by Ellis, T. W.
All those questions and more can be boiled down into one, which is what he’s really asking:
Can he still love me?
I smile. I’m so good at smiling sometimes even I forget they’re not real. ‘Slept like a baby.’
He smiles back, relieved. He can carry on loving me a little longer.
I have a whole host of metaphors to hide the truth: slept like a baby, like a log, like the dead, like an Egyptian mummy, like a drunk, like a regular person …
He reaches across me to scoop up the half-finished slice of toast. ‘Don’t mind if I do then.’ He takes a huge bite and is loud as he chews because despite his earlier claim of having time, he’s anxious not to miss his flight. ‘You’re right,’ he says. ‘It really is delicious.’
I nod in agreement. I can’t bring myself to offer a smug retort. I’ll get no satisfaction from I-told-you-so.
‘I’ll call you when I land,’ Leo says and moves in for a goodbye kiss, something passionate and lingering.
We bump teeth.
We laugh.
I say, ‘If that isn’t a sign to get moving then I don’t know what is.’
He rubs his incisors with a finger. ‘Let’s try again.’
We kiss with more success this time, his hands on my hips and mine holding his shoulders. He’s always been a good kisser and even now after all these years still makes the effort, yet I realise my eyes are open before we finish.
He doesn’t notice.
As he steps back he says, ‘How do I look?’
He twirls on the spot like a ballerina, only a clumsy one.
‘Absolutely, incredibly, demonstrably … passable.’
He frowns but he knows I’m joking. He doesn’t need me to tell him he’s handsome in his suit – far too handsome – and I feel a rush of jealousy at the inevitable attention he will draw. When we were first dating I would find it amusing to catch women checking him out when he had absolutely no idea. It made me feel good about myself, about being with him. That seems a long time ago. Now, I worry he might start noticing, he might start checking out those young fertile creatures in return.
I notice the time. ‘You gotta move, bud.’
He notices too. ‘Whoa, yes I do.’
He grabs his suitcase and I follow him to the door. I hug myself against the chill while I watch him climb into his car.
‘Bye,’ he calls from behind the wheel.
I wave at him while he pulls out of the driveway and he looks back at me in the wing mirror. There’s something in his eyes I can’t quite read.
Sadness?
Regret?
I keep my hand up until he’s driven out of sight.
Five minutes later, there’s a knock at the door.
Nothing will ever be the same again.
8:18 a.m.
In those few minutes between Leo’s departure and the knock at the door I return to the kitchen to clean up but find myself sat back at the table, tired and heavy. Pale sunlight streams through the window above the sink and bathes my face. Refracted through the glass pane, that light is bright and warm and in this moment it’s almost possible to convince myself this is all I need. This husband, this life, this house.
I should be grateful for everything I have, not angry for what I don’t.
The house around me is staggering in its beauty. Or, it will be when it’s finished. A grand old thing fallen into disrepair that I’ve been renovating since the day we moved in. It started out as a hobby and a passion project and then somewhere along the way became a kind of medication. But drugs lose their effectiveness over time, don’t they? We build up a tolerance, a resistance. Eventually, they stop working altogether.
Now, the house is an excuse for isolation, a reason to absent myself from the world. There’s never any time to meet an acquaintance for coffee because there’s always a skirting board to replace. There’s never a weekend free to take a little vacation because I’ve paint arriving at the hardware store for the study. Nothing ever gets finished. Every room is a work-in-progress.
We both know what’s really going on but this has been a long, slow process. For all his endless perfections, Leo never figured he would have to deal with my problems. He doesn’t know how to, and since I’ve become so very good at faking it, most of the time there’s no need for him to do so. I’m so used to hiding my anxiety that he has no idea how stressful I find it simply going to get groceries. He doesn’t know I sometimes stop my car before I reach the house so I can scream or cry to reset myself before pulling up with a big smile. I keep eye drops in the glove compartment, wet wipes and makeup. I’m not sure if he’s worked out that if I didn’t have to leave the house to teach my class, I probably wouldn’t at all.
The way I see it is that we have a finite capacity for dealing with stress. It doesn’t matter if that capacity is overfilled by one huge trauma or lots of little ones.
Once we’re over it then we’re in trouble.
After that point, we can’t cope.
Leo’s a good man and this Jem is not the Jem he signed up for, not the Jem he married, the Jem to whom he planned to spend the rest of his life as husband. We’re both suffering, and it’s unfair on him that I’m suffering more, that I need so much more than him. He’s still Leo. He’s still the exact same Leo I fell for, who I said ‘yes’ to without a second of hesitation. He hasn’t changed one single bit. My biggest fear is that one day he’ll realise he doesn’t recognise me, that he doesn’t know me. I’m doing everything I can to wear the mask of the me he wants, not the me I am.
Ours is the only house on the end of the single-lane of asphalt. The previous owners told me that there had been a plan to build more houses, to make a little suburb. It was all a scam, apparently. Some elaborate tax fraud scheme by the developers. I’ve never looked into it so I’m not entirely sure it’s true. I don’t care. The house is isolated, which is what I wanted then, because I wanted peace, I wanted space for the children to play. This Jem is so grateful for that Jem’s thinking, because this Jem couldn’t deal with neighbours, couldn’t fake all those smiles, all that small talk.
How are you today?
Awful, how are you?
Uh, I’m, uh …
If you go left at the intersection there’s a long stretch of highway that leads to the interstate. I’ve been that way maybe half a dozen times in the five years we’ve been here. Leo has travelled the world twice over in the same time I’ve covered twenty square miles. I’ve become the ultimate homebody. I make endless excuses. I tell him things like, ‘Everything I need is right here,’ and it’s been for ever since he’s tried to get me out of the county. He’s long since given up trying to get me to go travelling with him, to join him on one of his many business trips.
Leo knows what I’m doing with the house – or not doing – of course. He doesn’t say anything but it would be pointless if he did. What could he even say? I’d just deny it, rationalising my actions so well I’d end up believing my own lies.
He wants the house finished because he’s desperate for me to try new things. New things are not all they’re cracked up to be in my experience. There is safety in familiarity. There is sanity in routine. I need both.
Which is the only reason I still work. Thankfully, I work for myself so there’s no boss to answer to, no one to fire me for not fulfilling my obligations.
Thinking of work reminds me I need a shower. I’m still sweaty and dishevelled from the early morning class I taught, but I don’t stink – I hope I don’t stink – and after an hour of intense bending and stretching I am always exhausted. The uneducated think yoga is easy, but when you do it right, you feel it in a way that no other workout can match. You can feel it for days. Not just in your legs or your arms or whatever you’re working on, but everywhere. Every muscle. Every sinew. I’m merciless with my pupils. I’m a monster. I delight in that role and they take my class because that’s what they need me to be for them. And it is a role. That monster isn’t me. It’s
me in a scary mask. I feel sorry for those who take my class and then have to rush off to the office or back home to make breakfast for a brood of screaming kids.
With Leo gone, our house is devastatingly silent.
Then the knock at the door destroys that quiet.
A firm knock from a strong hand.
I’m quick to answer because I think it’s going to be Leo. I don’t for a second consider it might be anyone else. If I did, I would stay at the kitchen table, not moving, not breathing. I can’t answer the door to strangers. I don’t even remember the last time I tried.
As I hurry along the hallway, I picture Leo with his heart beating fast, cheeks a little flushed having dashed back because he’s forgotten his passport or his currency or some letter or document or purchase order. It’s a loud knock because he thinks I’ll be in the shower and I won’t hear otherwise. That’s why he didn’t call ahead. He’s left the car running so he doesn’t have his house keys on his person. They’re dangling from the steering column.
I’m shaking my head as I make my way into the hallway, smiling to myself because I can’t quite understand how Leo can be both so switched on, so clever, and yet so forgetful and disorganised. He’s a walking contradiction and I adore him all the more for it.
There’s a second knock, harder than the first. Leo’s thumping the door with the meaty part of his fist.
‘All right, Mister Sommelier,’ I call. ‘I’m coming, I’m coming …’
I make a series of orgasmic moans that grow increasingly louder as I draw closer to the door because I’m feeling silly and I want him to smile, despite the obvious stress he must be feeling at forgetting whatever it is he’s forgotten.
‘I’m coming,’ I cry out as I turn the handle and pull the door open to reveal not Leo but two serious individuals in dark suits.
One man. One woman.
The fresh organic tomatoes I picked earlier weren’t as red as my resulting face.
My mouth is a desert. My throat is stripped raw by sand.
‘I’m, uh …’
‘Coming?’ the serious man asks.
‘Sorry,’ I manage to utter, forcing air up through my constricted windpipe. ‘I’m sorry … about that. I thought you were someone else.’
The serious woman reaches a hand beneath her jacket and withdraws a leather folding wallet that she flips open in an effortless gesture. She’s done the exact same motion a thousand times at least, I’m sure. I glimpse a holstered gun.
‘I’m Agent Wilks,’ she proclaims in a strong, assured voice. ‘With me is Special Agent Messer. We need to speak with you about your husband, Mrs Talhoffer. May we come inside?’
8:19 a.m.
I stare at the shiny FBI badge. There’s a little photograph of Wilks accompanying it. Serious face, just like in real life.
She looks to be somewhere in her late forties with an intense expression and a short, neat haircut. Blonde hair. Green eyes. Messer is a big guy, a decade younger, with a square face and short black hair. He’s a little paler too, a little more pruned and scrubbed. Just about young enough to use a moisturiser without it being an attack on his masculinity.
I’m a decent, law-abiding citizen with nothing to hide but I’m still embarrassed. Humiliated. I don’t want to let these two people inside my home, yet they’re FBI agents. I can’t say no, can I? It doesn’t even cross my mind to ask for more details first. I’m immediately subservient, immediately inferior to their badges, their authority.
I can’t quite look them in the eye as I nod and say, ‘Okay.’
I hold the door open for them and they walk in with the same kind of robotic gait. I imagine they take classes for everything, even walking.
‘Go through, please,’ I say.
I’m confused more than anything else.
Why would the FBI need to talk to me about Leo?
The good thing about feeling so embarrassed is that it completely overrides my anxiety. Just like that, I’m cured. If only temporarily.
I follow them through the hallway and into the living area where they turn round to face me. My embarrassment is starting to fade because with every passing second I’m growing more curious as to why they’re here.
They stand side by side, with their serious expressions and their serious suits. Messer is tall and wide and intimidating for it, but Wilks has an absolute confidence that makes me just as uneasy. I guess she is the more senior because she’s the older of the two. I don’t know enough about the FBI to know whether these two would be partners or if there is some hierarchy. For once I regret not watching more television.
‘You just missed him,’ I say. ‘He left only a few minutes ago.’
Wilks says, ‘Why don’t we sit down?’
I shrug. ‘Sure.’
I take a seat on the arm of the chair closest to me while Wilks and Messer take the sofa next to them. It’s a three-seater so there’s plenty of room. Neither sits back. Neither relaxes. This is something severe.
‘Mrs Talhoffer—’
‘Jem, please,’ I insist. ‘I don’t even know why I took Leo’s last name when I hate it so much. Hate’s probably too strong a word, but I—’
Wilks makes a polite nod of acquiescence. ‘Jem, I’m hoping you can assist us with an ongoing investigation involving a money-laundering ring we’ve been trying to expose for some time now.’
My eyebrows have never been such perfect arches. ‘Moneylaundering ring? I don’t even know how money is laundered in the first place let alone anything about a ring.’ I think of something. I don’t know where I know this from, but I say, ‘Wouldn’t that be the jurisdiction of the Treasury? Shouldn’t it be the Secret Service investigating?’
Messer answers the question: ‘The Secret Service covers counterfeiting. Money laundering is under the jurisdiction of the FBI. We wouldn’t be here otherwise.’
His tone is steering into condescension by the end and evidently that isn’t part of the game plan because Wilks shoots him a brief look of admonishment.
‘What has money laundering got to do with Leo?’
Wilks says, ‘Mrs Talhoffer – sorry, Jem – we believe that a criminal enterprise has been using your husband’s wine merchant business to clean drug money. Which is, as I’m sure you can appreciate, a very serious matter. So, it’s important that you answer our questions as thoroughly as you can. Do you understand what I’ve told you so far?’
I understand the words yet I can’t quite believe what I’m hearing. ‘Drug money … ?’
Wilks nods.
‘Leo’s business?’
Wilks nods.
‘A criminal enterprise using Leo to clean drug money? So, you mean a cartel? A drug cartel? I can’t believe it. I don’t believe it. He would never do that. I’m telling you, never.’
My voice rises with each word.
Wilks leans closer. ‘We don’t believe your husband is involved willingly, which is why we’re talking to you now in advance of Mr Talhoffer. We have reason to think he is being coerced into working for this organisation.’
‘They’re forcing him? How? Why?’ I’m shaking my head. ‘How could they possibly coerce Leo into working for them?’
Wilks and Messer are looking at me like it’s obvious.
It takes me a moment to realise it is obvious.
‘Me?’
‘Leo is trying to do what he thinks is best,’ Wilks explains, ‘to protect you.’
Messer is a little less subtle. ‘If he doesn’t do what they want they’ll send people to kill you. And we’re not talking by way of a nice clean bullet to the head. These are ruthless people. Awful people. The worst of the worst.’
The room is so heavy with silence I feel like it might collapse and entomb me. I don’t know what to say, so I say, ‘I don’t know what to say.’
Wilks does her best to look sympathetic. ‘We appreciate it’s a lot to take in.’
‘No offence, but you really can’t appreciate how much this is to take in.’
I look down at my hands wringing in my lap. ‘I’m just starting my day and you come by and drop this bomb on me. I haven’t even showered yet.’
Wilks and Messer are silent as they let me work through my shock. Something occurs to me.
‘Did you wait for Leo to leave before coming to see me?’
For an instant they look like guilty schoolchildren caught throwing stones or stealing treats.
I say, ‘How long have you been spying on us?’
‘We waited at the intersection,’ Wilks answers. ‘Once we saw Leo pass, we gave it a minute and came here. We haven’t been spying on you, Jem.’ She smiles. ‘We really don’t have the resources.’
I guess the smile is part of a softly-softly strategy but there is nothing gentle about what I’m being told and I don’t return it.
‘Is Leo in danger?’
‘No,’ is Wilks’ quick reply. ‘He’s of a rare value to the criminal organisation he—’
‘Why can’t you just call it a cartel?’
‘Leo is an essential part of their organisation thanks to his business. He’s perfectly safe, and we want to keep it that way. Which is why we’ve come to see you first.’
Messer adds: ‘We don’t want to approach Leo in case he’s under observation.’
‘You’re saying the cartel has people watching him?’
‘We’re saying that it’s a possibility.’
‘Then they would be watching here, the house, wouldn’t they?’
Wilks is shaking her head before I’m finished. ‘There’s no need for them to do that. They know where he lives, where you live, which is enough. When he’s away from here, when he’s working for them, that’s when they would pay closer attention.’
