When I first reawakened from my state of unconsciousness, I noticed the willow tree’s leaves flickering sporadically with raindrops. Lake Endelman’s surface rippled with pellets of water, too. Amazingly, the meteorologists had accurately forecast the course of this soggy morning. Storm clouds unfurled from beyond the western hills and leaned like a leaden wave over Willows Edge. The few traces of sunlight initially apparent in this morning’s sky were now totally engulfed in a silver sheath. Adding to my discontent, not much improvement in the weather was expected for the remainder of this day.
Several seconds elapsed before I realized that I was still sprawled out on the rock, only considerably wetter than I was before succumbing to my chronic illness. Jolly’s bark startled me, but she hadn’t strayed too far from where I last remembered seeing her. I immediately checked my watch to determine how much time had passed since I slipped under the influence of this episode. I estimated the lost time at three minutes in duration, which had become typical at this phase in my sickness. At present, I had no infallible tactic to predict when I’d submit to the next occurrence. But obvious symptoms cropped up at regular intervals. Profuse sweating and a headache usually indicated the first signs. But lately, a dull ringing inside my eardrums often caused me to become unbalanced in the seconds before I surrendered consciousness.
On this occasion, it took me at least two minutes to regain my stance beside the rock. Fortunately, my four-legged companion provided all the guidance needed to lead me safely out of the thicket. While retracing my footsteps along the trail toward my home, I wondered how much longer I could’ve kept this malady secret from those whom I worked beside. Trying to explain this uncanny condition to my wife was one problem, but those in charge at my school might’ve been skeptical of my ability to teach effectively if they suspected that a disease compromised my mind. For now, I deemed it wisest to conceal my ailment from them for as long as manageable.
After emerging from the woods, I realized that Jolly must have followed the scenic trail back to the house. Because most of the walking paths intersected anyway, this was not an uncommon error even for someone as familiar with these surroundings as me. Due to the rain, it was a minor inconvenience on this outing, but in actuality I was still only a few hundred feet up the street from my driveway on Overlook Avenue. Since the inclement weather kept most of the early morning joggers tethered to their treadmills, I didn’t plan on interacting with anyone. Of course, I neglected to remember that one antiquated fixture in my neighborhood rarely missed the occasion of a predawn stroll no matter what havoc Mother Nature had simmering in the atmosphere.
Cora Hart hobbled down the sidewalk toward me with her two ivory-pelted Pomeranians in tow. Even on sunny days I never bumped into this elderly woman without seeing her swathed in long coal-colored raincoat and umbrella. Currently, there was no other resident in Willows Edge who had expended more hours patrolling the neighborhood than she. Her dedication to preserving the streets’ homey repute had increased substantially since her husband’s death three years ago. It was no exaggeration to suggest that I had known this woman my entire life. At an earlier time, I remembered her providing my own mother with an inspiration for joining the church and becoming an advocate for what she decreed as a voice of “grace and benevolence.”
Naturally, as a youngster I sought no part of her pontifications on religion. As I grew older, my rejection for her pulpit-pounding prattle had only escalated. I didn’t dislike the woman as much as her rhetoric that criticized those who refused to follow her pedantic beliefs. In fairness, she wasn’t wholly repugnant, and she managed to recruit other “astray souls” who seemed overdue for divine intervention. In truth, there were few people in town who didn’t acknowledge her as a pious icon in this community. I simply couldn’t feign my gratitude toward her preaching for more than a few minutes per month. Until recently, she had made it her personal campaign to lure my wife and I into the church’s pews on Sunday mornings.
After the beam of Cora Hart’s flashlight illuminated my footsteps, I knew it was too late for me to retreat into the shadows. Upon seeing me, her pure white dogs yapped like defective toys, and I believed Jolly harbored a furtive fetish to munch on these bantam-sized fur balls if afforded a genuine chance. I grasped my dog’s leash taunt after it became apparent that Cora had more time to fritter away this morning than I did. She must have already recognized my disheveled appearance. By this moment, the woman had lived at least eighty-five years, and for each one of those calendar months gone by, a portion of her skin creased in a spherical pattern down her narrow face. Her vigilant eyes punctured this morning’s grayness like dollops of fire upon the altar. As always, she styled her wool-white hair in a chignon, and talked out of the right half of her lopsided mouth.
“Good morning to you, Corbin,” she said, but her tone was more scrutinizing than an authentic salutation. I nodded respectfully, but then became distracted by Jolly’s bid to tug within striking range of the hyperactive Pomeranians.
“Morning, Mrs. Hart,” I replied, while trying with modest success to keep Jolly under control. “I guess my dog doesn’t take kindly to your little companions.”
Cora then yanked on her Pomeranians’ restraints, inducing them to sit at each side of her legs like two clumps of limestone.
“It’s all a matter of discipline,” she said, eyeing my dog as if the animal had no more right to occupy this space than a heretic. She then reminded me why I had purposely avoided her company whenever conceivable. “A poorly managed pet isn’t so much of a reflection upon the animal as it is its owner.”
“I’ll make a mental note of that,” I murmured. It probably wasn’t worth depleting my oxygen to challenge Cora’s didactic tendencies, even through hints of sarcasm. The old woman appeared rightly situated beneath a halo of light borrowed from nothing more miraculous than a streetlamp. I hoped the brevity of my greeting encouraged her to sally forth in prey of a more acquiescent subject, but Puritans were less resolute than this lady. Since she ignored my social front, I resorted to banal matters.
“It’s a bit early to be out in the rain, wouldn’t you agree, Mrs. Hart?”
Cora pulled back her coat’s sleeve and glanced at a platinum wristwatch. “It’s 6:07,” she indicated with the punctuality of a schoolmarm. “I’ve never been one to let a stretch of damp weather disrupt my schedule.”
I continued to soothe my dog’s temperament by scratching her behind her ears with my fingers. Jolly eventually squatted beside me, briefly mimicking the behavior of Cora’s Pomeranians. Surprisingly, the white dogs appeared unnerved by Jolly’s sudden submissiveness. They jumped from their stationary positions as if coaxed by an unseen provoker.
“That’ll be quite enough!” she exclaimed. She vigorously yanked both leashes again, this time nearly choking the exuberant pups. Despite the dogs’ bantam sizes, they barked as ferociously as if they were leviathans from the deep. Cora then hollered her dogs’ names loudly enough to cause a neighboring house’s porch light to flick on. “Typee and Omoo, stop this nonsense at once!”
The dogs obeyed her command, of course, and I sensed that few had ever defied such an imposing tone. However, I decided to use this setback in her dominance by excusing myself from the situation. But Cora didn’t have any intention of granting me a pardon from her criticisms.
“I haven’t had the pleasure of greeting you or your wife in church recently,” she simpered, now fully satisfied by her maneuvering.
“We’ve been really busy lately,” I fibbed.
“Too busy for the Lord?” she scowled. “Come Judgment Day, Corbin, let us pray that He doesn’t show you a similar lack of reverence.”
What could I possibly offer as a rebuttal to a woman who had spent the superior portion of the last century rehearsing for the afterlife? Of all the residents presently residing in Willows Edge, I suspected that Cora’s ticket to Heaven’s Gate would’ve received primary validation. But even with this impervious shell of wholesomeness serving as her sp
iritual indemnity, I suspected she had motives of a less genuine caliber brewing beneath her spooled crown of colorless hair.
“If your mother was still with us today,” she continued, “it wouldn’t be inaccurate to say that she’d be duly saddened by your indifference to all things holy.”
Again, the old lady’s observation had a stinging merit to it that I didn’t intend to refute. Besides, I had already acknowledged my apathy toward organized religion to Cora in the past, and she still harped on it whenever I strayed within her path.
“Let’s not get into this discussion again,” I suggested, even temperedly. “I’m running late as it is.”
“It serves me no benefit to remind you of your obligation to our community’s church,” she rebuked. “But far be it from me to keep a man secured from his sins, as venial as they may be. I suppose an expectation for my neighbor’s salvation is far too inconvenient to lobby for anyway.”
“On this morning, maybe you’re right.”
Perhaps I sounded a bit more condescending than I hoped, but subtly wasn’t a suit I wore well. Even after my blatant display of rudeness, Cora remained fastened to the sidewalk as if buckets of cement poured over her rubber boots. It seemed obvious that our conversation wouldn’t come to an end until Cora discovered something else to occupy her morning routine. I still tried to wriggle out of her ceremonious clutches by resorting to an overused excuse.
“I wish I had more time, Mrs. Hart, but it’s Thursday. My duties at the high school await.”
“Of that I’m sure,” she scoffed. “Let’s hope for the children’s sake that you place more emphasis on education than you do toward the Sabbath.”
Cora seemed momentarily resigned to letting me escape a longwinded sermon, and I was at least grateful for this courtesy. But I should’ve suspected that she had an insatiable urge to depart on her terms rather than my own.
Before I paced out of earshot, she spoke again in a voice peppered with suspicion. “You did say it was Thursday, didn’t you, Corbin?”
I nodded submissively, but my gesture didn’t erase a quizzical expression from Cora’s countenance. “I was planning on dropping off some brochures at your house later this morning,” she went on. “And if I’m not mistaken, your wife is home today, isn’t she?”
“Yes,” I replied. “Rachel works out of our house two days a week.”
“Of course she does,” said Cora, glibly. “Tuesdays and Thursdays, correct?”
“That’s right.”
The old woman’s inquiry almost sounded innocuous, but there was an impish pitch woven between her syllables. I prompted her to divulge more. “Feel free to stop by anytime. I’m sure Rachel wouldn’t mind taking a look at whatever you’re peddling.”
I figured my curt invitation would’ve squelched the anxiety oozing from Cora’s face, but she still appeared out of sorts. Despite Jolly’s insistence to lug me up the sidewalk, I paused to monitor her reaction.
“Is there something else on your mind?” I asked.
“There’s always something else. If I recall, I think you told me your wife sells real estate. Isn’t that true?”
Unlike some oldsters tottering aimlessly throughout the neighborhood, Cora’s memory remained as keen as it was thirty years ago. She hardly required any verification from me of the statements she posed as questions.
Cora resumed her craftily coated lecture by saying, “Your wife must be doing quite well for herself these days. In fact, there’s not a Tuesday or Thursday morning of any week that I haven’t witnessed a gentleman coming out of your home.”
If the old woman had it in her mind to stall me further, she succeeded. I now tugged deliberately on Jolly’s leash as I pivoted back towards Cora. Her white dogs barked and snarled at my sudden intrusion. While it was not unusual for Rachel to entertain potential clients from our home, Cora’s observation certainly merited additional questioning.
“Did you say a gentleman?” I asked.
“I did indeed. It’s strange that this same fellow arrives every Tuesday and Thursday at 7:35 A.M. If I had an inclination to do so, I’d set my watch by him.” Cora then glanced at her wristwatch and remarked, “I’d say that he arrives within an hour after you leave for work, give or take a tick or tock.”
“You mean it’s the same guy at the house two days every week?”
Cora nodded her jutting chin and watched me with eyes that deciphered my sorrow better than I presently realized. “I’m sure it’s not what it seems,” she continued, baiting me with every word. “I originally presumed you were selling your home, but then after not seeing a listing for several weeks, I had second thoughts.”
“So how long has this man been stopping over my house?”
“Oh, I can’t say for sure. You know me, Corbin, I’m much too preoccupied preaching the Lord’s message to notice such minute details.”
I ignored Cora’s sarcastic bid to remain aloof to the circumstances. “Would you guess six or seven times? Fewer or more?”
“If I was the type of neighbor to calculate such events, I’d say closer to fifteen,” she answered as if the number was already indelibly stitched in the fabric of her mind.
“That’s over seven weeks,” I deliberated aloud. “Almost two months.”
“Although I’m not knowledgeable to the timeframe of residential real estate transactions, that sounds about accurate.”
“And you’re absolutely certain it’s the same man every time?”
Cora motioned to her eyes with one hand, reminding me that no eyeglasses framed her face. “The years have been kind to my vision. Not that I’m prone to notice such things, but he’s a particularly handsome man, too. Well groomed and apparently accustomed to the finer possessions in life.”
“How do you know that?”
“Have you ever met a man driving a Lexus who hasn’t acquired some financial prominence for himself?”
“You’ve seen his car?”
“He parks the vehicle in your driveway as if he has ownership to it.”
“What color is it?”
“Silver, perhaps gray,” she responded without hesitation.
“And you’re sure it’s a Lexus?”
“Quite sure.”
Cora’s attention to anything outside the framework of her own household was rarely fallible. In this case, I wanted to cross-examine her until I found a defect in her observances, but she remained remarkably consistent in her delivery.
“You’ve actually seen this man enter my house on each occasion?” I persisted.
“Business of this nature is rarely conducted on the street, is it, Corbin?”
“I suppose not. Do you recognize this guy from our neighborhood?”
Cora’s facial muscles didn’t twitch when she responded. “I’d rather not speculate on his identity right now.”
My posture suddenly slumped as if I had absorbed a punch in the stomach from this wily old lady. While I buckled in Cora’s presence, I didn’t know whether to thank or curse her for the information she imparted. At this point, she now assumed the role of one who had more significant affairs to attend.
“If you feel it’s necessary, Corbin, I’m sure we can talk further about this over brunch on Sunday after services.”
“I’ll think about it,” I muttered.
“Yes,” she chimed with the fluency of a well-spoken clergyman. “I’ll look forward to seeing you and your wife in the pews. Under the circumstances, I can’t recommend a more appropriate rendezvous.”
Cora Hart left me staggering in the darkness, seemingly unfazed by the cruel impalement she just administered. After a few moments I recomposed myself and debated what was told to me. For now, the best possible action was to at least attempt to justify another man’s frequent visitations to my house. Was he truly just my wife’s client? Naturally, I wanted to suspend judgment until speaking directly to her about this matter, but then I recognized the futility of such a strategy. Candid discourse didn’t bode well in th
e current crisis of our relationship. If given a chance to finagle a credible excuse, I’m sure Rachel had the skill and alacrity to manufacture one. I simply needed to scour my own observations before insisting upon any clarification from her.
Before approaching my driveway with Jolly at my side, I was forced to contemplate the most humiliating of all possible scenarios. Cora’s description of the man’s vehicle left little flexibility in this regard. To date, I knew only one person who owned a silver Lexus. The fact that Rachel was also acquainted with this individual for as long as we were married added to my thought’s plausibility. A dilemma, of course, surfaced in the fact that the man in question also happened to be my best friend for the past thirty-five years. I’m sure Cora must’ve recognized Leon Chase from the numerous occasions he visited my home while I was also in company. She had known us both since we were children.
Leon Chase certainly possessed an abundance of wealth, comeliness, and charm to attract as many women as he desired. But he already had a lovely wife of his own and seemed content in his present situation. Over the years, Leon had made some rather prudent investments in the real estate market, which brought him the luxuries he pledged to obtain since we were youngsters. When he departed Willows Edge in quest of a more exclusive neighborhood in Ravendale Heights about ten summers ago, I figured he had finally outgrown our friendship’s convenience. This was purely an assumption on my part, however, because he never intended to abandon his roots. I had long since considered him the finest person I had ever known.
Of course, opinions of moral character sometimes changed direction more often than a moth in flight. If I accepted Cora Hart’s surveillances as foolproof, then I at least had to delve deeper into the true nature of my friendship with Leon Chase. I recalled a few of my most recent interactions with him, but couldn’t pinpoint any particular evidence that made me doubt his ulterior ambitions. Just three weeks ago, Leon and his wife Peggy joined my wife and I at a local pub called Rounders. In retrospect, I now recalled a fair amount of bantering between Rachel and him, but nothing inordinately flirtatious. Leon always enjoyed basking in the limelight at social affairs, which contributed to his likeability. I might’ve even extended an equal amount of playful mannerisms towards his wife, but nothing that transferred beyond the moment.
I kept rehearsing these scenarios in my mind as if a chamber within my brain was stuck on replay. Over the years I shared some of my most confidential regrets with Leon, including the recent hiccups within my marriage. Yet even while opening an avenue for him to relay similar friction in his relationship, Leon offered nothing in the way of strife. Much to the contrary, he seemed radiant and at ease in his relationship. His wife Peggy was attractive, and they already had one child who was not older than five. Of all the married couples I had known throughout the years, I presumed Leon and Peggy were marginally the most content. Yet the frequency of his vehicle in my driveway while I was at work couldn’t be overlooked. Obviously, there was something secretive in the mix, or Rachel would’ve mentioned the purpose of his company.
After returning to my house, I tended to Jolly’s needs in the kitchen. While the dog gulped down her morning meal from a bowl in the washroom, I made an excuse to venture upstairs. After all, my earlier episode had caused a few obvious stains on the backside of my shirt and slacks. A change of clothes was in order, and I might’ve even discovered Rachel lying awake in bed. Halfway up the staircase I paused to reflect upon a reoccurring thought. The melody of Rachel’s cell-phone reverberated within my mind. Who called her earlier this morning? It was Thursday, of course, and I was almost reluctant to dwell on my suspicions. In the days before cell-phones, whenever a telephone rang too early or too late, it was rarely a good message. Technology may have altered the form in the way such news was delivered, but human nature maintained its stealthy habits throughout the years.
I walked gingerly toward the master bedroom, stepping toe-to-heel in a bid to cushion the impact of my weight on the hardwood floors. From outside the bedroom, I put my ear to a half-opened door and listened, hoping not to detect the whispery intonations of deceitfulness. At the moment, Rachel slept. I heard her breathing as peacefully as an affluent child reposed in her surroundings. She typically placed her cell-phone on a nightstand beside our bed. I suddenly planned to do what I had never done before. An option of checking her phone’s messages seemed like a rudimentary method in the handling this dilemma, but short of an accusatory exchange of words, I had no other recourse.
I moved like an extended shadow toward my target on the nightstand, using only the slivers of daybreak from a window as guidance. Since Rachel was an incredibly light sleeper, a single misstep would’ve undone my maneuvering. But before completing a deed that no dignified man would’ve ever proudly owned, I stopped and studied a beatific portrait framed in white linen within the bed. Here was a face virtually untouched by time, a visage of femininity at its finest and most alluring. This was Rachel, the woman whom I still loved as intensely as the day we wed. It sickened my body with a poison as potent as any viper to suspect that her feelings for me had vanished.
What safeguard did any marriage really hold against a prospect of temptation? We were all so vulnerable. In a moment such as this, a man might’ve questioned his masculinity, perhaps looking too introspectively at himself to unravel the frayed threads of infidelity. The answer, of course, was seldom linked to one imperfect circumstance. A compilation of gaffes and self-contentment steered us to this shame. In the end, who was more at fault: the deceived or the deceiver? Despite my urge to inspect her phone and violate a trust that the guilty often relied upon as a blockade, I couldn’t do it—not now, not while staring at her sleeping body. Maybe I was just simply too afraid or mortified to view her in any other form than what my imagination had preserved.
I then redirected my footsteps away from the bed, disregarding an impulse to discover what every betrayed spouse must eventually endure. For now, though, I had a mightier opponent to wrestle. What typically lured a married woman into another man’s bed? Was it the unbridled exhilaration of lust? Was it the concoction of romance and affection no longer traceable in her husband’s touch? Was it an intoxicating promise of material wealth and travel? Was it the giddiness of simplified love? Perhaps it was all of these, or none. Surely, a woman who toured in such wily ways rarely revealed the source of her misconduct until the journey was over.
In spite of my stubbornness to change into something more than what I had become, I realized Rachel desired a lifestyle dissimilar from the one that once made her feel secure with me. Leon Chase certainly possessed the means to rescue my wife from her current situation. He was always a very different man from me, but I often attributed our friendship’s longevity to this contrasting take on life. Leon was completely comfortable commingling with city folk as much as he was in his suburban hideaway. Unlike me, he had no qualms of bolting from Willows Edge’s bucolic boundaries. Although Rachel hardly mentioned her feelings in this regard, I sensed a bitter rift separating us as a result of my shortsightedness.
I might’ve stood in my bedroom’s corner another hour pondering the misgivings that shredded the fabric of even the tautest of hearts, but to what end? I didn’t want to rouse my wife from her sleep and hurl half-formed allegations at her like stones. For now, the agony of knowing too much belonged to me. When the evidence and time proved compelling, I’d eliminate any chance of denial on her part. With this thought in mind, I crossed the bedroom floor and entered an adjacent bathroom. A grim reflection greeted me in the vanity. I flipped a switch on the cabinetry to illuminate my fatigued features in the mirror.
If there was ever a boyish glint buried somewhere beneath my sagging brow, I couldn’t perceive it any longer. I wore anguish like a latex mask, and it shaded me from all that I once overtly revealed. My olive-colored eyes appeared glazed by uncertainty and a dearth of fulfillment. I, like so many others, was just a slump-shouldered, middle-aged man plodding through the days’ mun
dane agenda. If I sought more for myself, I suddenly lost the insight on precisely how to achieve it. The dreamer in me had gradually grown comatose. It’s difficult to stand before a mirror and admit that the fruitful years of my life were simply misspent on foolish enterprises. I had no visible enemies to blame for the general apathy I felt for most things. If a disease raged within my body, I wondered why it just didn’t act upon its instinct and destroy what remained of me.
Perspiration soon lathered my forehead and cheeks as I continued to scrutinize my appearance. I anticipated another episode about to disrupt this portion of my morning. I splashed cool water on my face and neck in a futile attempt to delay the onset of this spell. Before a few additional seconds passed, I sensed my peripheral vision narrowing to the frame of glass set before my eyes. Once again I drifted away from the confinement of my own reality.
Chapter 6
6:17 A.M.
The Classic Crusade of Corbin Cobbs Page 5
