Kicking the Can (7 page)

She placed the last piece of cold grilled chicken on Romaine lettuce. Boris slipped behind her, rubbing the front of his trousers against her skirt, pawing at her breasts.

“I just got in the door and haven’t had supper yet,” she snapped.

When she turned around to face him, he stuck his tongue into her mouth. The acrid taste of wine was revolting. She pushed back. Boris was thirty pounds overweight with sagging muscle tone and had a dark shadow on his pudgy face.

“It will only take a few minutes to do you, Nat.”

She knew her husband would persist until satisfied. Sadly, there was no romance in their relationship.

Tonight, it would be worth it to get him out of the way early
, Natalya thought.

“Give me five minutes. I’ll meet you in the bedroom.”

Boris slapped her on the ass playfully and disappeared behind the bedroom door. Natalya ate three bites of her salad, chewing quickly, and then made her way to the walk-in closet. She pulled the door closed to undress. Standing sideways, she looked in the full-length mirror. Fit from swimming, with plenty of curve around her bottom, she turned forward facing the mirror, extending her arms high in the air. She admired the firmness of her breasts and stomach.

What a waste. Submitting herself to her husband’s sexual advances had become a chore. She did not know precisely when her decision to separate from him entered
her mind, but the decision had been made. They would not divorce, but their relationship would end. She would be making that announcement soon.

“Put on your eye shades, the ones you wear on the airplane. I will be in shortly.”

She turned on the faucet to fill the oversize jetted tub with hot water and added bath salts. Natalya stepped into the kitchen and opened her briefcase to remove a tablet PC. She turned it on and pulled up her inbox and then walked to the bedroom. He had complied with her request—blinded. Boris lay naked on his back, covered by a sheet. The blanket and duvet were pushed back in a heap below his feet. She pulled back the sheet and climbed on top of him, straddling his hips. Boris grunted. Natalya read her e-mail. When he finished, she hid the tablet under the blanket and slid off the bed. She locked the door in the bathroom and stepped into the tub, turning on the jets.

28

P
an Jiang’s affect was more positive now than at any other time in her life. It was ironic the catalyst for her improved mental state was inextricably linked to planning her suicide. Systematic and rational—the way she had approached her graduate studies scoring at the ninety-ninth percentile, and now the way she conducted her professional life, earning national recognition as a gifted statistician for China’s hulking state-owned utility—the same way she would plan to kill herself: one final, defiant act. China had “astronomically high” rates of suicide, especially among females. Jiang had researched the psychological factors, social environment, and life events of suicide victims. It made for interesting reading. She learned the frequency and acuity of negative life events were much higher in the study group. For kicks, she completed a self-assessment of known risk factors. Had she attempted suicide previously? No. Only twenty-five percent of the study group had attempted suicide previously. Any blood relatives with suicidal behavior? Yes. Did she have two or more negative life experiences? Yes. Jiang had four—she grew up knowing her parents wished she was a boy, her younger brother committed suicide, her parents were arrested in the middle of the night and jailed
for criticizing the higher education structure of China, and she was abducted and forced to accept a job with a state enterprise. All in all, her life was on par with the study group, except for the fact that most female suicides occurred in rural regions by rat poisoning. Jiang’s instrument of death would be more distinguished.

It was important she make a statement to the leadership of China. When she read about the problems China was experiencing suppressing media reports of subway suicides, she knew instantly that would be her method. Shanghai Metro Line No. 2 at Lujiazui Station had metal railings for protective barriers. The station design didn’t offer modern safety measures, making it the perfect venue for “death in the afternoon.”

To avoid sexual harassment by perverts, Chinese women were advised to dress conservatively when using public transportation. The “dress code story” sparked controversy on China’s microblog. Jiang giggled as she cut out the picture of the now infamous woman wearing a black see-through dress, exposing black panties, a black lace bra, and knee-high socks, standing in the queue to board the Metro. It stirred an exhibitionist yearning inside her, and she pushed aside feelings of financial guilt to purchase identical extravagant and revealing clothing.

The days leading up to her planned departure were filled with work and her one hobby. She wept the night before when she finished her self-portrait—an oil painting of a thirtyish woman, wearing nothing but black panties, lying dead, eyes wide open, blood trickling from her mouth, her small breasts exposed. She was cradled in the arms of a Metro patrolman stooped over subway tracks. A
placard of Lujiazui Station hung in the foreground. She covered the painting with black silk cloth and left it on the easel. The easel was positioned in the corner of her bedroom so that it was visible from the entryway.

Tonight the residents beneath her apartment had paid a visit to complain about the loud noise above them. After thirty seconds of faltering speech, she gave up on the explanation—that she had been practicing walking in stiletto heels—and simply gushed that the noise would stop and she was sorry for all the trouble. She did not sleep. In the morning she called in sick. It was officially
death day
.

The city was a rich tapestry of sound. Jiang felt more alive than at any other time in her life as she walked nine blocks to Lujiazui Station. She shivered, ascending the escalator to the station, her body temperature suddenly cool, even though she was wearing a black trench coat. Her trembling hands made it difficult to scan her card. When she dropped it on the concrete, the man two bodies behind her communicated his displeasure in an unkind way. She quickly picked up the card and waved it over the sensor, pushing through the turnstile. Most of the riders were congregating toward the far end of the station. She stopped to read the warning sign illuminated above—danger: jumping off the platform is prohibited.

She positioned herself at the front of the station platform, knowing the train would not break for several hundred more feet before it came to a full stop. She glanced at the clock in the station. Two minutes. She bent at her knees to unclasp the buckles on her heels. Her tremor had not subsided, and she fumbled with the leather
straps. One minute. She unbuttoned the three oversize buttons on her trench coat and tugged downward on the belt while at the same time rolling her shoulders so that the coat fell to her feet. She stepped forward, fully exposed, careful not to pull her feet out of her heels. She hoped she was smiling—but she really didn’t know what her facial expressions conveyed. Thirty seconds. Jeers, clapping, and catcalls from astonished commuters cloaked the roar of the approaching subway cars; cell phones were snapping pictures and taking video. The surreal scene was shattered by the shrill of a high-pitched whistle. Jiang turned to see a patrolman running toward her on the platform. He would not make it in time to intervene.

Time the jump to collide with the train in midair if possible
, Jiang thought. She kicked off her spikes and accelerated toward the barrier. At five feet seven she should not have difficulty clearing the thirty-two-inch rail. An elderly man lunged at her, but she escaped his clutches when the sheer material tore away from her body. She neared the edge, pushing off the concrete platform. Before her torso could clear the railing, her body was impacted by another human in a violent midair collision. They landed heavily on the concrete floor, and everything went black.

29

S
heryl Vogel hesitated and then stepped back onto the dock. The dive boat pulled away. A wave of nausea penetrated her body. She was surprised and disappointed. A week’s worth of diving amounted to eighteen dives, and she was loath to miss even one. A light lunch seemed to have settled her stomach. Three quarters of the divers, including her husband, Nick, had elected to forgo the afternoon dive, and Island Fantasy, a forty-six-foot Boston dive boat was leaving the dock of Little Cayman Dive Resort with a skeletal crew. The winds were gusting to thirty-five knots during the second morning dive, and even the hearty divers were dry heaving from the ocean surge by the time they boarded and stripped off their gear. Normally stable, the boat had pitched wildly in the white caps. Moored to a two-inch chain cemented to the ocean floor of the marine park, the boat was a half mile offshore and exposed in the open Caribbean Sea.

Vogel walked up the boardwalk to the rinsing station and dropped her fins, snorkel, and mask into one of the basins of fresh water. She had left the rest of her gear on the boat, including her exposure suit. Most divers waited to don their wet suits on the boat after the dive briefing. A noxious odor—a mixture of urine and saltwater—the
neoprene suits tended to make her body overheat, which, when combined with the smell of diesel and ocean swells, was a recipe for chumming. She stopped by the Conch Bar, deserted, except for Karl the bartender. She ordered lemonade to hydrate. She sat by the pool area sipping the refreshing drink. Barney, the resident iguana, was sunning himself just off the boardwalk thirty feet away from the gift shop. This was Nick’s second trip to Little Cayman, but Vogel had been to the island too many times to count. She loved the Cayman Islands. They had booked one of the oceanfront villas tucked away from the resort campus. The views were splendid, and it was quiet. The resort had a tradition of karaoke on Wednesday nights. It was entertaining but not exactly why she came to a remote island with a population of less than two hundred ninety miles from Cuba. She was feeling better and decided to head back to the room to change. She would take advantage of the amenities on the island and book an afternoon spa treatment.

He was standing, naked—no mistaking Nick’s buttocks—and her back was against the shower wall, legs wrapped around him. By the sounds they were making, they were thoroughly enjoying sex. She was Madison-something, a perky strawberry blonde from Australia, with a stunning bone structure and perfect skin. She wore her hair cropped short, almost boyish. She was one of the dive masters assigned to the Fantasy. Vogel had observed Nick’s infatuation with her. Hiding behind sunglasses so he couldn’t see her reconnaissance, Vogel validated Nick’s interest in her during the dive briefings, when she stood in front of the whiteboard wearing board shorts
and bikini top, using colored felt markers to diagram the dive site. She had trophy tits, a pierced belly button, and an ankle bracelet. Her happy-go-lucky personality fit Nick’s version of life—bumming around with the right crowd, getting by on good looks, and not accepting too much responsibility.

At first, Vogel felt nothing, no emotional outburst condemning them—she had caught them in the act; nor did she feel an urgent desire to flee from her adulterer. Vogel stood and watched, intoxicated by Nick’s performance. He was gifted, raising lovemaking to an art form. Finally, she slipped away undetected.

She removed her sandals and walked down to the beach. Slowly the anger swelled inside of her to the point where she wanted to scream. The rage that she felt was not directed at Nick. She was consumed by the anger of knowing her father had been right about Nick and that he had had the audacity to make his prediction known to her. She could hear his voice ringing in her ears…“I told you so!”

30

P
eter Lowsley looked out the slider. The sky was gray and misting—minute droplets of moisture had replaced the horizontal rain. To the west, the clouds were thinning. There was a chance the weather on the beach would improve—sunbreaks, if they were lucky. He drained his coffee cup and slipped on a rain slicker over his fleece pullover. He would take advantage of the break in weather and load the truck.

Lowsley’s exchange with Dr. Schuler, an internationally known Harvard health care economist, continued to gnaw at him. He had been soundly beaten in their debate of health care economics and policy. What bothered Lowsley the most was the fact that his arguments, reasoning, and research were not inferior to Schuler’s. Lowsley’s professional pride had been damaged because Schuler had unfairly controlled the medium of the exchange. The Harvard PhD had used his extensive academic and industry resources to put a muzzle on the unknown PhD from Oregon. Lowsley’s legs had been cut out from underneath him before he could challenge Schuler’s health care economics dogma, and that didn’t sit well with him. To add insult to injury, Schuler’s arrogance made the
one-sided affront on Lowsley personal by questioning his IQ and the quality of his education.

It was time for Lowsley to quit licking his wounds and focus on what was really important in life, his family. Thanksgiving holiday at the beach was a Lowsley family tradition. This year Kathy, Lowsley’s soul mate, booked the Cottages at Otter Rock for their four-day retreat. It offered quaint accommodations with a full kitchen, gas fireplace, and two bedrooms. Their unit was oceanfront. The resort complex was perched seventy feet above the ocean break, nestled in forty-five acres of forest. Previous guests had spotted whales, sea lions, and eagles from the capacious deck overlooking the Pacific. Otter Rock was known for the best tide pools on the Oregon coast.

They drove along State Highway 20 until they hit Oregon Coast Highway 101. Lowsley smiled as he read the signs along the way. His father had been one of the first executives to realize timber was a renewable resource and had advocated a longer-term approach to resource management. Today, his wisdom was visible all around them. The forest products company Lowsley’s dad retired from had started replantings decades ago to reclaim the devastation of clear-cutting that decimated much of the private forested land in Oregon. Those plantings were now mature.