by R.M. Haig
Jake's throat objected to the onslaught of another Newport with an irritation he likened to that which one would experience while gargling broken glass. The moon was full over the colonial ranch he once called home, and the hush of the suburban evening was well set-in. Scanning the house, he saw no sign of light, save for the flickering of the television in the living-room window.
It was a quarter to eleven when he first dimmed the headlights of his Malibu and pulled into the driveway, and nearly midnight as he smoked his cigarette, idling there. Tracy was probably sleeping, likely passed out on the couch after her nightly glass of wine. Garrett was certainly sawing logs, charging up his batteries for the bedlam of the morning.
Try as he might -- and oh, how he tried -- he couldn't piece together a feasible plan to avoid going in the house. He would need clothes, at least several days worth, maybe more. He would need toiletries; a toothbrush, a comb, deodorant, contact solution, a razor, shaving gel, his Brylcreem. He would need a charger for his phone, a notepad, some pens, fresh socks, a tie, a tie-clip, his dress shoes and, perhaps, his camera. He would need more bullets for his Beretta, just in case.
Tabulating in his mind, which was an effort in the shadow of his brutal hangover, he figured the cost of purchasing these things would easily approach a hundred dollars... plus, it would require effort, which he wasn't keen on making. Having counted the cash in his wallet several times, each time hoping it would count up to more, he was sure it amounted to just five hundred and fifty three bucks. With that, he couldn't figure a way to start from scratch and still get by.
He would need a hotel room for at least one night to get cleaned up for court, perhaps more if sleeping in his back seat seemed as unappealing when the time came as it did while he sat there thinking about it. There were toll roads on the way to Burlwood to consider as well, though the total cost was negligible in the grand scheme of things. He would also need fuel, which is tantamount to rape when working on a budget. It didn't seem to matter how he sliced it, five-fifty-three minus give-or-take a hundred just wasn't enough to last.
He found it stunning that he had burnt through so much of his initial two-grand in such a short period of time. Maybe the chubby woman had robbed him while she was feeling him up... maybe her hands had strayed into his wallet on their quest to find his cock, which he was increasingly confident that she had never quite discovered. There was that to be thankful for, at least, he wouldn't end up with Herpes to show for his adventure.
It was possible that he dropped a few bills on the contents of the baggie, the remnants of which he had since pitched out the window along the interstate. Perhaps a few hundred bucks? More? He had never done the stuff before -- had certainly never purchased any before -- so he wasn't quite sure just how much a sample might have set him back, if it was his to begin with.
Either way, he couldn't waste a hundred smackers on things he could secure for free by just swallowing his pride and walking into what was still his house -- for the time being, at least. It just wasn't feasible. He wanted desperately to avoid facing his wife -- his soon to be ex-wife -- but there didn't seem to be a way out of it.
What would he say?
What would she say?
Well, hopefully she'd be asleep... that would make it easier.
Hoping that was the case, he laid out a plan of attack in his foggy mind. He would go through the side-door, as far from the living room as was possible, and slink through the kitchen as quiet as a mouse. Once he was in the main hallway, he would hit the bathroom first, pitching the toiletries he wanted into his shaving bag. With those in hand, he would press on to the master suite, taking care not to disturb Garrett as he passed by his room. He had a duffle bag in there for cases that took him out of town, so he would stuff a few sets of clothes in it -- not taking time to fold them -- making sure to grab his shoes as well. While in the closet, he would open up his gun safe and grab a box of ammunition. There were notepads in his bedside table, so he might as well grab a few. With everything together, he would creep back down the hall and out the door he came through. If all went well, he could be in and out in less than three or four minutes, with Tracy none the wiser.
His fingers started to burn again as he realized he'd smoked another cigarette all the way down to the butt. There would be a tremendous callus soon, if he kept this habit up. He almost chucked the smoke out the window, but caught himself in the nick of time... what would the neighbors think of butts all over his lawn? Trying to find the car's ashtray instead, he discovered that he'd never looked for it before, because the car didn't seem to have one at all. Cursing modern sensabilities, he rolled down his passenger window and gave the nuisance a mighty flick into the Peters' front yard instead... fuck the Peters, he never liked them anyway.
Dreading the five-hour drive ahead of him, he decided he couldn't wait any longer. With a mighty sigh of resignation, he stepped out of the car -- but left the engine idling. Hit and run, he thought, hit and run.
Marching with purpose, he made his way to the side door, only considering when he got there the fact that it would be locked... and a lock requires a key.
Fuck...
Back to the car...
Key in hand this time, he approached again. He ran through the steps in his head once more before setting his plan into action. Things went swimmingly from there, all the way up to the point at which he opened the door and... the alarm sounded.
Bemoaning his lack of forethought with another heavy sigh, he punched in his code to disarm the system, but it was too late. The living room lamp came on immediately, Tracy's exhausted and concerned face appearing around the corner thereafter.
"Jacob?" she asked, seeming remarkably coherent considering she had just been roused so rudely.
He said nothing in response, moving somewhat less silently than he had planned towards the hallway and the bathroom. She paused for a moment where she sat, then followed him, her white silk nightgown trailing behind her.
"Christ, Jacob, where the hell have you been?" she asked in a hushed but frantic tone, presumably trying not to wake their son. "It's been three days, do you have any idea how worried I was?"
Still, he said nothing, an unexpected and intense anger building in him that he only hoped he could control. He reached the bathroom and retrieved his shaving bag from underneath the sink, then had to open all three compartments of the vanity in search of his contact solution and case -- he never removed his lenses nearly as often as he should. Upon closing the last of the mirrored doors, he saw his wife standing in the doorway. The glaring eyes of her reflection froze him for a moment, her visage an odd hybrid of the angelic and the demonic in this moment.
"Jacob?" she said again, more a demand for acknowledgment than a question this time.
Trying to avoid making eye contact, he brushed her out of his way and moved towards their bedroom. The scent of her floral perfume and lotions as he passed gave him pause; a comforting aroma that reminded him of Halston, the lingering scent of his childhood. For a moment, he longed to hold her... to take her in his arms and cry like a toddler whose balloon has floated off into the sky at large. Then, her gown brushed against the flesh of his arm, calling him to her embrace... but he would not succumb to these temptations. He could not follow that path of least resistance, for that path required a wrenching departure of pride that he couldn't imagine swallowing.
Once he'd made it to the bedroom, he tossed his duffle bag onto the bed and started blindly yanking clothes down from their hangers. Thankfully, Tracy kept the closet organized in clearly defined hers and his compartments, so he didn't pack any blouses by mistake. As he turned toward the bed to begin the stuffing process, he caught another glance of her in the hallway. She was watching his every move, her mouth agape in confusion.
"Jacob," she said quite assertively this time, "what the hell is going on?"
When he failed to respond yet again, she stepped into the room. St
ill paying her no mind, he fetched a notepad from his nightstand. Moving hurriedly, he returned to the closet and punched the code into his gun safe.
"Goddam it, Jake!" she snapped now, still maintaining a spirited hush. "Talk to me!"
Again, he gave no notice, and it was infuriating to her. His insolence, his gall in ignoring her. Who did he think he was? Who did he think she was? Some doormat to rub the shit from his shoes on? Some throw-away hussy to whom he owed nothing? No explanation of where he'd been, of where he intended to go?
She stormed toward him, now, and reached for him as she spoke. "You owe me answers, Jake, just where the hell do you think you're going?"
He felt her hand upon his shoulder, and something exploded inside of him at her touch. The feeling was inexplicable; a rush of hot and cold agitation that baffled him entirely. As if by reflex, caught in the throes of this new emotion, he immediately swatted her away. He was angered by the imposition, angered at her supposition that, after what she'd done, he owed her anything at all. A white-hot rage clenched his jaw tightly, and spittle flew from his mouth as he snarled "don't you fucking touch me!"
She gasped and recoiled from him, pulling her hands away as she would from a dog prepared to bite. There was a momentary fear in her face, but it quickly dissolved to loathing and spite as he spoke his next words at her, thrusting an accusatory finger as he barked.
"You don't get to touch me and I don't owe you shit, not anymore! That's what 'petition for divorce' means, Tracy! I don't have to answer to you anymore!"
She was frozen for a moment in shock and a fury of her own. She felt her fists spasm and clench, her uneven nails digging deep into the tender flesh of her palms. Once his words had registered, once she'd processed what he'd said, her venom peaked and she lashed out. "Oh, so that's how you want it to be?"
Feeling the tension ready to explode out of her, he dialed his code again and opened the gun safe, withdrawing two boxes of nine-millimeter rounds. Jamming them into his overstuffed bag, he took a frenzied inventory; trying to check off the pertinent items so he could bid a quick retreat, before things got really ugly.
"Fine, then!" she continued, her voice raising now. It was loud and shrill, shaking with rage and sorrow both. "You wanna get nasty? Well I can get nasty too!"
"Oh, I know," he quipped back. "Believe me, I know!"
"What was I supposed to do?" she shouted, all regard for quiet gone as her arms darted out to her sides in frustration. "Let you destroy us like you've destroyed yourself? Let you take us down with you?"
"Destroyed myself?" he reeled, a nervous chuckle escaping that only served to escalate her anger. "What the fuck does that even mean?"
"Yes! Destroyed yourself!" she cried. "You've destroyed yourself! Destroyed your business, destroyed your credit, destroyed US -- probably destroyed your liver for Christ's sake!"
"Right," he snapped, wrestling with the zipper to get his bag to close. "You've got it all figured out, don't you? You've got all the answers!"
"And now, you're gonna do YOU!" She took a nasty tone and moved closer to him, nearly in his face. "You're gonna run away, just like you do! Just like you've ALWAYS done!"
"What?" he asked in an intentionally snotty cackle, this time, as he finally managed to zip his bag, which was bulging at the seams. He swiveled around to face her, only realizing how close she really was when their noses nearly brushed. "What the fuck are you even talking about?"
Further irritated by the dismissive tone he took, she leaned in closer to him -- close enough for him to feel the heat of anger on her breath. "Well go ahead, you coward!" she yelled, pushing him away and stepping between him and the bed -- between him and his bag. "Go ahead and run away! Run like your fucking father did!!"
Suddenly, Jake's world turned to red and he was absorbed in a blinding fog of rabidity. He felt completely detached from his body as his possessed arms rose and shoved her with every bit of force they could muster. It was enough to lift her from her feet, sending her careening to the matress where she landed on her back.
She flipped the wild hair from her eyes and looked up, seeing him standing there above her, fuming. His right-hand was pulled over his shoulder, as though he was preparing to place a backhanded slap across her face.
In this moment, they locked eyes for the first time in what seemed like forever. She stared into his green depths, the eyes that had looked upon her with such tenderness in days passed; with such passion and such caring. In the clouded, glassy, windows to his soul, she saw none of those things, now... saw nothing of the man she loved... nothing of her husband.
Summoning a false bravado, she addressed this intruder, this stranger in her home. "Do it!" she said resolutely, though her voice was trembling. "Go ahead and do it, Jake! God knows it'll make everything easier on me!"
Seeing the fear in her eyes -- the fear of him, whom she had loved so unconditionally in days not long ago -- he shuddered and recoiled his anger. Reclaiming his body, he lowered his raised hand and sheepishly turned his gaze away. Shaken in the turbulence, he tried to extricate himself from the moment and erase it before it had a chance to take hold in the catacombs of his memory. Disgusted with himself, feeling he deserved pain as punishment, he bit his lower lip so hard he was amazed to taste no blood.
As Tracy watched him stand down, the words you don't have the balls were on the very tip of her tongue. She wouldn't say them -- couldn't say them -- though. The sum of all the turmoil that had existed between them, in their eighteen years and in this moment, was not enough to dissolve the predicate fact that she loved him... had always loved him, through all that came before. In this moment, he was not himself -- and he may never be himself again. That changed little on the whole, even though it changed everything. Considering every bump they'd hit thus far, every mountain they'd climbed together, she choked back tears and asked sincerely "What happened to us? What have we become, Jacob?".
He paced back and forth toward the closet frantically, running his hands over his brow and through his hair as he exhaled all the tension of the argument. When he finally stalled and summoned the courage to face her, he stood as far from her as he could possibly be without leaving the room entirely. His eyes burnt through her head this time, cold, intense and detached... tearless, but red and swollen.
"Time," he answered softly, almost tenderly. "Time happened, Tracy, that's all..."
Finally, as though sensing the waning of hostilities, Garrett let out a cry. A call too deep to be a child's, yet too juvenile to be a teen's. She started to rise instinctively, pausing when her thoughts caught up and begging one last answer from this man, who had once been her husband.
"Jacob," she said quietly now, her voice gentle and pleading. "Where will you go?"
He considered for a moment, then replied sedately. "Burlwood."
"When will you be-- " she paused, decided to rephrase. "Are you going to come back?" Watching for a hint in his mannerism, she waited an eternity for his response.
He thought longer, harder, now, than before. His mind said double indemnity, and that answer was the most truthful he could've given. Knowing she wouldn't understand, wouldn't allow him to leave if he elaborated, he spoke one final lie to end the chapter.
Softly, almost sweetly, he replied "I don't know, Tracy."
SIX
