by R.M. Haig
September 8th, 2016. 9:30PM
Sterling Heights, Michigan
Tracy took a sip of Chardonnay, emptying her glass. Her nerves were still raw, so she reported promptly to the fridge and drew another from the box. It was running low itself, but in the garage were plenty more -- a Rhine, a Pinot Grigio, the Blush and Chillable Red -- should it become necessary to restock. She wasn't a lush, nor a wine connoissuer by any means; but she thoroughly enjoyed drinking a nightly glass, just to take the edge off.
Having gotten through another day with Garrett -- another day with autism -- was cause for celebration and justification for decompression in the arms of the very-slightest wine buzz, and she needed it. It was a full-time job keeping up with him; ensuring he ate when he was hungry and drank when he was thirsty, that he made it to the bathroom when he needed to go, that he didn't hurt himself. Therefore, the period from nine o'clock until bed was Tracy Time... time to be spent with a nice glass of vino and the quiet.
One glass would suffice on a normal day, but it was bound to take more -- perhaps several more -- on days like this one had been, but it was the exception to the rule, so she had no qualms with drawing another. As much as she wanted -- as she needed -- to unwind, she checked her cell phone constantly, nervously, for an e-mail or a text. She hadn't heard from Jacob in three days and two nights, and that wasn't like him at all.
She had long since begun to worry, and worrying seemed to be all that she could do, outside of tempering the nerves with ever increasing amounts of Franzia's finests. Jake had no friends that she could call to track him down, no family still alive that he would be likely to reach out to, and nowhere he would likely go for such an extended time if he had simply decided he needed to get away for awhile.
She had considered phoning the police, but that wouldn't go over well at all... her husband was a big boy; a big, independent boy who could handle himself and wouldn't look kindly on being hunted down like a fugitive.
She thought about calling the hospitals, but Jacob hated doctors with a passion and would've stormed out at the first opportunity. Besides, he keeps a card in his wallet, with his private investigator's badge, that lists her as his emergency contact -- and she would've heard something by now if he had been hurt.
There was the morgue as well, of course, but she didn't even want to consider that possibility... surely, they would have called her, too -- unless he had lost his wallet. Perish the thought...
He would have told her if a case had called him away... if he needed to comb the underbelly of the city or to stake out some seedy motel in search of a runaway addict. He always had before, even when things were at their worst. No heated argument or screaming fight, no matter how severe, had kept him from at least telling her where he was going.
Besides, there had been no screaming fight, no ugly spat to drive him off as of late. In fact, they had barely spoken at all the last time he was home. He had gotten out of bed at two AM, again, and said he was going to work on something for a client. When he came back home at noon, she knew that he had, in fact, spent the morning at the casino instead. He stank of cigarettes and Red Bull, hallmarks of his nights at Greektown Of Detroit. He looked deflated and depressed, which meant he had a losing night -- again. Really, though, he always looked deflated and depressed anymore... it was just his thing.
He spent a few hours home, with Garrett, barely acknowledging her existence, and left again just after two, saying he was going to catch up on paperwork at the office. That was the last she'd seen of him... the last she'd heard from him, as well. That was most unusual, and the revelation that he'd emptied the business' bank account was most alarming.
"What the hell could've happened?" she wondered aloud, taking another sip. She didn't swish the wine around as she would when trying simply to relax. Instead, she gulped it down, and chased it with more.
Two-thousand dollars is what he'd taken from the bank... two thousand and change, almost the entire payment he'd received from State Farm for investigating a case of suspected insurance fraud. That was a rare case; one that he actually completed, which had become unusual. He worked very sparingly anymore, even though he wanted her to believe that he was at it all the time. He was always going to work, but the nearly complete lack of checks and deposits to the account of Gigu?re Investigative told another tale.
Two-thousand dollars... just enough to pay the arrears owed to the landlord for his office. She had logged into the account with the intent of setting up the transfer when she discovered he had emptied it, and that's when the worry really started. It wasn't enough money to fuel his habit for more than half a day at Caesars, though, so he should've been home by now -- all else being equal.
Unless he'd finally won a bit, she thought, but even his winnings were usually gone fairly quickly. A couple of extra hours at a slot machine, or one big hand at the blackjack table -- potentially over in a flash. No, even if he'd won a little, he should've been home by now. He never stayed out overnight without telling her where he'd be -- if nothing else, in case something happened with Garrett. He never ignored his phone when she called, either, but she was unable to reach him now.
It didn't make any sense... was not at all normal.
Of course, she thought, if he got the papers... another swig of wine, a voluminous one at that.
What did he expect? He must have seen it coming...
He had laid the foundation for what was happening between them... gradually, over five or six years. He had pulled away from her almost entirely, in body, mind and spirit. He had become so distant lately, in fact, she often wondered if he had found someone else... another woman to soothe his mind.
Plus, he was in some kind of tailspin -- gambling away money like he could print it; could swim in it, like Scrooge McDuck. First it was the money from his business -- then the money set aside for bills, the mortgage payment, the money on the credit cards... now, the money from the state meant for Garrett's care. As a result of his recklessness, they were teetering on the brink of bankruptcy, the debts piling up while the money was leaking out.
And the drinking, God, the drinking... he was drinking like a fish. Not a glass of wine here and there like her, he was hitting it hard -- and often. His eyes were constantly bloodshot, his speech constantly slurred. He never drank in front of her, though, and went to great lengths to hide the fact that he was doing it at all. Chewing Altoids, spraying himself with Old Spice, drinking more coffee than is probably healthy and using red-eye-relief eye drops that never quite seemed to do the trick. Still, it was plainly obvious, she could smell the liquor oozing from his pores.
Then there was the sex... the lack of sex, that is, which was completely out of character for him. He was a man of raging libido; completely insatiable and always eager. That had waned slowly, over the past two years or so, but was completely absent, now. Six months it had been since he touched her... hadn't even asked for a blowjob, which had been his bread and butter from the beginning. That, above all, led her to believe that there could be someone else...
Suspecting infidelity, she sniffed his clothes constantly for hints of perfume... checked his cell phone while he slept for secret messages or calls, checked his underwear for signs of come. No matter how she tried, she had never found anything to suggest his guilt. He was clever, but she doubted he could cover all the bases as well as they were covered if it was really going on. Her heart told her he would never cheat anyway... he just wasn't the type. He was surrounded by cheaters in his work, and he looked upon them with disdain and contempt. It's the ultimate betrayal, he often said. The ultimate dishonor, to everyone involved. The territory of the dregs.
If it wasn't that, though, what was it?
Depression was a suspect; had always been a suspect... he was a very depressive person. His mother had been a poster child for it, and his father -- well... that went without saying. Fearing it was coming for him, like a curse bestowed upon him in
his blood, Tracy had scheduled a series of appointments with a counselor and psychiatrist several years ago for him. He went, but only because she made him... and when they prescribed him Zoloft, he had taken it -- but not for very long. Makes me feel like a zombie was his primary objection... then there was the bit with the orgasms, that had struck the death blow. He assured her he was fine without it... and she accepted that on his word.
Regardless of what it was that came between them, he couldn't expect that she would ride along with him on the kamikaze trail that he was blazing. She had Garrett to think about, and that was a lot in-and-of itself. The collection calls, the bounced checks, the forclosure notices -- the food from Hospitality House lately... how could he think that she would stay the course with him while he pulled them all down into the gutter?
She had consulted an attorney in the spring, and thought it over all summer long... deciding only recently it was the final recourse. Talking about their troubles clearly wasn't on the table, she had tried and tried for months. When she did, he always went to work... though there would be no invoice to draw up for his time.
At best, the shock of such a drastic step would serve as a scare-tactic to make him open up... to tell her what was happening, so that they could work together to fix it. At worst, she would have to see it through... to cut the cord, as it were, so that they could all move on with their lives, if that's the way he wanted it.
Whichever way it went, she supposed she would be okay... beaten, battered and bruised -- but okay, whatever the outcome.
Resigned to not knowing where he was for another restless night, she let herself sink into the supple arms of their Natuzzi leather couch and exhaled as much of the tension as she could. She clicked on the television and took another sip of wine, then set everything down on the end table and removed the scrunchie from her hair.
When the dirty-blonde locks tumbled down in front of her face, she saw more gray in them than she wanted to believe was real. Just thirty-four years, she thought, not even half-way through, and I feel like the tank is running empty. She saw every one of those years in the fine and thinning strands, felt the weight of them on her shoulders despite the alcohol's intervention. She felt them each upon her face, tugging at it and leaving marks despite the efforts of Olay. She felt them gnawing at her soul, wearing her down despite her prayers for strength.
