A gunshot made me jump so hard I bit my tongue.
I threw my sunglasses on the dash, tugged my jacket hood further over my face, pushed my door open, and clambered out on rubbery legs. Still cradling my fire extinguisher like a baby, I headed for the Hunsell house at a staggery lope, giving the next-door neighbor’s Trans Am a wide berth.
The Hunsell back yard was surrounded by a tall, wooden privacy fence, but its gate was open wide enough for me to glimpse Delta, Toots, and another woman from the neighborhood clustered inside. I crept along a line of bushy, red-tipped-photina shrubs, watching. Toots and friend, looking terrified, huddled behind Delta.
Delta tried to reason calmly with Frank Hunsell. “Now, Frank, put that gun down before my husband gets here,” she cajoled. “You don’t want to make my husband mad by waving that gun at me. You don’t want him to turn you into a big, hairy stain, do you?” I heard puppies whimpering. “Put the gun down, Frank,” Delta repeated. “Don’t take out your revenge on the rest of these poor little dogs. It’s not their fault your wife ran off.”
“This is what all you ugly bitches deserve,” Frank yelled. “A bullet in the head. My wife left these bitches behind. I shot their ugly bitch of a mama, and now I’m going to shoot both of her ugly bitch puppies.”
I charged through the gate and made a left turn toward Frank’s angry voice. Frank was balding, beefy, and had the generally disheveled look of a country-club executive on a bad bender. A delicate, tri-colored Sheltie twitched her last moments of life into a puddle of blood on the brown fescue lawn. Her two half-grown, mixed-breed puppies cowered nearby.
Frank waved his pistol. “Ugly bitches get what they deserve,” he said again. Then he pivoted toward the puppies and took aim.
I didn’t know what else to do, so I hit him in the head with the fire extinguisher.
His knees buckled and he sprawled on his back, moaning. I shoved the gun away from his quivering hand with the toe of my Gucci mule—style is always important when threatening a man—then leaned over him with the calm fury of the queen-mother monster in the Alien movies. In case he moved again, I aimed the extinguisher at his head like a short, fat baseball bat.
“Some of us ugly bitches fight back,” I said.
“It was just like something in a movie!” Delta exclaimed, waving her hands and pacing excitedly in the frosty afternoon air outside the Crossroad’s general store. Jeb, Bubba, Becka, Cleo and other assorted family members stood there steaming up the air with their rapt breath. Pike looked grim. He’d just returned from arresting Frank Hunsell at the Turtleville Emergency Clinic. Hunsell had a mild concussion and a long list of charges to face. He also had a bruise on one cheek, since Pike slammed him against a wall.
“And then,” Delta went on, bending herself into a chubby crouch that made the back of her winter coat stick out like a duck’s tail, “here comes Cathy through the gate. Like a football player headed for the end zone, only she’s carrying a fire extinguisher instead of a ball. Frank Hunsell puffs out his chest and curls his lip and growls, ‘Ugly bitches get what they deserve,’ and then he turns—” Delta pivoted with an evil look on her face. “He turns toward those shivering little puppies, and he points his gun at them and then . . . wham!”
She mimicked a fire extinguisher being rammed against a head. “Cathy slammed that canister against his skull, and the sound it made echoed for miles. He went down!” Delta feigned a slump, though she wasn’t enough of a method actress to actually fall down on the graveled parking lot. “Like a sack of wet flour!” She straightened, lifted the imaginary fire extinguisher, then leaned over the imaginary Frank Hunsell. “Cathy glared down at him like so. I’m telling you, green fire shot out of her eyes. And she said, ‘Sometimes us ugly bitches fight back.’”
Everyone applauded. Delta was a storyteller in the great Southern tradition. Thanks to her, my legend would be told around campfires for generations to come. I sat dully on the store’s wooden steps, my hooded head propped on a gloved fist. I couldn’t stop worrying about Thomas. I also kept seeing the puppies’ dead mother. I looked up at Pike. “Don’t you have to file some kind of charges against me? If so, can I turn myself in tomorrow? I’ve got a lot on my mind today.”
“Charge you?” He smiled grimly. “For what? Using a fire extinguisher to put out a gun?” Pike shook his head. “Hunsell was waving a loaded pistol at three women, one of them my wife. He’d already committed one act of animal cruelty and was about to commit more. No, you won’t be charged for stopping him. Too bad you didn’t hit him harder.”
“Is there any way to keep this incident off the front page of the Jefferson County Weekly Messenger?”
Delta patted my shoulder. “Since the editor is my third cousin once removed on the Aymes side of the McKendall line, I’ll have a word. It’s a family thing.”
I relaxed a little. “The fire extinguisher did make a satisfying sound. When I hit Hunsell on the head it was like a sound effect in a cartoon. It went ‘conk.’ I just wish I’d gotten there before he shot the puppies’ mother.”
Everyone nodded somberly. Jeb and Becka headed into the store. “We’ll get you some supplies for your new babies,” Becka said.
“Thank you.” I stood slowly, my knees quivering, and made my way over to the Hummer. Banger lurked there, looking up at the rear passenger-side as if jealous. “You can’t eat my puppies,” I said. He gave me a china-eyed glare.
I opened the back door a few inches and peeked inside. The puppies looked back at me uncertainly, their eyes sad, their shaggy tails set on half-wag. Their mother’s small, still body lay in the back of the Hummer, wrapped in a clean garbage bag. I couldn’t bear to leave her laying where Frank Hunsell shot her. Her babies needed her nearby, if only in spirit.
“Toots says your father was a miniature Schnauzer,” I told the puppies. They were a grayish-brindle color, with white splashes on their chests and faces. Both had floppy little ears that folded over to the front, and both had chin whiskers. “Since your mother was a Sheltie, that makes you two ‘Sheltzers.’ Okay?”
Their tails wagged half-heartedly. I leaned closer, stroked their heads, and made soothing noises. “I’m sorry about your mother. Will you be my babies, now? You’re not ugly.” My throat ached. “The three of us, we’re not ugly.”
As if they understood, their tails went wild. I was a little startled. I knew nothing about dogs because I’d never had any kind of pet as a child. Daddy said we traveled too much to care for animals. By the time I was old enough to make my own choices my career took all my time. Now, suddenly, I got my first lesson in doggy devotion.
Two sets of front paws climbed my shoulders. Two pink tongues attacked my face. They licked the good side, they licked the scars, they licked the hood of my jacket. Puppies don’t see “ugly,” they see love. I stroked their heads and struggled not to cry.
“Thomas is here,” Delta whispered behind me.
I wiped my face hurriedly as I shut the Hummer’s door. Here I was, smelling like dog saliva. Not to mention having just auditioned for a Sopranos episode in the Hunnell back yard. My nickname as a made mafiosa? The Fire Extinguisher.
I’d tell him that. I’d make him smile. I’d find a way to talk to him about his sister-in-law. I’d convince him to throw her toxic anniversary gift in the nearest trash can without opening it. I turned around and froze. He stood a few yards away, frowning as Delta gave him the CliffsNotes edition of the afternoon’s drama. I didn’t expect his haggard face, his bloodshot eyes. His beard was beginning to look ragged again. There was a bone-weary droop to his broad shoulders.
When I ran over to him he registered nothing warmer than a tired nod. I said as lightly as I could, “I have two furry little creatures in the Hummer. I think they’re commonly referred to as ‘dogs.’ Do you speak ‘dog’ or any related dialect of dog language? I could really use an interpreter. Why don’t you come to my house tonight and translate for us until I learn enough words of dog to communicate with th
em?”
Not a flicker of amusement. “What you did today proves how capable you are. When other people—or animals—need you, you’re there for them. All you have to do is recognize your own strength.”
“You didn’t see me throw up on the hood of a Trans Am after I whacked Frank Hunnell.” I turned my face just-so, charmingly luring him with the good side. I dipped my chin, smiled and looked up at him from beneath my lashes. My box-office close-up. How many times I’d used it in films. The eyes, the smile. The megawatter. “I really need your help and advice with the puppies. Please come to my house tonight. I’ll microwave a protein bar and some crunchy granola for you. Please?”
“I know what you’re trying to do, but I have to handle my problem alone.”
So much for movie shtick. I stared up at him bluntly. “The hell you do.”
“This is a part of who I am.” He bent his head close to mine. His voice became a hoarse rasp. “Cathy, this is my burn scar. All right? You can’t fix it.”
I grabbed the front of his coat. “The fact that you drove down here to check on me today means you don’t want to be alone.”
“I drove down here to meet the courier. He called.”
I looked up at him in dismay. Delta, eavesdropping nearby, hurried over. “He’s delivering your package a week earlier than the other years!”
“Good. I hate long waits.”
A van bearing a delivery company’s logo pulled into the café’s parking lot. Thomas pried my hands off his coat then walked over to meet the driver. I turned to Delta urgently. “I can’t let him go back to his cabin like this. Tell Pike to arrest him for his own safety. I’ll ... I’ll get my fire extinguisher and hit him on the head. Whatever it takes. I am not going to stand here helplessly and watch him walk into a pit of despair alone!”
Delta clamped a hand on my forearm. “I’ll tell you what I told him about you before Christmas. Back off. He has to find his own way.”
“How can you say that?”
“Hon, if he’s about to go down in flames, you’re not the one who can save him. He’s got to make peace with himself. You can’t do it for him.”
“I can try.”
Thomas was now walking to his truck with a slender package tucked under one arm. What had his twisted sister-in-law inserted in that benign-looking envelope this year? How could something so flimsy have the power to tear him apart? I followed him at a trot. My feet crunched on the fine gravel, and he turned slowly as I reached him. “Go home, Cathy. That’s not an option. That’s an order.”
“Why is it that you have the right to meddle in my life when I need help but I don’t have the right to meddle in yours?”
“This isn’t about keeping score.”
“If I had a bottle of pills in my hand you’d stop me from taking them. Just as you did a few months ago.”
“That was different. Leave me alone, goddammit.”
This bitter, cursing man wasn’t the Thomas I knew. “Why don’t you open that letter now and read what’s inside, and then we can talk about it? I’m a good listener.” My voice broke. I flung a hand toward the deformed ear hidden under my hood. “No matter how this looks, I can hear with it. Please, Thomas. I can listen. Please.”
“Go home. If you need anything, I mean in an emergency, call me. I’ll get there.”
“Even if you’re too drunk to stand up?”
“I’m never too drunk to stand up.”
“Will you promise to call me if you feel . . . desperate?”
“Cathy, go home. Leave me alone.”
“I’ll come to your cabin, day or night. Just call me. I’ll get in the Hummer and drive. I swear. Or I’ll walk. I’ll walk to your cabin if you need me.”
He lifted a hand, unfurled it, pointed at me. “I don’t need you.”
Thomas left me standing there, got into his truck, and drove away.
Chapter 21
Thomas Sherryl’s Letter To Her Sister
Good morning, Sis—
In terms of the legal issues, everything’s in place. I’ll file for full custody of Ethan immediately after telling Thomas I want a divorce, and if Thomas fights the custody issue (which I’m sure he will, because he’s a devoted father and he loves Ethan) I’ll back off and offer joint custody as a bargaining chip. Thomas has a deep need to salvage and restore neglected treasures, and my approach to the custody issue will give him a sense of satisfaction. In his mind, he will have salvaged joint custody of our son from the ruins of our marriage.
I know you think I should abort the pregnancy, but I’m not comfortable with that choice. However, I will follow your advice and tell Thomas about it only after I file for divorce and custody of Ethan. I want to be settled in London before I let him know he’s going to be a divorced father to Ethan and a second child, too.
Call me sentimental or call me a coward, but I don’t want to deal that blow to him in person. Once upon a time, when we daydreamed about having a little brother or sister for Ethan, Thomas loved the idea. He’ll no doubt be despondent over my news that our second child will not be raised by the two of us inside the confines of our marriage. Of course, there’s no reason in the world he can’t visit Ethan and the new baby in London, as long as we can be civilized in general and on the subject of Gibson, in general.
Thomas has long suspected Gibson of being more than a friend to me, so I know that won’t come as a shock to him. But naturally I don’t want my relationship with Gibson to complicate the divorce, so Gibson will have to lay low for awhile.
Sis, I know you think I’m far too concerned with Thomas’s feelings, and you’ve always believed he was secretly after my money and could be bought off should the need arise, but no, as I’ve said many times, he really does believe what he believes, he is a good person, stalwart and true and idealistic, and I dearly wish I were the kind of woman who could give up a view of Central Park to live in crusty old buildings by his side.
There was a time when I thought marrying an idealistic man without money was the epitome of soulful maturity, a respectable elective in the School of Life. Unfortunately, it has turned out that I really do like the freedom only filthy lucre can offer, and so it’s time to move on. Everyone deserves one “practice marriage,” right?
I’ll drop you another email after I get home this afternoon. I’m meeting Gibson for an early lunch at Windows on the World. Thomas thinks I’ve got a morning meeting with a caterer there, to plan your birthday party. I hate sneaking around in full view of the daily restaurant crowd at the World Trade Center, but I’m taking your advice that “visibility is the best defense.” Besides, Gibson loves the view from the North Tower. Thanks for suggesting it.
Love, Sherryl
That’s all Ravel sent in the envelope. No note, just the brutally simple print-out of Sherryl’s email to her, written by Sherryl around 7 a.m. on nine-eleven, while I was in the shower and Sherryl was at her computer. I remembered her switching to the screensaver as I walked into our bedroom in a robe, toweling my hair. Since we shared very little about ourselves by then, the small, furtive gesture only made me head sooner to the kitchen for my first cup of coffee.
I should have known. I should have known she was in love with someone else. We hadn’t touched each other in several months. Apparently, our last time in bed had been ripe and careless. But I didn’t suspect she was pregnant.
So there it was. I’d lost two children on nine-eleven, not one. And I’d lost my wife to another man, someone I vaguely recalled meeting at parties, someone from her law class at Harvard. Had they been together before we met? After we met? The whole time of our marriage? To me, all that mattered was this: She and he were going to take Ethan and the new baby to London. My son, and my second son or first daughter, would have been raised on the other side of an ocean from me, and Sherryl would have fought me for sole custody, using her family’s money and clout, bolstered by her sister’s cold-blooded encouragement.
I would have lost the court battle. I w
ould have lost my children. My children would have been raised by another man. Ethan would have slowly forgotten me, not by name or title, but by significance. I would have been the father who visited, not the father who walked him to school or sat on the sidelines at games or taught him to ride a bike. And the baby, the baby wouldn’t have known me at all. Not even a hint of a memory of me in the house. I’d have been no more important than a friend of the family’s.
I slid through the dark doorway of those thoughts as I drank and read Sherryl’s email, and drank and re-read it, a drink, a reading—drink, read and repeat. Dazed, I found myself outside the cabin in the cold blue light just before sunset. A blood-red sliver of cloud clinging to Hog Back as if the mountain were being gutted from the spine down. The thought hiding deep inside the black doorway of my mind rose up like the fetid smoke off a burning corpse.
My children would have forgotten me. I’m glad my children died, instead.
“Jesus Christ,” I said softly.
You’re a loser. You should have died, not them, the vodka whispered. I staggered inside to pack. I’d leave in the morning, when I was sober. A clean getaway, no trouble, no interventions. By the time Cathy or John, Delta or Pike or Jeb or Santa—the people who thought they knew me, who thought I was worth caring about—came looking for me, I’d be halfway to somewhere. Mexico, maybe. A foreign land. A place with deserts and mesas and spaces too big for meaning. Somewhere vast and empty and hard to search.
I didn’t want anyone who cared about me to find my body.
Cathy
Even as I agonized over Thomas’s state of mind that evening, I couldn’t forget my new responsibilities. I had a dog to bury before dark. I’d never used a shovel before in my entire life, so no, I’d never dug a grave with one, either, or ever had the need to do so. Hurrying before the light failed, sweating in the cold, my scarf down around my shoulders, my coat on the ground, blisters stinging my palms, I finally stepped back and surveyed the deep hole I’d dug, and I felt grimly proud. A real woman can bury the dead with her own two hands, if need be.
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