Shatter My Rock (7 page)

“Oh.”

If
it weren’t for this wicked wind, the weather would be almost tropical—at least
by Rhode Island in December standards. I cinch my coat tighter. “Any more
strange dreams?” I ask. It strikes me as more than coincidental that Jenna has
been plagued by nightmares for weeks, just as I have.

She
hesitates a moment. “There was one where I was on a ship. A giant ocean liner,
like the Titanic.”

“Uh-huh.”

“And
this hole opened up in the water. Some kind of vortex or something.”

This
description reminds me of the movie
Ghostbusters
, but I keep mum.

“I
knew we were going to die. The hole just kept getting bigger and bigger, and
the ship started spiraling.”

There
is deep concern in her voice, a condition with which I empathize. Two nights
ago, I dreamed that Owen spoke; through Eric Blair’s glinting teeth, my baby
chirped,
I love you, Claire-bear.

“Anyway,”
she says with a shudder, “it really rattled me. I’m thinking of getting a
sleeping pill or something. See if that helps.”

“Don’t,”
I say, sure that my own nightmares are the product of pharmaceutical
intervention. I remember a magazine article I’ve read and suggest, “Try a
lavender bath or some chamomile tea.”

The
next note arrives on a Saturday, and this time Tim gets it. He’s had Muffin out
for an early morning stroll.

I
ramble about the house collecting the debris of the most joyous Christmas we’ve
ever experienced, happiness on a level I’d never before dared imagine.

Yet
all good things must end.

The
side door clicks shut as Muffin bounds into the den, uncharacteristically
energetic. Tim takes longer, plots his steps, measures things. I smile for the second
it takes me to notice the Food Mart sales flier in his hand. From the way he
concentrates, I know my fears have come to roost.

When
he finally sets his gaze to mine, I search it for hatred, frustration, disdain.
“What?” I say, mimicking the perplexed way his features contort. “What is it?”
I have not the means to envision what Eric Blair has done.

He
offers me the flier but no explanation.

“What
is this?” I say again. But, of course, I know. The letters are the same—those cut-out,
mismatched, crazy ones—but the words have changed. In a quizzical tone, I read,
“He has
my
eyes?”

“I
was hoping
you
could…”

At
least fate has left me some wiggle room. I shrug. “No idea.” I hand the flier
back as if it doesn’t concern me. “Where’d that come from?”

“The
van.”

“In
the garage?” The idea that Eric Blair has penetrated my private realm alarms
me.

Tim
nods.

Suddenly
the image of Owen’s empty crib flashes through my mind. I want to run to him,
assure myself that he is safe. But I can’t let on. “That’s strange.”

“Who
would do this?” Tim asks with hurt in his voice and eyes.

I
suggest, “Some crackpot.” I shove a handful of wrapping paper into a garbage
bag and turn toward the kitchen. “Who knows? It doesn’t even make sense.”

There
is marked relaxation in Tim’s demeanor, as if the fact that I have voiced a
denial erases Eric’s evil deed. “Lock everything from now on,” he instructs, the
protector in him surfacing. “And no more babysitters.”

Part
of me wants to laugh. Jenna is the only one we’ve trusted with the kids outside
of Tim’s parents, and I doubt she would act as a conduit for Eric Blair. But
Tim doesn’t know that. “Agreed,” I say. And I mean it. It’s time for us to
close ranks around this little family of ours.

I
am in a dark place, and no matter how I try, I cannot bring the light.

The
presence that inhabits this place with me emits pulsing signals that translate as
raw sexual desire, the distillation of carnal lust.

My
conscious mind aims to erect a wall, block these pulses out. Yet my feral
core—that weak spot where my wiring reaches back to antiquity—objects, craves
the satisfaction that is proffered.

I
need not speak this desire, though, because IT already knows. So IT begins to
please me: a trail of wetness around my ear; hot breath to my neck; a feather’s
touch at one nipple, then the other.

I
tell IT to stop, leave me be. But IT knows my denial is transient, equivocal,
fragile enough to be ignored.

And
so IT does. With reckless hunger, IT ravages. And I allow IT.

But
soon I wish I hadn’t. Because when the light comes, I see what I am complicit
in, the depravity to which I have consented. And IT’s face is Owen.

I
bolt upright in a cold sweat, the urge to vomit pressing its way through my
throat and into my mouth.

Tim
rolls over and slings his arm across my lap. Gently, I roll him back and slip
out of bed, drape my bathrobe over my shoulders and scuff my way into my
sheepskin slippers.

But
there’s nowhere to run. As much as I wish to disappear, hit the reset button,
erase what has been done, the facts remain: Owen is here and I love him, Eric
Blair be damned.

The
bathroom is cold this time of year, especially in the morning, the heating
system among the few things in this historic home yet to be lovingly brought
into the twenty-first century.

I
swing the medicine cabinet door open and zero in on the Percocet bottle, the
source of my malaise. Considering the pain it’s dispensed, I shouldn’t have to
think twice about tossing it. But its loss gives me pause. A stronger person
would curse it out, demand retribution, vow to exact revenge.

But
I love these pills, the effortless way they mask what hurts, how they protect
me when nothing else will.

Yet
they must go. I flip the toilet lid and dump the twenty or so tablets that
remain into the bowl, then flush. This is not the appropriate way to dispose of
narcotics, I know, but the trash is too dangerous; I could always go back and
dig. Now the only risk is to the fish—and the water supply.

The
simple act of depressing that handle sets me free, begins my head to clear. Now
I must check on Owen—and Ally, the girl whose place has been stolen by midnight
feedings and battles with Eric Blair.

I
settle on the edge of her bed, careful not to stir her. “You’re still my baby,”
I whisper, hoping she knows without hearing. I brush a tangle of hair from her
cheek. “I haven’t forgotten.”

My
back is to the door, so I don’t see Tim when he enters. But I’m sure I hear Owen
gurgle. “Everything okay?” Tim asks as he materializes beside me, the baby
cradled to his chest.

I
nod. “You guys?”

“Never
better.” He smiles, flush with contentment.

I
grasp his hand and squeeze, smile back. “Good.”

“A
man came to school today,” Ally tells me nonchalantly as we buzz through the
mall, Owen’s jogging stroller pointing the way. There is a party for Tim’s
parents’ fiftieth anniversary in two days, and I’ve been tapped to head the
decorating committee.

“Oh?”
I say, already tuning out what she might utter next. The fact that I lack a
list has my mind swimming with rainbow-colored streamers and golden balloons.

“He
said he knows you,” Ally states, sounding uncertain, “and Owen.”

These
words take a few seconds to register, and when they do, they stump me. “Huh?”
There is no one at Ally’s school with whom I am familiar on a personal level
and certainly no one who is familiar with Owen.

She
shrugs. “He has really white teeth,” she says, as if this may spur my memory,
“and a tan.”

A
Rolodex of faces flies through my mind’s eye, bumps to a stop on the sole image
to match Ally’s description: Eric Blair.

In
the midst of a jumble of post-Christmas shoppers, I halt dead. “Where did he…?”
I try to ask. “What…?” But Ally is gone. I sprint ahead and latch on to her
hand, almost taking out a nun in the process. “Sorry,” I mutter to excuse the
close call. But I don’t bother following up on the nun’s wellbeing, certain I
have already earned enough negative credits to qualify for a one-way trip to
the scorched beyond.

The
perplexed look on Ally’s face turns to concern and even fear as I tug her to a
vacant bench. “Tell me everything,” I demand. “What did he say?”

Ally
regrets having shared this tidbit, it is clear. “Nothing,” she says. “He was
nice. He asked about school.”

“And?”

“He
said we could be friends, that I could call him Uncle Rick.”

I
wonder if she has misheard. “Eric?”

She
shakes her head. “No, Rick.”

I
don’t want to upset her any more than I already have, but I must ask, “Did he
hurt you?”

She
wrinkles her face as if I’m the one who is confused. “No.”

Owen
lets out a happy squeal, and all at once, my pulse steadies. “You know what
Daddy and I say about strangers, don’t you?”

Ally
is too old for this lecture, and she knows it. “Yeah,” she says with a sigh.

“If
you see him again, tell a teacher,” I instruct. But I’m sure it won’t come to
this. It’s clear that I have made a mistake by not confronting Eric before now,
an error I intend to correct, post-haste.

I
lay in wait at the far end of the lot, where Eric parks his canary-yellow
Corvette in hopes of avoiding the incidental nicks and scratches of carelessly
flung doors nearby.

He
pulls in beside me as if we have arranged to meet like this, and when I hop out
and block his path, he smiles. “Claire-bear.”

“Shut
up,” I growl, “and listen.” I set my shoulders, lengthen my spine. “You’re done
fucking with me.”

He
should be surprised by the imperative nature of what I say and the gruffness
with which I say it, but instead he appears pleased and even entertained.

I
threaten, “If you want to spend the next ten years taking it up the ass in
Cranston, be my guest. I’d be happy to put you there.” It’s a sick thought, but
such a punishment seems morbidly in line with his crime.

“Really?”
he says, sounding doubtful. “For what?”

“First-degree
rape. Illegal possession of a controlled substance.”

He
crosses his arms over his chest and rolls his eyes. “How do you figure?”

“I
know what you did in Cincinnati,” I say. “The ‘muscle relaxer.’”

“What
you
did, you mean?”

I
have no idea where he’s going with this, but my patience is waning. “Huh?”

“
You
called
me,
” he says with a sneer. “Invited me to your room. Took
advantage.
I
should have
you
brought up on charges—or at least
fired.”

“
You
should…?” I sputter. “You lying bastard.” It’s obvious he’s getting a cheap
thrill out of my use of profanity, not to mention the way he’s managed to rile
me. “Just leave my family alone,” I settle for demanding, “or else.”

He
chuckles as if we’re playing a lighthearted game. “I’ll think about it.”

I
don’t think at
all. In one swift move—a move he fails to anticipate—I thump my palms against
his chest, forcing his spit-shined oxfords to slide across the ice and skid to
a stop upon hitting dry land. I hear the crack as he goes down.

There
is a visceral rush that accompanies the administration of justice, an emotional
high to which I am not immune. The sight of Eric Blair contorted on the pavement,
his broken leg angled in such a way as to induce pain in the onlooker, pleases
me. “Like I said,” I spit, as his eyes beg me for help, “leave me the fuck
alone.”

Tim’s
parents were married at the Episcopalian church they’d attended since childhood,
the reception held at the local VFW. And this is where I stand fifty years
hence, shivering in wait at the service entrance, clutching a sackful of party
favors to my chest for warmth as the wiry old coot who runs the place struggles
to force the door open from the inside. Finally, it budges, nearly spilling him
at my feet.

“Phew,”
he puffs, stumbling a few steps before catching his balance. He stares at the
door hinges and reminds himself, “Better get those things oiled.” To me, he
says, “Come on in, little lady.”

I
shuffle over the battered threshold and drop the first bag on the empty
counter, then retreat for the second and third. When I return, I find Tim’s
sister, Emily, making the old coot’s day with a charming smile and a lilting
laugh at his best, oft-told joke. I can’t help smiling too, but for a different
reason: Emily’s decency reminds me of Tim—and Ally. I imagine that someday my
daughter will mature into a glorious amalgamation of Tim, Emily and me.

Emily
darts over and plucks a bag from my arm, saving me the trouble of hefting them
both to the counter simultaneously. “Let me…”

The
coot slips out of the kitchen, leaving us to it. “Thanks,” I say with a slight
eye roll. “I should have brought Ally to help.”

There
is softness in Emily’s expression that reflects her love of my daughter, a
kindness for which I am desperately grateful. “How is my little jellybean?” she
asks.

“Bigger
by the day,” I say. “Owen too.”

It’s
too soon for her to have formed such an attachment to the baby, but in time I
know it will come. She remarks, “I bet Tim’s in heaven.”

Truer
words have yet to be spoken. “You bet.” I glance around uncertainly. “Where are
the girls?”

“Morgan’s
boyfriend has a track meet today, so I let her take my car. Kyra dropped me off
in the Jeep, but she had to go back for Reggie.”

“Oh.”
I just now realize what Tim and I are in for. Because of our reproductive
issues, we were late breeders. Almost everyone we know has a ten-year head
start.

Emily
studies the clock. “Wanna get started?”

The
party is in full swing when Tim pulls me into the coat closet. “Hey, gorgeous,”
he murmurs, the scent of imported beer on his breath.

I
think of Owen but quickly realize he’s in no danger, the center of attention
and the newest apple of his grandparents’ eyes. “Hey.”

“Have
I told you how hot you are?”

I
giggle. “Not really.”

The
novelty of this interaction fascinates and excites me, transports me to a
smoke-filled dorm room where a baby-faced, nineteen eighty-five version of Tim
lays his naked body to mine. “Well, you are,” he repeats.

I
want to maul him right here but know I can’t. Instead, I settle for a
tantalizing tonguing of his ear, followed by a momentary brush of my thumb
across his nipple. “I love you,” I say, meaning it fully, “but we should get
back.”

It’s
dark enough in this closet that I can’t read his facial expression, but from
the way he squeezes, it’s clear he disagrees. “I want you.”

I
wriggle away, crack the door open and promise, “Later.”

For
an event largely populated by the seventy-plus crowd, this place hops with
energy. I join a cluster of women throwing their best moves at the DJ’s
sonic-speed version of the Macarena
and whip out some talent of my own.
In the fray, I bump up against Ally. “Having fun?” I ask.

She
nods, grins.

I
notice Tim slipping over to the makeshift bar, which is adorned with plastic
hula dolls, flowery leis, and a pair of sun-yellow tiki torches—a tropical
theme I pulled from nowhere to lend a little heat to this dead-of-winter
soiree.

Once
Tim gets his hand around another bottle of Stella Artois, he moseys to the head
table, where the guests of honor dote on our baby son—and I follow.

“He’s
the spitting image of Tim at that age,” Tim’s mother, Ellen, says, beaming at Owen.

Tim’s
Aunt Ruth brushes the wispy bits of sandy-blond hair from Owen’s forehead. “A
Fowler man, through and through.”

This
exchange would tickle me if I didn’t know the truth; instead, it suffocates.
“Mommy’s here,” I chirp, snatching the baby from Ellen’s arms and nuzzling him
to my neck. I rub gentle circles around his back. “Good boy.”

“Gettin’
any sleep?” Tim’s dad, James, an age-progressed copy of my husband, asks him. There
is tension between these men, Tim’s father none too keen on Tim’s decision to
play Mr. Mom.

Tim
steals the baby from me as I have stolen him from Ellen, flaunts his fatherly
bond with Owen. Without a word, he tells his dad,
I will be here for my son
in ways you never were.

I
feel sorry for Tim on this point: His father is the gold-standard of his
generation, the aloof manly prototype. The lack of affection between them—as
painful as it may be—conforms precisely to expectations.