Live and Let Die

by Bianca Sloane

  That is until her cup had tipped over a few days later. She and Cicely had spent a Saturday holed up at the station editing a special series to air during sweeps week. When she got home, Phillip had unleashed a tirade against her for valuing her job more than him, for leaving him alone all day—what was he supposed to do without her? He’d badgered her, hurled insults at her before falling to her feet, begging her to never leave him. At that moment, Tracy knew there was no saving the marriage. Phillip was too far gone.

  She decided to wait and pull the trigger while he was out of town for his pharmacy conference. That way, when he got back, she’d be ready. She would call Damon Randall tomorrow and see if she could make an appointment for next week. She’d get the locks on the house changed; the house was still in her name and Phillip contributed nothing toward the mortgage and barely anything towards its upkeep, so she doubted that would be a problem. She would have the divorce papers drawn up and urge Phillip to quickly and quietly put their marriage out of its misery.

  Tracy had never wanted it to come to this, but he’d left her no choice. She’d tried to reason with him, suggested counseling, tried the patient approach, tried the loving approach. But each and every time, it was the same thing. The clinging and the jealousy. The erratic behavior. One minute, he would opine about how much he loved her and how important she was to him, the next what a bitch she was because she wouldn’t spend every minute of the day with him. He had expected after they got married that she would quit her job. She thought he was kidding, but his constant whining made it clear he was serious. He resented the time she spent with friends, tried many times to crack her voicemail code so he could listen to her messages. If she hadn’t thought he’d call every single person who left her a voicemail, demanding to know who they were, she would have happily given it to him. She and Jack had had each other’s voicemail codes, but Jack wasn’t crazy.

  God. She hadn’t thought about Jack in a while. She always thought they would get married. Her friends all loved him, her parents were crazy about him, his about her. Unfortunately, he didn’t want to get married, said he probably never would. So she left. Not too long after that, she’d met Phillip. Maybe that’s what most of the attraction had been. She knew Phillip was ready to commit.

  Tracy had wondered many times over these past few months how she got here. Had she missed the signs? Had she been so burned by Jack’s refusal to get married, that she’d blinded herself to Phillip’s neuroses?

  Maybe.

  Or maybe he was just that good at hiding them.

  She thought back to the fight they’d had before he left for Milwaukee. She told him to have a good trip and he had replied that she was probably thrilled he’d be gone so she could spend the weekend cruising the clubs for one night stands. She’d just rolled her eyes and told him goodbye, her resolve stronger than ever. He’d sensed her disgust and perhaps her ambivalence and, per his usual, dropped to his knees begging her forgiveness. Nevertheless, the damage was done. It had reaffirmed her decision that she was doing the right thing.

  She just didn’t know who he was anymore. She took a huge gulp of wine.

  Maybe she never had.

  EIGHTY-ONE

  Sunlight poked through the sheers of Tracy’s bedroom urging her to wake up. She propped one eye open and looked over at the clock on the nightstand. Eight. She stretched across the bed, relishing that she was in it alone. She flung the sheets and duvet back, swung her legs around and placed her feet on the floor. She’d go for a quick jog, hop in the shower and then… make the call. Satisfied, she bounded into the bathroom to empty her bladder and brush her teeth. She hastily threw on some stretch pants and a long-sleeved blue jogging top. As she twisted her hair into a ponytail holder, she wondered where she’d left her chapstick. She found it in the pocket of her green windbreaker and glossed her lips with it. She stopped in the kitchen to drain a glass of orange juice before she grabbed her keys out of the bowl.

  She did a few warm-up stretches before she started with a slow jog toward Belmont Harbor. It was freezing outside, but Tracy didn’t let that deter her. She tried to run at least four times a week, five if she was having a good week.

  Not many people were out on the lakefront this frigid morning. This was one of the perks of working from two to eleven. By the time she was out, everyone else was at work, so it was like having the trail to herself. She pumped her arms and relished the crunch of the gravel beneath her feet. She passed the snack shack, now deserted but a welcome friend in the summer months thanks to the abundance of cold drinks it served to the masses that crowded Lake Michigan’s sandy beaches. She continued on, whizzing past the green Indian statue as the wind whooshed in her ears.

  She was coming up on Diversey Harbor and she looked up to see Chicago’s skyline. She would run up to Oak Street Beach, then turn around and run back, overall about six miles. She was in the zone. Sweat beaded her forehead and her ponytail had become a chocolate blur against the white morning sky as her feet popped against the ground like gunfire. Her nose began to run but she didn’t care. She was alive.

  And soon… soon she’d be free.

  EIGHTY-TWO

  Damon Randall’s card had been wedged underneath a stack of papers on her desk at work, so she popped in to grab it and was on her way. She called him from the car on her way to see Trish at Tricocci for her regular six-week wash and trim. He could see her on Monday. She’d have to remember to put that in her date book when she got home. Trish gave her the usual. She’d been growing her bangs out since the wedding and her long brown hair hung straight down her back with a part down the middle, kind of like Cher circa Sonny and Cher. She was thinking in the summer she’d go shoulder-length, and maybe get some highlights. Divorce would probably be final by then. An updated look would be in order.

  After her facial, massage, manicure and pedicure, Tracy was in a fantastic mood. She looked revitalized, she would see Damon Randall on Monday, Phillip was gone until Wednesday and even then, she wouldn’t have to see him for very long.

  Tracy hummed to herself, looking forward to a quiet night at home, when like one of those shampoo commercials with a wind machine and slow-mo camera work, she saw him.

  Jack.

  His six foot two inch frame filled out his black leather coat like a shrink-wrapped package, and on cue, Tracy’s senses filled with that intoxicating scent of rich leather and Lagerfeld cologne.

  He stopped when he saw her, a small smile pulling at his lips, his paper-white teeth in stark, beautiful contrast to his silky chocolate skin. She tried to hide her feeble smile and gave him a little wave.

  “T. It’s been a while.”

  She swallowed and tried to force the words out. “Yeah. It has.”

  He cupped the fist of his right hand into the palm of his left. “So word on the street is you’re an old married lady now. Congratulations.” He touched her elbow and she trembled. “I’m happy for you.”

  Tracy forced herself to smile. “Oh, yeah, thank you, thank you,” she said with false sentiment. “What about you?”

  “No, no, just keeping busy with work.”

  “Some things never change.”

  They both stood on the sidewalk, shivering and looking at each other in uncomfortable silence.

  “Do you want to grab a drink?” he asked finally. “Ian’s is just up the street.”

  Tracy pinched her lips together for a moment and looked off to the side. “Sure,” she said as she turned back to face him.

  They walked south on Michigan Avenue in the direction of one of their old haunts. The longtime, flame-haired waitress, Stacy, would always greet them with a Riesling for Tracy and a Scotch neat for Jack. They would sit huddled in the corner of the small room, nursing their drinks for the better part of an hour before heading home for the night. Tracy was apprehensive now as Jack pushed the revolving door for her and they found themselves standing at the threshold of their past.

  “Well, hello you two. Haven’t seen you in
here for a long time,” Stacy said, a smile curling beneath the familiar smear of orange paint across her lips. “How’ve you been?”

  Tracy opened her mouth to spit out another forced gaiety when Jack stepped in. “We’re good, Stacy, thank you.” Jack said smoothly, as if he sensed Tracy’s reluctance for small talk. “We’ll have the usual.”

  Stacy nodded, beaming. “Coming right up,” she said as she made the few steps to the bar.

  Jack held out a chair for Tracy and helped her into it before settling into the chair across from hers. Tracy shrugged out of her coat and pulled off her leather gloves and placed them on the table in front of her, casting nervous glances around the bar the entire time. She shifted in her chair and cleared her throat several times while Jack continued to sit in silence, hunched over on the table looking at her. Finally, she let her eyes come to rest on his penetrating gaze.

  “So,” she said. “You’re good?”

  He nodded before he let his chin drop into the palm of his right hand. “Yeah, yeah. Both places are doing really well, and I’m thinking in a couple of years I might try to do L.A. or New York. But I want to take it slow, you know? Make sure I’ve got all my stuff together.”

  Stacy slid Jack and Tracy’s drinks in front of them before retreating to the far end of the bar. Tracy let her fingers slip along the stem of her wine glass, afraid of what she knew was coming next. She picked up the glass and took a long gulp, enjoying the warmth as it crawled down her throat and into her stomach.

  “That’s great,” she said placing her glass back on the table. “I mean that you’re thinking about expanding into other markets.”

  He nodded, watching her. “How’s Channel Four?”

  “Um, good. Still number one in the market, still crazy, but I love it.”

  He chuckled. “Man. I remember when you first got here, that show was number four behind reruns of ‘The Golden Girls.’ You’ve come a long way.”

  “Oh. Yeah,” she chuckled. “Thanks.”

  “I saw Cicely not too long ago. She looks good.”

  Tracy licked her lips. “Oh, yeah, she mentioned that,” Tracy said as she picked up her wine glass for another long swallow.

  “So how’s married life?”

  Tracy almost choked. “Huh?”

  Jack gave her a small smile. “You used to always get this way when you had a big project coming up.”

  Tracy frowned. “Get what way?”

  He looked down sheepishly before he met her questioning stare. “Whenever you were about to get into something big—like you had a big story you were researching, or doing something to the house, you would get real quiet, not always talking like you usually do. Distracted.” He leaned closer. “So what are you working on?”

  Tracy looked into his brown eyes and longed to tell him that she was miserable and ask him where they had gone wrong. Instead, she flashed him one of her patented bright and shiny smiles. “You’re right. Big story… nothing I can really talk about. You understand.”

  Jack gulped his Scotch and nodded. He circled one long, slender finger around the rim of his glass as he stared down into the watery brown liquid inside. Tracy pursed her lips, watching as he did this. She’d always loved his hands.

  “You didn’t answer my question,” he said, never looking up. “How’s married life?”

  It was Tracy’s turn to look down at her drink in an effort to avoid the topic. Finally, she shrugged. “Fine,” she said before she smiled again.

  “T… ?”

  “Yes?”

  Jack licked his lips and looked into Tracy’s eyes. “Are you happy?” he asked, his voice low and husky.

  Tracy squeezed her lips together and fought to keep the tears from slipping out of her eyes.

  “No,” she finally whispered. Horrified, Tracy fumbled for her gloves on the table and stood up, the legs of her chair refusing to move. The table almost tipped over as she tried to run out of the restaurant before she lost it completely. Jack held out his arm to try to stop her from leaving.

  “T, wait!”

  Tracy gave her chair a quick shove as it stumbled over the dark carpet.

  “Goodbye, Jack,” she murmured, the tears hovering just beneath the rims of her eyes.

  Jack tried to stand and only succeeded in banging his knee against the table. He grunted and cursed under his breath and twisted around to run after Tracy. He darted out into the street and searched in vain for her.

  But it was too late.

  She was gone.

  EIGHTY-THREE

  Tracy ran all the way back to the garage at the Nine Hundred North building to get her car. The tears that streaked her face evaporated as they made contact with the icy surface of her cheeks. She wasn’t altogether sure how she made it home, likely by rote, but before she knew it, she was pulling into her garage. She sat in her car crying for a few moments before she took a long, shuddering breath and dabbed at her eyes with the sleeve of her sweater.

  She finally opened the car door and got out. She went through the alley and was about to unlock the front door when she remembered she was in such a hurry to come in from the cold last night, she hadn’t checked the mail. She flipped the top of the box open and grabbed the envelopes shoved inside. There was a thick manila envelope wedged in such a way that a corner of it had caught on a groove at the bottom of the box, ripping the paper.

  She looked at the envelope she’d just torn. The whole front with the address on it had been pulled away so she had to reach in and bring the contents out so she could read them.

  At first, she frowned.

  Then she was confused.

  And then she was pissed.

  “That fucker,” she said as she shook her head, still not believing what she was seeing. She thumbed through the thick report, reading in disbelief. It was a detailed dossier on her comings and goings for the past two months. From what she wore each day, to every time she’d gone out for lunch or dinner or a work event. The summary had concluded that the subject was not having an affair.

  “He hired a detective to follow me,” she said, stunned. “Motherfucker,” she said as she slammed the report down on the hall table. The silver bowl jumped down and clattered against the hardwood floors. She started to pace the hallway, wondering yet again how she’d gotten into this mess.

  “That’s what you get for not going to the dentist for fifty years,” she said with a bitter laugh. She looked down at the report for a moment before she snatched it back up. She’d take it to Kinko’s tomorrow and make a copy to take with her to Damon Randall’s office on Monday.

  “Well, Phillip,” she said as she tucked the report under her arm and went into her office. “You’ve just made my case for me. Thank you very much.”

  She opened a desk drawer and tossed it inside. She’d go to Kinko’s tomorrow, call the locksmith and pack up his shit. All of her relaxation from earlier in the day had vanished. Seeing Jack, the discovery that her husband had her followed… It was almost too much to handle. Tracy pulled the half-full bottle of Riesling from the fridge and plopped down on the couch, exhausted.

  EIGHTY-FOUR

  First, she heard the doorknob being jiggled. She jumped up from her nap on the couch and grabbed the empty wine bottle, ready to smash it over who ever was about to appear. She remembered her phone was in her purse, which was still sitting next to the hallway table. Phillip’s face emerged, a sheepish grin on his face.

  “Hi,” he said as he dropped his keys into his coat pocket.

  Tracy lowered the wine bottle. “What the hell are you doing here? You’re not supposed to be back until Wednesday.”

  He held his hands out in front of him in a pleading motion. “I know, I know, it’s just that I kept calling you last night and you didn’t answer and I just needed to talk to you.”

  “So you drove all the way from Milwaukee.”

  “It’s only an hour and a half away. I told you last night, I hated how we left things. I couldn’t stop thinking a
bout you, so I hopped in the car to come home so we could work things out.”

  Tracy heaved a huge, tired sigh, realizing she was pretty buzzed. “Didn’t you tell me you were sitting on a panel tomorrow?”

  “I’m skipping it.”

  “You know Phillip… there really isn’t anything else to say. I think we both know where this is headed.”

  “No… no… ” Fat tears rimmed Phillip’s eyes. “Don’t say that. Anything but that.”

  “Phillip, I’ve tried everything and you just keep on with this… crazy behavior… and I’m done. We’re done.”

  “I’ll change, I’ll get help, I’ll get the therapy. Whatever you want, I’ll do it, but please, please don’t walk out on me.”

  “There’s something else.”

  Phillip started to tremble. “Oh… God. There’s someone else, isn’t there? You’re leaving me for another man.”

  Tracy leaned back against the couch cushions. “Not according to your detective.”

  Phillip gasped and put his hands over his mouth. “How did you find out?” he whispered through his fingers.

  “Your little report came here today. The corner of the envelope got caught in the mailbox, ripped the whole front of it off. Front page, plain as day, ‘Surveillance on Tracy Ellis’.” Tracy shook her head. “So stupid to have it sent here, Phillip. So stupid. But I have to thank you. It’s finally in black and white that you need some help.”

  Phillip let out a howl and beat his hands against his temples. “They won’t let me get personal mail at work,” he said, that all-too-familiar whimper creeping into his voice. “I told him to wait, wait until I got back into town and I would pick it up.” He banged his palm against the wall. “Damn it,” he whispered.

  Tracy shook her head, in shock over Phillip’s delusions. “Yeah, well, it doesn’t matter anyway. I’m filing for divorce.”

  Phillip stopped his tirade and looked up at Tracy, his face swabbed in fear. “What?”