A Necessary End (34 page)

It wasn't just any cat, though. It was Satan's cat.

The white ball of hair had attached itself to my hand, affixed with my blood. Hard as I shook, I couldn't seem to dislodge it. Tears were running down my face. I wanted to scream, but I couldn't let anyone come and find me here. There was no one to take care of me, no one at all. I could get a disease here. The place had never been cleaned; that cat probably died in the nineties. Those weren't bits of food, they were rat feces. I needed to get out, or die here, like Patty had.

That did it. I stood up. I washed my bloody hands in Patty's stained sink, shunting aside the stinking piles of dishes. From the
detritus, I saw that Patty ate Beefaroni, the kind made by Chef Boyardee, and I almost felt sorry for her, but I couldn't afford it. I shook my hands over and over, this time to dry them, because I didn't want to touch my jeans that had touched that filthy floor and I'd surely never touch Patty's filthy dish towel.

Then I found—of all miraculous things—disinfecting wipes on the kitchen counter, the ones that promise to kill 99.9 percent of all household germs. I had to hope that was true of DNA, too, as I wiped down the keyboard and every other surface I'd come in contact with. That included Patty's forehead, now even colder. The whole time, I was on the lookout for a white long-haired cat, bent on revenge.

There was one last garbage bag, and it had the drippy Chef Boyardee can inside (of course Patty wouldn't recycle, further vindication for me). I gathered Patty's body, folding it in on itself, limb by floppy limb. Rigor mortis would have helped but I couldn't wait around for it to set in.

Gritting my teeth, I had to keep touching her, all over, until she was hidden from view, encapsulated in Hefty. Then I disinfected the apartment, again and again, like Lady Macbeth. It stung my palms, because I was the one with the stigmata. I was the one who had been wronged, and no one should ever forget it, and fuck those yellow eyes, I would tell it to her cat if need be, if it came to that.

But he never came out, never showed himself. The animal scent was still high in my nostrils and I wondered if that was him, had been him all along but I'd been too preoccupied at first to recognize it. Then I finally hoisted Patty over my shoulder and closed the door behind me, a disinfecting wipe cloaking my hand.

I never once thought of calling anyone, least of all Gabe. I knew a husband didn't have to testify against his wife, but I wasn't sure he'd see things as I did. Where I saw justifiable homicide (with big emphasis on the “justifiable”), he might have seen premeditation. Then he'd never be able to see anything else when he looked at me.

The building had a back exit, with a small parking lot. No pedestrians,
a straight shot to my car. It's like I was meant to get away with it, to rid the world of Patty/Janice. Maybe I was still powered by adrenaline but it felt like Patty weighed nothing at all. I ran the whole way, tossed her in the trunk, and took off. It wasn't until I'd made it to the highway and gone a few exits that I worked out the rest of my plan. In a rest area, I Googled ways to dispose of a body and stumbled upon Scott Powell's sage advice. When I realized that Highway 80 goes right through western Utah, I laughed out loud. Some higher power had used me to take Patty out; it was so obvious.

There were good reasons to think I could get away with it. The street had been empty when I entered the building; my fight with Patty hadn't been at all loud; no one could link me to her, as she wasn't exactly advertising her victims. Now she'd become one. Poetic justice, that.

For the first couple weeks of December, I was convinced I kept finding white cat hairs on my clothes. Now I'm not so sure. It might have been more Lady Macbeth shit. My conscience was mostly clear, but sometimes I'd think, She was a human being. Then I'd say, Nah, not really.

The truth is, if she'd survived, I would have been way more nervous. I would have expected her to retaliate in some way, would have expected the police (or someone scarier) to show up at my door. She did know where I lived, after all. But it was surprisingly easy to just go about my business, especially since by Christmas, her disappearance hadn't even surfaced (that was when I started following Summer Jackson religiously). I assumed that the mine shaft had taken care of the body. I became even more certain that I'd done the right thing
because
I was getting away with it.

But now that the body's been found, I don't think law enforcement is likely to see it my way. And what about Gabe? He could testify that I was smoldering for weeks before I went to Denver. Husbands don't have to testify, but they can.

Even if I'm never charged, Leah would find out I'm being investigated.
What woman would leave her child to be raised by a possible murderer?

There are so many ways I could lose Michael.

I'm slumped over with my head to my knees when Leah and Trevor come down the hall. “Hey,” she says.

“Hey.” I give her a big smile. “What's up? Where'd you go? Did you have fun?”

They both give me strange looks, Trevor's more empathetic, Leah's bordering on frigid. “When Gabe gets home,” she says, “we all need to talk.”

I look to Trevor for some clue but he's studying the baseboards with great interest. I resume my former position—one of concession, of supplication. At this point, I can't hope for understanding, only for grace.

A
drienne texted to say I can't be late, Leah wants to talk to us tonight.

I've texted Leah a number of times, asking what's going on. She was terse: “U'll know tonite.” But I'm pretty sure I already know.

She's going to take Michael away from Adrienne because of what I told her last night. I can see now that Adrienne's been right all along, that Leah did have it out for her. Leah was so quick to conclude that Adrienne's some kind of psychopath, and there's no convincing her otherwise. She's been looking for an excuse, and I gave it to her on a silver platter.

Adrienne loves Michael so much. If anything can break her, this is it. I'll have to live knowing it's my fault.

Leah's stopped answering my texts. I continue defending Adrienne anyway, reminding Leah what a great mom she's been. Adrienne's thrown aside every other thing in her entire life in order to mother that kid. “How else can she prove herself to you?” I ask Leah, to no avail. “Whatever you ask, she'll do it.”

I'm useless at work. I don't get within one hundred yards of a
sale. Ray doesn't even know what to say; he just shakes his head and points at the whiteboard, then at the calendar. I know, Ray, time is definitely running out.

Entering my house is like walking the gangplank. Leah, Trevor, and Adrienne are already gathered around the table, silent and solemn. Adrienne is staring down at her hands in her lap as if she's never seen them before. She looks like an early-stage Alzheimer's patient in a nursing home: still aware enough to know what's coming and what she's about to lose, helpless to change it.

I have to stop Leah. I'll say anything. I'll leverage the relationship Leah and I have built; I'll appeal to her conscience, or her insecurities, whatever it takes.

“Hi, Gabe,” Leah says, sounding perfectly composed.

“You're probably wondering why we've called you here,” Trevor says in a Godfather voice. Always the jokester. I could murder him, I really could.

“No, they already know.” Leah brushes her hair back from her shoulders. “They're smart. They can guess.”

“You want to take Michael,” I say.

“We don't ‘want.' We are taking him. He's going to live with Trevor and me. We're going to be a family.” She sounds proud, like she's finally silencing all her detractors, whoever they might be. I was never among them, but there's probably no telling her that now. I've been her champion. Or has she forgotten everything that doesn't fit with her desires? She sure desired me last night, and I shot her down. Is that what this is about?

“Yeah,” Trevor adds, “we're making a go of it.” He sounds a lot less confident than Leah.

She must feel it, too, because she casts him the quickest of side glances. That's it, there's the chink in the armor, my opening.

“You think this guy is ready to raise a baby?” I cock my thumb at him. “He's father material?”

“You're one to talk,” Trevor fires back. “At least I'm not an alcoholic.”

“Haven't had a drink in two days.”

“Do they have an AA chip for that?” he jeers. To Leah, “I told you he's an asshole masquerading as a . . . a . . .”

“You know the word ‘masquerading'?” I say. “Do you get a chip for that?”

I realize we're both performing for Leah like a couple of monkeys. I look at Adrienne, who hasn't moved. It's like she's going into organ failure or something. This really might do her in, even sooner than I thought.

“Look,” I tell Leah, “we need to talk more before you make any final decisions.”

“We're talking right now, but you're not going to change my mind.”

My eyes are on Adrienne again. I'm having a terrible thought: Did I do this to her on purpose, on some subconscious level? Did I think she hadn't suffered enough for Michael's death, that she'd written it off too easily? Or is it that she transferred her love for me onto a baby, and I wanted to punish her for that?

“How are you going to take care of yourselves plus a baby?” I ask Leah. I'm trying to sound strong but I feel anything but. I'm queasy.

“We have a plan,” Leah says.

At that, Adrienne snaps to attention, like she's been touched by a cattle prod. “You had plans for us all along.” Her voice is faint. “For me.”

“No. They're my plans. For me. For my son.” It's like Leah's choosing the words to deliver maximum pain to Adrienne. But why? What did Adrienne ever do except love the baby she'd been promised? Leah made a promise and she's reneging without an ounce of compassion, let alone remorse.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” I say to her. Now she's the one who's jolted. She's never heard anything close to that tone out of me. “We took you in. We've made a home for Michael, and for you, too. How many people would have done that? Show some respect. If you're going to leave, say thank you, and sorry.”

“Don't talk to her like you're her father,” Trevor says. “After you've been trying to fuck her.”

“If I wanted to fuck her”—I stare him down—“I could have done it last night.”

Wrong move. Now Leah's eyes are blazing. “You were too busy confessing all your sins to fuck me!”

Adrienne turns toward me, but with all the energy of a rag doll. “What sins?” she asks quietly.

“Oh, wait,” Leah says. “He wasn't confessing his sins, he was confessing yours.” She addresses Adrienne. “I know what you did to Gabe's brother. I know you killed him.”

“I never told you that!”

“Not in so many words.” Leah glares at me. “But you were throwing her under the bus, you just didn't want to admit it to yourself. You don't want to be Michael's father, and Trevor does. I want to be his mother, so that's what's going to happen.” She stands up. “There's no point in talking anymore.”

“Don't,” Adrienne says, full of desperation. “Please don't leave, not tonight. If you're going to take him, let me have a little more time with him first. Stay a week, figure out your plans, and then go, no questions asked.”

Leah looks from Adrienne back to Trevor. It's like I'm not even in the room.

“Is this really what you want?” Adrienne asks Trevor. Under the force of Leah's gaze, he finally nods. He's like a bug trapped under a windshield wiper.

Adrienne and I both see that he's the weak link; he's our chance. She's playing it more masterfully than I've been. She always does.

It's time for Adrienne and me to team up. We were great together for so many years; we can be again.

“You already signed away your rights,” Adrienne reminds him. “Because you weren't ready to be a dad.”

“But I didn't,” Leah says. “Remember when we talked in the hospital room?” She's still fixed on Adrienne. “Michael was only a couple days old. You said I was going to meet someone great and have a
family of my own. You said things were going to turn out really well for me. Well, it happened sooner rather than later.” Her eyes sidle over to me. “I am sorry it's turning out this way. I wasn't trying to be a bitch or anything. It's like that annoying lawyer said, the maternal instinct is really strong. With me, it was just, like, delayed.”

“Latent” is probably a better term, and it was activated by Trevor's presence. Since Adrienne was the one who invited him into our home, that means she shoulders some blame, too. We really are in this together, finally.

“We can give it a week, though,” Leah says, like she's doing us a big favor by accepting another week's free room and board. I guess she is. Adrienne's nearly begging.

We descend into silence that's broken by Michael's cry. Adrienne starts to rise, but Leah waves her off. “I have to get used to this,” she says cheerily. “Night feedings and dirty diapers.”

Trevor doesn't move. He's only a little less shell-shocked than Adrienne. So all is definitely not lost.

I slap him on the back. “Congratulations, Dad! Hope you're ready for what you've gotten yourself into.” I offer a hand to Adrienne and help her up. She really does seem shaky: Alzheimer's with just a dash of Parkinson's. If this is an act, it's a pretty damn good one.

After we're in the bedroom with the door closed, I tell her we need to work together, we need a strategy. “It's all about Trevor,” I say. “Put some weight on that hinge, and the door's going to spring open.”

Adrienne stares at me blankly. I would have preferred hatred to this nonrecognition, or maybe it's disregard. “You confessed about Michael. To Leah.”

“It was a mistake. Obviously, I see that now. But I never blamed you. Leah's lying.” I rush toward her and take both her hands in mine. I kneel down before her for the second proposal of our lives. “Work with me. We can save this. Together, we can make sure we keep Michael.”

“You never wanted him here. And now you've made it happen.”

Only subconsciously. “No. It was a mistake. I didn't know how she'd spin it. She's twisted. You've said that all along. She heard what she wanted to hear. She wanted to convict you for some crime, so she could feel okay about leaving with Michael.”

At the word “convict,” Adrienne's lips turn up in a bitter smile. I suppose it's better than the blank face, but not by much. Truth be told, she's freaking me out. I want to see her angry. I want to see her fired up. This stricken, resigned woman—that's not my wife.

“She's trying to play us against each other. Don't you get that?” It's not all Leah. Trevor's culpable, too. He's gotten into Leah's head by promising her what she's always wanted. In fact, she wants it so badly that she can't even see that he doesn't. I give them a month, tops. Then what happens to Michael?

“Divide and conquer,” Adrienne says finally. “So that was her plan. It worked.” She pulls her hands free and walks into the bathroom. The door slams and locks.