Trick of the Mind

by J. S. Chapman

  Joel made a phone call and spoke in private tones. She could only make out an isolated word here and there that carried little meaning. After hanging up, he turned on the laptop.

  The minutes ticked on. Kendra poured liquor into the glass two more time and lit two more cigarettes. She missed hearing him shut down for the night but knew he was getting ready for bed when the toilet flushed and water ran in the sink. The shower took all of five minutes. When he emerged from the bathroom, the door banged open. Water sprinkled his splendid body and blue-black hair dripped over his forehead. He confronted her from the connecting archway, peering toward the shape that was his wife and smoldering with anger.

  She lifted the cigarette to her lips. The ash flared and then died, letting her escape back to facelessness.

  He wanted her to react, to say or do anything, to apologize and beg him for forgiveness the way she always did. She wasn’t going to let him win. Not this time. She had backed him into a corner. She anticipated a counterattack, but for the sake of their marriage and her sanity, she was willing to take the blows.

  He grunted and headed for the bedroom. Clattering noises preceded his settling down for the night. Over a ten-minute period, blessed quiet returned. She heard the bedsprings settle. The lamplight went out.

  One more sip of curaçao and the clock struck one. Kendra set the glass down and picked up the pawn ticket. Even in the shadows, she could make out the claim number, the name of the shop, and the address on Jackson Boulevard.

  Joel reappeared. She hadn’t heard him stir. He had taken her by stealth. It was a surprise attack, much like a surprise birthday party. “Where’s the necklace?”

  “What necklace? Oh. That necklace. The one professing undying love. You fell for the hype, Joel. Newsflash. Rubies and diamonds ... they’re just rocks.”

  “Maybe. But the necklace is gone.”

  “Did you forget so soon? We ... you ... put it in the top drawer. Under my lingerie.”

  “The case is missing, too.”

  Heat flushed her cheeks. With heat came panic. “You ... you’re mistaken.”

  “See for yourself.”

  Two lampshades on either end of the dresser blazed sulfuric. In a panic, Kendra rifled through every drawer. When she reached the lower most, her hands shook uncontrollably. “It has to be here.” She renewed her search, again opening drawer after drawer. “Somewhere.” There was no taking back the misstep, if there had been a misstep. No wishing away the bad luck. Or recouping the loss. Or resetting the clock to an earlier hour or a different date.

  “Where is it?” He grabbed a wrist and yanked her around. “What did you do with it?”

  He was hurting her. She relished the pain. If this were her punishment, she would gladly endure it. “I didn’t ... I haven’t touched it ... not since ...” And then she remembered. “The earrings. I have the earrings.” Her earring case sat on top of the bureau. She seized it and opened the lid. A collection of costume jewelry glittered back at her. The only earrings of value were exactly where she last put them, beneath one of the removable trays. “I wore them to dinner Saturday. You remember. You wanted me to wear the necklace, too, but I said no and put it back at the last minute. Under the lingerie.”

  “But did you really?” He grabbed her wrist again. Bones crunched inside his cruel grip. But that was nothing compared to his cold, heartless voice. “Think, Kendra.”

  She wrenched back. His fingers sprang open. The momentum sent her careening against the bed. She effortlessly sat. Lightheaded and sweaty, she didn’t trust herself to stand back up. She placed the palm of her hand on the side of her throat and sensed the raging pulse beneath. Her mouth was dry, but she managed to say, “How much, Joel? How much did it cost?”

  He ran a shaky hand over his hair, trying to think, while his eyes slid back and forth, searching for possibilities. When at last he spoke, his voice was level and controlled, perhaps too controlled. “Someone must’ve broken into the house when we were out.” Nodding to himself, he repeated the same sentence word for word like an actor reciting his lines. “That’s it. Someone must’ve broken into the house when we were out.”

  Their eyes met. His were blank. Kendra didn’t know what hers looked like. Most likely insane with guilt.

  In the next instant, Joel grabbed the bedside phone.

  When the police arrived, they asked scores of questions and searched the house for signs of forced entry. The lead cop mentioned a burglary ring working the neighborhood. “Must’ve read about in the paper.”

  “Any chance of recovery?” Joel asked.

  “Doubt it. Jewelry like what you’re describing gets fenced like that.” He snapped his fingers. “Probably had a buyer lined up before they even cased your house.”

  “We should have put it in a safe deposit box.”

  The police officer noticed Kendra as if for the first time. Until she spoke, she must have blended in with the wallpaper like a faded tea rose set inside an outdated floral pattern. He stated the obvious. “Too late now.”

  “I ... I saw a man. Sneaking through the alley.” She turned to Joel. “I was talking to Daddy out on the porch. The night of my birthday party. He was tall. Skinny. Wore a hoodie. I didn’t see his face.”

  The policemen made a note. “Anything turns up, you’ll hear from us.” The cop readied a ballpoint pen. “What should I put down as the value?”

  Joel recited the amount as if it were just another number. The cop whistled.

  Joel saw them out. When he returned, Kendra was huddled against a wall in the hallway, hugging the shakes away. He said, “You’re acting crazy.”

  “Oh, dear. Already? Or have you seen the signs before?”

  “I didn’t mean ...”

  “Oh no?”

  “You heard him. There’s a burglary ring operating in the area. Professionals. You probably saw one of them. They know how to get in and out without anyone noticing.”

  She gazed up at him. Her eyes burned with fatigue. “Someone was in our house. Invading our privacy. What if they come back?”

  “They won’t. They took what they came for.”

  “I won’t feel safe being alone in this house anymore.”

  He levered her off the floor, steered her back to the bedroom, and sat her down on the bed. Then he searched for something in the highboy. When his hand came away, it was clutching a revolver. She recoiled at the sight. He unloaded the chamber, flipped over the weapon, and offered it to her as a prize. “Go on. Hold it. Get a feel for it.”

  Like the necklace had been, the object was hard, cold, smooth to the touch, and saturated with unexpended energy. An electrical current surged through her fingertips and traveled to her elbow, where the shock dissipated.

  “Squeeze the trigger.”

  She raised the pistol. “If it were loaded, could a bullet penetrate the wall?”

  “The plasterboard, yes. The brick, probably not.”

  “Missy Cohn would be pissed off if we shot her cat.”

  “No one’s going to get hurt but an intruder.”

  She aimed at the bedside lamp and pulled the trigger. Fully expecting a thunderous blast and the odor of gunpowder, she squeezed her eyes in anticipation. But the gun harmlessly clicked. Even more surprising was her disappointment. She wanted to blow something away, to feel power, to release retribution upon the unknown thief.

  Joel reclaimed the pistol and reloaded it. “It only takes one bullet.”

  “For what?”

  “To kill.”

  “Oh, no, you have the wrong girl.”

  “Or maim,” he said, as if he were talking about a child’s game where the stakes were low but the outcome, important. “Sometimes you don’t get a choice. What if there’s another break-in? When you’re home alone? Late at night? It can happen.”

  “Wouldn’t it make more sense to install an alarm system?”

  “Professionals can bypass anything. Even if the alarm were tripped, by the time the police arrived, it
could be too late.” He held out the pistol once more. This time, radiant heat replaced the iciness of the steel. “Point it. Get a feel for the weight.”

  “Is there a safety? Shouldn’t we store it unloaded?”

  “You won’t have time in an emergency. This way, all you have to do is squeeze off a bullet.”

  “What if I miss?”

  “You won’t miss at close quarters.”

  “Do you have a license for this thing?”

  Kendra was relieved when he slid the weapon from her sweating grasp. He placed it in the top drawer of the nightstand. “You need a drink. I need a drink.”

  When he returned with the curaçao for her and a beer for him, she was sitting on the foot of the bed. “I have to get something off my chest.”

  “I don’t blame you.”

  She took the glass from him. “It’s not about the necklace.”

  “I was pissed,” she heard him say. “But not at you.”

  Shivering, she stared into the glass. She couldn’t bring herself to look directly at him. “Though in a way, it has everything to do with the necklace.”

  “I took it out on you. Treated you like a child. I shouldn’t have.”

  “It has to be said. Before we go any further.” She remembered when they first met and how she singled him out of a crowd, primarily because he was so damned good-looking, but also because he didn’t fit in. Boyish looking with clear blue eyes capped by heavy lids, his face was at once brooding and fragile. A studious nerd in the midst of happy-go-lucky jocks, he watched everyone else have a good time while he calmly sipped his beer. He was out of his element and tense, but Kendra was attracted to him precisely because of his awkwardness. “This marriage ...”

  “Drink first.”

  “But I ...”

  Like a father forces medicine on a child, he nodded encouragement. Kendra drank as ordered. Joel wasn’t satisfied until she emptied the glass. Then he tipped back his head and followed suit, guzzling a third of his beer before lowering his chin.

  Kendra said, “You can have a divorce. I won’t fight you.”

  “Who says I want one?”

  “I may be naïve, but even I can figure it out.”

  “You’re way off-base.”

  “I thought I was a modern woman. As it turns out, I’m extremely old-fashioned. I like my sex missionary style and my husband faithful.”

  “In the morning ...”

  “You’ll be packed and out of here. Or I will.” He was silently rehearsing a rebuttal when she said, “Is she good in bed?” The query, put so casually, robbed him of everything, including surprise. “I put it badly. What I meant to say, how does she compare? Is she as supple as I am? Or as frigid?”

  Not altogether in command of his voice, he said, “Do you know what you do to me? What you mean to me?”

  She had prepared herself for sadism but wasn’t equipped for tenderness. “This is your chance to get out.”

  He set down the beer. “I’d be lost without you.”

  “I’m doing you a favor.” She still couldn’t look him in the eye. “When I turn thirty-one ... thirty-three ... thirty-five, you won’t have to be around to witness the decline.”

  He kneeled before her and placed his hands on her thighs. “Mental illness isn’t hereditary.”

  In the end, she had a terrible need only one man could satisfy. He took the glass from her hand and set it aside. “You’ve been noticing the symptoms. Going out of your way to point out every one of my lapses. It must be a terrible burden.”

  He pushed her onto the mattress. “I was only trying to ...”

  “I’m not criticizing you. You have a right. A duty. How else does a crazy person know she’s going Looney Tunes?”

  He peppered kisses across her face. “You’re not crazy.”

  “Otherwise she’d think everything was normal. Hearing rats in the attic. Losing track of time. Misplacing things. Seeing ghosts.”

  “Shut up, Kendra. Just shut up.”

  “Face it, Joel. Your wife won the genetic lottery.” Tears spilled down the sides of her face. Not her tears, but Joel’s. “I can’t do it anymore. I can’t fight it.”

  “Then don’t. Let me do the fighting for you.”

  “They call it schizophrenia, Joel, living two lives when you should be living one. I’m making it easy for you. Take it. As a gift freely given.”

  “I’m sticking by you.”

  “Like Mac stuck by Emily? Then you don’t know what you’re in for.”

  “I’m willing to chance it.” He had her at a disadvantage, with his forearms braced at her sides and his lips sweeping kisses from brow to breast.

  “Who knows what Alan McSweeney could have become if it weren’t for ....”

  “Your father is the best man I’ve ever known.”

  “But you didn’t know him before she got sick. Or before Danny ... before he ...” She found it impossible to articulate the unspeakable. “Mac used to laugh, Joel. His used to laugh all the time.”

  Chapter 10

  KENDRA NEGOTIATED HER compact SUV into a bedroom community where the tree line was a handgrip away and the access road curved around picturesque bends and uniform houses. The street names followed a woodsy theme. When she found the six-hundred block on Sycamore Lane, she pulled over.

  The air smelled like snow, but the pavement was dry and the sky starlit. Wind stirred bare-limbed trees and rustled mounds of dormant daylilies. Lamplight warmed select picture windows. Periodically, an auto tooled down the street and turned onto one of the many driveways. A rousing of bodies, briefcases, and grocery bags usually followed, terminated by the clanking drop of the garage door. Quiet inevitably ensued.

  Kendra finished her cigarette and stepped out of the car. Steep stairs led up to the modest split-level. A single light emanated from the back of the house. She rang the doorbell, but no one answered. A wrought-iron handrail returned her to the sidewalk. She had enough time to smoke another cigarette before a sedan approached and pulled into the driveway. The driver—a man in his fifties—got out and collected mail from the curbside mailbox. “Mr. Langford? Mr. George Langford?”

  He turned to look at her. The cant of his head showed curiosity, but the look in his eyes communicated distrust.

  It took courage for Kendra to say what needed to be said. “Did you own a bungalow on Marshfield Avenue?” Her trench coat flapped in the gusts, making that crackling noise flags do on a used car lot.

  “Marshfield Avenue?” he repeated.

  “It would have been about seventeen years ago. A brown bungalow.”

  “Who told you?”

  Kendra held out a hand, her fingers stiff with more than cold. “My name is Kendra Swain. I live in that house, Mr. Langford. And I was wondering if we might talk. In private, if possible. About the bungalow. And the year you and your wife lived there.”

  His hand briefly met hers before withdrawing. “Not quite a year.” Defensiveness accompanied the delivery of those four meaningful words.

  “I know that. You moved into the bungalow in November and moved out the following October. The house ...” She didn’t quite know how to put it. “I guess it didn’t meet up to your expectations.”

  Approaching headlights distracted him for several seconds. His eyes leapt back to Kendra. “Who did you say you are?”

  “Kendra Swain. My husband and I have been living in the bungalow for three years now.”

  “How did you get my name? How did you find me?”

  “From the Cook County Recorder of Deeds. I would have called, but since your phone number is unlisted ....”

  “Can you prove you are who you say you are?”

  Kendra reached into her bag and removed a snapshot. The coach lights emitted just enough illumination to see it. “This is a picture of the house as it looks today. With me and my husband Joel standing out front.”

  He studied the photograph with interest, checking the woman in the photo with the woman standing befor
e him.

  “As I said, we’ve been living there for three years. It won’t take long. A few questions.”

  His eyes assessed her with cynicism. “My wife will be home any minute now, and I ...”

  “I’d like to speak to her as well, if you wouldn’t mind.”

  A few minutes later, beneath glaring kitchen lights, Kendra accepted a cup of coffee from Langford. The cup radiated warmth into her encompassing hands. Chillier than she had been outside, Kendra left her coat on. George held onto his cell phone. He and his wife had already connected. She was ten minutes away.

  “I understand your distrust, Mr. Langford. But something like this can’t be discussed over the phone. I hope, when I explain myself, you’ll understand.”

  One by one, Kendra had been tracking down the bungalow’s former owners. The task proved monumental, not in terms of numbers, but for the prize at stake. She was asking folks to reveal the source of their basest fears, the ones shoved inside the recesses of their minds, where the particulars and the shadings had wasted away over years of trying to forget. Such confessions required face-to-face encounters. Average people facing spooks in the night didn’t give up their secrets easily, not until Kendra Swain showed up on their doorsteps and asked them to resurrect ghosts.

  George Langford stationed himself near the stove, keeping one eye on Kendra and the other glued to a kitchen drawer, as if salvation lay alongside spatulas, garlic crushers, and assorted knives.

  “You must have x-ray vision, Mr. Langford.”

  “Sorry?” A crescent scar glistened like an ice chip on his chin.

  “If that’s a gun you’re looking at, you won’t need it. I’m here for information. Nothing else. For your memories, actually. You and your wife’s.”

  He opened the drawer and brought out the gun. A lady’s weapon with a mother-of-pearl handgrip. Snub-nosed. Intimidating enough for a robber who wasn’t hopped up on drugs.

  “I trust it’s loaded.”

  “It is.”