The Achilles Heel (2 page)

Yeah, I’d definitely say I’m high.

ANNIE

I
felt like I was floating in one of those kidney shaped swimming pools strategically
placed in a well-manicured lawn. With my eyes closed and both arms stretched out like
an airplane, my toes barely peeked out of the pleasantly cool water bobbing ever so
gently up and down and side to side. My ears rested just below the surface of the
water, and the only noise was the funneled sound of my own breathing in and out. For
the moment, I was happy and safe, and could have floated in this spot forever. A muffled
voice slowly invaded my peaceful breath, but I couldn’t decipher the words. I wanted
the voice to fade away or stop completely. Trying to block the noise out of my brain,
my
happy
was fading, and I became more and more nauseated.

When my eyes finally opened, Officer Grady’s round, sweaty face hovered over me whispering,
“Mrs. Whitman. Mrs. Whitman, can you hear me?”

It took me a few seconds to even remember him or why he was at my house, but within
moments the words:
accident, no survivors, and devastating news
came flooding back.

“Jesus, why am I wet?” I stuttered, wiping the water away from my eyes and feeling
the soaking wet washcloth on top of my head. I slowly rose up until I was sitting
cross-legged on the hardwood floors, took the rag off my head, and then violently
threw up in my lap. Apparently, grief also comes in liquid form. Grady took the washcloth
from my hands and tried to clean the puke off my blue maxi dress, but quickly realized
wiping my tits and crotch with a dripping wet towel only made the mess worse.

“Oh, God, Mrs. Whitman. I’m so sorry.”

“Is this real? Am I dreaming?” I asked, staring straight ahead and facing the door
as I spoke. I didn’t want to look at him, hoping that it might somehow force him to
give me a different answer.

“Yes, ma’am,” he whispered. “I’m real and this is happening.”

I started crying which quickly turned into sobbing, as I held my face in my puke covered
hands. There is a huge difference between crying and sobbing. Crying is when your
face looks all screwed up, and you wipe the tears from your cheeks over and over again.
Depending on where you’re crying, you might even blot at your eyes to keep your make-up
intact. Sobbing is when your
insides
are all screwed up, and you fight with your own body to breathe. It’s a painful sickness
that comes over you like a seizure, stopping every lobe of your brain from functioning
properly. You do not recover from sobbing to finish what you were previously doing,
or gather yourself to start a new project. Your only goal throughout sobbing is to
get through each moment and remember to breathe; you are helpless, weak, and pathetic.
This is a feeling I remember all too well, only this time, the subject matter was
different.

It was obvious to me that Grady had never before been given this type of assignment
which, I might add, he did confess to me later on that evening. He spoke in fragments
and constantly fumbled with the belt on his uniform. Although uncomfortable and shy,
he ended up staying late into the night at my house, even though he had a wife and
child who were most likely missing him at his own home. I have continued to tell him
how grateful I am for the gracious way he handled my family throughout what I thought
at the time was the worst day of our lives.

“Mrs. Whitman, your brother-in-law should be here any minute. You just go ahead and
cry or get sick or do whatever you need to, and I’ll be right here to help you as
best as I can.” He was bent down on one knee and lightly rubbed my back in a circular
motion as he spoke.

He had a nurturing, fatherly tone to his touch and his voice. I could picture him
lying in bed with his child, stroking his or her hair as he sang them off to sleep
at night. The image made me feel guilty that I had been happy earlier, when he was
miserably hot. I also confessed this to him later on when we became better acquainted,
and my family was more manageable.

Jamie’s wheels kicked up the gravel as he hauled ass down my long, circular driveway,
both car doors slammed and then, the beeping of the door.

Thank God, Elizabeth is with him.

Only acquaintances come in our house through the front door. Family and friends always
walk through the garage and come in through the laundry room, which is usually littered
with dirty clothing that didn’t seem to make it in the laundry bin, or half-finished
craft projects cluttering the counters. Anytime a door in the house opens, a quick
beep-beep
goes off. Jack had the security system installed for safety precautions since he
traveled often for work, and he also thought it would come in handy when we had kids.
I admit, I thought it was a stupid idea, because the constant beeping drove me fucking
nuts for the first few months. But like most of his ideas, I inevitability relented
to his foresight in home security. After a while, the beeping didn’t bother me as
much. Actually, I liked the security of knowing when someone came in and out of my
house.

“Annie!” Jamie yelled. “Ann, where are you?”

“We’re in the foyer, Mr. Whitman,” Grady called back.

Jamie ran to us, like a bull running straight for a red cape. “Oh, God, Annie,” he
exclaimed when he saw me in a crumpled mess on the floor, sobbing in a puddle of puke.
“Liz, we need you in here!”

Officer Grady stood back against the wall and let our dwindling family have a moment.
His superior was on the way over to give him a chance to escape the unpleasant experience
of becoming the grim reaper’s personal assistant and also, to provide us with any
dreadful details of my husband’s death.

KESSLER

A
fter the second encore, every performer of the night came back out on stage to sign
autographs on whatever people hand up to us, while the band plays in the background.
I always try to sign something for the kids first. My family didn’t have the extra
money to send me to a concert when I was growing up, so I always try and make it the
most memorable experience for any kid that comes to see one of my shows. Of course,
we’ve had some mighty interesting items put on stage for us to sign: bras, panties,
cowboy hats, T-shirts, a clock, a tube of KY jelly, a bottle of hot sauce, and once
someone handed me a framed picture of their mama. Of the hundreds of shows we’ve done,
the autograph that stands out the most was a pair of brown, knee high, Jimmy Choo
boots.

I kept asking her, “Are you sure? Are you really sure?”

From what my best friend’s wife, Hope, tells me, those boots are like a thousand dollars
a pair, and this lady looked higher than a Georgia pine when she handed one of them
up to me. After I got backstage that night and told Hope about the boots, she went
on and on about how I shouldn’t have ruined those beautiful Jimmy Choo’s with my ugly
signature. I felt so bad about what I’d done, and woke up the next morning still thinking
about it. I’m pretty sure the owner of those boots woke up thinking about it, too.

After the show, when everyone had a chance to take off their sweaty clothes and get
a quick shower in their dressing room, the party was on; especially tonight, with
this being the final show of the tour. The music was loud, and the food looked amazing
spread out on a twenty foot table. In each city where we do a show, the dinner served
is the specialty of that city. In San Antonio it’s Mexican food, in Seattle it’s salmon,
in Chicago we have Italian, and in New York we have monster-sized pizza pies. Tonight,
since we’re in Kansas City, the main course is meat and we had any and every kind
of BBQed meat you could think of. My stomach was empty, the line was impossibly long,
and I didn’t know if the small amount of energy I had left would hold out long enough
for me to pile a disgusting amount of food onto two over-sized plates. I’m always
the last one to eat dinner after a show. Without all the support of everyone in my
crew, this concert wouldn’t be possible, and they need to know that I appreciate each
one of them and the work they do to make me look good. Plus, my mama raised me right.
She’d slap my face if she ever saw me go to the front of a line with women and elders
standing behind me, so better safe than sorry.

After everyone was fed, the cocktails were flowing and the talking and laughter got
increasingly louder. Finally, I ran into one of my oldest and best friends, Wade Rutledge
and his wife Hope. I love it when my friends come out to my shows, especially since
Wade just so happens to be a four time Grammy winner. I like to give him shit about
that‌—‌only because I just have three.

“Hey, buddy,” I smiled and said as we gave each other a man hug.

The “man hug” is when two very good male friends feel it’s socially accepted to hug
each other with one arm. Each man embraces the other with
only
one arm and slaps the shit out of each other on the back with their free hand.

“What’s a Grammy winning, country music star like you doing at my little ole show?”
I asked, laughing.

“The boys were driving me shit house crazy at home, and I’ve been promising my wife
I’d bring her to see a sixty foot ass. Well, honey, here he is!” Wade clamored, while
grabbing and shaking me. “Plus, the whiskey is free and she’s driving,” he added,
pointing to Hope.

“Oh, baby, you’re just jealous your tush has gone a little soft on your tour break.
Look at his ass, Wade! Women all over this stadium would love to grab a couple of
handfuls and give it a rub, like the Buddha belly at that horrible Chinese restaurant
where you’re always making me eat.” I jumped back as she pinched my rear.

“Kess honey, don’t you listen to him,” she said as she put her arm around me. “It
was a fantastic show, and I, for one, am having a great time! Now,” she said, as she
turned me around and started walking me towards a group of women. “These ladies have
been staring you down since we started talking, and I think you should be polite and
say hello.” She pushed me towards the group of drunken women and walked back to kiss
on Wade some more.

There was a time when Hope tried to fix me up with her friends, but it never seemed
to pan out. Half of them were pissed off at me for sleeping with them and never calling
again, and with the other half there just wasn’t any chemistry. It seemed as though
I kept having the same conversation over and over again, only with different women
on different nights; same shit, different day, beautiful women, but boring just the
same.

Tonight, forcing me over to this group of women, Hope was just being mean. I’m always
happy to talk with fans and thank them for coming out, but this group was a mess.
There was a point where a few of them stopped speaking English and the brunette was
so worn out from standing, she sat on the floor in the middle of our conversation.

“OMG, Kessler Carlisle!” one of the blonde’s screamed as I walked up to the disastrous
straggle of women.

OMG, I hate that. Jesus, I’m getting old.

“You’re my all-time favorite singer and so damn good looking! Can I give you a kiss?”
the other one slurred, swaying from side to side, unable to master gravity. As she
spoke, her right eye slowly began drooping until finally closing completely, making
her a full-fledged cyclops.

“Oh, thanks, you’re sweet, and I appreciate y’all so much for coming tonight. How
‘bout we make it a hug instead?” I asked, praying this was over soon.

I gave her a hug and pretended not to notice when she started rubbing my ass, but
once her hand moved around to my crotch and her tongue found my ear, I jumped back.

“Hey, all right then, y’all have a great night and thanks again. Drive safe!” I said,
and as I turned around, Hope was grinning at me. I shot her a “you’re dead” look.

Walking back to my friends, I heard the molester yell, “You don’t say no to me, Kessler
Carlisle, you fucking prude!” Hope and Wade were cracking up; holding on to each other
so one of them didn’t fall down from laughing so hard. I hung my head a bit and smiled,
because it would only be a matter of seconds before that girl saw the outside of the
stadium.

“Hey,” started Hope in her slow, southern drawl. “She seemed real nice. You gonna
bring her round for supper on Sunday?”

“Yeah, thanks a lot! I don’t think she’ll be sober by dinnertime on Sunday. She smelled
like gin, and had puke on her shirt,” I said in disgust.

“You should’ve been a little sweeter to some of my friends, Kess. Looks like you’re
wiping the bottom of the barrel at this point,” she teased, patting my face.

“Come on y’all, this is a party, and I’m gonna dance with the most beautiful woman
in the room,” Wade said, as he took Hope’s hand and led her over to the makeshift
dance floor.

I stopped and watched them dance together for a while. He whispered something in her
ear, and she threw her head back laughing like it was the funniest thing she’d ever
heard. After twenty years of marriage, they’re still giggling and teasing each other
like they were a couple of high school kids. Whenever they’re out together, Wade always
has his arm hanging around her shoulder, and Hope’s got her hand in his back pocket;
they’re a real-life John Mellencamp song. How they act together at home is no different
than what they’re showing people tonight. They never take their hands off each other.
Hope and Wade were together before he got rich and became a celebrity. With one divorce
under my belt, I just don’t ever want to go through that again. My ex-wife ruined
my trust in women and the desire to be married. Maybe if I didn’t have fame or money,
or maybe if she didn’t know who I was, I could find a good woman and love her wildly
for the rest of my days.

I found myself staring off into space, once again wanting to feel that fire for someone,
but having no idea when or where I was going to find her.

The dance floor was heating up with people acting a fool when Wade left his wife in
the hands of a drunken drummer, headed back my way.