by Laurel Dewey
He left, and as I walked back to my desk, I remembered Gambrel’s comment about how random it all was. He was talking about death — first his parents’ death and then, forty years later, his beloved wife’s. But there’s a random quality to life too. Your parents die and you grow your hair long and start listening to The Beatles. Then you sell the family house, change your name, and travel to England, where you adopt an English accent and meet a girl named Abbey in a pub near Abbey Road while John Lennon sings “Give Peace a Chance” on the radio. The randomness of his parents’ death was responsible for the randomness of finding the love of his life. It was actually a beautiful story, but, sadly, it was one that could never be revealed because it was born and ruled by the power of a secret.
And then I was reminded again of that Jewish “shaman” my brother hired for his spiritual blessing ceremony. I bet he’s got one helluva backstory, too. I should introduce him to Mr. Gambrel. They’d have a lot not to talk about.
THINGS AREN’T ALWAYS WHAT THEY SEEM
Detective Jane Perry walked down the snow-packed Denver sidewalk, the early morning air crisp and biting around her. She took a hard drag on her cigarette and then another, hoping it would settle her nerves, but that familiar knot in her gut remained. The snowy drifts and white landscape surrounded her, smothering most of the typical sounds one might hear on a city street, even at this hour. It was as though a pillow had been placed over Denver’s streets, suffocating all but the screams.
She arrived at her destination, glancing down the street furtively. Mirrored stillness embraced her with an uneasy grasp. Above her head, the red neon sign of Bloody Mary’s Bar glowed angrily against the traces of snow that had blown against the building. The bar was aptly named, Jane figured, given the brutal crime scene she’d left twenty minutes ago. Bathed in a grisly crimson slaughter, the smell of death was still ripe and stung Jane’s nostrils.
It was just past 1:30 in the morning. She had less than thirty minutes before the bar closed. Jane hesitated briefly before inhaling a hard hit of nicotine and entering the establishment. Inside, she stamped the snow off her rough-out cowboy boots and shook her shoulder-length brown hair, letting the icy droplets fall against her leather jacket. Save for the jazzy background music, the bar was nearly as quiet as the street outside. A lone bartender stood behind the ornate western-style bar, wiping down the sink in an almost trancelike manner. The only other occupant, a blond-haired woman, sat at the far end of the bar, staring straight ahead and sipping a martini. She was dressed in an expensive white down jacket with black fur trim. A pair of designer jeans hugged her trim thighs and toned backside. Fur-trimmed white boots completed the ensemble.
The bartender looked up at Jane, his eyes hiding apprehension. Jane sat at the opposite end of the bar from the blond woman. She’d been told numerous times in AA that you don’t willingly put yourself in situations or places that compromise your sobriety. But here she was. One-fuckingthirty in the morning. She eyed a bottle of Jack Daniels behind the bar, spotlighted beautifully and magnified in all its majesty against the large mirror that framed the rear of the bar. How many nights had she drained a bottle of Jack in the comfort of her own house, hoping that she could momentarily forget the carnage and float above herself in suspended animation? Jane shifted in her seat. The barstool felt strangely comfortable against her ass. Too comfortable. She could feel herself falling into that place where the voices entice; the ones that promise temporary solace with just one sip. Even though she had thirteen months under her belt and numerous sobriety chips tossed in her bedroom drawer, the triggers that prompted her to drink away the darkness were still present on a daily basis. And as tough as Jane appeared on the surface, the bloodbath she’d just seen could easily trip that trigger.
The bartender slowly made his way toward her. “I stop serving in ten minutes,” he said, his eyes full of hesitation. “You want a drink?”
Jane smiled an uneasy grin. “Oh, yeah. I do.”
The blond woman turned when she heard the sound of Jane’s voice. “Jane?” There was a soft, familiar Texas drawl. “Is that you?”
Jane cocked her head to the woman, recognizing her. “Courtney,” she said.
“Well…,” Courtney said with a slight grimace, “this is embarrassing, isn’t it?”
Jane addressed the bartender. “Hold that thought, would you?” She ambled down the bar toward Courtney. “Mind if I sit here?”
“Of course not. I could use the company.”
Jane sat on the stool next to Courtney. Now that Jane was closer to her, she could see how much Courtney had aged. The last time they’d seen each other was about a year prior, at the annual Domestic Violence fundraiser that Courtney’s husband sponsored. The vibrant blue eyes Jane saw then were now replaced by gray spheres that lacked any life force. This former Miss Texas beauty queen looked like she was in her mid-fifties rather than early forties, with lines carved around her mouth and into her forehead. Her deeply set eyelids — a creation of cosmetic surgery — appeared to be hollowed recesses that gave off an almost ghostly gaze. Her skin was pale and moist, as if she’d been sweating or was feverish. Gone were the false eyelashes Jane recalled her always wearing. Gone was the rocket-red lipstick that was so perfectly applied, it never smudged. The polished red fingernails, Courtney’s trademark, were still there. But this was the first time Jane had seen her manicure with gaping chips.
“Should I ask how you’re doing?” Courtney gently said.
Jane cleared her throat. She was not one to open up to others, even when it might serve her. “I’ve had a shitty night. I’m pretty fucked-up right now.”
Courtney reached out and touched Jane’s hand. “I’m sorry.”
Fresh images of the bloodbath flashed in front of Jane. She ran her fingers through her tangled hair, hoping in some way it would shift the deathly scene out of her mind. She looked at Courtney and felt a shudder down her spine.
“My God, Jane. I can feel what you’re feeling right now. Is there anything I can do to help?”
Jane stared straight ahead. She had to focus. She wanted to scream but she had to tamp down the anger and revolt that was rising up inside her throat. “No, really. It’s okay, Courtney. Thank you, though.”
The bartender spoke up. “Five more minutes before cut off.”
Jane considered his words. She checked the large clock on the wall. It was nearly 1:40.
Courtney leaned closer to Jane. “Don’t do it, Jane,” she whispered. “It’s not worth it. Believe me.” Her eyes drifted to the half-finished martini. “I should know, right?” Courtney slammed the remaining alcohol and slid the glass forward. “One more, please,” she instructed the bartender.
When had the desperation begun for Courtney? Jane wondered. When had the voices crowded into her head to the point that she could not ignore their demands anymore? Jane remembered the first time she met Courtney in the basement of the Methodist church. She was shocked that a woman who was married to a public figure like Craig Gardner would have the courage to hang with the drunken riffraff and expose her vulnerabilities. She could call herself “Courtney M.” all she wanted, but everyone in that room knew who she was. But they all played along and pretended that they’d never seen her face on the front page of The Denver Post when she and Craig were photographed with the governor-elect after his landslide win for the office. If you knew anything about anything, you knew that it was Craig Gardner and his outstanding public relations skills that made that astonishing victory a reality. You also had to forget that ten-page spread in Architectural Digest featuring the Gardners and their three blond children — a girl and two boys who ranged in age from four to twelve — posing like urban royalty in their Denver mansion and in their Telluride vacation home. Jane recalled the title of that pictorial: “Master of the (PR) House.” It was framed over a shot of Craig leaning against his Bentley, arms crossed and staring intensely at the camera. Craig Gardner was a marketing alchemist, turning his clients’ endeav
ors into gold and making himself a millionaire many times over. But all that had to be pushed aside when Jane sat across from Courtney M. at the weekly AA meeting.
And when Courtney M. told the group why she drank, it was obvious to Jane that everyone in that tiny basement room listened with more interest. It didn’t matter that the woman who sat on the folding chair had a back story equally traumatic or that the guy squashed into the center of the couch with bad springs had gone to jail for nearly killing a child when he drove drunk. Courtney Gardner was a celebrity in the room, and when she spoke, people leaned closer to hear every tortured word.
But when Courtney saw Jane at the annual fundraiser or in public, she always made a point of approaching Jane and making a connection. It might have only been a few minutes of conversation, but it was meaningful and genuine each and every time. Maybe it was her lilting Texas drawl that took its time spilling from her lips, each word so clearly enunciated, it seemed to occupy its own zip code. Or perhaps it was the sincere way Courtney would hold Jane’s hand or touch her shoulder in a compassionate manner. When Courtney would inevitably say, “If there’s anything I can do for you, please let me know,” Jane knew it came from her heart.
So, ironically, there she was seated at a bar with the woman, with Courtney asking Jane if there was anything she could do to help her.
The bartender delivered the martini and turned to Jane. “What would you like?” he asked with that same established reluctance laced through his voice.
Jane looked at him and swallowed hard. “You got a sparkling water and lime juice?”
The bartender glanced at Courtney and then back to Jane. “Yeah,” he offered without moving.
“Well, okay.” Jane waited but he still didn’t move a muscle. “I’ll take it.”
He shot another guarded glance at Courtney before walking to the other end of the bar to prepare Jane’s order.
When he was out of earshot, Courtney leaned closer to Jane. “Good for you, Jane. You stayed strong. Don’t mind him. He’s been acting like that toward me all night since I came in here. He’s a squirrelly fellow. I think he’s been in trouble with the law.” She took a dainty sip of her martini. “Does he look familiar to you? Criminally speaking, of course.”
Jane glanced at the bartender. She caught a slight shake of his right hand as he poured the sparkling water into Jane’s glass. “Never seen him before.” She peered up at the flatscreen TV in the corner of the bar. An infomercial played, typical fare for nearly 2:00 a.m. It was programming that took full advantage of insomniacs’ pattern of purchasing items they would never buy if they were fully alert.
“I asked him to change the channel when I arrived. He had the Channel 9 late news on.” Courtney took another genteel sip of her drink. “Cynthia Naylor was reporting from the location of a grisly crime scene.…” Jane looked at Courtney. “I noticed that the bartender got quite tense at that point, so I asked him to please change the channel.” Another swig of the martini disappeared, this time less precise. “Cynthia Naylor. That muddle-mouthed, no-talent bimbo. Humph! Naylor. I just realized the irony of her last name. I do wonder how many men have nailed her?” She twisted her mouth into an unattractive smirk. “She thought she actually had the ability to steal Craig away from me. Poor little delusional bitch. Mark my words, Jane, she’s destined for the glory dump of mid-market daytime-news anchoring.”
Jane wasn’t sure how to broach the subject, so she just dove in headfirst, tact be damned. “If you don’t mind me asking, Courtney, when did you fall off the wagon?”
“Would you believe me if I told you it was tonight?” She took a healthy swig, as if to button her statement.
Jane studied Courtney’s haggard face. “Really?”
Courtney picked at the red nail polish on her thumb. “Hand to God. It’s not like I didn’t think about it a gajillion times before now. And it’s not like I didn’t buy a bottle and bring it home only to pour it down the sink.” She stared at the glass-topped bar, weaving figure eight swirls with her finger against the glass. “Life has been difficult, Jane.” A thought crossed her mind, and she turned to Jane with a cheerful smile. “How is your little brother, Mike?”
Considering all the people Courtney knew, Jane found it astounding that she remembered her brother’s name — a name she might have only mentioned once in passing at one of the AA meetings. “He’s good. He’s engaged to a girl named Lisa.”
“Oh! How wonderful! I do love love! I’m such a softie for engagements and weddings! There’s nothing more important than finding your soul mate and living your life as one heart.”
The bartender brought Jane’s water and lime and walked away. Jane took a much-needed sip. “You believe in soul mates, huh?”
“Absolutely!” Courtney swept the lemon peel seductively around the lip of the martini glass. “Are you seeing anyone?”
Jane sucked a long sip through the straw. This conversation was not what she’d planned. “No. It’s all I can do right now to deal with my job and…you know…not fuck up my sobriety.”
“Jane, look at me.” Courtney leaned forward. Jane obliged. “Don’t ever turn your back on love. Without love, the world’s a terrible place to hang your hat.”
Jane stared at Courtney. “Oh, Courtney…”
“What?” she asked quizzically.
“Courtney — ”
“Wait a second.” She strained to hear the song playing over the speakers. “Can you please turn that up?” she asked the bartender.
The bartender did as he was told. The warm, inviting opening strains of Etta James’s “At Last” filled the bar. Courtney smiled broadly and clasped her hands together. “Oh, Jane! This was our wedding song when we danced our first dance sixteen years ago! Isn’t it divine?! ‘My love has come along…my lonely days are over…” Courtney softly sang along with Etta as she swayed on the barstool. “This song was my personal soundtrack for so many years.”
“Is that right?” Jane said, ditching her straw and gulping the sparkling water.
Courtney looked at Jane’s drink. “You need more lime in that, don’t you?” She leaned forward and grabbed a piece of lime from a dish under the bar. As she reached for it, the white sleeve of her jacket pulled up, revealing a series of bruises — some fresh and others fading. Courtney plopped back in her seat and handed Jane the lime. “There you go, honey.”
“Those are pretty bad bruises you got there,” Jane said carefully, squeezing the lime into her water.
Courtney pulled down the sleeve of her jacket and stared at her martini.
“You okay, Courtney?”
She forced a well-worn yet threadbare pageant smile and tilted her head. “Things aren’t always what they seem, Jane.”
“Oh, I…I know that, Courtney.”
Courtney sang along with Etta again. “Oh, yeah when you smile, you smile…Oh, and then the spell was cast…” A grim sadness suddenly fell hard over her. She leaned forward, speaking to the bartender. “Excuse me? Would you mind please turning this song down?” Her voice was anxious.
Jane turned to the bartender. “How about shutting it off?” She regarded Courtney. “That okay with you?”
Sweat beads formed along the rim of Courtney’s lips. “Yes. Thank you.”
The bartender turned off the music, leaving a stony silence in the place. Courtney took a generous gulp of her martini.
Jane gently spoke. “You know my story of why I started drinking…and I know yours.”
“I should never have gone to those damn meetings!” Her visage became agitated as she let out a weary sigh. “But the judge told me that it was either that or jail for the DUI. And Craig was able to work his PR magic to make the public forget about my transgression. But spillin’ my guts like I did at those meetings was so wrong!”
“Talking is always good. Hey, I had to learn that one too.”
“Talk, talk, talk…What good did it do me?” She reached into her purse and removed an orange prescription bott
le. “Nothing changed on the home front. If anything, it got worse.” Popping the cap with her chipped thumbnail, she slid a tablet into her palm and then slammed it into her mouth, washing it down with the martini.
Jane couldn’t help but see the name on the pill bottle. “Hey, I don’t think you’re supposed to mix alcohol with antidepressants.”
Courtney tossed Jane a sarcastic smile. “Is that right?” She turned, staring straight ahead. Jane watched as Courtney momentarily detached from the scene and then re-entered her body. “Megan started preschool last year. But it hasn’t been easy.… I’ve had so many calls from her teacher telling me that she wets the bed during naptime.” She cleared her throat. “They suggested I take her to a child psychologist to find out what was bothering her. Well, I wasn’t about to go down that rocky path. Can you imagine if her visits got out to people? And what would happen if she revealed something she shouldn’t?” Courtney forced another tired smile, but this time it seemed harder to produce.
Jane knocked back her water. “You didn’t need to take her to the doctor to find out why Megan was wetting the bed.” She treaded cautiously. “You already knew the answer to that one.”
Jane caught Courtney’s reflection in the giant mirror behind the bar. She watched as Courtney’s eyes narrowed, filling with pools of rage and sorrow. “Yes. I certainly did.” Her voice was disincarnate. “But if it ever got out, Craig would find a way to spin it, wouldn’t he?”
Jane wasn’t sure Craig could “spin” that kind of sickness. Then again, it was painfully clear to Jane that Craig Gardner, up until now, had been able to skillfully strategize his sorry ass around any number of obstacles that might impede the progress of those who weren’t initiated into the private manipulations of public relations. “I…,” Jane hesitated briefly, “I offered to help you — ”
Courtney suddenly came back into herself. “Oh, my goodness, Jane! Do you know what I suddenly flashed on right now? I’ve been having dreams about you for so many nights.” She turned her body toward Jane. “Isn’t that odd. Why would I be having dreams about you?”
