Painless (2 page)

Chapter 1

It was the end of the road for Billy Harper, both literally and figuratively. From the literal standpoint, the end of the road was a well-groomed cul-de-sac in New Canaan, Connecticut, with stately mansions staring back at him. The figurative was much more complex and hurtful.

His old high school football coach used to drill into his head that you should never look back because someone might be gaining on you. And whenever Billy glanced into his rear-view mirror, what he always saw gaining on him was his past. But ironically, as he looked through the front windshield at the children playing on the lush lawns, his past was straight ahead, and the pain began to rumble.
The figurative
.

He gathered his emotions as best he could and drove his 2001 Jeep Cherokee down a dirt driveway, which was hidden between two majestic mansions that anchored the cul-de-sac.

The Cherokee was a lot like him—it wasn’t
that
old, and still looked pretty good on the outside, but had a lot of hard miles on it and could break down at any moment. He bounced along the strip of gravel, kicking up dust and rocks, and rattling his few remaining possessions that were strewn throughout the vehicle. Billy glanced into the infamous rear-view mirror and saw the cul-de-sac disappear from view.

He arrived at a white picket fence. In the center of the fence was a wrought-iron gate with
Bevelyn Farms
imprinted on it. He passed through the open gate onto a paved driveway that circled in front of an arch-shaped, red barn, typical of the New England countryside. A large silo stood next to it like its overprotective big brother.

Billy parked in front of his new home, and exited into a sun-drenched afternoon—a record high temperature for the tenth of September. In a dramatic twist from the morning rain showers, the sky now looked like Monet had brush-stroked it with oranges and reds, and the smells of Saturday afternoon barbecues filled the air. It was as if the once-dreary day was given a fresh start. Billy took a deep breath, and then headed toward what he hoped would be his own fresh start.

He passed an 800-series black BMW, confirming that this place might be
just a bit
out of his price range. He still wasn’t sure why they had rented the cottage to him at such a bargain cost. Just rich people doing some charity work, he guessed.

Chuck Whitcomb answered the door, wearing a
Speak Slow I Only Speak Canadian
T-shirt and mesh baseball hat. Standing almost six-foot-two, Billy didn’t have to gaze upward to look many people in the eye, but Chuck was at least six-foot-six. He reminded Billy of many he encountered growing up in Johnstown, Pennsylvania. Honest working-class folks who slaved in the local mill all week so that they could spend their Friday night cheering-on Billy Harper, the local hero of the moment. Based on the ritzy neighborhood, Billy had expected someone more resembling his swanky former in-laws.

Chuck greeted Billy affably and led him into the barn, which actually had been converted into an exquisite home. Billy was just as impressed as he was last Monday, on Labor Day, when he came to view the guest cottage the Whitcombs were renting.

Billy followed Chuck into an expansive open area. The interior was dominated by heavy, honey colored timber. Large wood beams shot horizontally across the room, giving it a secure feel. A cathedral ceiling soared up two stories, arching at the top. To his left, a spiral staircase led to a second floor overhang that reminded Billy of a balcony in an old-time movie theater. On his right was an elaborately decorated, but comfortable looking living room area that featured a large fieldstone fireplace.

“Carolyn is upstairs with a little fever and Beth is setting up for the birthday party tomorrow. So it’ll be just you and me,” Chuck said as he pulled Billy toward the kitchen.

Billy nodded hesitantly, still expecting Chuck to come to his senses about renting him the cottage.

The country-style kitchen was an impressive blend of wide-beamed wood flooring and whitewashed wood trim. An adjacent breakfast nook ushered in streams of powerful sunlight through oversized windows, which reflected off a cluster of copper pots and pans that hung over an island stove.

 Beth Whitcomb stood at the kitchen sink washing a plastic cereal bowl. She was probably no older than mid-twenties, about ten years Chuck’s junior. Her strawberry blonde hair was cut into a simple bob with box layers, and light freckles dotted her fair skin. She wore a flowered sundress filled with pinks and greens, but while the dress was soft and breezy, her stony demeanor was anything but carefree.

Chuck walked to his wife and hunched downward to give her a mood-changing kiss on the cheek. “How’s my girl?”

She actually smiled. “Do you mean me or Carolyn?”

“I know how amazing you are—how’s she doing?”

“Fever’s down—taking a nap upstairs.”

As Billy observed Chuck and Beth, he thought he’d put the story together since his initial visit last week. Beth was a Boulanger. In fact, she and her sister, Dana—who had set up his meeting with the Whitcombs—were princesses in the Boulanger Kingdom. He figured that Beth married Chuck, the common man, to be her court jester. But Billy knew one day the princess would realize that she preferred a prince. And she wouldn’t be satisfied to just leave, she’d take his most cherished possessions with her—the ones that touch the soul. It was a story Billy was too familiar with. And it wasn’t a good story. As a writer, albeit an unpublished and penniless one, he knew a good story contained suspense. He already knew how this story would end—there was no suspense.

Chuck pulled out two perspiring bottles from the refrigerator, receiving a dirty look from Beth.

“Beer, eh?” he offered in his Canadian twang, and Billy accepted the bottle of Klein’s. Noticing the label, he almost laughed out loud at the irony—he just couldn’t escape from the past.

As he twisted off the top, Billy could feel Beth’s glare on the back of his neck. When they first met last week, her first words to him were, “When I pictured who my sister would send us to look at the cottage, you are exactly what I imagined.”

“What’s that?” Billy had asked.

“The good looking, T-shirt and jeans type. The wavy hair, the charming smile, and oh, Dana loves a cute dimple.”

Billy touched his dimpled chin, briefly impressed with himself, before noticing Chuck’s slumping body language. Billy realized he was about to take a punch-line across the nose.

“But of course there is the other side to Dana’s men,” Beth continued.

“Her men? She’s my agent, not my girlfriend. I think you have the wrong idea.”

Beth rolled her eyes, as if to say she’d seen this movie before. “Dana’s men are always starving artists who end up living off of her like parasites. They also just got out of some complicated relationship, and have a fifty-fifty shot of having a drinking problem.”

It was obvious to Billy that she wouldn’t rent him the cottage at gunpoint, even if he could afford it, which he clearly couldn’t. So he decided he was done being shit on.

“Divorce became official about a year ago. I do have a job at the
Shoreline Times
here in New Canaan, which Dana got for me, although I don’t have the four thousand a month you’re asking for rent, not even close. And lastly, I don’t have a drinking problem. I happen to like drinking—it’s not a problem!”

At that point it would’ve taken a miracle from above for him to be moving in six days later. And that’s exactly what happened.

A sudden thunder boomed through the air, and cascaded down from the balcony overhang. Billy looked up to witness a small girl barreling down the stairs like a precocious barrel of energy. As she did, she let out an innocent giggle that bounced off the acoustics. She wore a denim dress with butterflies embroidered on it, and her tiny sandals looked as if they’d fly off her feet as she bounced down the stairs at an excited pace.

The first thing Billy noticed was her eyes—two big saucers of hazel. Her brown hair was in double ponytails that jetted from both sides of her head. Her apple cheeks resonated with joy. When she reached the bottom, her eyes locked on Billy and her face scrunched, seemingly in deep thought.

She reminded him of the character Boo from
Monsters, Inc.
The little girl who accidentally got stuck in the world of monsters. Carolyn Whitcomb wasn’t an animated character, but her demeanor was definitely animated.

“Who are
you
?” she finally asked, her voice containing a slight muffled lisp. When she opened her mouth, exposing her tongue, Billy understood why.

“I’m Billy, what’s your name?”

She stuck her chest out proudly and stated, “I’m Carolyn Whitcomb, but you can call me Princess.”

There was nothing pretentious about the statement. It actually reminded Billy of an innocence he once knew. Their bond was instant, and the princess would eventually cast the deciding vote as to whether Billy would be offered the cottage. Or at least that’s the way that Chuck portrayed it to him.

It was a decision that still baffled him. Not just because he couldn’t afford the rent, but also because part of his rental agreement was that he would care for Carolyn during the day. By the looks of things, the Whitcombs could afford a team of nannies, but that still wasn’t it. What he found most odd was that they never asked him the basic background questions—the ones about being arrested for a violent crime—that when he would refuse to answer, his silence would’ve convicted him, and ruled him out of any such responsibility.

But now less than a week later, he was preparing to move in.

Thunder once again crackled from above, and like a flash of lightning striking twice, Carolyn fearlessly scampered down the stairs, her voice booming off the acoustics, “Billy—did you come to play with me?”

Chuck impeded his daughter’s dash, swooping her into his arms. “Billy is moving into the cottage today, princess.”

“Can I help?”

“Are you feeling better?”

“Yes.”

“Tell Billy how old you’re going to be tomorrow.”

She flashed the three most inner fingers on her small hand, and then took attendance. Upon discovering she missed one, she manually raised her pinky finger. “I’m gonna be foe.”

Billy smiled to match hers. “Four? And not even one gray hair?”

She laughed. “You’re silly.”

Still holding her in his huge arms, Chuck planted his face into hers. “And not even one wrinkle.”

“That’s cuz I wear sunblock so the
ubee
rays don’t get me!” she exclaimed, her voice climbing octaves in a scale-like cadence: d
o-ra-mi-fa-so.

Beth remained the party pooper. She walked to her daughter, all business, and placed the palm of her hand on her forehead. “Fever’s gone,” she announced to Chuck.

He nodded as if it were the expected conclusion.

“Can I help Billy move in, Mom, can I?” Carolyn negotiated.

Beth’s face contorted, as if she were thinking long and hard about it, but eventually gave in. It seemed the princess always got her way in the end.

Carolyn lit up like a Christmas tree. “Then what are we waiting for—I’m not getting any younger!”

Chapter 2

With Carolyn’s birthday party on Sunday and Chuck scheduled to leave for a hunting trip Monday, Saturday was the logical day for Billy to move into the cottage.

Chuck assumed the role of muscle, while Carolyn became the unofficial foreman of the job, ordering the men around like the princess she claimed to be. Beth spent most of her time scurrying around the yard setting up for the party. But she did find time to neurotically check on Carolyn every fifteen minutes.

“Look, Mom—I’m the momback,” Carolyn shouted to her mother as Beth once again approached. Then Carolyn turned her attention back to Billy, who was slowly backing up the Cherokee to the front of the cottage. She started waving her arm like she was directing traffic.

“The momback?” her mother inquired.

“I wave to Billy to tell him if there is enough room to back up and say momback…momback!”

Chuck grinned from ear to ear, which received a stern look from his wife. “I hope you’re watching her,” she warned.

He nodded away his grin.

Carolyn, wearing a backwards baseball cap and a white T-shirt saluting the fictional minor league hockey team, the Charlestown Chiefs, suddenly threw up her hands and yelled, “Stop Billy!”

Not completely trusting the soon-to-be four-year-old, Billy got a second opinion from Chuck, who confirmed his daughter’s diagnosis. Billy threw the truck into park and hopped out. He slapped Carolyn five and she flashed him a toothless grin. It exposed the grisly stitched-tongue that Billy noticed during his initial visit.

Carolyn then moved to her mother, who first inspected her arms, and then under her shirt.

“She’s checking me for the lime,” Carolyn explained to Billy.

The response didn’t clear it up.

“Actually, I’m checking for ticks so she doesn’t get Lyme disease,” Beth clarified, and then checked for a fever by pressing her palm to Carolyn’s forehead.

“Maybe you can put her in a bubble,” Billy remarked snidely.

Carolyn appeared excited about the idea—mentioning her fondness for bubbles, whether it be blowing them or in a bath—but Beth shot him a dirty look and stormed off. He was not off to a great start with his new landlord.

On the next trip, Billy and Chuck moved his mattress and bed frame. Carolyn pleaded to help them move the large items, looking for a promotion from the momback.

“Princess, you carry the small stuff. Billy and I will get the heavy things,” Chuck instructed.

She looked dejected, but remained defiant. “I’m a big girl.”

“I know you are. Carrying the little stuff is a big girl job.”

After a moment
of tense reflection, she appeared to accept her fate. She grabbed a pile of folders and manuscripts and marched them into the cottage.

Billy and Chuck had just begun hooking the bed frame together when they heard Carolyn let out an ominous “uh-oh!” They looked up just in time to witness her crashing to the ground, Billy’s folders flying everywhere.

Billy moved quickly to gather his belongings, but Chuck beat him to a glossy photo of an attractive female. Her radiant blonde hair and sparkling smile almost jumped off the page. She stood next to a tuxedoed and youthful looking Billy Harper at a college formal.

Chuck viewed the photo and half sang, half said, “Brenda and Eddie were the popular steady and the king and the queen at the prom, eh?”

Billy wasn’t affected by the picture of his ex-wife, Kelly. It was from Ohio State, almost fifteen years ago. Flustered, he scrambled to secure the other photos—the more recent ones—the ones that reminded him of the things she stole from him. He couldn’t bear to look at those pictures. He shoved them back into the package—back into the rear-view mirror where they belonged.

“Is that your wife?” Chuck asked.

“Ex-wife,” Billy muttered, stashing away the last photo to safety.

Chuck didn’t push it.

“What’s an ex-wife?” Carolyn asked.

“Just grownup stuff,” Chuck told her.

“I’m a big girl,” she announced again. She seemed annoyed that the grownups weren’t catching on to the concept.

Chuck picked her up in his arms and kissed her on her Coppertone smelling cheek. “A big girl would know not to run while she’s carrying stuff.”

“I’m sorry, Daddy.” Her lip quivered as she laid it on thick.

Chuck’s stern look melted like a snowman on the first day of spring. Another victory for the princess.