Playing Dirty

by Liliana Hart

  Over the years, the third floor had become my sanctuary when I had something to hide from. It was the first place I ran when life got hard. Maybe because it was a conscious reminder that, no matter how hard life got, I wouldn’t end up like my grandmother. Or maybe it was because I had nowhere else to go.

  I got to my feet, the stretch and pull of muscles making me feel much older than my three-plus decades. I was still in my clothes from the day before. Changing had seemed trivial. But I pulled on a thick robe to help with the chill as I opened the door to the bedroom and stepped out into the hall.

  I wasn’t the only occupant of the funeral home. As far as weeks went, it hadn’t been my favorite. There were two bodies, each in a different viewing room and ready for burial, that had been the victims of a tornado that had swept through the week before.

  I’d buried a father and daughter only yesterday, grateful my emotions seemed to be in a state of paralysis due to my current personal crisis. The funeral had been one of the hardest I’d done, watching a wife and mother put her world into the ground while she silently fell apart.

  Time had moved differently over the past forty-eight hours. It was a blur, yet interminably long. But life kept moving around me, despite my desperation for everything to stop. There were still employees, families, and victims to deal with. Life and death were an unceasing circle, and if I could count on nothing else in this world, I could always count on the dead.

  I padded down the stairs to the second-floor landing, where the carpet changed from threadbare to soft and plush beneath my feet. I always left the lights on at the front of the funeral home. There had been attempted break-ins a time or two through the years, usually kids thinking it would be cool to spend Halloween night inside with the bodies who temporarily lived here.

  I’d thought the same when I was a teenager. We’d dress in our costumes and lie to our parents about where we were going—not that my parents cared one way or the other what I did with my time—and then Vaughn would sneak beer he’d stolen from his father and I’d let everyone inside with the extra key of the funeral home I’d filched from my parents.

  Jack and Dickie would bring snacks and we’d tell stories and scare ourselves to death, never lasting all the way through the night before we ended up back at the Lawsons’ and the security of knowing no one was going to murder us in our sleep. It was a bittersweet memory. Most of my memories involved Jack.

  I quickened my steps to outrun my thoughts and tied the belt of my robe a little tighter. If my brain couldn’t be bothered with sleep, at least it could be bothered with work. I figured I’d eventually exhaust myself and I’d have no choice but to sleep.

  I veered away from the viewing rooms and offices and headed toward the side of the large Colonial that was reserved for employee use. I flipped on the kitchen lights and squinted against the brightness, and then I moved automatically to the coffee maker.

  Making lists was my way of keeping it together—whether it was mentally naming the muscles in the body, writing a grocery list, or organizing everything in my desk drawers—organization was my coping mechanism. I knew with my depression it was good to make plans for the future. Not ten years from now, but ten minutes and ten hours from now. It was the little accomplishments that would get me through this. I’d been getting through things alone my whole life. I could do it now.

  There were no embalmings and no autopsies waiting for me, though I’d gotten word that Lucinda Marks was on hospice and that I should expect a call to come get her within the next few days.

  I’d signed off on payroll the day before, so there was nothing left to do on the bookkeeping end of things. I had a ten o’clock funeral to prepare for, but I’d already checked the details—flowers and pallbearers and the church arrangements were already taken care of. It would be at St. Paul’s, and the burial would be on-site in the church cemetery. If the incoming rain would hold off for just a little while, it would make life easier for everyone involved. But I wasn’t holding out much hope. I felt like I’d had a black raincloud hovering over me for the last two days.

  I had another viewing later in the evening, and my weekend was booked with the last of the tornado victims. Staying at the funeral home made sense with my schedule as hectic as it had been. And if I worked myself to the bone, I might finally get some rest.

  I’d turned my cell phone off a couple of days before, when the reporters had filled up my voicemail and their messages had gone from pleading to whiny to threatening. I wasn’t even sure where my cell phone was at the moment. But if anyone needed to reach me, they could do it through the main line of the funeral home.

  I felt bad about pushing the task of being my bulldog and keeping the wolves at bay onto Emmy Lu, but she could hold her own against anyone. A few bolder reporters had tried pushing their way into the funeral home, but there were laws that protect the dead, even against freedom of the press, and a few of the reporters needed reminding that I had arresting powers as coroner. At least for a little while. I’d not managed to get more than a sentence of my resignation written. I wasn’t sure why it needed to be longer than a sentence, but it seemed after everything I’d put into the job that it deserved more.

  Married life was hard, but it was even harder in the spotlight. Jack had a high-profile job with a lot of stress attached, and I had become more high profile over the last couple of years due to the victims we’d served. Living life in the fishbowl wasn’t always good. The situation we were in now was a perfect example. I didn’t need our lives and the details of our marriage splashed across the front page—both true and untrue. One of us needed a normal life if things were going to work between us. We’d burn ourselves out if we kept going the direction we were going.

  Jack was called to lead. My position could easily be sacrificed. And maybe if I resigned we could have normal conversations that didn’t revolve around death, or find our innermost secrets shared with the world.

  My routine had been consistent the last two days. When the staff left to go home in the afternoon, I locked the doors behind them, set the alarm, and sequestered myself in my office. I kept the phone off the hook and ignored the occasional knock on the door or ring of the bell. If there was a body to collect, the answering service would take the call and get hold of my assistant, Sheldon Durkus.

  I wasn’t sure if my isolation was because I was afraid of the reporters, or because it might be Jack trying to reach me. And then I realized how stupid that was, because if Jack had really wanted to reach me, there would’ve been nothing to stand in his way.

  I opened the fridge and picked up the creamer, sniffing it to make sure it was still good before I poured a small amount in my coffee cup. I always added my creamer and sugar first and then poured the coffee on top so I didn’t have to dirty a spoon. And on the days when cream and sugar seemed like too much work, I drank it black. I wasn’t necessarily picky about how caffeine got into my system, so long as it did.

  I still had a few hours until my staff showed up, so that left me plenty of time to stand under the hot water in the shower in my office. Maybe with the heat from the coffee and the hot water, I could finally get warm.

  My office was just off the kitchen, and I started to make my way in that direction when there was a sharp rap at the door. I jerked to a stop and hot coffee splashed over the rim of the cup and onto my hand. I stared at it, trying to get my brain to register the pain, even as my skin turned red.

  My reactions were slow, but instinct took over. I reached into the drawer of the island and grabbed the small revolver, the plastic grip rough in my hand. And then I waited. There was another knock. This one less intense, and then I felt my heart stop as I heard Jack’s voice.

  “Jaye,” he said. “I know you’re in there. I saw the lights come on. I’m coming in.”

  I looked around frantically. I couldn’t do this right now. I wasn’t prepared to see him. I’d spent the last two days trying to figure out what I’d say to him if I ever saw him again, but I�
��d come up with nothing. There were no words to combat against the broken pieces of my heart.

  I heard the key turning in the lock, and still I stood as if my feet were cemented to the floor. My heartbeat fluttered erratically at the base of my throat as the door opened and the alarm started beeping its warning before being quickly shut off. I needed to run. To hide. Not in fear. I could never fear Jack. But I hadn’t realized until this week what marriage really meant—that there were pieces of yourself that belonged to the other and it was their job to shelter and protect those pieces. And when they didn’t shelter and protect those most delicate parts of the heart and soul, the destruction left in their place seemed impossible to repair.

  Tears stung my eyes and I blinked rapidly. I couldn’t afford to let him see me cry. I hadn’t been able to cry since I’d walked out of the house and away from the life I thought we were starting together.

  I hadn’t looked at myself in the mirror, and I didn’t know what I looked like, but I knew for certain I wasn’t at my best. After looking at Jack, it seemed I wasn’t alone in that, though it was little consolation.

  Jack had entered through the side door where we bring the bodies through, and I heard his footsteps as he came through the mudroom, each step filling me with dread. His face had haunted my dreams the past two nights, but the man who looked at me now seemed almost a stranger.

  Jack was a big man—imposing—but he looked withered inside his frame. He hadn’t shaved, but the beard didn’t disguise the shadows in his face. Like me, he still wore his work clothes and they were slightly rumpled, so I knew he’d put in a long day. There were dark circles under his eyes, and when I finally found the courage to meet his gaze, I saw nothing but misery there.

  He glanced down at my hand holding the revolver and said, “I guess I probably deserve that.”

  I’d forgotten I was holding it, and I quickly put it back in the drawer. I wasn’t sure I had the voice to speak. I was trying to focus on breathing at the moment, so speaking seemed less important.

  I don’t know how long we stood there, staring at each other as if we’d never known the other. My emotions were all over the place. There was hurt, yes. But I also had pride and a great deal of anger. I could feel it rumbling beneath the surface. I rarely got angry—really and truly angry—but when I did it was usually with destructive words that could never be taken back. Hurt others before they could hurt me—the Graves family motto.

  “Jaye,” Jack finally said, his voice raspy. “I screwed up. And I’m sorry.”

  I’d imagined an apology would make me feel better, but it didn’t. I could see the sincerity in his words, and even as angry and hurt as I was, I hated to see the pain he was carrying. But his apology barely penetrated my numbness.

  “It’s taken you two days to figure out that you screwed up?” I asked, my fists clenching. I shoved them in the pockets of my robe, but I knew he’d noticed. Jack noticed everything.

  “I knew I’d screwed up the second I heard the front door close behind you,” he said. “I should have stopped you, but I didn’t. I was overwhelmed and needed some space, but I know space was probably the worst thing I could have given you. I kept telling myself I just needed to give myself a little more time to figure out what to do. But I was just holding off this meeting because I was embarrassed and ashamed and afraid.”

  “Afraid?” I asked. Fear wasn’t something Jack normally dealt with. He was smart and calculating and he went into situations prepared and with eyes wide open.

  “Afraid I screwed up so bad I’d lost you,” he admitted.

  I didn’t say anything, and he pressed his lips together and nodded, understanding my silence for my own conflict as far as the future of our relationship.

  “I know you weren’t the one to go to the press about Lydia,” he said. “I know you’d never betray me. But it’s an old wound.” He put his hands on his hips and let out a breath. “And if I’m being honest I guess it’s an old wound that’s never healed. Can I have some of that coffee? I haven’t slept in a while.”

  I nodded and moved out of the way so I didn’t have to cross his path. I didn’t want the familiarity of his scent or accidental touch. I could only withstand against so much. I didn’t watch him pour the coffee, but stood with my back to him, wishing I’d opened all the blinds so I could look out into the early morning darkness.

  “When I read the story on the front page of the paper, I was blindsided,” he said. “Everything that happened with Lydia.” He stopped and sighed and I turned around just in time to see the anguish on his face. “It’d be stupid not to admit the whole situation didn’t hurt. I’ve got a son somewhere out there I know nothing about and have never seen. Before you and I finally stopped dancing around and got together I would think about what my life would be like now if Lydia had chosen me and let me be a father. But I can’t regret that. What she and I had burned hot and faded fast. And if we’d stayed together out of duty for a child, I’d never have known the gift of you.”

  He dropped his head and stared into the depths of his coffee. My heart broke for him. “I wanted to be a father,” he admitted. And then he made a sound that was somewhere between a laugh and a sob. “I wasn’t ready to be a father, but I wanted to be one. And over the years, I’ve tried to make myself forget. And at certain times, I did forget.” He sighed and took a sip, giving himself a chance to get control. “I never told anyone but you. I’m not even sure why I told you. I had this thought that keeping it to myself was like a punishment, but now everybody knows.”

  “I never told anyone,” I said, my throat dry.

  “I know that,” he said. “If I’d had a thought in my head when I read the headline and you hadn’t been the closest target, common sense would have eventually prevailed. I’m sorry. And I’m asking you to forgive me. You are the most important person in my life, and the last two days have been hell. I don’t care about the election or Floyd Parker or the fact that I’ve been dodging my mother for two days. I don’t care that investors and lobbyists have been trying to bully their way into King George and the last person they want to win this election is me. I don’t care how Floyd found out about Lydia or anything else I’ve done in my life. Nothing matters but you.”

  A single tear fell to my cheek, but I didn’t wipe it away. My thoughts were all in a jumble, and though I understood everything Jack was saying, I’d retreated into protection mode. I couldn’t trust myself or my decisions, and apologies and forgiveness didn’t magically take away the hurt and brokenness I was feeling. It didn’t take away the feeling that I was the one who’d been betrayed.

  I cleared my throat and felt another tear hit my cheek. “Jack,” I said. Even saying his name was difficult. “Believe it or not, I understand everything you’re saying. I know you well. Or at least thought I did before two days ago. Now I’m not so sure. But I knew this was something you carried deep inside of you. I wished you’d felt comfortable sharing your feelings with me, but you had your reasons for staying quiet. I also understand the stress you’ve been under, whether you want to admit the election is getting to you or not.”

  It hurt to breathe, each inhale feeling like knives in my chest. “This matters. You’re good at your job and the people in this county need you. And personally, I don’t see what the big deal is about this breaking news. Sure, this is small-town Virginia with old Southern values, but everyone has skeletons in their closet. We could have handled this together, as a team, and everyone in town would’ve been talking about it because that’s what they do. But they would’ve moved on eventually.

  “I could even understand why your first thought was that I’d let something slip at some point in my life. It’s a logical conclusion if you know you’ve never told that secret to another living soul.” I finally reached up and wiped the tears from my cheeks. The more I talked, the more the anger that had been suppressed by the hurt wanted to surface. “What I can’t understand is why you didn’t believe me when I told you I didn’t. We
’re supposed to believe in each other. Have each other’s backs. Always. Right? I thought that’s what marriage was. I was mistakenly under the impression that you trusted me. That if I told you to believe me and believe in me, that you would. No questions asked. Because that’s how much I believe in you.”

  I ignored the tears in Jack’s eyes. I had to or I would completely fall apart. “Do I forgive you?” I asked him. “Of course I do. I still love you. I still support you. I still believe in you. But I don’t know who I am to you, Jack. I know I’ve always trusted you, but I don’t know if I can trust you with my heart. I’d be lying if I said you didn’t do some serious damage to me as a person. You have five days until the election. It’s time to pull ourselves together and do damage control. But I need some time and space to think things through on a personal level. I’m too tired to make any rational decisions right now.”

  “Fair enough,” Jack said. “But I’m not going to give up on us. I’ll never stop coming for you. You’re it for me, Jaye. And I’ll give you your space, but I won’t let you run and hide forever. I’d bring you back from the ends of the earth or follow you there if I had to.”

  His gaze was dark and intense, and he set down his coffee, barely touched. I wasn’t surprised. I made terrible coffee. And he walked around the island and back toward the entrance of the mudroom. He stopped when he got there and turned back to face me.

  “I know this isn’t over yet,” he said. “We’ve still got a lot to talk about and work through. But I’m just asking that you don’t give up on me. The unwavering faith that you had in me, I’m asking that you don’t lose that. I wish I could say that the hard part is over, but things could get harder.”

  I couldn’t think that far ahead right now. My brain was fuzzy.

  “Go back to bed,” Jack said. “You’re asleep on your feet.”