Theresa Monsour

by Cold Blood

  “Why?”

  “You sound like shit.”

  She decided he was right. She needed to pull her thoughts together, write it all down. There might be some holes in her theory. Her brain wasn’t completely focused on work right now. “Know what? I think I will sleep on it.”

  “Good. Catch you tomorrow in the A.M. Later, Potato Head.”

  She hung up and slipped the phone in her purse. One of these days she’d have to tell him to lay off on the Potato Head talk. She started the Jeep, pulled out of the parking lot and turned onto the interstate. She was on automatic pilot during the drive home. For once she wished she had a partner so she could ask him to take the wheel. She inserted a compact disc into the CD player. Nat King Cole’s “Unforgettable” filled the interior like warm bathwater.

  Traffic was light coming out of Moose Lake, but got heavier as she got closer to the Twin Cities. She checked the clock on the Jeep. A little early for rush hour. She took a downtown exit. Cut through downtown. Crossed the Wabasha Bridge and went home. She saw Jack’s car in the yacht club parking lot. What was he doing there? She wasn’t ready to tell him anything. She pulled into a parking spot, turned off the engine and sat for a minute. The beginnings of three different speeches ran through her mind. I’m sorry I cheated on you. I’m sorry but if you don’t try harder, we’re through. I’m sorry but I’m tired, need to be alone tonight. That last one sounded the best. Gave her some time. Okay, she thought, speech number three. She had no idea what she’d say after that first sentence, but figured something would come to her. She grabbed her keys and her purse and slid out of the driver’s seat. Slammed the door. Went around back and opened the gate to get her bag. She walked down the dock and noticed a pair of mallards bobbing in the water. She had some stale flatbread. She’d toss it out to them later. She opened the door to her houseboat and walked in, her mind a jumble of Jack and Erik and ducks and bread.

  He was standing in the living room looking out the patio doors. He was still dressed in his scrubs. Some days she wondered if he had any other clothes. She dropped her bag on the galley floor and tossed her keys and purse on the kitchen table. He didn’t greet her. Something was wrong. “You lied,” he said, his back still turned to her.

  “What?” she asked.

  “The flowers. I called your mother. Told her we weren’t going to be over for dinner. I asked why she sent the flowers.”

  Murphy looked at the bouquet on the kitchen table. Covered her mouth with her right hand. With her left, she grabbed the back of a kitchen chair for support. She didn’t say anything. Not one word came to mind. None of her speeches would work. Her brain was a blank sheet of paper: white, flat, flimsy, useless. The house was silent. Outside, she heard the sound of a speedboat. She wished whoever was piloting it would stop by, interrupt this, take her away.

  Jack: “Who?”

  She didn’t hesitate; no point in hiding it any longer. “Erik Mason.”

  His back stiffened. He knew Erik. They’d worked together on different medical committees and projects over the years. “How long?”

  “Does it matter?” She didn’t want to go into details. This was too painful.

  He turned around to face her. He poked his right index finger in his chest. “It fucking matters to me. How long?” She didn’t answer right away. Louder: “How long?”

  “Since the summer. That night you left for the medical conference. It was just that once. I was so wound up over that case…” Her voice trailed off. She didn’t want to give excuses.

  He took a step toward her. “Are you blaming this on me? This is my fault somehow?”

  “No,” she said in a low voice.

  He took another step toward her. “Do you think I ever cheated on you? Slept with another woman, even when we were separated?”

  “No,” she said.

  “Did I ever hit you, abuse you in some way?”

  A mean, spiteful question that stung her. She shook her head. “No. Of course not.”

  “Was I a lousy lover?”

  She looked into his eyes. He was genuinely concerned that their sex life was the problem. It mystified her. Didn’t he realize it was the one thing that wasn’t at issue? “You’re a wonderful lover. You know that.”

  “I don’t know anything anymore.” He ran his fingers through his hair. “Why, then? Why?” She didn’t answer. A long silence. Then: “Do you love him?”

  The one question she dreaded. She looked down. Covered her forehead with her right hand and with her left still held onto the chair back. She felt as if the kitchen chair was the only thing keeping her from falling through the floor into an abyss. A special hell reserved for unfaithful wives. “I don’t know,” she said. She looked up with tears in her eyes. Then the only words she found useful from her prepared speeches: “I’m sorry.”

  He rubbed his face with his hands and said through them, “Me too.”

  She let go of the chair back and was surprised to see her legs still worked. She walked across the galley into the living room. She tried to wrap her arms around him but he pushed her away and turned toward the river again. The fall sun was starting to fade on the water. Come night, the Mississippi would be as black as ink. She spoke to his back and found the words easier than when she faced him. “I still love you and I think you still love me,” she said.

  “Nice words,” he said.

  She ignored it. “But we don’t get along. We can’t even live under the same roof. What kind of marriage is that?”

  “One I thought we could save,” he said sadly.

  “We still could,” she said. “You… we need to work harder at it.”

  He turned and faced her. He grabbed her shoulders. “Tell me something. Did you fuck him upstairs, in the same bed where we made love? On the same sheets? Or did you have the courtesy to change them?”

  Hateful words that made her cringe and feel even guiltier. Dirtier. It had been in the same bed, on the same sheets. Her only response was a plea: “God, Jack. Please. Stop.”

  He pushed her backward onto the couch and leaned over her. She dug her fingers into the cushions, bracing for another verbal assault. “You and Erik can both go to hell. We’re through. Take this souvenir with you.” He pulled her to him, kissed her hard on the mouth. She tried to pull away from him; he was frightening her. He grabbed each side of her head with his hands and held her mouth to his. Almost a minute went by. He withdrew his mouth, but not before biting her bottom lip.

  She yelped and fell back against the couch. “Jack!”

  He stood up and walked out, slamming the door so hard it shook the galley cupboards.

  She touched her mouth with her right hand. Looked at her fingertips. Blood. Jack was usually a steady, calm man. Whenever they fought, he usually walked out before things got ugly. What he’d done was mean and angry, and his parting words unnerved her. Were they really finished? Was it really over? She got up off the couch and went to the kitchen table for her purse. Pulled out her phone. Took a deep breath and exhaled before punching his number.

  “Erik?”

  “Calling with good news?”

  “Jack was here.”

  “You told him?”

  “Yes.” She pulled out a chair, sat down, rested her elbows on the kitchen table. “He went ballistic.”

  “You surprised?”

  “I’m worried. If he shows up at your office, could be a scene.”

  “If he wants a battle to the death, this is the right place for it.”

  “Not funny.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll behave.”

  She touched her bottom lip again; it was starting to swell. “You’re not the one I’m worried about.”

  “Jack will behave, too. I know him; he’s a gentleman.”

  She didn’t want to tell Erik that the gentleman bit her. She stood up and went to the refrigerator, opened the freezer, dug around inside. Grabbed the ice cube tray. Empty. Pulled out a Popsicle instead. Shut the freezer door. Sat down agai
n. “Be careful. He’s not himself.”

  For the first time, he sounded serious. “I’d be a changed man if I lost you, Paris.”

  “He’s the one who did the dumping, Erik.” she said in a low voice. “He told me we’re finished.”

  “Good. Somebody had to make a decision.”

  It wasn’t the decision she’d wanted or expected, but she didn’t want to tell Erik that. She peeled the paper wrapper off the Popsicle. Covered with crystals of frost. She licked it. Banana-flavored. The thing was probably six months old. She put it to her lip.

  “Want some company tonight?” he asked.

  She didn’t want to see Erik. She was still trying to grasp the idea that her husband had just walked out. “I need to decompress. This thing with Jack, it was pretty intense.”

  “All the more reason I should be there, lover.”

  “No.” She didn’t like him calling her “lover.” Suddenly everything he said was wrong. “Besides, I’ve got work stuff to keep me busy. Got to collect my thoughts on the Moose Lake case. Put something down on paper to show to Duncan.”

  “The tall creep still your man?”

  “Yeah.” She glanced at her duffel bag sitting on the kitchen floor. “I haven’t even unpacked yet.”

  “Call if you change your mind.”

  “Okay.”

  “I love you, Paris.” She didn’t respond. He didn’t seem to mind. “Call if you need anything.”

  She hung up and set the phone down on the table. She wasn’t sure she’d ever be able to say those three words to Erik and mean it. She stood up and tossed the Popsicle in the sink. Felt her lip. Still swollen. Her cell phone rang. She answered quickly, hoping it was Jack calling. “Murphy.”

  Her mother: “Honey. Are you back in town?”

  “Yes, Imma.” Murphy leaned against the kitchen counter. Concentrated on steadying her voice. The last thing she needed was her mother’s meddling.

  “Why couldn’t you and Jack come to dinner tonight if you’re home?”

  “Ma, I’m dead tired.” That wasn’t a lie; she was drained.

  “Who sent you the flowers?”

  “I don’t need this right now.”

  “That’s why you’re not coming. You and Jack had another one of your fights.”

  “No, no.” She turned around and rested her head against a cupboard. “Everything’s fine, Ma.”

  “Bullshit.”

  Murphy stood at attention. Her mother never swore. “Imma.” Murphy paused, holding the phone to her ear. They’d have to find out eventually. Might as well spill it now. “Jack found out I saw someone over the summer.” She couldn’t find the courage to say she “slept with someone.” Her mother would know what “saw someone” meant.

  “Someone. Who is this someone? Another cop?”

  “Not a cop. A guy I work with from the ME’s office.”

  “A guy you work with? You’re risking eight years of marriage for a guy you work with?”

  “Ma, don’t make it sound like that.”

  “Like what? What does it sound like? Cheap? Come over and let’s talk about this, daughter.”

  “Ma. Imma. There’s nothing to talk about. It’s over.”

  “You and this guy?”

  Here comes the explosion, thought Murphy. “Jack left me. For good.”

  Amira gasped. “Jesus, Mary and Joseph!”

  Murphy knew her mother was making the sign of the cross. She heard her father asking questions in the background. Heard her mother say the word “divorce.” Suddenly he was on the phone: “Get your ass over here pronto young lady!”

  Her father’s language didn’t jar her; he swore all the time. “I can’t, Papa. I’m bushed.” She knew that wouldn’t satisfy her father, so she pulled out another excuse. “I’ve still got to go to the station. Tie up some loose ends from a case. File a report.”

  “File tomorrow. We got supper all ready for you. We’ll talk about it over koosa,” he said, referring to a Lebanese dish of zucchini stuffed with rice and lamb. “There’s not a problem that can’t be solved over koosa.”

  Murphy’s shoulders sagged. She couldn’t fight both of them. Besides, her refrigerator was nearly empty and she was famished. “Okay. Give me an hour.” She hung up and shoved the phone back in her purse. She picked up her duffel bag and carried it upstairs. Threw it on the bed. She wished she could collapse on the mattress next to it and sleep for twelve hours. She peeled off her clothes, walked into the bathroom, turned on the shower, stepped into the stall. She reached for the shampoo, squirted a gob in her hair, lathered and rinsed. She tilted her head back, let the spray hit her face and sting her lip. While she was toweling dry, she checked her face in the bathroom mirror. The swelling was barely noticeable. She studied her reflection. Wondered if she looked any different now that she’d been dumped. Did she look like a woman about to go through a divorce? Her mother once told her she could spot divorcées on sight. Said they had a tightness around their mouths. As if they’d tasted a bitter herb. Murphy thought that was a bunch of nonsense. She examined her own mouth. Searched for new lines. Nothing yet. She walked out of the bathroom, dropped the towel on the floor and got dressed in her jeans and a flannel shirt.

  She went downstairs and opened a few cupboards searching for something to take to her folks’ house. Nothing but canned goods and crackers. She needed to go grocery shopping. She hated showing up at their doorstep empty-handed. Made her feel like she was back in college, coming home to mooch a meal. She scanned the counter. Her eyes fell on the wine rack. Two bottles left. She pulled one out and held it up. Champagne. Hardly appropriate. She slipped it back in the rack. Pulled out the other bottle. Good. A clear Lebanese liquor. Arak. Distilled grape juice flavored with anise. One hundred proof. Perfect with any Middle Eastern meal. She twisted the cap off and sniffed. The licorice scent belied the drink’s strength. She screwed the top back on. Peeled off the price—her parents never approved of how much she paid for anything—and set the bottle in a paper bag. She pulled on her leather bomber jacket, grabbed her purse and keys and the bag and left. While she was shutting the door behind her, she wondered if Jack was going to give back her keys. She walked to her car and thought about all the clothes and toiletries he’d left at her house. Would he want photos back? She slid into the driver’s seat of the Jeep. On the floor of the passenger’s side, his travel coffee mug. Something else that needed to be returned. She turned on the ignition and pulled out of the parking lot. His sunglasses were dangling from the rearview mirror by a strap. She thought: This must be what it feels like when someone dies and their stuff keeps turning up. Memories to be boxed up and stored—or thrown away. As she turned south onto Wabasha to head toward the West Side, she looked at the gold band on her left ring finger. She stifled a sob.

  TWENTY

  HE PULLED INTO the trailer park late Tuesday afternoon. At the entrance: MANUFACTURED HOME COMMUNITY. He thought the sign made the place sound nicer than it really was. Adding to the deception: the decorative boulders and fall mums planted at the base of the sign. This was not a neighborhood filled with flowers and rock gardens. The community was a collection of mobile homes with attached decks that were often as wide as the trailers themselves. Metal garden shed in every yard. Satellite dish on every roof. Patches of grass in place of big lawns. The only flowers were the plastic ones in some of the window boxes. The trailer park was on the northern fringe of the city. He parked in front of the house, got out with his suitcase. He decided he’d empty the back of the truck later. He was wiped out and wanted to crash for a couple of hours. The last half hour of the ride home, even his music couldn’t fight the fatigue.

  He pushed open the front door with his shoulder, stepped into the front room and almost knocked over Keri. She was bending over, trying to pull the old man’s socks off. Frank Trip was sitting on the front room couch in his standard weekday attire—drawstring pajama bottoms decorated with cowboys riding horses, white tee shirt with a pack of unfilt
ered Lucky Strikes rolled up in the left sleeve, Vikings ball cap pulled over his bald head. On one side of the couch was the TV tray his pa used for every meal. Today it was covered with an ashtray filled with cigarette butts, Grain Belt beer cans, a jar of salsa, a bag of tortilla chips, a can of beef jerky strips, an empty ice cream pint. Rocky Road. In the middle of the mess was a Mason jar with his pa’s dentures; they were soaking in their usual disinfectant of Jim Beam bourbon whiskey. The television was blaring; his pa couldn’t see the screen clearly but seemed to think he could compensate by increasing the volume. TV Guide was on the floor at his pa’s feet; it was from last summer. Trip had canceled the subscription and kept handing his pa the same issue; his old man didn’t know the difference and the money Trip saved he used to order more knives.

  “Jesus Christ! Get away from me! You’re killing me! They’re fine, goddammit! Leave ’em be! Tell her, Sweet!”

  “I got to check them tootsies, Frank.” Keri looked over her shoulder at Trip. Her hair was her biggest asset; she had a blond braid that ran halfway down her back. Even though she was in her late forties, she only had a few strands of gray. “How ya doin’ there, Mr. Big Shot Hero? Long time no see.” She looked at his crotch and then up at his face. She winked at him and he looked down, adjusted his grip on the suitcase.

  She returned her attention to the patient. Frank was hanging onto his cane with both hands and jabbing at her like he was harpooning a whale. She played the running back, deftly dodging him. The right sock was already half off and dangling from his toes; the left one was around his ankle. They played the game every time she came over and she always won. She outweighed Trip’s old man by a hundred pounds.

  Trip sighed. “P… Pa, let the lady do her job. Let her check your f… f… fucking feet.”

  He waved his cane in Trip’s direction. “You can both go straight to hell in a handbasket!” The tip of the cane grazed the Mason jar. It fell over and spilled whiskey on the tray and the rug.

  “Shit, Pa.” Trip dropped his suitcase in the middle of the front room and went into the kitchen to get a towel. The front room was in the center of the trailer. On one side of it was the kitchen and then Frank’s bedroom. On the other side was a hall that led to Trip’s bedroom, the bathroom and a spare bedroom. The ceiling was higher than in lots of trailers—nearly seven and a half feet—but Trip still felt perpetually cramped in the place.