by John L. Monk
Almost as quickly, the minister’s hand retracted.
“Coming down with a cold?” he said, an amused smile on his kindly face.
His supernatural voodoo didn’t appear to be working, because I didn’t feel like throwing up or running away or any of that. If he touched me, that’d change. Might even kick me out. Even if it didn’t, he’d know who I was, and I wasn’t ready for another long theological discussion with him. Also, I had no idea what he was doing here. As a priest, no less. The old minister had seemed to scoff at such religious rigidity, preferring Universalism to Catholicism. Could it be that our running into each other, years ago, had somehow kicked him back the other way?
“Must be dusty in here,” I said, and made a show of wiping my hands on my pants. “Sorry about that.”
Tara was staring at me in disgust. When the minister turned to her, her face morphed into sweetness and light and cheery amusement, and for a second I wondered if maybe … ah, nope, as soon as he looked back at me, Tara made with the mean look again.
The minister leaned closer.
“I’ve been meaning to talk to you, Scott,” he said in a low voice. “The church offers marriage counseling for free, as I’m sure you’re aware. And as a psychologist, I’m sure you also know the power of a shoulder to lean on, even if it’s attached to an old celibate like myself.” This last with a soft chuckle.
A line of people stood nearby waiting to talk to him.
The minister stepped back, gave me a significant look, and added, “I hold confession here every Wednesday at 8 a.m.” Then he was off to greet other people.
As soon as his back was turned, Tara stormed out.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
When I was a one year old baby, I couldn’t understand what my parents were saying to each other, though it all sounded very funny at the time. After dying, I’d pieced it together—a harder task than you’d think. Being a baby was a world of sound, color, and sensation, all perfectly mingled with this pervasive sense of either happy or sad. Mom and Dad were happy. My toy was happy. And sometimes the world was sad, like when I woke up and it was dark for no reason and I was alone. When I remember my babyhood, there’s this annoying happy-sad stuff saturating all those funny sounds my parents were making, such that I have to consciously say to myself, “Aha! After Dad picked me up, he said, ‘We’re going to Grandma’s.’ ”
When Tara and I arrived home, I poured myself a quick glass of orange juice and headed toward the living room, hoping to snag the television before certain other people got there first.
“I’ve decided to move back with my mom,” Tara said suddenly, stopping me in my tracks. “She said she’d fix a room up for me.”
Even though Tara was Scott’s wife, I felt that same primal feeling of sad, just like when I was a baby.
“Just for a few months,” she said. “We need time. You need to decide if we make this work or if we … you know. Like we talked about that night when … when she called here. Divorce.”
They were Catholic, which made it a bigger deal than for others.
“When are you leaving?” I said.
“She’s bringing the truck down next weekend.”
I nodded.
“Why did you have to mess it up?” Tara said. She was crying a little. “What’s wrong with me? Why couldn’t I be enough? Was fucking that stupid woman so important that you had to ruin everything else, too? We were gonna have children and do everything right.”
Openly weeping now, Tara fled the kitchen.
The Great Whomever must really have hated suicide, to put me through this. That poor woman, all that pain, and it was my job to take the brunt of it and keep from somehow making it worse. I assumed. It wasn’t always obvious why he sent me back, but back I went, obvious or not. Usually there was a lot more blood and screaming and guns.
Standing in the kitchen listening to Tara crying upstairs, I almost wished for one of those rides.
Tara avoided me for the rest of the day, and I contented myself with doing housework. Laundry, vacuuming, and other mundane tasks kept me occupied and gave me time to think about my own problems for once. My dad, after all, had died. How, I didn’t know, nor when exactly. I missed him terribly. Him and Mom, both.
Back when it all began, on my first ride ever, I came close to returning and convincing them I was still alive … around … whatever I was. I’d regale them with incredibly specific anecdotes, verbatim quotes, and other impossible-to-know information—like how many stitches my sister got when she fell down the stairs. Or how, at five years old, I’d gotten out of bed and walked almost a mile to the supermarket to steal a rubber ball. Then, parroting my babysitter and her mean friends, I’d cussed-out the cops when they questioned me.
There were plenty of stories to go with that one. They’d have been convinced by the time I finished, as well as horrified—their world turned upside down, their memories of me transformed into something twisted and nightmarish and wrong. So I’d done the right thing and stayed away.
Before going to bed that night, I thought about locating my sister, Jane. She was sure to be in the City Directory, available at any library. It’d be no big deal—bump into her at a supermarket or something. Strike up a conversation. I was good at worming information out of people. I’d tell her she looked Dutch. I’d be pleasant, not weird, because I’d have flowers in one hand and wine in the other. Like I already had a girl. So it must be a real compliment and not some creepy pickup line. Dad always called Jane his little Dutch girl, and given enough time with her I’d know how he died.
Maybe I’d do that tomorrow.
My last thought before falling asleep was, But I have work tomorrow…
* * *
Sometime in the middle of the night, I awoke to someone shaking my shoulder. It was Tara, crouched by my side with a robe thrown hastily around her.
“What?” I said. “Huh?”
“Shh! There’s someone in the house.”
When my eyes gained focus, I saw by the meager light through the curtains she was frightened.
“Here’s the gun,” Tara said, and thrust a pistol into my hands.
“Did you call the cops?” I said.
“Not yet.”
“Why not?”
“Because,” she said, “what if it’s just an animal or something? I’ll look silly.”
That’s a funny thing about humans. They’d rather die than look too silly to take basic defensive measures to save their precious lives. Rather than go to the other side of the street to avoid a group of young men in gang colors, they’ll keep walking along. Maybe even say hello as they pass, just to prove a point. Wouldn’t want to seem sexist or racist or classist or whichever ist was eating at them. They’d spin that wheel and see what happened, but they wouldn’t look silly.
I shook my head. “Tara…”
“Don’t Tara me,” she said, pulling her robe tighter and glaring at me.
I listened carefully, and she listened too.
“I don’t hear anything,” I said.
“Can you just go look? And please be careful with that gun.”
I smiled at the concern in her voice.
“If you hear gunshots, call the cops. Deal?”
“Yes, now go.”
Scott’s gun was a silvery .38 snub-nosed revolver. I checked the cylinder and it would fire on the next pull, provided it wasn’t a dud. If it was, I’d pull again. Better than a semi-auto for dealing with duds.
I crept down the stairs, straining to hear something. At first it was quiet, and then I heard a door open in the kitchen. I came around the corner, gun pointed down. Nobody was in the kitchen, but the door to the garage was wide open. I stepped past the dishwasher and the little table we’d eaten breakfast at and peeked into the garage.
Someone was in Scott’s car with a flashlight. I flipped the light switch and squinted at too much light in my night-adjusted eyes. Whoever was in the car yelped and scrambled out. I held my gun steady and
pointed it at him, squinting to see if he had a gun pointed at me.
It was a tense moment, and then George the Jeep guy said, “I just want my rifle, Schaefer.”
“What?”
“You took my rifle,” he said “It was a Christmas gift and I want it back.”
He didn’t have a gun on him, I could see that now. Maybe he had one hidden under his shirt.
“Why didn’t you come ask me during normal hours?” I said.
“Would you have given it to me?”
“Probably. So long as you promised not to shoot me with it.”
“I was just supposed to scare you,” George said. “Johnny…”
“Yeah,” I said, “what’s up with that? Why’s he so pissed at me?”
George pulled a big, goofy grin, like I must have been kidding him.
“You serious?” he said. “You, uh … that is … Melody said you were stalking her. That’s what she said, man, not me, and would you please stop pointing that pistol at me?”
Finally I knew why I was here. Scott the big fat stalker. Easy enough to fix. If he’d gone further than that I’d find out eventually, and Tara had even handed me the right tool to deal with it. She was a good person, Tara. I hated to see her made a widow, or married to a prisoner and all that entailed. At least if I killed myself, she wouldn’t need to do the whole divorce thing. I could admit my crimes in a note, like I’d done so many times before. There wouldn’t be any doubt about whether to love me or hate me … I mean Scott. Or maybe she’d blame herself anyway, the way everyone did.
Dammit.
“I’m sorry, man,” George said, sounding blubbery and afraid. “Please lower that gun, would you? I’ll just leave, okay?”
“Hold on,” I said, and walked over to a cabinet against the wall. I opened it and pulled out his dumb hunting rifle, then handed it to him.
“Jeez, thanks,” he said.
Just then, Tara walked in and shouted, “He’s got a gun!”
George appeared more afraid of her than she was of him. He held the gun tightly, not pointing it at anyone.
“Tara, it’s okay,” I said.
“I’m calling the police!”
She marched back to the kitchen.
To George I said, “You stay put,” and followed after her.
I grabbed her shoulder just as she picked up the landline and said, “He’s a patient. I’m working with him on something important and if you call the police it’ll ruin everything.”
Tara slapped my hand away and said, “What? He’s got a gun! What kind of breakthrough is that?”
“He was trying to give me his gun, not shoot me. I’m trying to get him to give up hunting to help his … reattachment to nature.”
She had her thumb poised over the numbers, no doubt ready to dial 911.
“Tara, seriously,” I said. “Hold on a minute and listen, okay? Please?”
Still holding the phone, almost like a weapon, she said, “Make it good.”
“I’m trying to tell you he’s a hunter, and getting him to stop shooting animals is part of his therapy. It’s the Jungian Pentangle technique—a breakthrough development in psychotherapy. Cutting edge stuff.”
Tara’s eyes widened a little, and then she laughed.
“Jungian Pentangle therapy? That’s what that is in our garage? At…” She looked at the clock. “Two in the morning?”
I nodded gravely. “Cutting edge.”
Tara shook her head and put the phone down. “Get him out of my house.”
Then she stomped out of the room.
“Our house,” I corrected, though low enough she wouldn’t hear me.
Moments later, I heard the sound of a bedroom door being slammed. In addition to good cable, the Schaefers also had impressively sturdy architecture.
Back in the garage, I said to George, “Okay, you got your gun. You know where Melody lives?”
He nodded.
“I’ll drive behind you,” I said. “You’re going to take me past her house. Got it?”
Again, George nodded. He was looking at the gun in my hand.
Reluctantly, I stopped pointing it at him.
Chapter Thirty
George had jimmied the front door open with a screwdriver and left dents in the jamb. The lock still worked when I tested it, but the wood was all chewed up. Tara wasn’t going to be happy … which wasn’t unusual for her, granted.
“I got a friend who can fix that,” George said, when I pointed it out to him.
“Send him,” I said. “Tomorrow. Now let’s go.”
George nodded and got in his Jeep and I got in Scott’s car to follow him. He didn’t drive fast, and ten minutes later we were in a poorer part of town on the other side of the river. Older single-family homes—in name only. They appeared to have been subdivided from bigger houses.
When we got to one such house on a corner lot, George slowed down and pointed at it through his window, then drove off.
I’d left the gun in the guest room at the house. It was no use to me here, and could only get me in more trouble. Tonight was purely an intelligence-gathering mission.
After parking, I strolled up to Melody’s door like I had every right to be there at that hour. If I was right, when she opened the door she’d act afraid. Maybe she’d yell at me. Maybe she’d call the police. I didn’t like the idea of scaring her, but I needed to know if what George had said about Scott stalking her was true. Bad stuff, but it would make things much simpler going forward. Then I’d just need to find out how far the stalking had gone.
I pushed the doorbell and waited. A minute later, light streamed down through a window on the second floor, and not long after that I heard someone fiddling with the latch.
The door opened and Melody was standing there naked. B-cups, shining abs, slender, and beautiful. Her shiny black hair draped around her shoulders while she eyed me coldly. But only for a second—she threw herself into my arms and proceeded to make out with me.
That’s right, with me, but let me explain…
For years, I’d remained celibate and did my best to ignore the advances of the various women I met on my rides. Then, one day, I’d met a stunningly beautiful killer named Erika. She was bad, but not psycho Lana Sandway bad. Also, she seemed to like me. One thing led to another … and another … and another, then a few more after that for one of the most shameful (yet amazing) nights I’d ever experienced.
Despite my fall from grace, I still feel taking advantage of someone who thinks I’m her boyfriend or husband is about as low as it gets.
But see … it was the strangest thing. Yes, I was relieved what George said about Scott stalking Melody was not true. I processed that rather quickly. But I knew I shouldn’t have been kissing her back. She didn’t know me, Dan Jenkins. She thought I was Scott, the cheating psychologist. But Melody was evil, wasn’t she? What she’d said about Scott—lying to her brother about him being a stalker—that had to be evil, right? Also, she was an adulteress, which was against every one of the Ten Commandments. And hadn’t I gotten away with it with Erika? Totally had. Also, and perhaps most importantly, Melody was Asian. Did it make me a racist that I’d always wanted to kiss an Asian woman and now I was actually kissing one?
Her breath was minty, like she’d swished with mouthwash and hadn’t rinsed enough. For my part, I totally appreciated the thoughtfulness.
Melody pulled me inside and said, “What took you so long, you big goof?”
Morality, I thought, and shut the door to the night and my morality, both.
* * *
The next hour passed amazingly, and then it was morning and Melody was shaking me awake.
“Come on, sleepy pants,” she said. “Time for work.”
She skipped around the room, bouncing and jiggling and looking really athletic and cute and Asian all over the place. But all I could think was, Oh my God, what have I done?
Melody’s room in the morning light was a disaster area of clothes, makeup,
hangers, curlers, and magazines strewn everywhere. She didn’t even have a proper bed, just a mattress on the floor.
She poked through her closet and found a short skirt, then chose a frilly yellow blouse from a mostly pink pile of clothing over by the window.
I got up to use the bathroom.
Despite the weird night and my relative lack of sleep, I still wanted to work today. I was looking forward to the psychologist thing. Much like my stint as a security guard in Fred’s body, this was something I could do. It’d be nice to be needed, and who knew, maybe I could help someone?
“Everything okay in there?” Melody said from outside the door.
“Just peachy,” I said.
When I came out, I found yesterday’s clothes and put them on.
“We going in together?” she said.
I shook my head. “Separate.”
Melody frowned, then poked me in the chest.
“What’s wrong, don’t wanna be seen with me?”
“My car’s here,” I said. “I need to go right home after work.”
She pushed me away and said, “I knew it! You’re going back to her!”
“That’s where I’m living now,” I said.
“I don’t know what you see in her,” she said. “Ugly and tall, like a big white man with fake boobs. What about me?”
Tara’s breasts hadn’t looked fake to me.
I shook my head, gave her my two hundred-watt smile and said, “What did I tell you about my marriage before you got mad at me?”
“You said we wouldn’t have to worry about her after last week. But then nothing happened.”
That was odd. Here we were in this week and Tara was still a factor. I’d only arrived on Friday, at the end of the day, with a patient going on about the zoo and his fear of abandonment. So whatever it was Scott wanted to do—file for divorce, kick her out, kick himself out—it hadn’t happened.
Momentumis interruptis, as they say in psychology.
“That’s why I was mad at you,” Melody said, mock pouting, then giggled and squeezed my arm. “You sure scared the hell out of Johnny. Who knew you were such a tough guy?”
