The Battered Heiress Blues (8 page)

“What’s wrong? Who’s here?” I inquired.

She stood in front of the door, her body making the shape of the letter “X”.

“Let’s go back to bed.” Kate grabbed my arm and started to pull me toward the staircase. I turned under her hold and headed back to the door. She quickly caught the back of my robe and yanked me to a halt, jumping back in the lead.

“Whatever you do, I need you to promise that you’re not going to freak out.”

“Kate, you’re being ridiculous. Why would I freak out?”

“On the other side of this door is…” she hesitated.

“Go on.”

“Promise me that you’ll behave first.”

“My head hurts and I’m really tired. No games. Who is it?”

“Judas.” She stared back through the sidelights, angry.

“Priest?” I was too hung over to play word association.

“Not the rock band, genius; the lying, cheating, traitor that should be hung from the nearest tree kind of Judas.”

The edgy New Yorker rose up within me. I had a gut feeling who was behind the damn door.

“No way. He wouldn’t be that foolish, right? Jackson is here? -At my house? -On my property?” I dismissed the assumption and shook my head in disbelief.

“Yes he would- he’s Jackson.”

I started to walk towards her with an agenda. “Step aside.”

“I don’t think that’s such a good idea.”

I turned and walked back into the drawing room and took the shotgun from above the fireplace. Kate followed me, managing to keep her body between me and the door.

“What are you doing? Let’s just think about this for a minute,” she implored.

“Step aside, Kate.”

As we found ourselves in a stare off, Jackson’s voice broke the tension.

“I know you’re in there. I can hear you. I’ve called the police. I just want my car.”

Kate was pissed. Her plea to behave civilized was null and void. “No he did not just say that- after everything that’s transpired.”

She spun around and charged the door herself, violently pulling it back, sending it crashing into the foyer wall. Scared, Jackson cowardly shuffled back until he fell off the veranda. Kate continued her forward attack to the edge of the porch.

Hesitantly, I walked to the door, catching the first glimpse of him in ten months. I thought I’d be sad, but I only felt relieved that he was now my ex-husband. He looked like the same old loser, wearing his ridiculous banana yellow windbreaker.

In the moment, I couldn’t recall why I ever had married him. Average looking, he was too short and scrawny for my usual taste. He had no muscles and was devoid of a butt and proper calves. I never could figure out how he kept his socks up. His graying hair was like wire which matched the patches poking out from inside his ears. His tobacco stained front teeth were pushed together. When he ate, he resembled a rabbit gnawing food. The clothes he wore were always mismatched and rumpled. He was the polar opposite of Henry. Perhaps, that’s why I chose him. My heart would never be stolen away by someone like Jackson.

Looking at him now, I was actually repulsed. I didn’t care that my criticisms seemed hypocritical, considering my current choice of wardrobe. I had potential when I tried really hard and no matter what, he would always be a mean prick with no style. I was a good person. I had that going for me. I wasn’t condescending in my interactions with people. I treated strangers with kindness and respect. He was always frigid and hostile. Bring him the wrong order or question him and he’d make you feel like the most insignificant person in the room. He was never wrong. He was never accountable. He was the world’s most dedicated narcissist and I was done.

“Why are you here?”

“For the car, Julia- I just want my car and I’ll leave.”

“But our son...Why didn’t you come…he’s buried behind the chapel.” My eyes began to water, but I wouldn’t cry in front of him.

Kate jumped off the veranda, stopping within a foot of him. He gave his typical sour smirk to let us know that he wasn’t afraid of two weak little girls.

“You’re here for a car. Seriously? Your son was buried this week, you wanker. Where in the hell were you? What could possibly be more bloody important than that? A car? There’s no hope for you. You’ll always be a self-absorbed bastard with no heart.” She threw her arms up in the air, moved five feet away from him, and looked back to cheer me on. “Shoot him.”

The shotgun rested across my body, finding a home on my right shoulder. Jackson looked at me puzzled and decided that laughing was a good emotion- bad choice.

“Get off my property.”

Kate disappeared into the house returning with a golf club. Jackson still maintained his annoying grin

“Look, I don’t want trouble from you scary women.” He was mocking us now, waving his arms back and forth above his head. “Really Julia, are you gonna shoot me? You don’t have it in you.”

“Care to test that theory?” I pointed the gun above his head and pulled the trigger. He cowered, momentarily, shielding his face, but regained his composure and stood erect.

“Jewels, you missed. Try again,” Kate announced with a dedicated look on her face.

“The police are on their way. Just give me the car. It’s mine.” He fell back to the other side of the circular driveway.

“Not so much- anymore.”

The sound of a siren got louder as it made its way down the long drive, pulling in between Jackson and me. I walked back into the house to locate my gun permit in anticipation of what was to come.

Kate followed me around, nervously. We went from room to room rifling through drawers. The faint sounds of Jackson’s annoying voice could be heard, but the distance filtered it. I’m sure he was delivering a ‘woe is me speech’. He and the truth were like oil and water. I was sad to be missing his performance, but first things first.

“Maybe it’s in the foyer?” I walked back toward the front door talking to myself. No one was in sight. My attention turned back to Kate as she walked up behind me. I was feeling more defiant as each minute passed.

“I don’t care what donut eating cop they send out. This is my property. That’s my car and here- here is the permit for my gun. Ha.” I looked up at Kate feeling very proud of myself, but she had that deer in the headlights look about her. She moved her hand to her chest area and nonchalantly pointed with her index finger in the direction of the door. The wind was knocked out of my sails. I couldn’t move.

“The donut eating cop is behind me, right?”

All she could do was shake her head yes. Before slowly turning in his direction, I mouthed the words, ‘get the car’ to Kate. There he was- the mystery man, wearing the same coat as that night in the cemetery. Turns out, I wasn’t crazy after all. He walked toward me with his hands raised in front of him, his eyes glancing up and down my body, taking in my strange attire.

“I’m not going to shoot you.” I didn’t appreciate his theatrics.

“Thanks for that. I would miss all those donuts,” he jabbed.

“What can I do for you, officer?”

“This man claims that you have a car in your possession that belongs to him.”

“Not true. I own the car.”

Jackson walked up on the veranda, spouting off, “It was a birthday gift.”

I pumped the gun and the officer waved him back.

“Your car. My car. Semantics. My name is on the bill of sale and title. Would you like to see them?”

“That would clear things up from my perspective.”

Kate pulled the red Porsche out of the garage and parked it next to the cruiser.

“Bring the title from the glove box, Kate.”

She was still carrying the club as she stopped in front of the officer, delivering the paperwork to him.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t catch your name.” Kate was hitting on the officer. She had impeccable timing.

“Sheriff Gabe Martin.”

“Sheriff,” she repeated slowly, looking back at me. Kate was impressed. I was annoyed.

“That was you in the cemetery the other night?”

“Yes. I’m very sorry for your loss. I read about it in the newspaper. I heard you screaming. I’m sorry to have intruded.” His eyes were compassionate, full of understanding and sympathy.

He was very unassuming; the type you would pass over in public without realizing just how good looking he was unless your gaze lingered on his face. He had worry lines around his eyes and on his forehead that gave away his hard life. My eyes thanked him and we shared a moment.

Jackson cleared his throat.

“This isn’t a sympathy call. I just want my car.” He was still an asshole.

Kate was beside herself. Before his very last word made it to my ear, she walked over and slapped him across the face. “Shoot him.”

“I’ll take that.” Gabe intervened, requesting my weapon.

“I have a permit.”

“Just the same, your friend really wants you to shoot him.” He reached for the gun and I complied.

“Of course I do. Someone needs to. That low life is the father.” She gave Jackson a scowl. “I use that term in the biological sense only. You really couldn’t attend your own child’s funeral?”

“Julia knew she was on her own. I never wanted a kid.”

Gabe looked dismayed and handed the gun back to me.

“What are you doing?” Jackson said perplexed.

“She has a permit. She can lawfully own that firearm. Fact of the matter, sir, is that the lady has asked you to leave her property. You’re trespassing.”

“I’m not leaving without the car.”

Straw. Camel. The back was broken. I’d had enough. I aimed the gun at the Porsche and fired, spraying the hood with pellets. Kate joined in, smashing the windshield with her golf club.

“You have to arrest her.” Jackson was becoming unglued.

“She destroyed her own car. I can’t arrest her for that. It might be wise for you to go. I’ll give you a ride into town.” Gabe looked back at me. “No more guns. Lay off the noise. You have neighbors.”

Kate stepped in between us and offered her hand to Gabe.

“Thanks for coming by. Don’t be a stranger. We have lots of donuts.”

Gabe shook her hand out of politeness and escorted Jackson to his vehicle.

“Smooth, Kate.”

We turned to walk into the house, glancing back to watch their departure.

“He’ll be back. Nice outfit by the way. You look like a mental patient.”

5

A
fter tidying up our mess, from searching for the gun permit, Kate retreated to her room to take a nap. A shower was necessary to humanize me before trying to tackle the police statement. Seeing Jackson had unsettled me. I couldn’t shake my anger about the fact that he wasn’t angry. I couldn’t understand how he had no emotional attachment for his own child. How is a man like that allowed to draw air?

I loafed around, busying myself with mundane tasks, trying to delay the recollection of that terrible night. I was clean and dressed. The house was tidy and quiet. I finally convinced myself that I had no more excuses.

Walking around downstairs, I tried to determine which room would be suitable for the grueling job at hand. The drawing room was too open and the kitchen too communal. I couldn’t afford distractions. Choosing the study, I closed both doors and sat at my mother’s desk. The frame with her picture inside was welcoming and calming. I took out some parchment paper and began to write.

To Whom It May Concern:

I’m an idiot
.

I killed my child
.

I’m the one who should be punished
.

I’m the one who should have died
.