Live and Let Die

by Bianca Sloane

  “My God, are you okay?” a short brown-haired man asked Sondra as he took in her bloodstained clothes. “Did you get shot?”

  “Call, call the police, the police,” she said, not hearing what the man was saying to her, not seeing him in front of her. She tripped over her shoes as she tried to wrench away from the endless voices and limbs crowding her.

  “We need to get you to a hospital.”

  “Phone, police,” Sondra muttered, frantic, babbling now. “Call the police. He’s going to kill her; he’ll really do it this time.”

  “Ma’am, the whole neighborhood heard that gunshot, so the police oughta be here any minute.”

  On cue, the squeal of sirens blasted down the street and about three squad cars and at least one ambulance came to a dead stop in front of the little white house on Red Rose Lane. The ensuing minutes were like a merry-go-round spinning off its axis. Sondra was bombarded with questions from the police, prodded by paramedics and given bewildered, sympathetic glances by fluttering neighbors. The police sealed off the driveway and Sondra, refusing medical assistance, had taken refuge in the house.

  The police interviewed neighbors about the odd couple who had lived on Red Rose Lane. Meanwhile, Sondra wandered throughout the house, soaking in the macabre scenes from the life Phillip had forced her sister to live along the way. The pristine and plain living room. The spare white box of a kitchen with its perfectly lined shelves of color-coordinated, alphabetized cans and boxed goods. The roast and cobbler still snug on the stove, the partly peeled potatoes starting to turn brown; the blank space over the bathroom sinks where a mirror should have been; the closets filled with frumpy, oversized housedresses and row after row of sensible flats and dresser drawers stuffed with every variation of flannel nightgowns possible.

  Sondra found herself in Phillip’s office, the locked door of which the police had busted open. The office was the only room in the whole house with any personality, which considering how sparse it was, wasn’t saying much. There was a laptop on a bare wooden desk with a yellow legal pad next to it. A cup of pens and pencils rested on one corner and a phone and a page-a-day calendar sat opposite it. A three-shelf bookshelf housed hulking volumes on anatomy, drugs, and psychology. There were two pictures on the walls; one of which Sondra guessed was Phillip’s mother, and the other of Tracy when she was still Tracy. Sondra made her way back into the living room and dropped onto the couch. She wished she could go to sleep, wake up and find the whole thing had been a nightmare and that Tracy had never gotten mixed up with Phillip. A phone began to trill. It was Philip’s cell phone and Sondra realized it must have dropped out of his pocket during their scuffle. Everyone stopped what they were doing to stare at it. Sondra looked down at the caller ID and her heart sank at what she saw.

  SEVENTY-NINE

  Phillip exited the highway and pulled into the parking lot of a non-descript motel.

  “Stay here,” he said before he got out to check them in. Paula gave him a meek nod and sat alone in the car, kneading her hands. She closed her eyes, the blood rushing in her ears. She heard her door open and felt Phillip’s fingers dig into her flesh as he jerked her out of the car. Looking over his shoulder, he jammed the keycard into the silver slot on the door and pushed her inside. He ran his hands along the wall until he found the light switch and the room was bathed in harsh fluorescent light.

  “I saw a burger place a few miles back. I’ll go get us something to eat. You sit on the bed and don’t make a move, not a single twitch until I get back. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, dear,” Paula said, her voice soft. With a curt nod of his head, Phillip was gone, the door thundering closed behind him.

  Sitting alone in the dark, Paula could hear her heart pounding in her ears. She was terrified to move, certain if she did, Phillip would come exploding back through the door, the police behind him with handcuffs dangling from their hands, ready to clamp them around her delicate wrists.

  But now, she was going to die for what she had done. Wouldn’t it be better to go to jail? She fastened her hands around each elbow and squeezed her eyes shut, trying not to think about the morning.

  She felt her bladder press against her, begging to be emptied. She jiggled her foot, Phillip’s warning pinging around in her head. Unable to hold it in, she scurried in the direction of the bathroom, plunking herself down on the toilet in the dark. She flushed and turned to wash her hands when she caught a glimpse of her outline in the mirror. Impulsively, she reached for the light switch. She blinked several times as she stared at the foreign image in front of her. She placed her fingertips against the smooth expanse of glass and trailed her finger along the round edges of her reflection. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d looked at herself in the mirror. She didn’t know what to think. Her face was swollen from all the crying and her lips were withered like a prune. She turned off the light and realizing she was thirsty, picked up the glass on the counter and filled it with tap water. She drained it in three gulps.

  Paula Pierce put the glass down on the counter and looked up.

  And that’s when Tracy Ellis remembered who she was.

  EIGHTY

  “Alright people, check your rundown, because the top of the show has just been turned upside down,” Tracy yelled out to no in particular and to everyone in particular. “We’re going with a live shot from the Loop where a fire has just broken out in a high-rise. Bryan and a crew are on their way over there now. We’re bumping our Wrigleyville dead bodies live shot to the second story and moving our abandoned comatose drug baby up to third—desk just told me he died. Stories four, five and six will stay the same.”

  Tracy’s fingers were flying across the keyboard faster than the words on the screen could keep up. She looked at the clock on her computer. The ten started in a little over an hour and she still had a ton of script changes to make. Tracy furrowed her brow and leaned closer to the screen, almost willing the changes to appear magically. The phone on her desk rang and a glance at the caller ID convinced her not to answer it. She kept typing and the ringing stopped. Then one of the desk assistants beeped her.

  “I’m busy, Frank,” Tracy said over the din of the newsroom to the desk, never taking her eyes off the screen. “Take a message or throw it into voicemail.”

  “It’s your husband. Said it’s important.”

  Tracy rolled her eyes and shook her head. “A hangnail is an emergency with him,” she muttered as she reluctantly let her fingers leave the keyboard to pick up the phone.

  “Phillip, I don’t have time to talk to right now. The newscast starts in an hour and I’ve got a lot to do before then.”

  “I don’t feel good about how we left things this morning.”

  “Phillip, please. Not now.”

  “But, Tracy, I just can’t concentrate on anything until I know that we’re okay. We’re okay, aren’t we?” His voice took on that pleading whininess that was like nails on a chalkboard to her ears.

  “Phillip, have a good convention. I’ll see you next week.”

  Tracy slammed the phone down and resumed her marathon tap-tapping across her keyboard. She groaned when the phone rang again and she saw Phillip’s cell phone number flash across the panel.

  She snatched up the phone. “Quit fucking calling me,” she said under her breath. “This is the fourth time in the last hour, now stop it.”

  “But, I miss you. I miss us. I just want things to be the way they used to be.”

  Tracy molded the creases of her forehead, wishing she could put the phone under her car and roll over it. Anything so he would just leave her alone.

  “If you call me one more time, just once, by the time you get back on Wednesday, I will have thrown all your stuff out. Got it?”

  “Tracy, please… ”

  “I am dead fucking serious. Goodbye.”

  She smashed the phone back in its cradle, took a deep breath and closed her eyes.

  “Bad news?”

  Tracy looke
d up to see Cicely standing in front of her sipping one of her ever-present Diet Cokes through a straw.

  Tracy forced a smile. “I’m fine. Just some stupid PR hack who keeps calling me to pitch something. Don’t they teach them in PR school not to call an hour before a newscast?”

  Cicely cocked her head. “Pretty late to be calling, even for a flack.”

  “Oh, it was from the West Coast. You know how flaky Californians are.” Tracy winked at Cicely to cover her agitation and looked back at the screen. “Did you see the top of the show changed?”

  Cicely nodded and took a sip of her Coke. “I did, but you haven’t said who is taking what yet.”

  Tracy scrunched her face as she took another look at the rundown. “Yeah, I keep getting interrupted,” she mumbled. “Check back in a few minutes, it’ll be done.”

  “Thanks, sweetie. See you in a bit.”

  Tracy spent the next twenty minutes polishing her show before she declared it done. She printed out a copy of the rundown and script, scooped up her bottle of water and joined the other producers in the control room. Tracy watched Cicely and her co-anchor Ken Allen on the monitors as they rehearsed to themselves, calling out words in a story and making scribbles or notations in the margins of their scripts. During this time, they were always oblivious to the other’s presence, concentrating on refining their own individual parts. But once that red light came on and the floor manager gave them their cue, they had the cuddly anchor shtick down pat.

  As the show progressed, Tracy kept a close eye on the timing and pacing of the stories and made notes, occasionally speaking into the microphone that was connected to the anchors’ earpieces. The team would have a wrap-up meeting of the show when the newscast was done to discuss what worked and what didn’t. At ten thirty-five, the closing credits rolled and the anchors bid the audience good night. The newscast post-mortem ended at a little past eleven and Tracy was happy to be heading home. Phillip would be out of town for a few days and she was looking forward to some time alone without his constant hovering. She had the number of a divorce lawyer and planned to call him so she could file for legal separation.

  “Hey, do wanna go grab a drink?” Cicely asked as she stopped by Tracy’s desk.

  Tracy picked up her Kate Spade bag and shook her head. “No, I’m gonna go ahead and head home. Get an early start on my mini-vacation.”

  The two women started to walk in the direction of the closet, where Tracy took out her white wool coat with black piping and shrugged her arms into it.

  “Well, a drink is the perfect way to start off a vacation. Get as drunk as you want since you don’t have to worry about stumbling in here tomorrow.”

  Tracy smiled. “I’m doing a spa day tomorrow and I don’t think a hangover would go good with that.”

  “Good point. Doing anything else fun this weekend?” Cicely asked as she buttoned her own coat.

  “Just relaxing and getting a few little projects done around the house.” Like sweeping my husband out of it.

  “I love my husband and kid, but there are times when it would be nice to come home to an empty house. I’m jealous.”

  Tracy chuckled as they walked over to the elevator that would carry them to the parking garage. “Yes, I’m looking forward to it.”

  “When’s Phillip back?” Cicely asked as the elevator dinged and the doors slid open.

  Tracy grimaced at the mention of her husband’s name. She’d been very cagey about what was really going on in her marriage. She wasn’t in the mood to hear the chorus of “I told you he was weird,” from people.

  “Wednesday,” she said as the punched the “P” button for parking.

  “What’s he out of town for again?”

  “Some pharmacy thing in Milwaukee.”

  “Ah.” Cicely nodded as the elevator reached the parking level.

  “Hey,” Tracy said and stopped to look at Cicely. “Let’s do something this weekend. Catch a movie or a beer. Or five. You could stay over so you don’t have to haul back to the ‘burbs. That is if they can spare you at the ranch.”

  “Are you kidding? Jimmy’s been out of town every weekend for a month. He owes me.”

  Tracy smiled. “Excellent.”

  “It’ll be like a slumber party. Can’t wait. Call me.”

  Tracy smiled again. “Okay. Talk to you then. Have a good show tomorrow.”

  “We’ll try to get along without you.”

  Tracy snorted. “Don’t try too hard. I need the gig. Later, sister.”

  “Bye.”

  The two women went in opposite directions to their cars—Cicely to her cream Escalade, Tracy to her black BMW. The teeny-tiny three-inch heels of Tracy’s tall black leather boots click-clacked across the cold concrete as she hurried to her car. She hit the button to start her car so it would be somewhat warm by the time she got there.

  She took one perfectly French-manicured nail and flipped on Sirius XM, smiling as the sounds of the Black Eyed Peas filled the car and she bopped her head along with the beat. As she backed out of the space, her cell phone started to sing “Let’s Stay Together,” from the bottom of her purse. It was Phillip’s ring. They had danced to that song at their wedding, and vowed to each other that night that no matter what, happy or sad, they would stay together.

  “What a difference six months makes,” Tracy said aloud as she let the call go to voicemail. She knew the phone would ring four or five more times before she got home. And she would ignore it four or five more times. Better yet… she reached into her purse and brought the phone out. She turned it off and threw it back in her bag. She turned up the music and sang along loudly as the Black Eyed Peas implored her to get it started.

  Northbound traffic on Lake Shore Drive was light as she wound her way home. This was always her favorite time. She enjoyed seeing the lights of the city winking at her; she sometimes winked back. She hummed to herself as she reached Belmont and thought about lazing in front of the TV eating chocolate chip cookies without anyone to complain about crumbs, or whine about the dish and glass she had yet to load into the dishwasher or the fact that her toothbrush was in the wrong slot in the cup holder. Yes, she was definitely looking forward to her freedom, both over the next few days and after she served Phillip with divorce papers.

  Tracy pressed the button to open the door of her garage and expertly guided her car inside. Shutting off the engine, Tracy gathered her purse, opened the door and ran outside. She pressed the remote again to close the door and darted through the alley to her front door. Shivering, she shoved her key into the lock and was grateful for the rush of warm air that washed over her as she stepped inside her house.

  Tracy flipped on the light and threw her keys in the silver bowl in the front hallway as she walked toward her bedroom, relishing the vivid colors and textures along the way. Rich red draped the walls of the hallways and kitchen; the deep tan walls of the living room were the perfect backdrop for her plum colored couch and love seat. Mahogany shelves housed books along with pictures and accessories. Crystal vases filled with fresh flowers made the house smell like a garden. Dimmers on all the lights and lamps in every room contributed to the overall cozy atmosphere. While it was a visually stimulating environment, it didn’t overwhelm with silly knickknacks collecting dust or junk just to have junk. She always thought it was weird for people to have stuff in their house just because they thought they should, not because it meant anything to them.

  Tracy turned on the bedroom lamp and dropped down onto the pewter colored duvet that covered her bed, a soft grunt escaping her throat. She unzipped her boots and tugged them from her tired feet. She wiggled her toes beneath her stockings before she pulled her silk chartreuse turtleneck sweater over her long brown hair and tossed it on the bed.

  Letting out another quiet groan, Tracy walked in her bra, black skirt and stocking feet to the bathroom to wash her face. She scrubbed the day from her face, feeling refreshed. She reached for her toothbrush and in an act of rebellion, put
it back in Phillip’s slot when she was done. He got so fussy about that stuff. She’d never understood it. It hadn’t bothered her that much before they got married, but now, like so many other things, it bugged the shit out of her.

  Tracy finished undressing and pulled on a pair of blue polka-dotted pajama bottoms and baby blue tank top before she headed into the living room. She dimmed the overhead lights and scanned the elaborate metal CD shelf until she found what she was looking for. It was a jazz compilation CD Sondra had gotten her for her birthday years ago and the melancholy riffs spoke to the cloud she was under tonight. She wondered how Sondra was. She hadn’t seen her since the wedding and they’d only had sporadic communication since she left. Tracy missed her sister and couldn’t wait for her to come home.

  She inserted the disk into the stereo and the plaintive wail of a weeping saxophone purred out of the speakers. Her bare feet shuffled over the maple hardwood floors as she padded into the kitchen. Tracy slid a goblet from the wine rack and clamped her hand around the bottle of Riesling in the refrigerator before she carried both into the living room. She settled into the deep welcoming cushions of her couch and poured a glass of wine. Tracy took a long, thoughtful sip before she leaned back with a sad sigh and contemplated the state of her life.

  She had run into an old acquaintance at an industry gig about a month ago. Tracy remembered she’d gone through a divorce about a year earlier. She made up a story that she was looking to do a piece about divorce and asked for the name of her attorney to get her started. The woman whipped the guy’s card out of her wallet and handed it to Tracy. She’d kept his number tucked away, not sure if she was really ready to pick up the phone and dial those numbers. If nothing else, she wanted to have options.