Some Day Somebody

by Leger, Lori

“We met building Sam and Carrie’s deck last year. I don’t know; we just hit it off right away.”

  “You think he’d want you to look after his wife and daughters until they come to terms with things?”

  Jackson let his head fall back on the seat again as he thought of Toby and how hard Giselle and her girls would take his death. As much as he’d miss his friend, he couldn’t even imagine how Toby’s family would suffer over the months ahead. “I know he would, but that doesn’t mean she’ll let me,” he finally admitted.

  He suddenly found a reason to be grateful that he and Chloe’s marriage had been so miserable. It wasn’t fair that God spared him, but took Toby from the wife and children who desperately needed him. This must be what they call survivor’s guilt.

  “Do you want me to go with you?” Bill asked, interrupting Jackson’s thoughts.

  He blinked as they pulled into his driveway. “No. Thanks for the ride, though.”

  “Call me if you need anything, you hear me, Son?”

  “I will.” After Bill left him standing in his driveway, he went inside to shower and dress. He popped a couple of pain relievers, grabbed the keys to Chloe’s Vette, and drove himself to the dealership.

  Two hours later, he pulled his new truck into the garage, turned off the ignition, and sat, listening to the sounds of the engine cool. His head fell heavily against the headrest as he fought to keep his eyes opened. His muscles ached, along with his head, and his eyes burned from exhaustion. Even so, he couldn’t help but remember the last time he and his wife had arrived home together.

  The trip to a newly opened restaurant began pleasantly enough, until Chloe accused their waitress of flirting with him. He’d never forget the horrified expression on the poor girl’s face. His own face burned with embarrassment while Chloe raged on, making certain everyone in the room was focused on her. Management asked them to leave quietly, but Chloe never did anything quietly, especially when asked to.

  On the entire trip home she’d ranted, raved, and rebuked him for apologizing to restaurant personnel, insisting she deserved the apology. The rant ended with her usual snide remark. “Way to show your support, loser.”

  Ten minutes after getting home, she performed her infamous “Chloe”…the hundred and eighty degree mood swing that always left him confused and no matter how hard he tried not to be, annoyed as all hell. She’d initiated sex for the first time in a month, and he knew a turn-down would have caused an all night bout of crying and suicide threats he’d been too exhausted to handle that night. Sex with Chloe had long since turned into a chore for him because of her emotional blackmail. The only way he could ‘see it through’ was to close his eyes and imagine someone else in his arms, and hope this time she would conceive the child that would make his life bearable. He wondered now…Could she tell? He supposed he’d never know.

  Jackson walked into his house and threw a bag on the table containing the various papers and possessions he had removed from Chloe’s car. He started a fresh pot of coffee before picking up the phone to call his lawyer. They’d made their wills a couple of months ago and she told him she’d left a letter for him with their attorney if she went before he did. When Neil Ellender answered the phone, Jackson informed him of Chloe’s death.

  “She did leave a letter,” Neil commented. “She made me read it before it was sealed. You sure you want to see it?”

  “I’m sure.”

  “I can’t keep it from you, of course, but I wish you’d let me destroy it. Your wife was…quite disturbed.”

  Jackson snorted and rubbed his hands over his eyes. “You’re not telling me anything I don’t know. I still want to read it.”

  “To my recollection, it does contain her wishes concerning a funeral service…among other things.” The attorney cleared his throat uncomfortably. “I’ll bring it over now if you want.”

  “I’d appreciate that, Neil.”

  Jackson grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge and swallowed two more aspirins. He pictured Chloe in his mind, how she had worn her straight, blonde hair in a short, spiky style that made her light blue eyes look even larger in her gaunt face. She was into being thin…like, way too thin. Uncle Bill had taken to calling her ‘Bones’ when he referred to her. He didn’t call her anything to her face. Jackson had never seen two people so effectively ignore each other as his uncle and his wife had.

  He walked to his master bath, standing outside the closed door and replayed yesterday’s scene. He’d stood right here listening to her retch then knocked on the door to ask if she was alright.

  Her replies had been barely civil. “Does it sound like I’m alright?”

  He had kept his cool. “Do you need any help, Chloe?”

  “What could you possibly do to help but stand there and look stupid?” He tried to ignore the rudeness in her tone. “Did you eat something that didn’t agree with you?”

  “It’s a bug or something. Just leave me the hell alone.”

  He hadn’t thought much about it at the time, but now he wondered if she’d caught some bug, or if it was something else? He supposed now he’d never know.

  ***

  Thirty minutes later Jackson stood reading the letter his ‘loving’ wife left for him. His jaw clenched as he finished it gave a slight crook of his head, and a mild snort.

  He folded the letter into a neat rectangle to place it inside his wallet. By the time he looked over at his lawyer, he had already decided to put that part of his life behind him.

  “I just made a fresh pot of coffee. Would you like some, Neil?” He stood up and walked over to the coffee maker, feeling calm, considering this latest revelation about his dead wife.

  The Tim Conway look alike got to his feet. “No, thanks. As I said, she insisted that I read it.” He cleared his throat, uneasily. “I think she just wanted me to know what she was up to. I hope you realize that I will uphold the strict attorney–client confidentiality.”

  Jackson turned slowly toward the man who looked enough like Tim Conway he could be his brother. “I believe you, and I wouldn’t much give a damn if she hadn’t mentioned other people.”

  “Of course, I understand completely.”

  “Can you handle her cremation for me?” Jackson asked him. “I don’t care what it cost, I never want to deal with her again.”

  “I can do that. Do you have the name of a crematorium you’d like to use?”

  “I don’t know anything about crematoriums. I trust you to do whatever you feel is necessary. Send me the bill and have her ashes sent to her mother in California. No service, as per her request,” he said coldly.

  “You got it, Jackson. I’ll see myself out.”

  After Neil left, Jackson looked around at his home, filled with the sterile, plastic, ultra modern furniture and accessories Chloe had chosen. He hated it, and she knew he hated it. Hell, knowing what he knew now, she probably hated it too, and chose it to make him suffer.

  He’d wasted fifteen years of his life with that lunatic. Just when he thought there was nothing Chloe could do to surprise him, she pulled this crap. He had to hand it to her—she had fooled him…she was that good. The irony of the situation suddenly struck him, and Jackson began to chuckle…then laugh. He laughed uncontrollably until tears streamed from his eyes. After five minutes of wondering if he had completely lost his mind, he finally calmed down and sat at the dining room table with his cup of coffee.

  He glanced at the bag of items he’d removed from Chloe’s car, opened it, and began to sort through them. He flipped through a stack of letters and saw there was one from a doctor there in Lake Coburn. Curious, he opened it and began reading. The letter, dated a week earlier, was from an Obstetrician’s office congratulating her on her pregnancy and urging her to call his office to schedule her first pre-natal check up with him. The doctor also stressed the importance of pre-natal vitamins to insure the health of the fetus.

  The letter fell from Jackson’s hands to the floor. Elbows on knees, he let hi
s hands support the weight of his head, taking deep gulps of breath until a wave of dizziness passed. After all those years of waiting and wanting a child, Chloe was pregnant. Jackson wondered when she planned to tell him about the pregnancy. Considering what he’d just discovered in the letter, he wondered if she even planned to tell him. He supposed he’d never know.

  Overwhelmed by the senseless loss, and so alone in his misery, he lethargically reached for the phone to call Uncle Bill. As soon as he picked up the handset it rang. He took a deep breath and barely croaked out a hoarse hello. A too-damn-perky woman on the other end of the line began speaking in an irritating sing song voice.

  “This is the Family Planning Clinic of Beaumont and we are trying to reach Chloe Broussard about her missed appointment. We don’t approve of ‘no shows’ but we do understand that sometimes things happen that are beyond our patient’s control. If she is there we need to know if she wants to reschedule.”

  Jackson’s breath froze as he made the connection. Nausea plus pregnancy equaled to one scheduled abortion. “There’s no need to reschedule the abortion,” he said, his voice steely with anger.

  The woman hesitated before continuing. “Has she decided to go through with the pregnancy?”

  “She’s dead.” He disconnected and threw the phone down, remembering the scene in the truck, minutes before the accident.

  “What the hell are you doing, Jackson?”

  “The light is out on that side. I’m letting people exit.”

  “That’s their problem. It won’t kill them to wait.”

  “It won’t kill us to be kind, Chloe.”

  “I have things to do, dammit!” she fumed.

  He turned to his wife as he let another vehicle out. “I’m sure they all do, too.”

  She looked impatiently at her watch. “I couldn’t care less about anyone else.”

  “I never would have guessed that,” he mumbled.

  “Did you say something, asshole?”

  Jackson kept quiet as he let his foot off the brake and inched forward slowly.

  “Well, it’s about damn time,” she huffed.

  When he noticed the next vehicle waiting to exit the crowded parking lot, he hit the brakes again.

  “What now?”

  “That’s Toby and Giselle,” he said. “They have a party to go to after this.”

  She jerked her head toward him in agitation. “I have things to do, too. Let’s go!” she yelled.

  Jackson briefly caught the other couple’s gazes as they waved in appreciation. He pulled out after the black SUV and followed them back toward the interstate, all the while enduring a steady diatribe of insults from his dear wife.

  Jackson stood up suddenly. “An abortion,” he murmured to himself. “She had to drive to Beaumont for an abortion, and I was holding her up.”

  He walked over to the latest of many studio portraits taken of Chloe and picked up the frame. He studied the features of his dead wife, from her expensive high-end haircut, her two hour make-up application, to her perfectly manicured nails.

  Jackson pitched the frame across the room then stood there, panting, wishing he could get his hands around her skinny, little neck. He stood there, gasping for deep breaths to keep from screaming as he stared at the house that had never felt like a home…thanks to Chloe. He picked up his keys, and stormed out, returning thirty minutes later, his truck bed loaded down with boxes from the U-Haul place.

  Jackson worked like a man possessed, stopping just long enough to call the local Salvation Army. He told them he had a houseful of furniture to donate that he would put to the curb tonight. Two men arrived within the hour and began to fill the truck with furniture and boxes containing Chloe’s things. By eight p.m. all traces of Chloe were gone. Not a single item left to show that she’d even set foot in the building, much less lived there for nearly eleven years.

  Jackson poured himself a highball glass of Crown Royal whiskey, dropped into the one chair he’d kept, a left over from his college days. He drank steadily for another hour, then made his way to the guest room with the plain queen sized bed and dresser. Throwing back the last swallow, he fell onto the bed, and descended into a deep, dreamless, abyss of drunken slumber.

  # # #

  About the Author

  Lori Leger lives in Kinder, Louisiana with her husband, Michael, and one pet, an outside cat named Matou (French for male tom), who showed up on their doorstep almost two years ago. Though they enjoy having the house to themselves, they also enjoy frequent visits from their five children and ten grandchildren. She’s been employed as a computer drafter in the Road Design industry for nearly eighteen years at the time of this publication. She began writing nearly four years ago and hopes to have her entire six book series online by this time next year. She has many more new ideas waiting in the wings to give her something to write for years to come.

  Lori adores hearing from her readers either by mail or email.

  P.O. Box 641

  Kinder, LA 70648

  cajunflair@lorilegerauthor.com