The Achilles Heel (6 page)

Heading to Jack’s actual grave, not the one we are manufacturing at the cemetery,
I lost time; remembering the little things, private things, which only a wife of ten
years would notice about her husband. Even though my eyes were on the road and my
foot was on the gas, my mind was gone. Memories fluttered by as fast as the centerline
markings on the highway, flashing in and out so rapidly-the swollen knuckles on his
hands, his infectious smile, his smell; I had a hard time keeping up. I pictured the
way his fingers rubbed together when he was in the middle of a story and momentarily
at a loss for the right word, or the heavy sound of his boots on the hardwood floors
as he carried wood in for a winter fire. The big one though is the smell of Cartier
cologne; it’s unmistakably Jack Whitman.

All these images and sound-bites are stored inside of me, triggered by something greater
than just my memory. My grandmother took me in when I was twelve years old after my
parents were killed by a drunk driver. Every time I eat red grapes, I’m suddenly a
teenager again, sitting on her kitchen counter. With every bite I can remember her
voice; the taste connects me to her and it’s a comforting feeling that usually warms
my insides.

The images projected of Jack were much the same; so real, so lifelike that if I could
just reach my hand through the windshield, I could touch his shirt or stroke his beard,
but I’m not so far gone to know driving seventy-five miles per hour down the highway,
trying to stick my hand through a windshield at the hopes of physically grasping a
hallucination is the definition of insanity, although insanity might feel a little
comforting right now.

What am I doing? I’m going to ruin him, ruin the memory of us!
I thought as I woke up less than a mile from where Jack died.
Jack’s dead. Jack’s dead. Jack’s dead.

Everyone is on this fast-paced track of confirming Jack’s death. Officer Grady has
confirmed that Jack doesn’t have an earthly body anymore. Gail Adam’s is waiting to
confirm my new financial situation as a result of Jack’s death. Jamie is ready to
put what’s left of my husband in a metal box and stick a headstone on it, confirming
his life and his death.

As far as I’m concerned, I have the right to live in denial for a few more days. I
don’t need any more confirmations, unless it’s the paperwork confirming my psychosis
and inescapable maddening spiral into lunacy.

Suddenly, I’m panicked at the thought of seeing the tree and knowing exactly where
his death took place. I took the next exit and then got back on the highway, headed
south, headed for home. I feared that going to the scene of his death would inevitably
make it impossible to celebrate his life; the unwanted images would consume the welcome
ones, like a slow moving cancer, eating away the happiness from my past. A constant
about-face of my thoughts was something to which I would need to become accustomed.
The light switch flickering from good idea to bad idea was on the fritz, and I was
not an electrician. Right now, I didn’t know who I was or who I was supposed to be.

My button down shirt was soaking in sweat, and I actually heard it peel away from
my skin as I again stood in my closet searching for another outfit to wear. I was
already late for my meeting with Gail, but she could suck it; I was playing my widow
card today.

I finally decided to compromise with my favorite James Perse, white T-shirt, the matching
tuxedo jacket to the skirt I was already wearing and the very first necklace Jack
had given me-which also happened to be the very first diamond I had ever owned. The
two carat, round stone hung brilliantly from a silver chain, and when precisely reflected
in the light, sent tiny fragments of color spraying in every direction. Once again,
I was ready for my meeting with Gail.

I pulled into an empty space at the front doors, which never happens on the Plaza.
A usual routine when searching for parking is to drive around a five block radius
for twenty minutes until finally giving up and pulling into a garage; I’ll do anything
not to park in a garage. The dark enclosure always feels like nighttime, and whether
day or night, never feels safe. Jack put a bottle of pepper spray on my keychain around
three months ago to help me feel more at ease. In reality, I’d probably never be able
to get the cap off and the safety unlocked, much less spray it in someone’s face;
but was kept on my keychain to make him happy.

After feeding my meter, I stood back to admire the mature brick building. Seven separate
suites total, and Jack’s office sat at the pinnacle of the structure with a few retail
stores and agencies adorning the lower level; Gail’s office was one of them. Older
buildings in Kansas City which have been painted with logos or murals on the outside,
probably from the 1900’s or earlier, are in no short supply, and those have always
been my favorite pieces of architecture in the urban area. Many tourists and locals
alike flock to some of the two hundred manmade fountains around the city, helping
to immortalize Kansas City’s nickname, “The city of fountains.” However, I’d take
admiring the craftsmanship and imagination of masonries from long ago over bubbling
puddles of water any day. Actually, there’s a National Trust fighting to save these
buildings, so perhaps, they are favorites of others as well.

Touching the gold plaque drilled into the mortar of the building that read, “Allen
Enterprises” was somewhat of a habit when visiting Jack at work, like an athlete slapping
a sacred sign before running out onto the field. This visit would break tradition.
My eyes never looked in the gold plated direction.

I entered through the glass doors and heavily shuffled my heartbroken body to the
reception desk. The woman in the office was bent down searching through a file cabinet
and had her back to the door, not realizing she had a client waiting. The moment she
turned around, I knew this had to be Cindy.

Good God, it’s worse than I imagined.

Cindy was a very blond, petite woman in the waistline and super-sized everywhere else.
Her hair was sprayed heavily in an up-do that looked like dinner rolls stacked in
a bread basket, and that’s probably the nicest part of her description. The clothes
she had on might actually fit a toddler, and not to mention, completely inappropriate
for an insurance agency. Stacy and Clinton from “What Not to Wear” would have a field
day with Miss Cindy.

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Whitman! Mrs. Adams is expecting you. Can I offer you some soda
or water?” she asked me, with that giddy and familiar voice.

I only heard the beginning of her greeting because her make-up, especially the mascara,
was applied so thick her eyelashes kept sticking together. As she leaned over the
desk greeting me, she used her long, white, fake nails to separate them; pulling her
eyelid out further than a doctor might advise. It became difficult to focus on her
words, only on her jabbing that stark white nail into her eye and her twenty year
old tits staring me in the face.

“What?” I asked as I came out of my Barbie coma. “Oh, a drink; no thank you, I’m fine,”
I stuttered, recovering poorly.

Just then, a tall and slender red head with outstretched arms came into the lobby
and began hugging me tightly. I just stood there, my arms hanging down like egg noodles,
as she swayed me from side to side.

“Gail Adams I presume?” I stated, still in her embrace.

“Oh my, yes! Where are my manners? Annie, I’m so sorry to hear about Jack. Come in,
come in and take a seat,” she said, as she directed me into a chair. “I know we’ve
never met, but I knew Jack from the building, and am sincerely going to miss our morning
chats,” she acknowledged lovingly.

“Thank you, I appreciate that,” I replied.

“Now, let’s get down to business,” she began as she opened the manila folder which
was sitting on her desk. “I have a twenty thousand dollar check made out to the Parker
Family Funeral Home, and you just need to endorse the back before you take it over
there. I have already spoken with Joe-that’s who you will be contacting‌—‌and they
have started the preparations for the funeral,” she informed me.

“Do you have a pen and paper? I guess I didn’t come prepared,” I asked, embarrassed
and already exhausted.

“Oh, honey, don’t you worry about it; every detail is listed in order of the steps
you need to take when you leave here,” she said as she patted my hand and smiled.
“Here’s my card, and if you get tripped up on any of these directions, you call me
anytime, day or night, and I’d be happy to help you. I have also informed Life INC
of your policy claim, so you can expect a check to come to your home by registered
mail in a month or so,” she informed me.

“Can I ask how much the check is for?” I asked, almost in a whisper.

“Of course you can. Annie, it’s for two million dollars!” she exclaimed. “Now you’re
going to have to pay tax on this amount, because you know the government will have
a conniption fit if you don’t, but that should leave you with well over a million.
This amount is just the life insurance policy; it doesn’t include any stocks or bonds
and company policies from Jack’s business.”

“Oh, my God, I had no idea,” I said in complete disbelief, trying to fathom where
that substantial amount of money was coming from.

“Next is the Will. Who is the executer of the estate?” she asked.

The overload of information and the barrage of questions felt like a jail house interrogation,
and it all became just too much. I started to cry. “I don’t know, I don’t know! Mrs.
Adams, I don’t know anything!” I sounded like a whiney child and a complete idiot.
“Why don’t I know
anything
that’s going on?” I asked myself aloud, but hoping for an answer from Gail.

She handed me some tissues, ripped them right out of the box and yelled, “Cindy, get
in here with water and Excedrin, now!”

Cindy came in with that stupid smile on her face, carrying a first aid box and a glass
of water. In her defense, I can’t imagine she is a workaholic around the office, so
I’m pretty sure she thought she had this task nailed, but she just stood there smiling
at us until Gail looked up at her and yelled, “Why are you just standing there? Get
the hell out of here and close the damn door!”

I looked at her in surprise, not accustomed to seeing a button-upped employer go off
on an assistant.

“I’m so sorry you had to see me get upset, Mrs. Whitman,” she apologized. “She’s my
brother’s kid, and I’m trying to help her out, but Jesus, with the outfits and the
make-up and God, she’s just not smart! I think she gets dumber every day she works
here,” Gail complained, but now was talking more to herself than to me.

She paused, realizing I was still sitting in her office. I stopped crying, and we
just sat and stared at each other, letting the ridiculousness of Cindy sink in. Spontaneously,
we both busted up laughing; not just ha-ha funny, but no noise, table slapping, face
hurting laughing. Five whole minutes must have passed before one of us could speak.

“I’m so sorry, Annie, that was an incredibly unprofessional moment and it’s okay if
you fire me after today. I’ll understand,” she said, dabbing the tears away from her
eyes and letting the last of her giggles escape.

“Gail, you have no idea how much I needed that laugh; I was on the verge of a nervous
breakdown. I’ve either been crying or sleeping for three days now and quite frankly,
I’m just sick of being around myself. Fire you? No, you might have just saved my life.
Now, Cindy is a different story!” I said, and we both started laughing again.

“Would you like to get a drink with me? Brio has a great happy hour, and it’s right
around the corner. I’ll understand if you say no, really I will, but we can discuss
more details, and I’ll walk you through the list one by one,” she offered.

“You know, I would really like that, and anything sounds better than going home right
now,” I sincerely told her.

ANNIE

W
e found a seat inside Brio, each ordered a glass of La Crema Pinot Noir, and sat quietly
while watching people pass by the wall of windows. Some strolled nonchalantly down
the double-wide sidewalk and some hustled to bang out the stores in a hurry; most
of the pedestrians carried their signature lattes and shopping bags.

“I love coming down here, especially when they turn the Christmas lights on,” Gail
said breaking the silence.

“Me too. It’s fascinating how the relatively short distance from my house to the Plaza
can transport me to a completely different continent, especially during the months
of November and December. Every Thanksgiving when they turned the lights on Jack and
I came down here, hopped into a carriage right before dark, and clinked our flasks
together the moment the lights made their debut into the night sky,” I said, painfully
remembering. “Thank goodness it’s only June. I might need to be out of the country
when the holidays roll around.”

“Yeah, it’s nice to remember some good times with a husband,” Gail said, as she stared
across the street.

“Oh, I’m sorry. Has your husband passed?” I asked.

“No, and that’s really my biggest problem with him. The only thing he could pass is
a kidney stone,” she said, smiling. “He’s a junkie, a two-time loser. He blew through
most of our savings before I knew it was gone, and I couldn’t get a divorce fast enough
to save the rest. I’m not really even mad anymore; he was sick, fighting a nasty addiction
and once I accepted that, it was easier to leave,” she confessed.

“I’m sorry. That sounds terrible,” I said.

“Oh please, don’t be sorry, it’s the best thing that ever happened to me. Sure, I
was scared at first, but the nice thing, and I mean the
only
nice thing about being at the bottom, is swimming to the top. I built this business
by myself, and it only has one name on the sign: Adams, and that feels pretty good,”
she boasted.