by Julia Derek
“Of course. I’ll be over in a couple of hours, like ten-thirty-ish. Is that okay?”
“Sure.”
We hang up and I hurry to get ready. My parents live in Long Island these days, in a house, and since I don’t want to bother with Jason’s car, I need to take the subway and then a train to get there. I call Angie and tell her that I’ll be working from home today and she doesn’t mind. Sometimes I can’t help but wonder how come she is so incredibly understanding with me. It’s almost too good to be true.
I’m lucky with my travel, the arrival of my subway train coinciding perfectly with the departure of the next LIRR train, so I ring my parents’ doorbell at ten o’clock sharp, earlier than expected. My mom soon opens the door, her short, brown hair arranged in its usual smooth waves. She’s wearing mascara and pearly, pink lipstick, the same as she has always worn. My parents aren’t big on change. We embrace and she shows me where there is a big pile of socks, towels, and shirts that she has just removed from the dryer.
“Just put it on the table and I’ll put it away when I get back,” she says and points to a foldable table next to the washer and dryer that are stacked on top of each other. “I won’t be long. When I get back, I’ll fix us some coffee.”
“Take your time, Mom,” I reply, waving her off. “You know I find folding laundry relaxing.” I start folding a towel to show her just how much I enjoy it.
It’s true; I do find folding laundry relaxing, though maybe not today. I don’t think there is anything that will make me fully relax the way I feel inside.
“Okay, honey. See you in a few then.” My mom leaves the laundry room I’m in and as soon as I hear the front door click shut, I drop the socks in my hands. I don’t have much time; my mom has always been a swift shopper and the supermarket is close, so she’ll likely be back in thirty minutes or so.
I dash out of the laundry room and continue up the stairs where my parents’ bedroom is. If I’m lucky, the gun will be in my dad’s nightstand. I walk up to the white-painted one by his side of the bed and pull out the top drawer. All I can see are a book and a couple of magazines. My heart sinks. He must have moved it.
But as I’m about to shut the drawer, I pause. My hand reaches inside the drawer and push aside a couple of the magazines. I snatch my hand away, as if I just discovered there was a deadly spider hiding there.
There is no such thing there—only the gun that I have been wanting since yesterday.
I suck in a breath and stare at it for several seconds. Well, there it is, Lexi. What are you waiting for? This is what you wanted, isn’t it? Take it and put it in your purse.
It takes all I have for me to actually reach inside the drawer and wrap my fingers around the cold, metallic weapon. Removing it from the drawer, I weigh it in my hand. It’s heavier than it looks. I find myself hoping that there are no bullets inside it. But as I pull out the chamber, I see that there is a bullet in each of the six compartments. Swallowing, I put the chamber back in place and then close the drawer.
Well, Lexi, now all you need to do is wait for Jason to get together with Claire again and then you can take care of business.
For some reason, the idea of actually using this gun on my husband and his mistress—on anyone at all—is not sounding nearly as simple as my mind wanted to make me believe. In fact, the way I feel right now, it seems completely impossible. I’m not a cold-blooded killer like my husband. Still, I put the gun in my purse and then I leave my parents’ bedroom.
I can only pray I will be able to go through with my deed when the time comes.
Chapter 19
I’m sitting in the stairwell outside Claire’s apartment, hiding behind the same brick pillar as the last time I was here.
She is in there with Jason again. I know because I saw him go inside, having waited outside her apartment building for the last two hours until he finally showed up. I went here as soon as he told me he had a work dinner to attend.
As I suspected, it only took them three days to get together for another encounter. It’s nine at night and the gun is in my purse, loaded and ready for me to use. In fact, my hand covers it at the moment. My heart pounds as I consider the best way to go about shooting my husband and his young mistress. Should I just ring the doorbell and fire at whomever opens first? I’m thinking it will be Claire, it being her place. Jason will likely hide somewhere behind her, maybe even remain in bed while waiting for her to return. Yes, it seems to be the most logical approach.
I wish the neighborhood was shadier; this way maybe people wouldn’t care that I’m executing someone here. Well, it doesn’t matter anyway because after I have shot both Claire and Jason, I will kill myself. There will be no one to arrest. I can’t see any point in continuing to live after I have lost the two things that meant the most to me—my husband and my child.
Okay, now you must stand up and go ring that doorbell, Lexi, I tell myself in my head. You’ve been here for almost thirty minutes. Do it already! What are you waiting for?
But no matter how many times I keep telling myself to just do it, I can’t make myself get to my feet and walk up to that closed apartment door. I’m frozen where I sit, my fingers squeezing the cold handgun in my purse. I hear someone walking down the stairs then, from the floor above. It’s the second time someone either enters or leaves the building. I stiffen against the brick pillar and try to make myself as inconspicuous as possible by crouching to obscure my face. I’m embarrassed to be squatting here like some crazy, homeless person. The footsteps are coming closer and closer and soon the person appears next to me. It’s a dark-haired woman dressed in layers of drab clothing and a hat. Again, it turns out that I have nothing to worry about because, like the first person, she pays me no attention. Instead, she keeps her arms wrapped around herself, as if freezing, and her chin is tucked to her neck, her gaze trained on the ground.
When she is gone, I look at the door and repeat the same mantra I’ve been silently telling myself for the last several minutes: Stand up and go ring that doorbell, Lexi! Do it already! What are you waiting for? Kill those bastards. Give them what they deserve.
But as the other times, my body refuses to obey the wishes of my mind. I lean against the brick pillar, suddenly exhausted. This is useless. I’m not going to be able to go through with it. That burning fury that made me decide to kill both my husband and Claire, that made me go all the way over to my parents’ house to steal my father’s gun, completely defuses at last. It’s been fading with every hour that passed today, even though I’ve done my best to keep stoking it by imagining the two of them together. I’m empty inside now and as I hear someone enter the building, I find that I’m not even embarrassed to be sitting here any longer. It’s as if I died and became a ghost just floating around here on earth.
Even so, I stay.
I don’t know how long I remain propped against that pillar—it must be at least an hour—but finally I make myself pull away from it. Jason will likely leave Claire’s apartment any moment now, and the thought of removing the gun from my purse and then pointing it at him, squeezing the trigger, makes me feel again. It makes my stomach churn with nausea, my heart race, and cold sweat break out around my hairline. I won’t be able to do it no matter how hurt I am by what Jason has done to me, no matter how much I despise girls like Claire. I’m just not built to kill anyone in cold blood.
I push myself up to my feet and start to make myself walk down the stairs. I feel like I weigh three hundred pounds, I’m so heavy with sadness and a sense of failure. The air around me seems to have turned into transparent pea soup, adding to the difficulty I have moving.
I’m finally all the way down and push open the building’s front door with the last of what I have left of my strength. The moon shines down on me from a cloud free sky as I stumble out onto the street. It’s cold and windy outside, typical December weather. Shivering, I pull my coat tighter around my body. I don’t know what to do with myself. I can’t go home. I don’t want t
o ever face my husband again. It seems there is only one option left and that is to use the gun on myself.
A chill goes through me at this realization. Will I be able to at least kill myself? Well, I need to find the strength to do so; I truly don’t want to go on living. But the thought of placing the gun in my purse to my head and then pulling the trigger causes a violent churn in my stomach and I get so dizzy I can barely keep walking. Maybe if I get some alcohol in me, it won’t feel so terrible and I will actually be able to go through with it, I think. I have enough money with me to get plenty drunk at Finnerty’s. Checking the time on my smartphone, I see that it’s only ten thirty. It’s a Friday, so Finnerty’s should be open for business.
After spending some time waiting for a cab to drive by on the street where I am, I give up and continue to the subway station. Hopefully I won’t have to wait too long for a train to come. I hurry down into the station and sink down on one of the many benches there. I hardly notice that there are people around me, I’m in such a daze.
I remain in the same detached state of mind for the hour it takes me to get back to Manhattan. It has begun to snow a little when I come back up from the underground subway station. Spotting the metal letters that spell out the name Finnerty’s, I hurry over to the red brick building on the other side of the street and pull open the heavy wooden door. A cloud of smoke greets me as I enter and there are a lot more people in this bar tonight than I’m used to, mostly men. There must be at least twenty people between the ones seated along the bar counter and the ones scattered in the dark room, three of them throwing darts at a board on the wall. They are smoking openly. I guess the owner doesn’t care much about the city’s non-smoking rules.
At first, I’m contemplating leaving; I’m not in the mood to be in a smoky, crowded bar that is also a lot more noisy than normal. But then I spot Rick Atkinson seated on a stool at one end of the bar, the man I spoke to the other day whose wife had left him for another man. I lighten up slightly and decide to join him; he is just the person I need to speak to right now. He’ll know what I should be doing. He will hopefully also give me the strength I need to kill myself. I’m sure he’ll be able to relate to my situation and state of my mind.
I cross the bar toward Rick, ignoring the comments of two men I pass on my way over.
I’m lucky that the stool right next to Rick is free. I slide on top of it and smile as Rick turns his head in my direction. His tired, puffy face lights up in recognition.
“Well, hello there, Lexi! What a pleasure to see you here tonight. I could use some good company. Let me buy you a drink. What would you like?”
“That’s so nice of you. I’d like a vodka on the rocks,” I tell the bartender, who has already come up to us, waiting for my order. It’s a different one tonight, a younger man with tattoos on his arms, and piercings, and a dark goatee on his angular face.
“Coming right up,” the bartender says in a cheerful Long Island accent.
While the bartender prepares my drink, I turn back to Rick.
“I’m so surprised to see you here tonight,” I say and find that I can’t help but smile a little despite my dark mood. Seeing him really did cheer me up, though not nearly enough for me to change my mind about what I have planned for myself. “What are you doing here?”
He looks at the shelves filled with rows and rows of liquor bottles across the bar counter and runs a hand over his face. Then he lets out a despondent sigh and turns to me.
“I was too depressed to be at home tonight. I needed to get out of the house, so I went out for a walk and ended up here.” He smirks and gives half a shrug. “How about you?”
I stare into the wall of bottles myself for a moment, not sure how to answer Rick’s question. The bartender places my drink before me, a napkin under it. This man seems a lot more alert than the one I’m used to, running back and forth between customers along the bar counter. There might not be more than twenty people at this place, but they all seem quite thirsty for alcohol, keeping the bartender busy.
I have a big sip of my drink before I reply to Rick’s question.
“I’m also too depressed to be home.”
“Why is that?”
It’s a nosy, direct question, but I obviously welcome Rick’s frankness. I want to tell someone about my feelings, someone who I know will understand completely. No one besides Rick will understand, not even my psychiatrist. I doubt Dr. Meyer would even pick up the phone were I to call her at this hour, so, really, Rick is my only option.
“Because my husband is currently fucking his new mistress and I’m too much of a chicken to kill them. That was my plan for this evening.”
I have another, large sip of my vodka on the rocks. The cold liquor stings my throat as it slides down into my stomach, a pleasant warmth spreading as it lands there.
Rick, being the cool individual that he is, merely nods and says, “Huh.” Then he has a sip of his own drink. “How were you going to kill them?”
“I have my father’s gun in my purse. I was gonna shoot them with that. And then I was gonna kill myself with it. End my misery.”
Rick blinks a couple of times as he contemplates me. “That bad, huh?”
“Yup,” I say simply and empty my drink in two large gulps. “It’s really, really bad. I’ve lost my husband and my child and I don’t want to live any longer. When I found out that Jason was cheating on me again—Jason is my husband—I got so furious that I decided that I would kill both him and his disgusting little mistress. But as I got to her building, I just couldn’t go through with it. I can’t kill someone the way my husband did.” I bury my face in my hands, despair overwhelming me. “I don’t even think I’ll be able to kill myself. But I want to die.”
I feel a hand on my back and I look up. Rick has put his hand on my back. “Don’t kill yourself, Lexi. You’re too young to die. It might not feel like it, but things will get better.”
I remove my hands and stare at Rick, feeling betrayed. “No, they won’t. And age has nothing to do with it. There is never a right age to die, only the right time for each person. My time has come now.”
“Would you like another drink, miss?” the bartender with all the piercings and the goatee asks me then, having suddenly materialized in front of me.
“Sure,” I say, looking at him with flat eyes. “The same as last time.”
“Do you want to open a tab?” the bartender asks.
I open my purse and find my wallet from which I remove a twenty-dollar bill. “No, I’ll pay as I go. Another one for my friend here as well.” I turn to Rick and glance at his almost empty glass. “Do you want to stay with what you’re drinking? What is it?”
“Sure. It’s a gin and tonic. Bombay Sapphire.”
I turn back to the bartender, whose fishy eyes have widened and there is a frown between his eyebrows. But he doesn’t say anything.
“Okay,” I say, ignoring his odd face. “So another vodka on the rocks—bar vodka is fine—and a Bombay Sapphire gin and tonic for my friend here.” I point at Rick on my left side.
“What friend?” the bartender asks. “No one is sitting on that chair.”
I scowl at him; I’m really not in the mood to be joking around tonight. Then I turn back to the chair and Rick. “Rick, it seems our bartender has a vision problem. It’s a little dark in here. Can you please lean forward so he can see you better?”
Rick chuckles and leans toward the bar counter, the bar lights hitting his face. “Sure.”
Triumphantly, I turn back to the bartender. “Can you see him now?”
The bartender doesn’t answer, just shakes his head a little. “What was it that you wanted again? A vodka on the rocks and a Bombay Sapphire and tonic?”
“Exactly.”
The bartender starts making the drinks. I stare at him, flabbergasted. What the hell is wrong with him? I turn to Rick and ask the same question, not caring if the bartender actually hears me, I’m so annoyed. Of course, it’s so noisy in
this bar that I don’t think he can.
Rick smiles and shrugs. “I don’t know. He’s new here. Maybe there’s something wrong with his sight. It is kind of dark in here.”
“Yeah, but not so dark that you can’t see a person!” I huff, shaking my head. The bartender returns with the two drinks then, placing them before me and Rick.
“That will be $22,” he states with an unsmiling face.
I glare at him. “Did the prices go up in the last couple of weeks? That seems pretty expensive for two drinks.”
He smirks at me. “No, they didn’t go up. The 22 is for three drinks. Your two vodkas and your friend’s gin and tonic.”
I turn to Rick, expecting him to speak up and tell the bartender that the first vodka is on him. But instead he looks at me with a pleading, embarrassed expression. “I just realized that I forgot my wallet at home. Would you mind terribly paying for that drink yourself? I promise to make it up next time I see you.”
Looking at Rick, I’m not sure what to believe. What he just told me sounds like a bad lie, but he looks so miserable that I don’t have the heart to reject his wish. Besides, he paid for plenty of my drinks the last time. And I have plenty of cash on me, so it shouldn’t be a problem.
“Sure, that’s fine,” I say and turn back to the bartender, whom I hand a few ten-dollar bills.
As Rick and I toast our drinks I’m filled with increasing unease. Who is Rick? Why is he lying to me? What is wrong here? I don’t believe for a second that he just left his wallet at home. It seems he has paid for the drink he had when I got here and he just finished—or someone else paid for it, though I can’t imagine who’d do such a thing. So why is he offering to buy me drinks when he has no more money? The first time the two of us met and drank here together he had plenty of money to buy me drinks. What changed?
Rick himself doesn’t seem to notice how bothered I am by this whole situation. I suddenly fill with a need to find out if he paid for the drink he had when I arrived or if someone else actually did pay for it.
