One Way Or Another You Will Pay (3 page)

He’s
dying, yet I have not a scintilla of pity for him right now. His crimes are too much; I’m just not that altruistic enough.

Sorry,
Tom, I just can’t help you.

But
today, I don’t tear up the letter. I fold it and hide it among my recipe books. Why? I have no idea.

Damn
you, Tom for rattling me like this!

13
April

Dear
Arena,

Excuse
me for having someone else write this very personal letter.

I
am way too weak to write. It’s the treatment – worse than the disease, I tell you. It makes me shake, my whole body, not just my hands, so writing is difficult.

But
I’m holding on for Warren. Taking comfort in the fact that I will soon see his face.

My
faith in you doing the right thing and allowing me to see him persists.

Please
bring my son to visit me before I die. I’m begging.

All
my love,

Tom.

PS: You do not have a hardened heart. You do not have an empty soul. You are one of the most balanced individuals I have ever come across – strong and resilient, yet, kind, compassionate, and caring.

When
I look at the nurses around me, I think to myself, Arena should have been a nurse. She’d be great at it.

PPS:
I mean that.

I look out my kitchen window at my family in our garden – Bear, Amy, Warren, and Savannah.

All
of them are gloved and shod in gumboots at my insistence, because of spiders, the result of abundant foliage and trees in Wahroonga, a suburb in Sydney’s North Shore.

Bear’s
not into gardening and we have regular garden service, but Amy (who lives with us) and Warren have been pestering him to plant flowers for a while now, so he’s trying to please them. I’m no green thumb, but I suspect it’s the wrong season to be planting. I say nothing, though.

Bear
looks up and catches me watching them.

His
eyes crinkle and he gestures for me to join them.

I
shake my head and point to the stove. “Cooking,” I mouth.

His
eyes brighten and he gives me the thumbs up.

Bear
is a simple man. He loves his home-cooked food, a good medium-to-well-done Porter House steak, a cold beer, and of course, sex at least three times a week.

Oh,
and Sunday nights are a must. Our time.

Every
Sunday evening, with a pat on my butt, he sends me off for a leisurely soak in our spa bath.

While
I de-stress and relax, he takes care of the kids. Hums as he feeds and bathes them. By 9 PM, they are out.

Then,
it’s our time. Long, slow, languid sex (among ylang ylang and bergamot scented candles, which are my idea).

That’s
all he asks for. That makes him happy.

I
love his simplicity and his unpretentiousness but then again, I love everything about Bear. Did I say that before?

Well,
I’m going to say it again. I do.

He
makes me happy. Right now, I’m relaxed and contented and a lot has to do with Bear being in my life.

I
move away from the window and begin mashing potatoes.

The
doctors say I have about three months to live. I really think I will go sooner.

“Smells
gooood!”

I
whirl around to look at Bear in his jeans, ripped along the knees, his red and black checkered shirt, his faded brown boots.

Yep,
Bear’s a little bit country and a whole lot of hillbilly, but I love that about him too.

“What’s
wrong?” he asks, his eyes dropping to the letter on the table. “Him again?” His voice is sneering.

“He’s
dying, Bear,” I mutter.

“Bullshit!”
he says, opening the fridge and taking out a bottle of Crown Lager. He rips off the cap and holds the bottle to my mouth. I take a big swig, then he does.

That’s
Bear’s ritual. He always lets me take the first and last swig of the beer we share.

Even
if I protest, he will insist.

“Colon
cancer,” I say, as I push the bottle toward him.

With
his eyes fixed to my face, he takes a giant swig from his bottle, then leans against the island in the kitchen and crosses his legs, his eyes never leaving my face. My kitchen is huge but when Bear stands in it, it shrinks.

“Colon
cancer in prison…must be really unpleasant,” I say, handing him the letter.

He
eyes the letter in my hand as if it’s a traffic fine or something.

I
thrust it at him.

With
great reluctance, he accepts it and scans it. When he’s done, he twists his mouth around and passes it back to me.

“I
hope you’re not thinking of visiting him, Arena.”

I
don’t answer. I just accept the letter, fold it, and place it back in the white envelope it came in. The envelope catches my eyes. Fancy, embossed, and white. Not the prison issue kind. Strange.

For
a few moments Bear and I fall silent, each in our own reverie.

We
are interrupted by Warren bounding into the room, an Xbox controller in his hand. He holds it out to Bear. “It’s a good day for some butt-kicking, Dad,” he says, his eyebrows wriggling at Bear.

Bear’s
eyes grow large. “You crossed it?”

Warren
nods, his eyes shining with pride.

Bear’s
jaw drops. “What’s your score?” he whispers, when his jaw returns to its normal anatomical position.

“357,”
Warren says, his voice bursting with excitement.

Bear
shakes his head and accepts the controller. “You’re going down, boy!”

“Says
who?” Warren’s voice is challenging. “357 is a Magnum, let me remind you. No way am I going down!”

“Yeah,
we’ll see about that!” Bear says, striding out of the room, remote control in hand, a determined look on his face. “357, huh?”

“Just
you remember, I beat you twice and the last time, you almost cried like Savannah,” Warren says, as he runs after Bear.

“Hmph!”
Bear says. “I’m all grooowed up since, boy, and you’re going down!”

They
disappear around the corner into the TV room.

With
my arms folded, I stare at the ground.
I really think I will go sooner.

Then
Bear pops his head around the corner and looks at me.

We
lock eyes.

I
jerk my head toward Warren. “Go, we’ll talk later. It’s okay.”

Instead
of going, he walks back into the kitchen, put his hands on my shoulders, looks me in the eye, then plants a light kiss on my lips. “I don’t trust him.”

“Dad!”
Warren yells. “I’m waiting! C’mon!”

With
a nod, I shove him gently away. Of course, I can’t push him away, he’s as big as a house!

With
his unsmiling eyes on me, he backs out of the kitchen.

Alone
again, my smile fades. I hug myself and stare into space.

I
picture Tom alone in his cell or in the prison infirmary undergoing chemotherapy or radiation, torturous stuff I don’t wish on my worst enemy, longing for visitors or a familiar face, when all he gets is the Grim Reaper.

Even
though I despise him for what he did to me, to Warren, and above all, my beautiful Sasha, I can’t help it. Truth is, I’m affected. There, I’ve come clean.

Please
spare a thought for me and grant a dying man his wish.

Tom’s
latest letter has left me contemplative and distracted during dinner.

Bear
says nothing in front of the children but I catch him sneaking glances my way, his forehead lined.

Hardened
heart, empty soul. Maybe even as soulless as the Grim Reaper.

Damn
you, Tom!

“Arena!”

I look at Bear.

“Warren’s
talking to you.” His voice is reproachful.

“Oh,
sorry, Warren. What is it, darling?”

Warren’s
eyes dart between Bear and me.

“Eh,
’salright, Mum,” he mutters.

I
don’t blame Bear for being angry at me for even contemplating visiting Tom after what he did, but I am a little annoyed with him for not understanding how I feel.

At
night, we both lie in the dark on different ends of our king-size bed, which is unusual as Bear and I like to snuggle and spoon.

But
with Tom’s impending death on my mind, I need time to think. With three children, one of them a toddler, and a household to run, I barely have time for myself.

Then,
slowly, I feel the covers being pulled off me.

I
smile.

Bear
tugs on my pillows, pulling it out from under me.

When
I don’t react, he whips it from under my head.

I
laugh and turn to look at him.

In
the dark, I see white teeth.

He
grabs me, tugs off my sleep shirt, and paws me.

I
laugh as he pulls his t-shirt over his head and tosses it on the floor.

Balancing
himself on his forearms, he grins at me, then swoops down for a kiss.

He
parts my lips with his tongue and slides it into my mouth. As he does, my fingernails rake his broad back, a move he enjoys.

With
a guttural groan, he presses his hard-on against me, before his lips trail my neck, my chest, and captures a hardened nipple.

As
he sucks on it, I stroke his head and kiss his hair, feeling overwhelmed with love for my husband.

His
lips move over my belly, flabby and corded from three kids, then leaves a trail of fire before it disappears between my thighs. After a hard kiss there, he peels off my panties and uses his tongue in such a generous way, I grab fistfuls of the sheet, then the wrought iron headboard above my head.

I
try to return the favor but he places a huge paw on my chest, stopping me.

He
enters me, slowly, but deliberately, allowing me to savour every inch of his thickness. As we rock together, with each plunge and each thrust, all my cares and concerns wither away and it’s just me and the precious beast over me. My Care Bear.

As
we spoon in each other’s arms, he plants a kiss on my bare shoulder and whispers, “I’m protecting my cubs. You understand that, right?”

“Sure,”
I say and bring his hand up to my lips for a kiss.

“You
seeing him, even talking about him, brings back so many unpleasant memories. It …it’s like something happens inside of me when I think about him. It…I don’t know,
fear
. That’s the word. I’m never fearful, yet, when it comes to him, I’m scared, ’Rena. Scared of something,
somehow
happening to you. I think of all that he put you through and how helpless I was seeing you in prison, not being able to help you, not being able to help Warren, who was in his clutches…that was by far a …” he lets out a long sigh, “bastard!”

I
nod my understanding.

Bear’s
the type to roll over and snore after sex. Yep, that’s my man. No long post-coital declarations of love, no long chats; just hit it, then roll over and sleep. Oh, he’ll spoon for ten minutes first or attempt to.

And,
he’ll try to stay awake to please me, really try. But he usually fails and starts to snore.

Yep,
that’s Bear. He’s not perfect but I still love him.

But
today, he isn’t rolling over and sleeping. That tells me he’s equally troubled.

Feeling
his anguish, I wriggle into him. “He’s in prison, he’s got cancer. There’s no way he can hurt us, baby.”

A
low grunt. “I don’t want anything happening to you, to us. I like us the way we are. I’m a happy man these days. Contented. Seriously. I just want things to stay this way.”