House of Smoke

by JF Freedman

  They only have one similarity in their lives, one fragmented piece that binds them tight. Half of that piece either took place in their past, as is the case with Kate (who was the last one to arrive tonight and then dawdled over fixing her coffee, classic procrastination), or is happening now, present-day, like the young woman sitting across the room whose left cheekbone looks like somebody took a sledgehammer to it last night. The other half of the piece is that the past can, without warning, become the present, and that the future holds no secure promises.

  “So, Kate,” Marine states in a clear, sympathetic, but no-nonsense professional voice, “tonight’s the night, right?”

  “Right,” Kate answers reluctantly. She doesn’t like to talk about this shit; she doesn’t mind hearing it from others, but doing it herself, opening up her own wounds, she has a hard time with that. Being a cop for so long has something to do with it—if you show your vulnerable side you can get wasted.

  But she has to, she has no choice, unless she wants her life to stay fucked up and incomplete. So four months ago she decided to give up her armor. On a clear full-moon night she walked down the slippery flight of stairs into this basement and joined up.

  Joined up, but not opened up. Last week, after the others in the group had challenged her to put up or get out, she had declared that tonight was going to be the night, the night she came clean.

  “Okay, Kate,” Marine states emphatically. “The meter’s running.”

  Kate surveys the group. They’re waiting, everyone’s attention focused on her.

  She plunges in.

  “My name is Katherine Theresa Blanchard. Most of you know that already,” she adds, feeling lame and scared.

  She realizes she’s looking at the floor. She forces her eyes up, making eye contact with some of the group members, who smile encouragingly at her.

  “I’ve been married twice,” she continues. “The first time when I was nineteen, young and dumb, your basic classic move. That sorry state of affairs lasted six years, don’t ask me how or why, we had zero in common. I divorced him when I was twenty-five, but I’m a slow learner, two years later I up and got married all over again. We had things in common, Eric—my second husband, that is his name—and I, several things, one was we were in the same profession, we were both police officers, as most of you know about me, I don’t know how many of you know he was, too, which can make for extreme closeness because of the suspicion and isolation a police officer is constantly being subjected to, it’s easy to become paranoid, having an understanding partner can be a real asset. Plus we both liked the same sports, the same kinds of music.”

  She takes a sip of her coffee. It’s gone cold.

  She’s gotten through the easy part. When she speaks again her voice unconsciously lowers to a monotone, as if she’s telling someone else’s story, someone far removed from her.

  “I was married to Eric for almost ten years, until twenty months ago when I finally got up the courage to leave; during that time, almost from our wedding night when I think back on it, I lived in fear, the fear that someday his rage would go so out of control that he would kill me.”

  She exhales, a deep sigh from the spirit.

  “I am a battered woman. Who is trying to redeem her life.”

  The Losario murders-suicide had been so devastating, so guilt-provoking, that she had wanted to quit outright; but Captain Albright would have none of that, he’d torn her “Request For Retirement” into confetti and thrown the pieces in his trash can. “You are a good officer,” he told her, “you don’t end a solid career because some uncontrollable schizo goes on a rampage.”

  The local newspaper and TV coverage was brutal. For three days there were reporters everywhere, they camped out on her front porch, followed her to the supermarket, tried to interview her at the precinct house.

  Lurid headlines shrieked at her from newsstands: COPS STAND BY WHILE WACKO HUSBAND MURDERS WIFE, DAUGHTER, TURNS GUN ON SELF. Local TV stations roasted the entire police force.

  “They know nothing,” the captain told her when she went to him in tears.

  It was so unfair, what else could she have done?

  He was a veteran of these dustups. “Just let it blow over,” he counseled her. “In a couple of days nobody will remember your name.”

  In the meantime, she had to move to a motel to get away from the mob pursuing her.

  Eric railed at her for making his life such a mess, for fucking things up so royally. The first night they moved to the motel he punched her out in the ribs, almost breaking some. She barricaded herself in the bathroom until he left to go drinking with his buddies; then she locked him out of the room altogether and instructed the manager not to give him a key.

  They didn’t speak for a few days after that, until the clamor died down and she was able to go home. He acted, as he always did, like nothing had happened, just another day in the life.

  Despite Captain Albright’s rock-steady support, however, she was put on a four-week administrative leave of absence while awaiting her hearing. With full pay; she had not been found guilty of any dereliction of duty or other conduct unbecoming a peace officer.

  “I have no questions about your performance, Kate, and I will personally testify to that effect,” Captain Albright told her at that time. “I’m sure I would’ve handled it exactly the same way, but the department has to do this by the numbers, there was too much publicity not to; and besides,” he’d added, assessing the major bags under her eyes, the pallid complexion of the face sitting across from him, “you need some time off. You don’t walk away from an experience like what you went through without weird stuff going on in your head. You need time to process it. And remember, a leave of absence is SOP in cases like this, so don’t take it as a reprimand. The hearing will determine if any action is necessary, which I strongly doubt. Use this free time wisely,” he counseled.

  In those two weeks she saw a department psychologist five times. He assured her she wasn’t crazy, and she began unburdening herself of a lot of old garbage. The process itself blew her mind, because she’d always thought all shrinks were quacks; that therapy could actually help her was both exciting and frightening.

  The hearing, which came three and a half weeks after what had been the worst day of her life, was anticlimactic. It took less than half a day and proceeded without incident. She was absolved of any wrongdoing, misconduct, or lack of professional judgment, and was formally instructed to report back to work the following Monday, at which time she would be assigned a new partner, Ray having resigned less than twenty-four hours after the debacle.

  Eric had talked his way into the hearing, shmoozing the hearing officers while simultaneously pulling rank—a veteran of the force, a former instructor in the Academy, a concerned husband. To Kate he was a vulture, a dark presence slouching in his seat in the back of the room. She hadn’t wanted him to come, but he’d insisted—they needed to show they supported each other, he’d told her, it was important to their careers. She knew that was bullshit, her career meant nothing to him, he wouldn’t shed one tear if she was kicked off the force; and she also knew it was futile to try and stop him, it would only make matters worse.

  “You’re damn lucky you’re a woman,” he said to her on their way out of the hearing room. “If that had been me in that house and I’d botched it up the way you did it, I’d have been suspended for a month, if they didn’t shitcan me outright.”

  Always supportive, Eric.

  She stayed out of his way the rest of the week. They were alone in the house, just the two of them, she’d sent the girls to her sister’s until all this blew over.

  Late Sunday afternoon she drove across the bridge into the city to pick up her daughters. Teenagers, Wanda fifteen and a half, Sophia just turned thirteen. Good girls, the lights of her life. All this shit with Eric had taken its toll on them—in the past six months Wanda, who’d always had a model’s complexion, had broken out with acne, and Sophia had gotten into th
e habit of biting her nails to the quick, to the point where they would bleed.

  Worst of all, they were doing poorly at school. They had always been good students, honor roll from first grade. Last semester it was C’s and D’s for both of them. She didn’t blame them—she blamed herself. How can you study when you’re scared your stepfather is going to kill your mother?

  Julie and Walt, Julie’s husband, coaxed her into staying for dinner. They had a large apartment in the Haight, close to the UCSF Hospital, where they both worked as lab technicians. They’d never had any children—hers were the closest they would ever come, which made them extra-special. They loved Kate too, they were on her case constantly to leave Eric, they didn’t know the whole story between her and Eric but they knew enough to know he was a ticking time bomb.

  She was never able to explain why she couldn’t leave what everyone who loved her knew was a dismal marriage. The girls had something to do with it, even though Eric wasn’t their real father (their real father, that pathetic loser, had vanished without a trace, they hadn’t had a word from him in three years, not that she gave a shit, not having to deal with him was one less problem in her overloaded life).

  She sure knew how to pick the losers, she sometimes thought, during those times when she would be overwhelmed with self-pity, guilt, and remorse; always feeling somehow, that this condition was her fault, that she deserved it.

  She was Eric’s prisoner, that was her bottom line, as real a prisoner as if he had her chained to a wall

  Julie and Walt couldn’t understand that. No one could, no one in the entire history of the world had ever walked in her shoes.

  Dinner was so easy, it was a relief, no stress. What would it be like to live like this? she’d often thought. She’d have to leave Eric and quit the force to even start trying to achieve it; and those two things, marriage and career (along with her children), were the defining elements in her life, she would be lost without them. She firmly believed that.

  She decided to let the girls stay with her sister for a few more days. They had moved their stuff over to their aunt’s, it would be a hassle to load the car up tonight and unload it again when they got home. The girls could take the BART to school, which they’d been doing anyway. They wanted to stay, it was mellow compared to their home life, who could blame them? They hardly had to beg her at all. She would have stayed herself if she could have.

  The hugs, when she had to leave, were long and clinging. They didn’t want her to go. She wasn’t crazy about the idea, either, but no way was she going to let Eric drive her out of her home. She could handle it, like she’d done every time before.

  “Will you call tomorrow morning before we go to school?” Wanda implored her.

  “Of course.” One last group hug the three of them. “I love you.”

  “We love you, too.”

  She could see them in the rearview mirror, watching her as she drove away.

  All the lights were out when she drove up. Maybe Eric was gone, as usual, out drinking with his cronies, other cops who viewed the world through equally jaundiced eyes, with any luck he’d come in late, after she had fallen asleep (or feigned it, which she often did), mellow enough from an evening out with the boys that he’d leave her alone.

  No such luck. He was home, and waiting.

  “You have dinner with Julie and Walt?” he asked. He was sitting in the dark watching an NBA playoff game on the tube, Portland—Golden State, a half-empty Loco Pollo box dumped on the coffee table.

  “I called you but there was no answer,” she told him. “I figured you’d gone out,” she said. “The girls stayed overnight,” she added, “they weren’t packed, it was getting late, I’ll pick them up tomorrow after school.”

  His calling her sister and brother-in-law by their real names was a hopeful sign—she wished. When Eric was more pissed off than usual he would refer to them as “those bloodsuckers in the white coats,” because one of their duties at the hospital involved taking blood samples, or, even more cruelly, “the sterile duo.”

  “We’ll talk about it later,” he said.

  She didn’t know what that meant but it didn’t sound good. His voice was dark in tone, ominous in feeling.

  “I’m tired,” she said. “I’m going to bed.”

  “Peaceful dreams.” He was locked into the game, it was like she wasn’t even there.

  She put on a fresh nightgown, even though it was warm out and she preferred to sleep nude. Tomorrow was her first day back on the job, she wanted a good night’s sleep, which meant she didn’t want Eric staggering in at midnight and demanding that they make love. A cumbersome-to-take-off nightgown might be enough to discourage him.

  No such luck. He stumbled into the bedroom, knocking against the bed, the night table, the bureau, making sure he woke her up. For good measure he left the bathroom door open when he turned the light on, ran the water loudly, and dropped the lid with a slam after he flushed.

  “What’re you wearing this for?” he whined after he climbed into bed and felt cotton instead of skin when he put his hand on her ass.

  “I’m chilly,” she answered. She rolled onto her side away from his touch. “I’m tired, Eric, I want to go to sleep.”

  “I’m not,” he rebutted, his hand reaching under the bottom of her gown, working his way up the backs of her legs.

  She turned away, pushing his hand off her.

  “Not tonight. I’m not in the mood, I want to sleep, tomorrow’s a big day for me.”

  “This won’t take long.” He reached one hand over her back, inside her gown at the top, touching a breast.

  “You just don’t know how to take no for an answer, do you, goddamnit!” she yelled at him, pushing the covers down on her side and jumping out of the bed.

  “Where the hell are you going?”

  “I’m sleeping in the girls’ room tonight.” She started walking around the bed, towards the door.

  “The fuck you are,” he told her, jumping out of his side. He was between her and the door, blocking her escape.

  She stood in the middle of the room, arms folded across her chest, glaring at him.

  “Eric, get out of my way.”

  “Get back in bed, Kate.”

  “Get out of my way, goddamn you.”

  “Not till we make love.”

  “We’re not making love tonight.”

  “Fine, then we’ll just have a quick fuck.”

  “No. Nothing.”

  “So now I’m not even good enough to fuck, is that it?”

  “I don’t want to tonight, that’s all.” Her voice started rising in concert with her anger. “I’m not some dog that has to lie down for you any time you order me to, okay?” She was glad the girls hadn’t come home with her, she didn’t want them hearing this, not that they hadn’t, many times.

  “You’re a cunt, you know that, Kate? A world-class, A-number-one cunt.”

  “Fine. I’m a cunt. Now get out of my way.”

  He stood with his back against the door, naked, hands on hips like a gunslinger, glaring at her, daring her.

  She could feel tears coming. Don’t, she commanded herself, don’t let him do this to you.

  “Why do you have to do this, Eric?” she asked, trying to keep her voice from shaking.

  “Because you’re my wife, and I’m sick and tired of you not being a wife. I AM SICK AND FUCKING TIRED OF IT, ALL RIGHT?!” he screamed.

  She felt dizzy, lightheaded. She put a hand on the dresser to keep from falling.

  “Can’t you appreciate what I’ve been through?” she asked, trying to reason with him. “My life has been hell for a month, Eric, you more than anyone should be understanding about that.”

  “My life hasn’t been hell?” he countered. “You think this has been some fucking bed of roses for me?”

  “It’s been rough on both of us, I know that, but I’m the one that had to go through it all. If it happened to you, Eric, I wouldn’t be taking this attitude. I
’d be trying to support you, not tear you down, for godsakes.”

  The tears were coming, dribbling out the corners of her eyes. She scrunched her lids up to try and stop them before he could see. Thank God it was dark.

  “The problem with that, dear wife,” he sneered, “is that it would not have happened to me. That’s the goddamn problem in a nutshell, Kate”—now it was pouring out of him, an avalanche of anger and emotion, “you fucked up because you’re not good enough, that’s the fucking problem, that’s why three people are dead, the fact is that you’re a shitty cop and shouldn’t ever have been let on the goddamn force in the first place, that is the fucking problem!”

  “You bastard. You fucking bastard!” she screamed.

  “You talked that guy into doing it, you cunt, didn’t you?” he screamed back. “You’re not just a shitty cop,” he continued, his voice at fever pitch, “another shitty woman who got on the force because of the bullshit quota—it’s you, lady, your own specific personality, your own poison. That’s what pushed that poor bastard over the edge!”

  “Eat shit and die!” she came back at him.

  “I understand,” he snapped. “I understand like no one understands. Because you do the same fucking thing to me.”

  Her eyes dried up immediately. She felt a cold chill passing through her body like a cleansing shower.

  “I’m done listening to you,” she told him. “I’m leaving. Now get out of my way.”

  “Over my dead body.”

  “Have it your way.”

  “That’s my intention,” he told her, and in one step he moved to his bureau, with a second he took his service automatic out of the underwear drawer where he kept it, and with a third he drew on her.

  Pee dribbled down her leg. It felt cold. She didn’t try to stop the flow.

  “Put it down,” she said.

  “The wrong woman was killed back there!” he ranted. “That’s the problem. He killed the wrong woman. But I can fix that now.”

  The gun was in his hand, dangling, his finger light on the trigger.