A shrill scream stopped us. It was Matthew, sitting at the table. The high-pitched sound that came out of his gaping mouth went on for a minute. Tina and I just stared at him, my hands still wrapped around her arms, her hair all over her face. Then Matthew yelled, “Stop it! Stop it! Stop it!” and threw his glass of milk at us. Tina and I were covered in milk. Jessica started crying.
“Now look what you did,” Tina said.
“Me?”
“You,” she said, freeing herself from my grip. “I’m going.”
Matthew was still screaming and Jessica was crying.
I followed Tina to the living room. “You’re going? Looking like that you’re going?”
“I’m not going to work. I can’t possibly go to work. I don’t know where I’m going but I’m going.”
“Back to the construction worker’s apartment? Back to screw him?”
She glared at me. “Maybe I am.”
“What about the kids? You’re leaving them, the way they are?”
“You explain it to them,” she said as she went out the door, “it’s your fault all this happened.”
She burned rubber as she left.
Matthew and Jessica settled down. Matthew looked at me, expressionless, arms folded, while Jessica gave me a quizzical glance with her large wet eyes.
I started to clean up the milk on the floor. The glass hadn’t broken and I found myself grateful for that. “Everything’s okay now,” I said, and it was probably the biggest lie I’d ever uttered, and I wasn’t even a lawyer anymore.
Matthew kept his arms folded as I drove him to school. He slammed the car door shut as he left. I drove slowly back home, trying to piece the last twenty-four hours together. I thought I’d be sick again.
“Don’t fight anymore, Daddy,” Jessica said.
“That’s good advice,” I said.
Cassandra Payne’s car was gone. I’d had every intention to have it out with her, to have some final and parting words, to tell her what she’d done to my life, and now I was going to have to wait. Bryan came over, knocked on the door, but I didn’t answer. He phoned—it was his number on the Caller ID—but I didn’t pick up. His voice on the answering machine said: “Philip, what’s going on? We need to talk.”
I picked Matthew up from school later in the afternoon. Neither Cassandra nor my wife had returned yet. Matthew still wouldn’t talk, he only glared, like I was the lowest piece of shit that ever existed in San Diego. Maybe I was. I was expecting Bryan to confront me, either as I left or returned, but he didn’t. There was no sign of him.
An hour later, and a few beers in me, Cassandra drove up in her car.
She was wearing a black mini and a cut-off top, high heels, looking like a hooker. I rushed across the street before she went inside.
“Mr. Lansdale!” she said, acting surprised.
“Don’t play coy,” I had her by the arm, “let’s go inside, right now.”
“Rather pushy,” she said.
“You bet I am.”
She didn’t fight me. She got out her keys and we went inside.
“Would you like a drink?” she asked.
“No,” I said.
“You look like you need a drink.”
“That’s the last thing I need.”
“I know I need a drink.” She went to the bar in the living room. It was well stocked. I didn’t know she had a bar. I’d never seen the place in daylight. The furniture was clean and looked new, looked unlived in. Everything about the house was spotless. Did she keep it up like this herself? I’d never seen any maids come and go. She poured herself two shots of Wild Turkey. I asked for some. She handed me a glass.
I said to her, “Do you know what you’ve done to my life?”
“I’ve done nothing to your life. You do what you do of your own free will, and none of it has a damn thing to do with me, love.”
She sounded like she knew. Maybe she heard Tina and me fighting. Maybe she did have bugs planted in my home.
“Forget that,” I said, and added, “you slut.”
“Slut, is it now?”
“Fucking the cops now?”
She smiled. “Naughty person. Peeping Philip.”
“That’s right,” I said. “That cop was here pretty long the other night. I saw …”
“You came and took a gander into my yonder window break?” she laughed.
“Yes …”
“And what did your dirty little peepers see?”
“I saw you fucking him.”
“He was a good hard fuck,” she said. “A strong, handsome man with a strong manly man smell. How could a silly little horny girl like me resist such a temptation?”
“Why? Why?”
“Why?” she said, frowning.
“Why did you give it to him,” I said, “and not me? After all the times I begged you for it?”
She seemed very amused. “You mean my cunt?”
“Yes!”
And with that, she threw her head back and laughed. I watched the muscles of her neck ripple.
“You’re quite silly, you know,” she said.
“Goddamn you,” I said, feeling myself near a breakdown, “goddamn you—”
“And what if I am a slut? You have nothing on me, Mr. Lansdale, you’re a married cheating man and I’m a grieving widow. I’ll sleep with whom I please, thank you.”
“Why him, and not me?”
She poured herself another shot. “If you see something you want, why don’t you be a man and just take it?”
I did. I threw my glass aside, bourbon staining her carpet, and rushed her. I grabbed her arms. I didn’t shake her like I’d done to Tina this morning. I kissed her. I kissed her hard. I bit her lip, drawing blood, and she liked this, and I realized this is what must’ve happened between Tina and the man she was with last night. I threw Cassandra Payne to the floor—yes, threw, or pushed hard, I wasn’t gentle, I was going to take what I wanted once and for all, and be done with her. She laughed as she went down. I lifted her mini and tore away her matching black panties.
I couldn’t do it.
I’d finally reached my Nirvana, my Timbuktu, my salvation, and I began to weep. I don’t know why I was crying—it all came out in a rush. Maybe because I knew this wasn’t what I really, truly wanted. I didn’t know what the hell I wanted, and that was what scared me. I was uncertain of the life I was leading, but I didn’t want to lose that life. Being here with Cassandra, I was putting that life at risk. Tina had cheated on me, she’d been with another man, and it seemed right that I finally do the same and just fuck “the Limey bitch.”
But I couldn’t do it.
I cried like a baby, knowing it was all over now. She hushed and cooed me and kissed my ears.
“Let’s run away,” I said. It just came out of my mouth.
“Don’t be a goose.”
“Let’s just run away,” I mumbled, “and be together forever. I love you.”
“You don’t love me,” she said, “you don’t know what you’re saying.”
She knew the truth better than I, but still I was telling her how we should split from San Diego. I wanted out of my life. I wanted a new life.
She said, “Mr. Lansdale, you know nothing about me. Nothing at all.”
“I know enough.”
“You can’t even see the tip of the iceberg,” she said, “all you see is the illusion.”
“I see you, and what I see is what I want.”
“You don’t know me,” she said softly.
“I think I do,” I said.
She laughed, and then sniffed. “Do you smell something burning?”
I did.
And I heard sirens in the distance.
“What is that smell?” she said.
“Oh Jesus God,” I said.
I quickly pulled up my pants. I almost fell to the floor. Cassandra, half-naked, chased after me, wanting to know what was wrong. I knew, before I opened the door and went outside I knew. My h
ouse was on fire. Somewhere from the back, it was going up in smoke. The sirens were closer. Bryan stood on the sidewalk, looking at my house. Jessica was next to him. Matthew wasn’t. Jessica turned and saw me. She yelled, “Daddy!” She started running toward me. Bryan reached to grab her, saying, “No!” He wasn’t quick enough. Everything started to move very, very slowly at that moment. It was like a scene out of a de Palma film. The fire truck was coming around the corner, fast. Bryan was mouthing the word “no.” Jessica was running toward me, arms out in fear, crying, wanting my protection. Cassandra Payne stood at her door, not bothering to cover herself, trying to piece the situation together. I looked at Jessica, then my house, then Bryan, then Cassandra, then Jessica, and then the fire truck. I started running for Jessica. She was in the middle of the street. The fire truck slammed on its brakes, the driver leaned on the booming horn, but it was too late. The truck hit her, and her little body flew into the air.
14
There was nothing the paramedics could do. Jessica was dead. The firemen found Matthew in the back, staring, mesmerized, at the destruction he’d started. He had a book of matches in his hand. He’d started burning some newspapers on the patio, and the old wood of the patio ignited, and the fire spread to the house. The patio was destroyed, as well as part of the kitchen. Tina came home as the fire was being extinguished and Jessica’s body loaded in the ambulance. My wife started screaming. She was confused, she didn’t understand. I knew how she felt. I noticed Cassandra watching from her window—a pale face, two eyes, dark hair. Then Bryan was restraining me—no, he and a fireman, holding my arms, holding me back. I don’t know what I was screaming, who I wanted to attack. Tina was all over me, hitting me, spitting on me, and a police officer pulled her away. It was true, hellish pandemonium. Tina was crying, she was wailing, “My baby is dead! My little girl is dead!” and I saw Cassandra Payne’s eyes again, across the street, another witness to the atrocity exhibition, and it dawned on me that, finally, yes, this was all my fault, I wasn’t in the house watching over my children—my responsibility and duty; no I was in an act of sin, and for my sins, I had lost my child, and probably my wife, and most certainly my life as I knew it.
Jessica was officially pronounced dead at the hospital. Dazed, I signed various pieces of paperwork. Tina had to be sedated. I wanted to be sedated. I wanted to be put to sleep. My son was questioned by some sort of police psychologist. Bryan and Ellen were there. Tina’s sister, Janet, showed up, and took the drugged Tina and stoic Matthew home with her.
“You can stay with us,” Ellen told me.
“No,” I said. “That’s okay. I can go home.”
“You sure, son?” Bryan said.
“It’s my home,” I said.
They drove me back. They still tried to convince me to sleep in one of their guest rooms. I thanked them. I said I needed to be home, and I needed to be alone.
I wanted the darkness and quiet of my shattered house. I wanted the anguish, because I deserved it. So this was the price. I noticed that Cassandra’s car was gone. What was she feeling? Did she experience any guilt over this? Why the fuck was I even thinking of her?
I wanted to cry but I couldn’t. It was like I had no eyes.
I wanted to scream but I couldn’t. It was like I had no mouth.
I sat in the darkness, in the living room. On the floor were Jessica’s plastic dinosaurs; they were waiting for her to return home and play with them.
I wasn’t aware of time.
The sun rose, the birds sang.
People drove off to work.
The phone rang several times. I didn’t move. I was numb. I was so damn numb.
When I did move, I turned on the TV. Cartoons. I stared at the TV. Jessica liked cartoons, all children do. Would she really never watch cartoons again?
I told myself I had to eat. I went into the kitchen, which was was pretty much burnt wood, but the fridge and phone and Caller ID machine were still there.
The phone rang.
“Yes?”
“Philip,” Bryan said, “we’ll talk now.”
“Okay.”
I went out the front, to meet him. I didn’t want him in the house, I didn’t want him to see the cause and effect of my fuck-ups.
I decided I would tell him the truth about what I had done.
He walked over, as a black 1971 Ford Mustang pulled into the Paynes’ driveway. Cassandra’s Taurus still wasn’t there. I had no idea if she’d come home and left or not. A bald black man with shades and a trench stepped out of the car. He was big. His bald head was shiny. Bryan and I both watched him as he went to the Paynes’ door and kicked it in. He didn’t knock, he kicked, and went inside.
“What the hell,” Bryan said.
A minute later the man came out. Bryan walked across the street to confront him.
“No,” I whispered.
“You!” Bryan yelled. “You!”
“Bryan,” I said, “don’t—”
The man stopped, cocked his head, and regarded Bryan.
“Yes you,” Bryan said. “Just what in all hell do you think you’re doing, mister?”
“Collecting,” the man said.
“You can’t just bust into people’s houses in broad daylight like that!” Bryan was face to face with the man—well, Bryan’s head reached the man’s chest.
“I can’t?” said the man. “Should I have waited until nightfall? “He laughed.
“What’s the meaning of this? What are you doing here?”
“Doesn’t concern you, pops.” The man was trying to get to his car and Bryan was blocking his path.
“Oh yes it does,” Bryan was saying. “This is my neighborhood and I’m not about to allow this sort of thing to happen!”
“Whatcha gonna do about it, pops?”
“Who are you, and what are you doing here?”
“You sure are full of questions,” said the man.
“Who are you?” Bryan said again, his voice shaking.
“Who are you?” the man asked flatly.
“I used to be a police officer,” Bryan said with pride.
“I’m so impressed, pops.”
“Since I’m a citizen now, I am hereby making a citizen’s arrest.”
“Citizen’s arrest this, pops.” The man reached into his trench coat, pulled out a gun as black as the trench and the Mustang, and fired. There was a silencer on the gun, it went puff puff puff—the first bullet into Bryan’s knee. Bryan fell back on his ass. The second bullet was in Bryan’s shoulder, the third in his chest. The man looked over at me. I thought he was going to shoot me, too. He got into his Mustang and calmly drove away.
Bryan was squirming and bleeding on the Paynes’ driveway.
I was unruffled, and surprised how well I took this new sequence of events. Still quite numb, I turned around, walked into my house, and called 911.
15
I was in the hospital again, same waiting room, same emergency wing, same goddamn hospital. Next, I knew, it would be me in here.
I was with Ellen, holding her hand. Or maybe she was holding my hand. I was numb, she was shaking. “He’ll pull through, he’ll pull through,” she kept saying, nodding her head; maybe she was praying. She didn’t ask me any questions, like why was a man with a gun at the Paynes’, breaking and entering and shooting her husband?
It’d certainly been a busy week on my block. “The Cursed Neighborhood” one TV newscaster called it. Aside from the sensationalist value, there was truth to this.
In the wee hours of the morning, a doctor came out and told us that Bryan was alive, but in critical condition.
“Will he pull through?” Ellen asked.
“It’s hard to say. We have to wait and see,” said the doctor. “He’s a fighter, your husband.”
“Yes he is.” She smiled.
“He’s conscious. He’s been asking for you both.”
He didn’t look too good, in the ICU, tubes and wires coming out of his arms, nose, an
d mouth. Ellen wept, and carefully embraced him. He told her he would pull through and she told him you better, as if there would be some sort of punishment if he’d died.
“Honey,” he said, straining each word, “I—need—to—talk—to—Philip—private. Please—give—us—five—minutes.”
“No,” she said.
“Please.”
“Why?”
“We—have—to discuss—the case,” he said.
“Damn you, Bryan,” she said. “Couldn’t you leave things alone?” She looked at me. “The both of you?”
“Ellen,” he said, weakly.
She nodded, and left us alone, wiping her eyes.
He looked at me. “She knows—what we′ve—been up to. Can′t—keep any—secrets from her.”
“Oh Christ, Bryan,” I said, “this is all my fault.”
“Don’t—go—putting—world’s—burden—on—your—shoulders—” and he coughed: “kid.”
“I have to be honest with you.” I pulled up a chair alongside him. “I was having … intimate contact with Cassandra Payne.”
“I know,” he said.
“You did?” I wasn’t surprised.
“You—think—you—had—some—big secret?”
“Shit.”
“That’s,” he coughed. “That’s what—I wanted—to—talk to—you—about. Last—few days.”
“Shit.”
“Was—gone—tell—you. Fucking—up. Fuck. Up.”
“You got that—”
“Listen. Dangerous woman.”
“I know.”
“You—not the only one—she—she fools—with.″
“What?”
“Stay away—from her.”
“I will. But I think she’s gone.”
“Philip,” he said.
“Yeah?”
“I’m—I’m not going—to—make it.”
“Don’t say that. You’ll make it.” It almost felt like I was going to get beyond that numb feeling, have an outburst, but it quickly retreated inside me.
“No,” he coughed.
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