October Snow

by Jenna Brooks

  Max smiled. “You’re a nice person, Bim.”

  “Eh.” She waved the towel in Max’s face. “You too. What time are we getting her stuff tomorrow?”

  As if she hadn’t heard the question, Max went on. “Be careful, though. I can’t imagine you can run through your money too fast.”

  “I’m on it. Don’t worry. What time?”

  “Then I’ll leave it there.” She handed a china cup to her. “Two, maybe three o’clock. We’ll pick her up at work.” She reached for the small stack of plates, putting them carefully in the antique cabinet that sat in the corner of the small kitchen. She closed the cabinet, then pretended to slap her own cheeks, back and forth. “I’m being a bad friend. I need to get in-the-moment here. But, I mean, we need to plan our trip, too. We have the house now. In spite of everything else, I’m just really excited about that.”

  “Well, you should be. I want you to be.” She dangled her legs, smiling. “Maybe we can talk the Bimbat into a summer at Bow Lake.”

  “Better chance of it now, that’s for sure.” She sobered then. “I’m scared for her, Jo.”

  “Well, then, we’ll be on our toes that much better, right?”

  “Then you’re scared, too?”

  “Concerned. Worried.” She nodded, looking down at her dangling feet. “A little scared. We’ll handle it.”

  “I know we will.” Max extended her closed fist. “Fist bump.”

  Jo jumped off the counter, tossing the towel on the sink. “Uh…No.”

  They laughed for a moment, then their eyes met.

  “We will handle it, Max.”

  “Okay.”

  Jack located the apartment house easily enough: it was the only light blue Victorian in the neighborhood. He sat in his car for an hour, watching, waiting to see if she’d emerge–and becoming angrier by the minute when she didn’t.

  “You bitch. You bitch,” he sputtered, slamming his hands on the steering wheel. Pain shot up his right arm, and he shook it off, deciding she’d be paying for that, too. He looked across the street again at her car, and thought about maybe keying it, or slashing the tires. But there were still way too many people out and about, and he filed the idea away for later.

  “See you soon, Samantha.”

  He started the car, flooring the accelerator as he pulled away, knocking over a recycling bin.

  His house was dark as he pulled up. Inside, he threw his keys across the dining room, then picked them up from where they had landed on the massive oak buffet. He reached for the lamp, noticing the deep mark in the wall where the keys had hit, and that enraged him further.

  “I spent two days painting this room, this room in this house that you had to have, bitch.” He poured scotch into one of the heavy crystal tumblers on the buffet. Glaring at the glass he held, he rolled it back and forth in his hands. “Yeah, like I’m going to sit here and drink by myself, like every other idiot who hooked up with a slut?” He threw the glass into the kitchen, where it shattered against the center island. “She’s the pathetic one. Not me.”

  He knew fully well that Liz was screwing with him, that she was part of the plan to help Sam get away. Likely a big part, because she controlled everything her daughter did. The idea that he was now being discarded by the useless old hag, the one who had once been on his side, made his head throb with rage.

  He grabbed his jacket as he went out the door, deciding that if Sam was going to make trouble, then he sure as hell wasn’t going to be sleeping alone that night–but he would make a quick stop at Liz’s house on the way. Just to get the point across.

  chapter 6

  DAISY WAS BARKING.

  Jo rolled over, putting a hand on her back. “Daisy, shhhh…”

  She realized that someone was knocking at the door to her apartment. Groaning, she sat up reluctantly, reaching for the sweats she had laid across the foot of her bed the night before. “Stay, Daisy.”

  The knocking intensified as she made her way to the door. “Jo! Hey! Get up!”

  She swung the door open, scratching at her head. “Geez, Max…What time is it?”

  “Eight or so. My car won’t start, and Sammy needs to go to the ER.”

  “Huh? Why?”

  “She’s sick, pretty bad. I woke up to her dry-heaving in the bathroom. Then she nearly passed out on her way back to lay down.”

  Jo grabbed a hoodie from the coat rack by the door. “She’s in your car?”

  “Yeah, I told her to stay put. What’re you doing?”

  Jo’s head popped out through the top of the sweatshirt. “Going with, what do you think I’m doing?”

  Max was shaking her head. “No, no reason for both of us to spend the morning there. Just gimme your keys. I’ll take her.”

  Jo plucked them off the hook by the door, hopping and stutter-stepping as she tried to slip her sneakers on. “Okay, but I just want to see her quick. I’ll walk you down.”

  Sam was crying softly, eyes closed, her head against the headrest and her cell in her hand. Jo leaned through the window. “Hey,” she said softly. “What happened?”

  “It’s eight-twenty in the morning, and he’s already at it.” She handed her phone to Jo without opening her eyes. “And Mom’s called me three times. Just take it. Please. Call Max if you need to reach us.”

  Slipping it into the pouch of her hoodie, Jo put her forearm on Sam’s forehead. “No fever…How’re you feeling?”

  “Better. I mean, physically–not too bad now. Must’ve been the late night, and the stress and all that.”

  Jo’s dropped her head for a moment, and then she looked helplessly at Max. The realization had hit them both in the same instant. “Sammy,” Max came to stand beside Jo, “when was the last time you had a period?”

  Sam’s eyes flew open, staring straight ahead, as the color that had returned to her cheeks drained from her face. Her hand rested on her abdomen. “I…don’t know.”

  Jo handed her keys to Max. “The drugstore on Valley Street is open early.”

  Max made a clicking sound with her tongue. “Yeah. Back in a bit,” she said.

  Liz Bentley stood in her driveway, animated well beyond what was her norm as she talked to two police officers.

  She pulled the hood of her slicker over her head as it started to drizzle, making a face at the sky. “Well,” she moaned, hugging herself, “rain won’t help preserve the evidence.”

  “Mrs. Bentley…”

  “It’s ‘Ms’, please.”

  “My apologies, ma’am. There isn’t usually much evidence to collect after a vandalism. We’ll take your report, snap a few photos, give you a copy for your insurance carrier, and then…”

  “You mean you won’t be looking for whoever did this?” She turned to face her house, sweeping her arm for emphasis.

  “We won’t be launching an official investigation, no.”

  She dropped her jaw, exaggerating a look of shock. “Those are threats that are spray-painted on my siding!”

  He glanced at the house, still writing on his clipboard. “Well, they are some pretty vulgar names, Ms. Bentley, but they aren’t in the league of threats.”

  “Are you kidding me?”

  “No, ma’am. Your report is useful to us, though, if a pattern develops in this area.”

  He appeared to be almost done with the report, and Liz said, “I’m afraid I’m going to have to take down your badge number, Officer.”

  As though he expected it, he began answering her before she finished. “…and my badge number is right here, ma’am.” He pointed with the tip of his pen, and circled it. “Don’t hesitate to call if you need anything, and we’ll keep you posted on any developments in your case.”

  Liz snatched the yellow paper from his hand, making grunting, chirping noises as she strode back to her front door. The word SLUT was painted across it in a strange, orange-ish color, stark against the barn-red of the door itself. She gave the officers one last, scathing look before slamming the door shut.


  In the foyer, she reached for her phone on the table beside the staircase, dialing Sam again. “You’d better pick up this time,” she growled, waiting through the six rings before the voicemail picked up.

  “Hey, hello, it’s Sammy. Don’t leave me wondering–leave a message.”

  Liz waited through the automated message for the tone, tapping her nails on the staircase railing.

  “Samantha, you can call me in the next few minutes, or you can go to hell.” She slammed the phone down, then picked it up again to call her insurance company.

  Sam’s phone was vibrating. Jo pulled it from her pocket as the girls drove away in her truck, just as the message indicator came up. She debated for a moment whether or not to listen to it, deciding against it: the missed calls function told her the message was from Liz.

  Back in her apartment, Jo put the coffee on before taking Daisy for her morning walk. She was quick about it, and for that, Jo was grateful. It was starting to rain hard, and she was a little desperate for her coffee and a cigarette.

  She sank gratefully into her chair, sipping from her oversized mug, watching the rain pick up in intensity. There was a light layer of fog still hovering over the field, delicate enough that it seemed a good gust of wind would clear it away.

  Even after so many years, the natural beauty of New Hampshire could still leave her breathless. She thought that she had lived in way too many places. Keith had always felt a need to relocate, and quickly, after making too much of a mess wherever they lived; as a result, she had lived all over the country, in more cities than she cared to remember. Some, she couldn’t even recall clearly. In those days, the heyday of developing technology, he was an independent consultant in the computer industry; and, as his career was in such high demand then, he could pretty much write his own ticket when it came to where he wanted to work.

  The boys were very small at the time, and Jo always felt like she could never quite get her legs under her. Every year or so, it was another arduous move and another new city, where she knew no one and couldn’t find her way around. Keith allowed her no access to money, and she rarely had their only car–a fact which Keith would then use to explain that as she never left the house, she certainly didn’t need a car or money.

  Eventually, Keith would make too great and too loud a scene, and a neighbor would call the police. Or he would worry that the police would be called, and he’d start looking around for a new job. Always, it was to be “a new beginning.” A “fresh start” for them. He seemed to live for the idea; but for Jo, it was another flurry of packing boxes and cancelling utilities, notifying landlords and filling out change-of-address cards. And trying to care for the boys, trying to give them some kind of a normal life in the midst of Keith’s craziness.

  Ten months after they arrived in Denver, he stood screaming in the driveway of their town home, and Jo reached the end of herself. She enjoyed the memory of that feeling, like a door had slammed shut in her head: like she couldn’t–she would not– do it his way anymore.

  After Keith had thrown his briefcase against the siding, leaving a dent there and breaking the case open–Jo had taken a fair amount of pleasure in watching his papers scatter in the stiff breeze–he gathered what documents he could, stuffed them back in the case, and peeled out of the driveway. The young couple across the street had seen him, and they shook their heads, regarding her with pity. The woman called out, “Are you okay?” Jo did her best to reassure them before she went back inside.

  She comforted John and Matt, left crying in the playroom for the duration of the fight, and got them settled in before she went to the phone.

  She had managed to make one friend in Dallas, where they had lived for almost a year before Denver: Patricia. She called her. Over the next forty minutes, they made a contingency plan for Jo and the boys to return to Texas and stay with her, should Keith decide that he wasn’t going to comply with Jo’s first choice from the places she had been researching for weeks - New Hampshire.

  Keith was gone for two days. The woman across the street brought groceries over, and Jo was grateful that she didn’t pry; however, she did suggest that Jo have a distress signal ready for when Keith returned. Just in case, she had insisted, and Jo agreed: it would be the porch light going on. Keith never allowed the porch light, calling it a waste of money to leave it on at night.

  When Keith finally returned, waiting expectantly for Jo to apologize, she let him know that this time, she was making the decision to move.

  “I’m going to New Hampshire, if you’re coming along. That’s where I want to raise the boys, but it costs to live there. A lot. More than I can do by myself. If you aren’t going to go with me, then I’m going back to Dallas to live with Pat and her family until I get on my feet.”

  His reaction shocked her. Of course, he cared nothing about her desire to leave–she didn’t expect him to be bothered by that. He had never cared how she felt about him, as long as she stayed. What surprised her was his ready agreement. “Sounds good. I’ll get a job out there.”

  She had decided not to examine the gift horse; however, Jo found out–years later–that he’d had a six month affair with a coworker, and had made a scene at work when she tried to break it off. They had fired him, almost a week before the day he stood screaming in the driveway.

  But by the time Jo found out, in the middle of yet another one of Keith’s tirades about what a useless, burdensome bitch she was, it didn’t much matter to her anymore. It took many years, but something about living in such a beautiful place–perhaps, partly because she had finally chosen something–gave her hope, if only briefly, that there was life out there somewhere. For her children, and for her.

  Sam’s phone was buzzing again. Jo picked it up, absently flipping it open as she watched a robin busily constructing a nest in the birch tree just beyond the window.

  It was another text from Jack:

  Call me now or else

  “Oh, I shouldn’t…” Jo smirked, feeling the thudding in her chest as her heart sped up. She brought up “Max” on the contacts list.

  Jack textd call him now or else–ask sam if shed like me to call him/need to set up time for escort w police to get her stuff too

  She closed the phone and waited. A minute later, it vibrated again.

  CALL ME RIGHT NOW

  Then right after:

  She said you may as well and thanx

  Jo grinned, scrolling to find Jack’s name in Sam’s contacts. His picture ID was titled Lihom.

  What’s that mean?

  She made a mental note to ask Sam later, copying Jack’s number into her own phone, then redoing it as she remembered to type in the *67 first. Jack didn’t need to have her number.

  After eight rings, Jack picked up. She sighed, familiar with the power-grabbing tactic of making the woman wait. He said nothing, though, which Jo knew was yet another tactic–so she, too, was silent.

  He eventually decided to acknowledge that he had received a call. “Why block your number?” he demanded. “You idiot–you think I don’t know it? I have it on my own phone!”

  Jo lit another cigarette and stayed silent, wanting to play with him for a while.

  “Hey! Samantha!” He sounded like he was becoming quickly unhinged. Jo was still mulling over what “Lihom” meant.

  She laughed out loud as it came to her: Legend in his own mind.

  “You think something’s funny, bitch?”

  She closed her phone, still chuckling.

  Sam’s cell started going off a few seconds later. After the fourth time Jack called, she opened her own phone and called him again.

  He spoke immediately this time. “You do not hang up on me.”

  “Screw you, Jack. Hey, you know, I’ve wanted to say exactly that phrase since the first time I met you.”

  He stammered a bit, then said, “Who is this? Max? Jo?”

  “Doesn’t matter. We’re interchangeable. I got your texts, by the way. Charming. What do y
ou want?”

  “Where’s Sam?”

  “Beats the hell out of me. Oh, wait–that’s your thing.” She took a deep breath and rose slowly from her chair, digging her nails into her palms. “So what’s up?”

  “What’s up? What’s up? Where’s Sam, that’s ‘what’s up.’”

  “Samantha is busy. Can I give her a message for you?”

  “Listen, you…”

  “Careful, Jack. Other than the entertainment factor, I’ve got no reason to call you, and even less reason to stay on the line.”

  “Who the hell do you think you’re talking to?”

  “You don’t really want me to answer that, babe.” She crushed her cigarette. “Last chance, Jack. I’m not your wife. Actually, when you get right down to it, I’m your worst nightmare.”

  “Is that a threat?”

  “Just a fact, son.”

  “Which means what?”

  “I know you.”

  He was silent for a moment.

  “Besides, I’m your only connection to Samantha at the moment. Now, we need to…”

  “I will not be spoken to…”

  “You interrupted me. Don’t do it again.” She pressed the record button. “Listen, I’m going to record this, okay? Hang up if you really are the no-balls wimp that I heard you are.” She waited a moment for it to hook him, and it did.

  He exploded in a barrage of epithets. Smiling, she set the phone on the table, letting him cuss at her while she refilled her coffee. He was still screaming–death threats now, against both Maxine and her–when she returned a minute later, and she smiled again as she picked up the phone and closed it.

  “Oh, Jackie–you are truly a useful idiot,” she mumbled.

  He was calling Sam’s phone again within a couple of minutes, rapid-fire, as Jo didn’t answer. She wondered if it really had taken that long for Jack to realize that he was screaming at a dead line.

  The clock on the kitchen wall said 8:56. The girls would be back any time now. She grabbed her phone again, hoping she could remember the number for the crisis center.