  Rachel Hall. Clever. Hall was her mother’s maiden name, a fact that she probably didn’t realize that he remembered. He eventually would have figured it out, but he would have lost precious time in the interim.

  “Thank you for your cooperation, Thad.” Dexter stood.

  Chest heaving, Thad kept his eyes squeezed closed, as if he were wishing this entire experience were a nightmare from which he would soon awaken. Mild shock was likely beginning to set in.

  “We’re not done,” Dexter said.

  Thad’s eyes opened. His gaze was dim, but held a trace of terror.

  “But... told you...everything...I know...”

  “My wife robbed me—did you know that, too?’