“So I figured,” he goes on, “I could take you in, y’know. I could tell your weight was a real problem, and I thought I could help you with it.” He smiles. “And look; I already have. You’re looking better already, thanks to me. And to you. You’ve done well.”
This flatters me. I don’t know why, because it seemed kind of like a backhanded compliment; it was phrased and said as if it was a compliment, but its content was rather harsh. He called me fat, basically. I mean, he wasn’t wrong. Because I was fat. But I’m getting better now. I’m the thinnest I’ve been in years, and it hasn’t even been that long. Although, to be quite honest with myself, I don’t really know how long it has been.
My sleeping has been so erratic, and with no daylight or sunsets, or clocks, or really anything other than counting endless time in my own head, I have no way to judge time. At this point it could be two weeks, or three, or a month or more, and I could not tell the difference. Either way, he makes a valid point. I was doomed to be forever obese before he came along, and he’s solving my problem with relative ease. As if he was born to fix me, and I was meant all along to be fixed by him.
“And so here we are.” He takes his last bite of steak, which clears his plate. He’s already eaten his french fries, and chose to abstain from the broccoli. I suppose he isn’t quite as worried about his own health as he is about mine. “We’re having a nice dinner together; you’re looking as beautiful as ever, and you’re free from Terry.”
He stands up, without a response from me, and gathers up our plates. Instead of washing them, he just sets them in the sink, which is already full of soapy water, and lets them wallow. This reminds me of just a few moments ago, when I was dirty and sat in the soapy water. It didn’t clean me at all, but instead just soiled the water.
Gee, if that isn’t a metaphor for my life, then I don’t know what is. I can’t be cleaned, but instead I dirty everything else around me, making it worse. Seems fitting.
He bends over and plants a wet kiss on my forehead.
“What would you like to do now? We’ve had dinner, and I suppose since it was my wrongdoing that cut the last date short, you should decide what is next,” he said, looking at me intently, not blinking. His admiring gaze moves from my eyes, to my lips, and down my body all the way until he returns them back up to my eyes again.
“Oh. I hadn’t thought about it.” I’m nervous, because I feel like I should have prepared something. How stupid of me not to think of something first! “Maybe I should go back downstairs?”
He scoffs at the idea, which both surprises and relieves me. I thought he would be eager to send me back down, but he seems to be in a better mood this go-around.
“Nonsense. Anything.”
He’s leaning against the counter with his elbow resting on top and his left hand on his hip.
“I was actually thinking of letting you stay with me tonight instead. Surely a mattress and comforter would be a little more relaxing than dirt and a quilt, yeah? What do you think?”
If I were a dog, my tail would be wagging. Instead a grin seizes my face, and suspect my eyes sparkle as well. His smile matches my own.
“I’ll take that as a yes.”
All the sudden, I’m nervous. What does this mean? Are we going to sleep in the same bed together? Anything more? How far will it go? And what does this mean for the future, after tonight? Will I be allowed to live up here, or is this a one-time thing? Curiosity swims through me, working its way through the canals in my brain, corrupting my thoughts with a mixture of emotions.
However, through each emotion, fear seems to outweigh the rest. Fear is the most common, most prevalent. Because fear is easy. Fear takes no courage, no effort, no pain, no work. It’s easy to fear the unknown, or of all the things that could be.
Courage is built when those fears are faced directly.
I suppose I should take it one day at a time. Go with the flow.
I join him in the living room and we watch television together. Not a show I’m familiar with, but Alexander seems to enjoy it. I sit in one chair and he sits on the couch, and together we watch the sitcom. Intermittently throughout, after some rather cheesy jokes, he occasionally will let out a raucous laugh, but I remain in silence.
He notices and invites me to join him on the couch; so I do. The couch is soft, but heavily worn in. Seams along the edge are starting to burst and some stuffing seeps out of it. It’s old, and it smells old, like all old couches do. I can’t think of anything else in the world to compare it to; it’s just the old couch smell.
But it’s comfy. And at first, I sit on the cushion next to his, and we don’t touch. We just sit and continue watching this unfunny television show, which he really seems to enjoy.
But after another episode, and after we’ve grown even more comfortable with the proximity to each other, he brings me in closer, until I’m in his arm.
The way he has me positioned is awkward, but comfortable, so I do not adjust. I fear I’m crushing his arm, but I decide to let him take the lead. He likes to feel powerful and in charge. If there’s one thing I know about him, it’s that. He needs power.
Without even realizing it, I’m smiling. I have been for a while, but I’ve been so intrigued by my own mind and my own thoughts, that I failed to even notice. I guess this is pretty nice - the way we are. We work well together. He fixes me and takes care of me; he cooks for me and he cuddles me. These are things that Terry never wanted to do, and now I know why. He was screwing some secretary. I picture her as fat - even fatter than I was - and that helps.
“Thank you, Alex.” Alex has a nice ring to it.
He tenses up and draws his arm away from me and sits me back up on my own cushion. I feel like he’s about to blow up on me when he says, “Never, never ever, call me Alex. My name is Alexander. Call me Alexander. Alex is disgusting, and I refused to be called Alex. Never do it again.”
I’m getting less and less surprised by his strange behavior and weird mannerisms, but this one still startles me. Never have I seen someone get so defensive about a shortened name. His face is puffy and red as if he’s about to unload on me, but he doesn’t.
That’s new. Even just a few days ago, he wouldn’t have had that much self-control. No, a few days ago he would have burned my hand or thrown me down the stairs for insulting him like that. But this is different. I think he’s starting to learn some self-control and anger management techniques.
I’m even more impressed with him.
“I won’t do it again, I promise. I’m sorry, Alexander. Never again.”
Maybe I shouldn’t talk. It seems that opening my mouth only causes rifts between us. The other day when I spoke up too soon, I got kicked down some stairs. But today, just a stern talking-to.
He relaxes again and slumps back into his seat, then opens his arm and invites me back. I slouch back into his embrace and we continue watching the television - like a regular couple.
FIFTEEN
It was 10:22 pm. when Gene’s phone rang. It took him a moment to get to it, with his old bones and all. He had left it downstairs on the kitchen table and forgot to bring it upstairs to bed with him. Gene hustled down the stairs, knowing that if it got past thirty seconds, it would go to voicemail.
He arrived on what was probably the last ring, and swiped the green circle to accept the call, without taking the time to read who it was that was calling.
“Hello? This is Gene.” He was almost out of breath from running down the stairs. It was out of character for Gene to hustle for anything at all, let alone a late-night phone call. However, he did previously consider the off chance that it could have something to do with the sketch that had recently started airing. If this call had anything to do with that, then it was worth the minimal effort.
“Hey, Gene. It’s Terry Edmund calling.”
And there it was. There could only be one reason Terry Edmund would be calling him - the lead detective on the case for his missing ex-wife - at this late of
an hour.
“Hey, Terry! What’s going on? What can I help you with?”
In most circumstances, a call this late right before bed would be an annoyance to Gene, but at this moment all he felt was gratitude. This could, after all, be an important phone call. And this was, after all, very likely his final case before retirement.
“Well, I may have some information for you about Zoey. Uh, I actually kind of don’t believe it myself. It’s weird, and it’s probably a longshot, so it can wait until tomorrow morning. But can you and that other guy swing back by my office tomorrow? I don’t know, but it might help.” He paused. “And if it helps, it’ll help a lot.”
---
January 20th, Wednesday
Gene hardly had any sleep before his phone’s alarm made that awful rooster crow. He set this alarm sound when he noticed that his age had made him sluggish, and it had been harder and harder to get out of bed. Sometimes he would sleep straight through his alarm and be an hour or later to work.
All night, Gene had stared at something. First, he was on his back, staring at the ceiling, hoping The Sandman would relieve him. He would toss and turn, and stare at the walls. After staring was obviously ineffective in making him sleepy, he tried closing his eyes, but that too just felt like staring. His eyelids became walls, not painted, not stained. They were a canvas for his thoughts, for which his mind painted on vividly.
His thoughts raced all night, and he was unable to get Terry Edmund out of his mind. That phone call put a million thoughts in his head, but none of them were useful to anything other than depriving him of sleep.
Gene staggered slowly down the stairs - one foot at a time - and into the kitchen. He put a pot of coffee on, and took his seat at the small round kitchen table. After a few moments of blankly staring out of the sliding glass door at nothing, the smell of dripping coffee caught his attention and woke him from his early-morning daze.
While the coffee brewed, he decided to at least be productive and get dressed, so he hobbled right back up the stairs and into his walk-in closet that was still depressingly half-empty.
After years of looking at his late wife’s old clothes, he decided to donate them. All they did was make his closet smell good and remind him that there was no doubt a gaping hole in his life. So they had to go: the last tangible evidence that she had once lived here.
At one point in his happy life, pictures of the happy couple through the years livened the walls. Wedding photos, birthday photos, date night photos, baby’s first birthday photos, and so on. In the years since her death, slowly the pictures were taken down. Perhaps the memories were too painful to relive without her, or perhaps there was another reason for pulling them down. Either way, the walls were slowly stripped until they were nearly bare once again.
At one point in his happy life, his dear wife had her things strewn everywhere. The floor would be cluttered with her clothes and makeup accessories; her notepad would be left open next to a pen, and Gene would catch a glimpse inside her mind. The things she felt would all come out on that paper, and these were usually things she didn’t say out loud. Of course, Gene wouldn’t pry. He would shut the book back and kill the curiosity.
Now, there is no mess leftover. There are no clothes on the floor, and every notepad she’d ever written in, he’d thrown out. But now, he only wishes he still had a notepad. If he still had one, he could read her thoughts in her handwriting, and hear her voice in his mind. Oh, what he would give to hear her voice once more.
At one point in his happy life, this house was inhabited. But now it’s empty, stripped of its life and memories, stripped of its carefree atmosphere, stripped of the complete family that once made it a home.
Gene returned from his overly-analytical mind, and remembered he was still standing in his closet next to where his wife used to hang her clothes.
Gene put on typical Gene clothes, and went back downstairs (with a little more energy, this time), and sat in front of the television until his coffee had ample time to finish brewing.
In a very movie-esque type of fashion, he happened to turn on the news right as they were retelling the story of Miss Zoey Edmund, and showing the recent sketch of the one and only suspect. The picture took up the entire screen, while the anchor’s voice narrated in the background, and Gene only hoped that the sketch was accurate enough.
The sketch itself was haunting and creepy. It paints a picture of a broken and sick man, with bags drawn in under his eyes, and fat or loose skin hanging just below his chin. In the photo, his eyes were squinty and he was clearly scowling, as if to alert the subconscious that he is a dangerous and vile human being. It gave Gene the jitters, so he got back up and checked on the coffee. Best not to dwell.
Enough had brewed for one cup, so he shut the machine off and poured the pot’s contents into his Thermos before heading into his garage and out of his house.
---
Marco was in his still relatively empty office at 6:59 a.m., and Gene didn’t walk in until a quarter past seven. He was late again, but people had mostly stopped caring or paying attention. It’s not like there was a lot to do at seven a.m. anyway.
Marco was on Facebook, reading some comments on his posts that his friends and family back in Italy had made while he was in bed, when Gene barged into his office.
“Hey, Marco. Good mornin’. Hey, we’re gonna go see Mr. Edmund in his office again today. He called me last night, and he thinks he has some new info for us. It was cryptic and kind of weird, but it sounded important. Plus, we haven’t done jack shit on this case in the past few days so something is better than nothing.”
Marco was excited just at the prospect of doing something. He worked other small-time cases on his own, but that didn’t really require a lot of effort. Most of the other important stuff was handled by the Sergeant, or delegated to Jeff.
“Hey, you don’t have to sell it to me. I’m in. When do you wanna go?”
“His office opens up at nine, so I want to be there at nine.” Gene looked at his watch, which was a mistake. It was only a quarter past seven, which meant he had nothing to do for the next hour and a half. “Oof, that sucks. Okay, well I’ll be in my office watching YouTube videos if you need me.” As he turned around, he muttered to himself, “Damn I’m ready to retire.”
---
The boys pulled into the parking garage across the street from the building that held Terry’s offices, and made the long journey down the garage, across the street, through the lobby, and up thirty stories to the offices of Edmund & Hart.
The same pretty redhead still sat at the reception desk and with apparent recognition in her eyes, she asked, “Here to see Mr. Edmund?”
“Yes we are,” Marco said softly, his Italian accent only a subtle hint compared to his mother’s.
She phoned Terry and then pointed them to his office immediately. This time there was no formal greeting or handshakes, or anything of the sort. Instead, they just made their way back into his office, where he was waiting for them with his arms crossed on top of his desk. The door was already open, so they stepped in and took the same seats they had sat in on their last visit.
“Hey, gentlemen. It’s good to see y’all again.” Terry stood up and shook both of their hands. This time, however, his palms were not moist, and he was not sweating profusely. He was much more calm-mannered, but he did seem jittery. Marco noticed his handshake was limp - more so than last time - and as Terry sat down, Marco noticed that his legs were a little wobbly and his hands a tad shaky. Curious, Marco thought, maybe he’s hyped up on caffeine.
“I’ll cut right to it, then,” Terry said. He looked sleep deprived - almost as much as Gene - and did not appear to be much in the mood for anything other than a nap. “What I’m gonna say is gonna be weird. Really weird, actually. And it doesn’t make any sense, but it kind of does, too. I honestly can’t believe it myself…” Terry could feel himself getting off track and beginning to ramble, so he returned to his point.
“Anyway, I think I know who your guy is.”
Terry quit talking as the two detectives both leaned in, as curious as ever. Gene was skeptical but excited, and Marco did not know what to feel. But they both felt eagerness for Terry to get on with it.
Terry, who was satisfied with the reaction that his bombshell got, continued. “I think it’s my partner.”
Gene cocked his head, squinted his eyes, and made a small o-shape with his mouth. “I’m confused. Your partner? Like the ‘Hart’ of ‘Edmund & Hart’?”
“Yeah, exactly.” Terry noticed Marco slouch back into his seat and Gene continue with the dumbfounded expression, so he tried to explain. “I know, I know. It’s weird, but hear me out. First off, the guy is weird. We met in college and we started this venture together, but something has always kind of been off about him. He’s not at all social. Like at all. He’s scared of people - hates them actually, I think.” Terry began getting worked up, his arms flailing about in big gestures, and his tone had turned from a normal conversational one to a high-pitched ramble.
“And by that, I mean he’s a fucking lunatic. Short temper. He once fired a secretary for forgetting to bring him sugar with his coffee. Sent her packing. He called her - if I remember correctly - a ‘stupid piece of white trash garbage’. For forgetting to bring sugar. Yeah.”
The detectives continued listening, sucked into the story. Marco kept up well with his note taking.
“So, people kind of stayed away from him for a long time. No one wanted to go into his office, or speak to him, or God forbid be assigned a task by him. To those people out there, getting delegated a task from him was like a death sentence for their jobs. No one could ever make him happy.”
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