The Breakup (16 page)

I yanked open the bathroom drawer in search of something that might transform me. I found the Preparation-H (bought it after
I read that it’s great for firming your face. Brings new meaning to the term
“butthead.” Never had the nerve to try it); six Maybelline lip crayons purchased purely on impulse at the supermarket; wet
eye pads that look and smell exactly like raw cucumber slices; twelve different foundations, ranging from porcelain to medium
beige (none of which matches my skin tone, which, on this day, could be most accurately described as piss yellow); a little
pot of coconut-scented body glitter (bought at Claire’s in a moment of self-delusion). I slammed the drawer shut and climbed
into the shower.

Despite the heat, I chose a black top with three-quarter-length sleeves to hide my upper arms, and pulled on my only nice
pants, black Tencel with a flat front and side zipper. I pulled my hair back, slapped on some Origins Pinch Your Cheeks and
lipstick, and rammed a Pop-Tart into my mouth, then washed it down with a can of diet Coke.

I dropped Pete and Hunter off at school, silently cursed all the skinny young mothers with their flat bellies and long legs,
then headed west. As I drove downtown, I ran through all the possible and improbable reasons for Eddie’s sudden desire to
see me:

1. He’s madly in love with me and can’t live without me.

2. He wants to have sex.

3. He needs money.

4. He’s moving to Idaho to join a militia, and wants to bid me farewell.

5. He’s considering starting psychotherapy and wants a referral.

6. He’s taking art lessons and wants to draw me. Naked.

7. He’s gay.

8. All of the above.

9. None of the above.

I stared at the green steel door and suddenly felt the impulse to turn around and run back to the Jeep. I can’t explain it
exactly. I wouldn’t say it was a guardian angel, or some supernatural voice urging me to run. I just felt I should leave.
Fast.

I started to turn when the door suddenly swung open and Eddie pulled me inside. He hugged me. I stiffened against him. “I’m
so glad you came,” he whispered. He closed the door behind me and locked it, first the deadbolt, then a rusty chain. “I’m
so glad you came,” he repeated, and I saw that his eyes were watery, as if he might cry.

The small apartment was hot and airless. The blinds in the living room were drawn closed. The room was sparsely furnished.
I recognized a few pieces from his office, the yellow leather couch and a coffee table strewn with empty Fritos bags and candy
wrappers. A small TV was on the floor in the corner.
Wheel of Fortune.
No sound.

Eddie gestured toward the couch, but I didn’t want to sit down. I didn’t want to do anything that
might lead him to believe I planned to stay for more than a few minutes.

“You know I hate to drink alone, but I guess I’ll make an exception in this case.” He sauntered toward the galley kitchen
and disappeared behind a wall. “I think I’ll put in a Tombstone pizza. Pepperoni okay?”

“Fine,” I called out, wondering how I’d eat when I had no appetite. I felt my stomach clench, followed by an urgent need to
use the toilet. I hunted in my purse for Immodium but found only a couple of loose Tic-Tacs. There were two doors, both closed.
I guessed that one was the bathroom, the other a bedroom. I moved toward the first door and turned the knob. It was locked.
My cramps worsened. I turned the other doorknob. The bathroom door opened. I scurried in and locked the door behind me.

I laid some toilet paper down on the seat and lowered myself onto it. I ran the water to mask the sounds of my intestinal
distress. I could hear Eddie calling to me from the kitchen. “Val? Val?”

“I’m in the bathroom, Eddie,” I yelled out. “Give me a minute.”

“You’re where?”

“The bathroom,” I shouted louder. Soon he was at the other side of the door, rattling the knob.

“I need a minute in here,” I said, panicked that he’d try to come in while I was on the toilet. “It’s that time of the month,”
I lied.

But he wasn’t giving up. “Let me in,” he whispered.

“Please, Eddie, what’s gotten into you? I’m not feeling well. I need a little privacy here.” I hurried to finish, flushed,
and washed my hands.

That’s when I noticed it, the hamper, and the little flash of pink peeking out beneath Eddie’s dirty underwear and T-shirts.
Instinctively I pulled at the fabric.

It was a small nylon jersey.

Frantically, with the water still running and Eddie rattling the doorknob, I dug deeper in the bin.

“I was hoping you wouldn’t use the bathroom,” Eddie whispered through the door. “I didn’t have a chance to clean it.”

“That’s okay, Eddie, I promise I won’t look. Just let me finish up and I’ll be right out. Why don’t you go check on the pizza?”

“The pizza’s fine. Come out.”

“You know how it is with women’s plumbing. Give me a second.” I reached into the hamper up to my elbow and pulled up more
clothes, a couple of Eddie’s Old Navy T-shirts, jeans, more underwear.

And a pair of black spandex shorts, women’s size small. At the very bottom of the hamper, a single crew sock. I held my breath.
Could these belong to Zoe Hayes?

I stared into the hamper and I felt the adrenaline scorch my chest. Maybe the clothes belonged to one
of Eddie’s daughters, I fleetingly considered, or a girlfriend. Or maybe they were his. Each wild theory only escalated my
panic. I knew this: the spandex outfit and the single Footlocker crew sock were precisely those items mentioned in every newspaper
article, and in every neon green flyer posted on every window and telephone pole in town.

I gulped back the rising knot in my throat. I could hear Eddie tinkering with the doorknob, and right then I believed in my
soul that I’d never make it out of the apartment alive. They say your life passes in front of your eyes when you’re about
to die, but now it wasn’t my past, but my future that appeared like a slide show in my head. I saw all the promises I had
yet to fulfill, all the milestones and all the ordinary moments of a regular life. I hadn’t gone grocery shopping this week.
I never organized my front hall closet—how would anyone ever find my will in that mess? Who would make Pete his Charmander
chocolate chip pancakes? Who would take him to the Cub Scouts mom-n’-me camp-out? My mind raced further into a forlorn future.
I imagined my son learning to drive, filling out his college applications, walking down the aisle, having his first child
. . . and I wouldn’t be there for any of it. Today was the first time I didn’t tell Pete I loved him when we said goodbye.
He’d been fiddling with his backpack and I was in a rush to get to Eddie’s apartment. The last thing I said when I dropped
him off was, “Stop dawdling
and get out of the Jeep already.” I can’t even begin to describe the remorse I felt realizing that those could be my last
words to him.

I grabbed my bag and searched for the cell phone, then realized I’d left it plugged into the cigarette lighter in the Jeep.
I heard the crisp snap of the lock popping out, and watched as the doorknob twisted. I scrambled to put the clothes back in
the hamper, trying to arrange everything as I’d found it. It didn’t look right. Was the pink jersey under the briefs or the
T-shirts? Jesus. I couldn’t remember. The door opened a crack, and I immediately heaved it shut. I heard a wail. “Shit! Shit!”
I had shut the door on Eddie’s knuckles.

“Oh my God, I’m sorry, Eddie. I didn’t mean to . . . I just didn’t want you walking in while I was half undressed.”

Eddie scanned the room, his eyes lingering on the hamper and then on me. “Why not? It’s not like I’ve never seen your ass
before.” He nuzzled my neck.

I forced myself to laugh. “Oh, ho! Very true, very true.” I sounded like frickin’ Angela Lansbury. My right eye started twitching.

Eddie peered at me. “What took you so long?”

“Excuse me?” I answered, feigning indignance. “If you must know, I’ve got my period and I have cramps. Diarrhea, actually.
I’d be happy to describe it for you, if you’d like.” I paused and stared at him, clamping down on the insides of my mouth
to keep
my lips from trembling. “Now, then, aren’t you glad you asked?”

I tried to push past Eddie, but he stood there between me and the door. Be cool, be cool, I told myself. My brain kept turning
back to the jersey. But I had to behave as if the only thing I’d seen in Eddie’s bathroom was the dirty tiles, the only thing
I’d touched was the toilet paper. If I bolted for the door, he would know. I had to take my time. And I had to pretend I hadn’t
noticed the dark look in Eddie’s eyes. I had to get out of there. I’d run to my Jeep, and I’d dial 911 from my cell phone.
I’d tell them what I’d seen in the bathroom. But first I had to get out of the apartment alive, and I had to make Eddie trust
me.

“God, I’m starving. How’s that pizza coming along?”

“I thought you had cramps.” Eddie stared at me.

“I feel better, thanks,” I said, disingenuously interpreting his comment as a sign of concern. “Popped some Advil.” I heard
myself offer to make a salad but Eddie said he didn’t have any lettuce. At this point I pushed toward the doorway and—merciful
God— Eddie yielded. “I’m absolutely famished! Let’s eat.”

When Eddie asked if I was certain I didn’t want a beer, I knew my strategy had worked. He seemed happy now, at ease. I was
struggling to maintain my equilibrium. The living room seemed smaller,
warmer, darker. I had no appetite. Eddie pulled the pizza out of the oven and slapped it directly onto the small table. “You
don’t have some kind of plate, a cutting board maybe?” I asked, trying to sound casual. I was horrified.

He shrugged sheepishly. “I don’t have any of that stuff yet. Mostly I just eat out.” He pulled a sharp knife from a drawer
and cut long, deep slices across the pie. I heard the blade cut into the Formica, but Eddie didn’t seem to notice, or care.
Now for the hard part. I lifted the pizza to my mouth and took a bite. My rising panic was intensified by the smell of the
cheese. I couldn’t eat. I wanted to vomit. Chew the damn pizza, I commanded myself. My teeth moved mechanically. I forced
myself to swallow. I felt the pizza move dryly, painfully down my food pipe.

Eddie went back to the kitchen for his third beer.

“So . . . you needed to see me?” I began. “You had something you wanted to tell me?”

Eddie looked at me for a long time. He scraped his fingernails across his stubble, then ran his hands rapidly through his
hair as if he was shaking out bugs. He squeezed his eyes shut and dropped his head into his hands. “Things haven’t been too
good with me, Val. I’m all mixed up.”

“What do you mean, mixed up?”

He rubbed his knuckles. “You may not believe this, but you were the best thing that ever happened
to me.” I couldn’t tell where this was leading. I didn’t want to say anything that might provoke him, nor did I want to encourage
him. I only wanted to escape. I said nothing.

“Maybe I’m nuts, but when you split with Roger, I actually thought we had a chance.” He ran a hand over his face and glared
at me with bloody red eyes. “Don’t you think we would have been good together?”

I nodded slowly, carefully. “Sure, Eddie.” Actually, there was a time when I believed it, too. Eddie and I fit together in
the way all misfits attract each other; we both suffered through failing marriages, both desperately needed sexual validation.
For my part, though, our affair was nothing more than a diversion.

He stared wistfully out the window. “You know, sometimes I wish I could just put you in a little box and throw away the key.
I love you so damn much, Val.”

I stopped breathing. I tried to smile.

Eddie stood up abruptly. “I gotta pee.”

As he sauntered toward the bathroom, I calculated that Eddie’s three beers should give me ample time to make it to the front
door, and it did. I slid the chain slowly, quietly. But the deadbolt—it was the kind that locked from the inside, with a key.
I heard the toilet flush, then almost immediately felt Eddie’s warm breath on my neck. “What the hell are you doing?”

I searched for a plausible excuse. “I was checking to make sure the door was locked. I mean, I wouldn’t want anyone interrupting
us.” It was then that I devised my plan.

Finally, Eddie smiled. “Interrupting us doing what?”

“Whatever.” I returned the smile. Had I lost my mind? What were my options? I wanted to live. I wanted to see my son again.
I didn’t want to end up like Zoe Hayes. Did I really believe I could seduce my way out of Eddie’s apartment? Actually, I did.
I knew that Eddie always fell into a dead sleep after he had an orgasm, especially if he’s had a few drinks. I didn’t have
to have sex, just get him to climax. If I was lucky, I could get away with just using my hand. I’d get the deadbolt key out
of his pocket and run like hell.

“Why don’t we relax on the couch?” I asked, gesturing toward the leather sofa.

“I’ve got a better idea.” He grinned. “Let’s go into the bedroom.”

My heart stopped. “The bedroom?”

“Why not?”

Because you’ve got a dead girl in there, you goddamn lunatic, I wanted to say, but instead heard myself say, “No reason.
Bedroom’s fine.” I watched him pull a plastic drink stirrer out of his back pocket and slip it through the hole in the doorknob.
He was sweating now, and breathing heavily. “You’ll have to
excuse the mess,” he said as he opened the door. “I’m working on a project.”

“What kind of project?”

Eddie flicked on the light. That’s when I saw a sheet draped over what looked to be a big box. Or a cage.

Kate Trager, one of my colleagues at the Center, lived in New York during the “summer of Sam,” the summer when David Berkowitz,
aka Son of Sam, left his bloody mark on the city. Since the cops had more questions than answers about the elusive killer,
every guy on the street seemed like a suspect, especially if you were neurotic, which Kate was. She called the cops a half
dozen times with tips on various men—a guy on the subway with an odd-shaped package that might have concealed a gun, a man
in a car that lingered a little too long outside the bowling alley. But Kate wasn’t alone in her paranoia. Lots of people
called in with tips that summer. Everyone was hysterical, desperate. All that summer Kate tucked her long brown hair under
her sweatshirt hood no matter how hot the weather, and when she drove in cars, she always crouched under the dashboard, “out
of the crosshairs,” as she put it.