by Jack Kilborn
Trish was Joan’s go-to when she came to Chicago to visit Tom. They enjoyed eating out, shopping, seeing an occasional show. They talked about their boyfriends, and sex, and stupid things in general that men did (which covered a lot of ground). But this was the first time Trish was asking Joan for emotional support. Joan could do it; she’d talked more than one A-list actor out of quitting, but it reminded her of work.
“I don’t think I could find another man to love me,” Trish said. She’d been saying variations of that since Joan had arrived. The poor waitress hadn’t even taken their order yet, and Joan was on what felt like her second pot of mediocre coffee.
“He loves you.”
“I can’t have babies.”
“You can adopt.”
“Men want to pass on their genes. It’s a macho thing.”
“Did Roy tell you this?”
“No. But I know men. Technically, I’m a man.”
Joan stopped short of rolling her eyes. “Fine. Slap your balls on the table and show me.”
Trish laughed. “I don’t have balls. But I do have testes, Joan.”
“You have them in your vagina,” Joan said, loud enough to make the surrounding tables peek their way. “Look, Trish, you were upfront with Roy about this when you started dating, right?”
“Yeah.”
“And he was fine with it?”
“Yeah.”
“So even if he is cheating on you—and that’s still an if—why do you have to play the gender card here?”
Trish leaned over the table. “Do you know what it’s like to not feel like you belong?”
“You know the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences? It’s eighteen percent women.”
“And how much of it is intersex?”
“Point made. But you asked what it feels like to not belong. I’m not African American. I’m not transgender. I don’t know what these things are like. But I do know how it feels to be dismissed because I don’t have a Y chromosome. And I know what it’s like to be objectified rather than taken seriously. I walk past the old boy’s locker room, and know they’re making deals in there, and that I’m not allowed in. There’s a long way to go before we see anything close to real equality. But you can’t use gender as your default excuse. Once you define yourself by what you’re not rather than what you are, you’re playing their game.”
Trish was nodding at her, but Joan wondered if she truly believed her own words. Because she could play the boy’s game, better than most of the boys. Joan was pretty, and she used that. She knew that she was underestimated because of her looks, and she used that too.
“Has Tom ever cheated on you?”
“Not that I know of.”
“What if he did?”
Tom? Joan couldn’t really entertain the idea. He just wasn’t that type.
“He’s a good-looking guy. A cop. Cops have groupies, you know. Girls in their twenties, looking for daddy figures. There are hookers who work cops the same way they work johns. There are also other cops. How about Eva? Tom took her to that fundraiser formal.”
“I was on a shoot and couldn’t make it. Tom asked me first if it was okay. Eva is just a friend.” Joan added. “And she’s a lesbian.”
“She’s bi.”
“Really?”
“Have you seen her picture?”
“No.” For whatever reason, Joan pictured Eva as short and pudgy.
Trish flipped through her cell pics, and found one of Tom in a tux. The woman on his arm, in a gold dress, was stunning. Like six feet tall stunning, with boobs so big they had to be fake.
“That’s Eva?”
“Yeah. Not a very good pic, though.”
Joan signaled the waitress for more coffee. “Trish… what’s your point here?”
“When I showed you her picture, did you, for just a split second, wonder if Tom slept with her?”
“No.”
“No? She looks like Sofia Vergara, but with bigger tits.”
“Well, I mean, she’s tall. But Tom has told me he likes shorter women.”
Joan wasn’t tall. And the amount of money she spent on heels was proof she’d never really been comfortable with her stature.
“What are you? Four eleven?”
“I’m five three.”
“And all guys prefer a B cup to a double D, right?”
“Okay, I get it,” Joan said. “It’s normal to doubt yourself, and then focus on your insecurities. But you need to stop dwelling on it and just ask Roy.”
“And what if he’s sleeping with someone else?”
“What if he is?”
“If Tom slept with Eva, and you learned about it, what would you do?”
Joan didn’t have to think about it. “I’d leave him.”
“Really?”
“Yes.”
“But you love him, right?”
“Yes.”
“Doesn’t someone you love deserve a second chance?”
“When did this become about me and Tom, Trish? This is about you and Roy. Just man up and call him.”
Trish raised a carefully made-up eyebrow. “Man up?”
“You’re the one bragging about your testes.”
Trish seemed confused, and then smiled her dazzling smile. She dialed Roy. Joan managed to get a coffee refill, and asked for a bagel while Trish talked. Joan purposely avoided listening, but Trish’s face morphed from confident to devastated.
“What?” Joan asked, not bothering to wait until the call was over.
“Roy’s at the hospital,” Trish said.
“Is he okay?”
“It’s Tom. He got attacked.”
CHAPTER 29
Erinyes is irritated.
The house is compromised, but he can bear the loss. The place is clean. Nothing there can lead back to him.
He doesn’t like losing his computer. His things.
The sinner in the basement.
But he has money. Erinyes can get a new place. A new computer. New things.
A new sinner to punish.
A new canvas to unleash Penance.
The timing is bad. There are still many things to do. He’ll have to step-up his schedule. That’s dangerous. These things needed to be savored, not rushed. And moving too quickly might lead to mistakes.
Erinyes checks the time. Checks his laptop. Checks the gas gauge. Does some quick calculations in his head. Takes his morning dose of Spironolactone. Then he goes in the back of the van to put on his scrubs.
Erinyes knows a lot about playing doctor.
Nurse, too.
He checks the chain on the metal barrel, making sure it’s secure, and then drives to his destination, obeying the speed limit and minding traffic signals.
Being stopped by the police would be bad. Erinyes has a medical appointment to keep.
And being late is a sin.
CHAPTER 30
Joan was pretty pissed.
“You said you were taking the day off,” she repeated for the third time.
Tom nodded. “I know.”
“You swore to me.”
Tom nodded. “I know.”
“And now you’re in the hospital.”
“Just for observation.”
Tom had gotten six stitches in the arm from the bite. Not too serious. But who knew what diseases that poor guy had? Tom’s doctor decided to screen Tom for pretty much everything, from tetanus to rabies to herpes to AIDS to Rocky Mountain spotted fever.
Joan sat next to his bed, gave one of her Hollywood dramatic sighs. “Dammit, Tom.”
“I’m sorry, Joan. I didn’t want to wind up like this. Trust me. I had different plans.”
“We had plans, Tom. Me and you. And we have rules about working when we’re visiting each other. And you threw those rules out the window.”
Tom thought about the engagement ring in his jacket.
Probably wasn’t the right time.
Joan rubbed her temples—always a bad sign—and
then turned to stare out the fourth floor window.
“I really don’t want to be a bitch—”
“You’re not. This is my fault.”
“—but that’s what I’m feeling like right now. Like the high-maintenance, always unhappy girlfriend. I don’t like feeling this way, Tom.”
“Joan, you’re not high-maintenance. We have ground rules. I’m the one who broke them. You’re a saint to put up with me.”
“What if I did what you did?”
“What? Went to work when I was visiting?”
When Joan looked at him again, her eyes were glassy. “What if I went into some psychopath’s house and got chewed on?”
Oh, man. This was worse than Tom had thought.
“Joan…”
“I’m serious. You love me, right?”
“Of course.”
“What if I kept putting myself in dangerous situations? What if I chased killers? What if, every time the phone rang, you knew there was a chance it would be my boss, calling to tell you I was dead?”
What do you say to that? “I’m sorry, Joan.”
Joan stood up. “Bullshit, Tom. I make movies for a living. The stuff I produce is as fake as the people I produce it with. The worst thing that can happen in my career is being attached to a flop. You? You’re in the hospital because a crazy man tried to bite your arm off.”
Tom knew exactly what this was. It was the well-worn what if you don’t come home argument. Every spouse of every cop came to that same conclusion, sooner or later. Tom had co-workers who’d gone through it. In many cases, it preceded a break-up, a separation, or a divorce. Tom had never dealt with it before, because he’d never been as close with anyone as he was with Joan.
The problem was, she was right. There was no way to win this argument. If a significant other couldn’t accept it, the only recourse was splitting up.
They’d had a less extreme version of this fight before, and Tom had promised to quit the force. But he hadn’t. And Joan hadn’t pushed him. Now it was years later, and he was still on the street, chasing scumbags. Tom had thought his girlfriend’s lack of complaints meant she was okay with his chosen profession.
He couldn’t have been more wrong.
“I’ll quit,” he said.
“You’ve said that before.”
“I mean it this time.”
Joan dug out her cell phone and tossed it on the bed. “Okay. Do it. Call your Captain right now. Tell him today was your last day.”
Tom stared at the phone.
“What are you waiting for?” Joan demanded.
“I can’t just stop working, Joan. I’m a civil servant. I have to give proper notice. I could lose my pension.”
“To hell with your pension. I make enough money.”
“I can’t just quit, Joan.”
“Bullshit, Tom. It’s not that you can’t. It’s that you won’t. And it isn’t because you’re worried about your pension. It’s this nutjob you’re chasing. The Snipper. You can’t quit until you catch him. Admit it.”
Tom didn’t answer. She’d nailed the truth, and any defense would be a lie.
Joan put her hands on her hips. “You aren’t answering because you know I’m right.”
“Okay. I’ll quit as soon as I catch him.”
Joan turned to the window again. Neither of them said anything for almost a minute.
“Chasing bad people… Joan, that’s part of who I am. It’s one of the reasons you fell in love with me. If you want me to change, I’ll try. For you, I’ll try. But it isn’t going to happen overnight.”
She continued to stare into the street below. “It’s never going to happen, Tom. You said it yourself. It’s who you are. But I don’t think I can handle it.”
“What are you saying?”
“I don’t want to feel this way, Tom.”
“Joan?”
She shook her head.
“Joan, please look at me.”
Her shoulders shook. She was crying.
Tom reached over to the dresser next to the bed, and opened the drawer. He fished out his jacket, digging into the pocket for the ring. Then he swung his legs out of bed and walked to her. His IV stopped him before he could reach her, the needle pulling at the vein in his arm.
“Joan, I need to ask you something.”
Joan turned.
Looked at his hand.
Saw the ring.
And then made the saddest face Tom had ever seen.
“No. You’re not doing this right now.”
“Joan…”
“This isn’t fair, Tom.”
Tom got down on one knee, the IV ripping free, causing a machine next to his bed to start pinging.
“Joan DeVilliers, will you—”
“Stop! Just stop!”
“Joan, I’ve never wanted anything more than this.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
Joan put her hands on her hips. “Then walk away from your job. Right now. Walk away, let someone else catch this maniac. You do that, I’ll marry you.”
Tom didn’t say anything.
The silence was horrible.
“Well, then,” said Joan. “Apparently there is something you want more than me.”
She walked past him, past his outstretched hand, and toward the door.
“Marry me,” he said. “Please.”
She stopped in the doorway. “You know my terms. When you’ve made your decision, you can call me.”
“Where are you going?”
“Home,” she said.
Then she left.
Tom got up off his one knee. Got back into bed. Stared at the blood dribbling down his arm. Stared at the engagement ring. Tried to think of a worse moment in his life, and couldn’t.
A nurse eventually came in, chiding him while replacing his IV. “This has antibiotics in it, Mr. Mankowski. You need to leave it in. We’ve diagnosed the man who bit you and…” His voice trailed off.
“And what?”
“There’s a specialist coming in. He’ll explain it.”
That was a cryptic thing to say, and under normal circumstances Tom wouldn’t have let the man leave until the nurse explained himself.
But at that very moment, Tom just didn’t give a shit.
CHAPTER 31
It was twelve-hundred eighty-six steps to the Carpenter Clinic, and Kendal was four minutes late for her appointment. She waited outside until it became five minutes, because 5 was a better number, and then pulled at the front door.
The door was locked.
Kendal tried to push. That didn’t work, either. She checked the hinges on the door, and pulling was correct, so she tried it again and the door opened.
Standing there was a tall woman wearing an expression somewhere between irritated and bored. She wore pink scrubs, white Keds, and her nametag read Nurse Demeter.
“Good morning, dear,” the nurse said in the fake-sounding way people talked when they didn’t care about you in the slightest.
She turned on her heels and Kendal followed her down a linoleum-tiled hallway, with many of the tiles torn up, as if the place were being remodeled. It took eighteen steps to get to the waiting room. The nurse took a seat behind the counter and focused all her attention on her cell phone screen. Kendal looked around the room. Empty chairs, an end table littered with magazines, a potted silk floor plant in need of dusting, an old coffee machine, the carafe empty.
Kendal counted chairs, picked the third one from the door, and went to sit down.
“Take a clipboard and completely fill out the information,” the nurse said without looking at her.
Her nerves already shattered from last night, Kendal flinched at the order. She eyed the chair, and was compelled to continue toward it, touching the armrest three times before turning and taking five steps to the counter, taking the clipboard, returning five steps to the chair, and then tapping the armrest three more times before sitting.
She gla
nced nervously at the nurse, but the woman didn’t notice Kendal’s compulsive behavior. Or she simply didn’t care.
Kendal pulled the provided pencil out of the clipboard spring and began to go through the health history questionnaire.
No anemia, arthritis, cataracts, diabetes, emphysema, gout, heart attack, high blood pressure, kidney stones, migraines, stroke, thyroid condition, or ulcer.
So far, so good.
No surgeries, no blood transfusions, not pregnant, no tobacco use, moderate alcohol use, drugs…
Kendal didn’t see how smoking grass every once and a while was anyone’s business, so she checked no.
Medication? Nothing in years. So not worth mentioning.
Family history. She had an involuntary image of her father flash into her mind, and checked off alcohol abuse.
Sexual history…
It didn’t have any qualifiers for consensual, and Kendal didn’t want to get into any of that, so she just checked no for everything.
Mental history…
Kendal looked over the checklist.
Bipolar disorder. Depression. Post-traumatic stress. Anxiety. Anger. Suicide. Violence.
This wasn’t so much a questionnaire as a greatest hits of Kendal’s psychiatric history. Yes to everything. Thank you, Father. You’ve given me so much.
Obsessive Compulsive Disorder.
She checked it off. Three times.
Schizophrenia.
Schizophrenia. That’s the question, isn’t it? Is this internal monologue I’m having with myself normal, or abnormal?
And what does any of this have to do with a goddamn mammogram?
Kendal left it blank, filled in her insurance information, and took the five steps back to Nurse Demeter, setting down the clipboard.
The nurse didn’t so much as glance at her, or at the information Kendal had just filled out. She scowled at her smart phone, put it in her pocket, and said, “Follow me.”
Kendal hurried to keep up as the larger woman took giant strides back down the hallway.
“You can change in here,” she said, pointing to a doorway. “Take your sweater and bra off, there are gowns hanging up, behind you.”
Kendal went inside the changing room and stood there, waiting for the nurse to leave.
