That part, that five
hours of misery, it’s not what I want to focus on here.
It’s the getting
inside. Finally.
My life before Kerry
was that ride to the dentist.
And even though she
was…gone...I was inside.
Disney World! Land of
Magic! Ice cream. Cake. Gallons and gallons of soda. Caramel apples.
Cotton candy! Dear Lord, cotton candy!
Which is funny, in a
way, since all of those things lead to more visits to the dentist.
Kerry was dead. I
threw up on the Tilt-a-Whirl.
And Goofy had a gun.
I stood there, sort of
frozen, trying to decide what to do next. All these questions racing through
my mind, each and every one of them leading to the same conclusion. Was he
inside the house? How long had it been since Kerry landed in front of me?
Thirty seconds? A minute, tops?
He was upstairs. I
would’ve seen him leaving through the front door if he’d chosen that escape
route. Saunter in, kill Kerry, saunter out. The thought of the sheer
boldness
of it made me sick to my stomach. I mean, good God, how dare he, you know?
How dare he think that he could so simply get away with murdering her like it
was just some effortless task? Like it was another item to mark off of a To Do
List.
Every morning, before I
went into Thrifty’s, before I stepped onto the sidewalk at five a.m. for a
light, eight-mile jog, before my breakfast of eggs, oatmeal, and grapefruit,
I’d make myself a To Do List containing one item. Simple, easy, effective,
with no desire to focus on the mundane tasks of daily life like “1) Get
groceries 2) Do two hundred pushups 3) Floss.” No, that singular,
all-encompassing entry provided all I needed to live like a winner and it gave
me more satisfaction to strike through those three simple words than marking
off a thousand less important chores. You want to know what it was?
“1)Be”
the victor
He had to be upstairs,
but had he heard me come in?
What if he wasn’t?
Get the all-clear,
right?
I tiptoed across the
carpet, listening, hearing nothing more than the gurgle of a tropical fish
tank. It sat in the back left corner of the living room, its light glowing
blue, with a miniature scuba diver floating up and down, emitting bubbles,
while a small number of multi-colored fish swam around fake seaweed and coral.
The fact that it was even there took me by surprise, because I hadn’t expected
Kerry to be an aquarium enthusiast. I thought I knew her. And in such an
adrenaline-fueled moment, when I should’ve been concentrating on finding the
perp
,
my constant desire to think of others first surpassed the need to focus, and
the only thing I could think about was:
Who’ll feed the fish?
I could’ve cried, but I
didn’t. I don’t think I’ve cried since high school when I pitched a perfect
game. Twenty-seven batters up, twenty-five strikeouts, one infield popup and a
grounder to the shortstop, who nearly overthrew the first baseman. I almost
punched him after the game.
I could’ve cried. Not
for the poor fish. For Kerry, yes, but not just her. It was this crushing
feeling of…of complete and total
absence
. What was there five minutes
before was now nonexistent. A life, gone. A routine, gone. There would be no
more, “It’s six o’clock, time to feed the fish!
”
That thought process
had disappeared forever.
Something was there and
then it wasn’t. Like a star winking out. Like accidentally letting your red
balloon float away at Disney World. Like a tooth your dentist pulled without
Novocain.
There, then not there.
Absence of essence.
I imagined myself
filling that void somehow. Maybe I’d take the fish home with me when it was
all over. They’d never know the difference. One foodbringer is as good as the
next. I’d do it for Kerry. I’d make it right. I’d begin to fill that void,
that emptiness, by rescuing her fish. Such a small gesture would be like
trying to fill a grave with a teaspoon, but you have to start somewhere.
That daydreaming moment
where I was the hero, the continuer of life for a bunch of mindless, gulping
fish almost ruined me.
I say “almost” because
I didn’t hesitate when I felt the presence of someone behind me.
Let me share something
about Clarence here. I know, I know, I should just get on with it, tell you
what happened in the living room, but this is important, and it’ll be relevant
later. I promise.
I actually talked to
Clarence the night before Kerry died.
Surprising? Probably
not. Do I seem like the kind of guy that would be able to let things go?
Well, I am. I don’t hold grudges. They’re bad for your health. Too much
stress leads to an overproduction of a hormone called cortisol, which leads to
an increase in abdominal fat. The Pendragon Castle doesn’t need an extra layer
of padded protection. It’s defended well enough already by diet and exercise.
By compulsion, too, and I realize that can be an unattractive quality in a
partner to someone who doesn’t share the same level of commitment. Shayna had
grown pudgy, likely due to a self-imposed level of stress that I couldn’t
comprehend. Kerry, not an ounce of fat on her. We would’ve been a good match.
I was in the grocery
store, picking up my weekly rations. Lots of meats and vegetables for protein
and general health, lots of legumes for caloric intake. Try it sometime. See
how much fat you lose.
Anyway, Clarence, he
had a pizza and a bottle of red wine, along with a stupid, confused look on his
face, standing there over the expensive cheeses, like he didn’t have any
synaptic connections happening inside that birdbrain of his. I didn’t have one
iota of sympathy for that guy at the time, but I decided to help him, mostly
for the chance to scope him out, to see what he was like. To see what kind of
man was so warmly welcomed inside Kerry’s home.
There
had
to be
a reason, right?
What did she see in
him? Unattractive, balding. Goofball, in every sense of the word. The
likelihood of a giant, porn star schlong being the decided factor was
completely out of the question. I knew Kerry wouldn’t have been enticed by
that—not on him. You can put a pile of shit on a silver platter, but it’s
still a pile of shit.
And money? Did he have
a lot of money? Doubtful. Not with that cheap suit. Not with those discount
bin loafers. And certainly not based on the fact that wine and cheese pairings
seemed to confuse him worse than handing a Rubik’s Cube to a blind man.
Don’t get me wrong, I
realize that sounds shallow—the fact that I immediately went to penis size or
money as a reason. But come on, you can’t tell me that neither of those things
runs through your head when you see a ten with a two, no matter where they are.
Nobody admits it,
everybody does it.
I had to know.
Maybe he was funny.
Maybe he was smart (
ha!
) and challenging. Maybe he could play the cello
like Yo-Yo Ma and Kerry loved classical music.
She didn’t, by the
way. Her speakers spoke volumes. Pun intended, of course. Due to Kerry’s
taste in music, I’m now a fan of Justin Bieber. What do they call his fans?
Beliebers? As a forty-three-year-old male, I have no shame in confessing the
kid has talent.
What in the almighty
name of Eris (the Greek goddess of confusion, to the uninitiated) did Kerry see
in him?
I absolutely had to
know.
Big shocker here: our
first meeting didn’t go well.
He insulted me with six
little words.
Here’s how: the grocery
store I frequent makes their employees dress up in black slacks, a white,
collared shirt, and a red tie. Why? I would imagine it has something to do
with an air of professionalism, which I support, but in the end they’re making
their employees spend money on good clothes that will be ruined in a week.
My opinion—since you
asked—is that it’s more of a disservice to a hard-working guy who’s already
scraping by on minimum wage. It’s a waste of money and morale. Give me a
bagger wearing a cheap, blue polyester pullover, provided by the company who
purchased it in bulk, at a massive discount cost, any day. My steaks will
taste the same.
I’ve contemplated
becoming a business consultant. I see problems like this
everywhere
.
It just so happened
that I’d decided to wear a similar outfit to Thrifty’s that day. White shirt,
dark slacks, crimson tie. Not red, mind you. Crimson.
I
could
blame
Clarence for his ignorance and be insulted by it if I wanted to, but I
shouldn’t
,
because in hindsight, I looked like a valued team member.
(That was on the
application I filled out at the grocery store. “Become a Valued Team Member!”
I didn’t get a second call. The job-hunting paradox of being overqualified yet
inexperienced perplexes me to this day. And this is an assumption, but I’m
sure they called Donny Row for a reference, even though I specifically marked
the Do Not Call checkbox.)
As Clarence read the
cheese labels, his lips moved. Poor bastard. It made me wonder if he’d have
to take his socks off to count to twenty.
But like I said, I
don’t judge. It’s merely an observation, not a statement of fact.
I walked up beside
him—“sidled” is a better word, since our shoulders were touching—and took a
peek at the wine varietal he’d chosen. A merlot. Classic, but uninitiated.
(I’ve often wondered if the merlot industry suffered after Paul Giamatti’s
outburst in
Sideways
. His character was wrong—you can find some
incredible merlots if you know what to look for.)
Clarence picked up an
aged Chevrot, examining it with a befuddled expression, like he’d rubbed two
pieces of flint together and set his hut on fire.
Casually, just a random
guy making conversation, I said, “Probably not the best choice for that
merlot. They don’t go well with goat’s milk cheeses. Your best bet is
something made from sheep’s milk. Try that one right there, the one with the
blue label—the Roncal.”
It took a second for
the realization to envelop his lone brain cell. “Oh, hey, you’re Jan’s
neighbor. I didn’t know you worked here.”
First, note that he
didn’t call her Kerry, which was bad enough, because he didn’t know her like I
knew her. The surreptitious, clueless infiltrator. Also begging the question
of, why had she lied to him, too?
Second… “I didn’t know
you worked here.”
What. The. Hell.
I don’t know why I took
such offense. I have nothing against grocery store employees. They work
hard. Eight, ten, twelve hours on your feet all day, bending over, picking up
heavy things, dealing with picky customer demands such as making sure each
vegetable type is individually bagged.
That one’s on me.
Guilty. I have this thing with vegetables. None of them should ever,
ever
touch. It makes shopping cumbersome because I have to carry at least fifteen
bags with me, but I’ve gotten used to it. The baggers that are familiar with
my minor quirk have made a game out of it. They’ll try to slip a squash in
with a head of broccoli and laugh when I protest. Joke’s on them, though,
since I laugh, too. I know it’s ridiculous, and I’m okay with it. Shayna
hated this about me. Hated, hated, hated. I believe the word she used was
“psychotic,” which, again, is a matter of observation, not a statement of fact.
Most likely, it was
simply in the way Clarence said it. “I didn’t know you worked
here
,” as
if it were some sort of punishment or comment on my character.
“You know what,” I
said, “maybe you should go with the goat cheese.” If screwing up his palate
was my only recourse, then so be it.
“Yeah, that’s what I
was thinking. My wife loves goat cheese.”
Did you get that? His
wife
.
Let me repeat it: his
wife
,
said without a hint of shame.
Without a hint of,
“Hey, don’t say anything, okay? One wretch to another, let’s keep this between
you and me.”
I tried not to sound
offended. Or shocked. I’m not sure it worked. “You’re
married?
”
“Long story, but yeah,
thirty-five years today.”
You want to know how
many times in my life I’ve been struck speechless?
Twice.
The first time was in
response to the following: “Steve, would you like to tell me about the thong I
found in the backseat of your car?”
The second:
“Thirty-five years today.”
The nerve of that guy.
On a minor note, what kind of last-minute, procrastinating dirtball picks up a
pizza and a bottle of wine for his thirty-five-year anniversary?
But more importantly
you have to understand his tone. There was nothing, and I mean absolutely
nothing, no hint of remorse whatsoever. Nothing that said,
I know you
know. I know you see me every Thursday
.
It was absolutely
baffling.
The only thing I could
come up with, the only thing that seemed like a rational, adequate response
was, “You’re a dick.”
I walked away. I hoped
he took the goat cheese.
And later, when I
learned the truth, guess who felt like a dick?
***
Here’s what happened in
Kerry’s living room:
I felt a presence
behind me. I pivoted, swung the bat, and whiffed at the open air, which was
followed by a sharp, solid
thunk
on my temple. I saw sparkles. (The
knock-on-the-head kind, not the cat kind.)
The immediate, dizzying
sensation didn’t last long because, well, rock of strength that I am…I blacked
out.
When I woke up—minutes
later, according to my watch—I was face down on Kerry’s floor, laying there in
a glob of my own drool, with a screeching, skull-splitting headache. I’d never
felt pain so intense and I nearly barfed when I tried to move. Hangovers
aren’t that bad. Migraines aren’t that bad. If you’ve never had one, they’re
incapacitating. Sounds, lights, movement—everything makes it worse. Shayna
often thought my migraines were an excuse to get out of things like household
chores, work, and ballet recitals. Sometimes she was right.
My baseball bat was
gone.
Why didn’t I freak out?
A couple of reasons.
One, whomever he was,
the attacker had vanished, and I was alive. If he’d wanted me dead, I wouldn’t
be here telling this story. Why would he kill Kerry and leave a witness
alive? Best guess is that the former was a crime of passion, unintended, and
by the time I came around, he was already feeling guilty and simply wanted to
get away.
So there’s that.
Two, even though I was
already at odds with the local law enforcement and considered them to be
ignorant fools (my position hasn’t changed), I’d gathered they were remotely
intelligent enough to realize I wasn’t the culprit. I’d been trying to do
their job for them. I don’t have a violent bone in my body.
Again, Shayna will tell
you differently, specifically citing three broken dinner plates and a
fist-sized hole in the basement door. Those are consequences of circumstance
and in no way an indicator of character. If I told you the reasoning behind
each instance, you wouldn’t believe me, regardless.
Factoring in my
abhorrence to violence, certain that my innocence would be upheld, I stayed
calm.
And why not have a look
around while I was inside? Maybe see if I could come up with something, some
reason for the injustice.
I owed it to Kerry.
She’d been so nice, and gracious, and thankful every time I offered to help
with whatever she needed—it didn’t matter that she’d said no thanks and
scampered away. She’d been kind enough to close her blinds whenever I was
outside, hot and sweating from working so hard, just so I wouldn’t be jealous
of seeing her inside where she was cool and relaxed. Such a sweet, sweet girl,
and she deserved better than having the police botch her case.
Knowing that I’d been
out for some time, and that the average response time of 9-1-1 was about four
minutes—according to Officer Planck—I assumed that none of the other neighbors
had made the call and it would be safe to search for evidence.
Being inside Kerry’s
house, finally, still held this untouchable, magic feeling, considering the
situation. Just hours before, I would’ve given my appendix to be standing
where I was right then.
Aside from the fish
tank that nearly got me killed, there was a couch, a coffee table, a dying
potted plant, a stereo, and a small flat screen television. And that was it.
Bare bones emptiness, as if she’d moved in yesterday instead of months ago.
There were no photographs of smiling children. No magazines. Nothing that
could be considered “personal effects” like the boxful I had to remove on the
day of my firing. (The words “exile” and “banishment” might be more
appropriate.)
Needless to say, I
expected more. Honestly, it was like playing those tacky carnival games where
you toss a ring onto a bottle and win a stuffed animal. Or maybe knock down
the weighted milk jugs with a softball, win a bigger stuffed animal.
Entertaining, but still a disappointment.