The Night Before (3 page)

Her thoughts drifted on and she had to stop and remind herself why she'd been looking at the damn thing in the first place. She returned to the front window and within a few minutes, saw two bundled figures on the driveway next door: Caroline and her daughter Kimberly heading for the party. Of course, Caroline was going early to help Betsy. It was the kind of thing she did, the perpetual volunteer. Mariel sipped her drink and gazed out on the street. She had just drained the last drops when she heard a knock at the back door.

After another half-hour, another gimlet, and a crazy-ass argument about how best to spend his “movie money,” Joe left Billy lying in wait for some lonely woman looking to collect a stray to warm her bed on this special night.

Outside, the sky had darkened to a wine purple that was dappled with faint early stars. Joe laid his gloves on the dashboard and listened to an acapella choir chanting Bach as he waited for the engine to warm. He experienced another few seconds of minor alarm when he couldn't find the zebrawood box amidst the folds of his coat. Then he located it, tucked snugly in an inside pocket.

He drove out of the lot to find that the busy activity on the streets had slowed to a trickle, leaving only stragglers. He stopped at the State Store for a bottle and drove the rest of the way home reviewing the choreography of what was to be a miraculous evening.

The dance began with him drifting to the curb on Birch Lane, one street over from their house. Pulling up the hood of his jacket, he hopped out and cut between the houses and across the yards to the rear door of the garage, the one they rarely used.

He had unlocked it earlier and now the latch slid back with the tiniest click. He pushed it open just wide enough to sidle through and closed it behind him, muffling the sound with the weight of his body. He took a step, bumped directly into the fender of Mariel's Beemer, and stood in the darkness, confused. Hadn't she said she was going out somewhere? He couldn't remember anything about catching a ride with one of her friends, but it was not unlikely. Or maybe her plans had changed. If she was at home, he'd have to arrange for the surprise later.

Creeping around the sedan, he stepped into the laundry room and closed the door behind him. From somewhere in the house, he heard a voice down low and guessed that Mariel or one of the kids had left a radio on. When he moved into the pantry, he caught an odd scrabbling sound, and wondered if their dog Peanut had gotten into something. With the zebrawood box clutched tight in one hand and the copy of the check and the ATM slip in the other, he inched his way into the kitchen. The urgent sounds were now louder and he guessed they were coming from the TV; except there was no blue light from the main room. He crept across the kitchen to the dining room archway and stopped.

Mariel was bent over the table with her dress hiked above her waist. The buttons of her blouse were undone and one strap of her brassiere hung loose to the side. Her head was bent down and her eyes drawn tight as if in the throes of a ferocious prayer and she moaned a kind of slow music.

Don, the one with the riding mower and snow blower, gripped her shoulders as he shoved his pelvis against her in a slow grind, his eyes closed tighter than hers. Their movements were as one, and among the jumble that came roaring through Joe's brain was the thought that this wasn't the first time they'd done this.

Though he hadn't moved or made a sound, Mariel sensed his presence, because she pulled out of her swoon in a sudden second and gasped, “Don? Don!” She cast her eyes about and saw Joe, or at least his shape, a specter looming in the darkness, and the groan that came from her throat tore her last gasp of passion neatly in half.

In the next second, Don saw him, too, and yelped out a curse, jumped back, and launched into a clumsy jig, grabbing his trousers to keep them from falling with one hand while flapping the other in the air as if to wave Joe into invisibility. Mariel's arms trembled as she pushed her skirt down and clutched her blouse. Her mouth was a jagged slash and fear and tears were springing from her eyes.

Joe stood petrified in sick fascination as he watched this slapstick. His mind went blank, even as he felt his heart crack into fragments and sink through his chest. He staggered under the rage that rose up in a black wave, but in the next moment, it was gone, sucked out of him, and he turned away and made a stumbling retreat, through the kitchen and garage and into the December night, leaving a vacuum of shock in his wake.

The snow was coming down in random swirls, riding the cold wind. What had fallen during the day was packed and Joe slipped and stumbled in a crazy zigzag through the Hamblin's yard.

His breath shot out before him as if he had eaten fire, his heart felt like a clenched fist, his teeth chattered, and his vision had gone blurry. Reeling into a swing set, he was treated to a surreal slide show: Mariel folded over with her blouse hanging open; her horrified face and Don's gape of fear; the pendulum of the wall clock tick-tocking solemn time above the three characters posing in rigid alarm.

Just as he reached the street, tires crunched on ice and he stopped and swung around with his jaw set for Mariel and fists clenched in case it was Don. No matter that he had lost every fight in his life except one twenty years before. He was ready to slug it out. But the car, a Saturn wagon, rolled by and neither one of the villains appeared out of the drifting flakes, mobile or on foot.

He slowed his steps and the wall collapsed. Another set of images of the two of them fastened together, back to front, brought a churn in his gut that tasted of bile, and then a spike in his heart so sharp that it buckled his knees. For a few seconds, he verged on going down in a crumpled mess to melt the fallen snow with his own hot tears. His next thought was of the kids. He saw before him their faces alight with the delights of the season and wanted to cry. At that instant, they were having a terrific time at Betsy's party, unaware that their parents' marriage had just tumbled into a sinkhole.

The moment of crushing heartache passed. He caught his breath and plodded back to his car. The zebrawood box jumped to mind, twelve hundred bucks in gems and gold, and he performed a frantic mime, slapping his pockets with his right hand until he realized that the box was still clasped in his left, so tightly that one corner had torn a hole in the palm of his glove.

This relief was caught short when he couldn't find his car keys and realized that he had dropped them somewhere, inside the house or outside in the snow. Either way, there was no going back for them. So he walked on.

The windows of the houses that he passed were cast in shades of cheery white, gold, and green, with multicolored coronas of lights and the Jolly St. Nicks and Nativities arrayed before frosted panes of glass that framed glittering trees. Parties were in full holiday tilt at several of the houses, and he wondered blankly what betrayals were taking place inside those warm walls.

The two of them had done it before. He knew this to be true. He had witnessed their ease, old hands who knew each other's fleshly contours. For how long had it been going on? Months? Years? Since she decided that her husband was never going to be a true provider, meaning a real man like Don?

Yes, Don was that sort, the kind of breadwinner who owned a 54-inch television set, hired people to landscape his lawn, and treated the family to Mexico Beach for not one but two weeks in the summer. Every year, they invited Joe and Mariel to bring the kids down for a weekend, but it had never worked out. Joe suspected that Don was most interested in seeing Mariel in a bikini. An unfounded suspicion, as it turned out. He laughed sourly into the silent night. Don wouldn't care about a glimpse of Mariel's bare flesh. He'd seen all he wanted in their dining room and who knew what other parts of the house?

Joe wondered if Don's wife Caroline had any inkling. Maybe it would be his pleasure to tell her.

Breathless with exertion and heartache, he stopped and looked around. He had reached High Street. If he kept on, he'd be hiking over Hanover Street and arrive on the banks of the river. The last thing he needed was to be alone with his thoughts, swinging in a wild arc between despair and murderous anger, a blue swirl of sorrow followed by dreams of homicide. So he stomped in a circle, yelling curses into the starlit night, in such a state that he didn't notice the pickup until the lights were on him. The truck pulled to a stop and the window rolled down.

“You okay?” The driver's red face was too jolly.

Joe said, “Yeah, okay,” and waved him away.

“All right, then. Merry Christmas.” The window slid up and the truck started forward. “Merry fuck you,” Joe snarled.

The truck stopped and the window rolled down once more. The driver poked his head out. The jolly had disappeared. “What'd you say?”

“What did
you
say?” Joe was barking at the moon. “I said ‘Merry Christmas.'”

Joe shook his head as if trying to loose it from his neck. “Yeah, whatever…”

The driver said, “You need to go home, pal.” The truck started off again. “Hey, wait a minute!” Joe hollered.

—

Mariel tottered from one room to the next and then climbed the staircase with Don edging along behind, his face blanched except for a red patch on each cheek and the bead of sweat above his lip.

“Oh, my God!” she wailed. “I don't believe this. Jesus Christ!”

Don wore the look of a man who wanted to run for his life; because he was afraid of Caroline finding out, of what Joe might do, or both. Mariel knew her husband wasn't the type to pick fights; even so, he had a temper. That he had never raised a hand to the kids didn't mean he was a wimp. He stayed in shape and she could imagine him tearing into Don. They had never liked each other. As to Caroline, she would take whatever her husband dished out. More than once, Don had whispered in Mariel's ear what a lousy lay his wife was, another feature of her jellyfish nature.

She reeled into the bathroom, feeling her stomach heave. When Don tried to follow, she slammed the door in his face, then locked it. She put a hand on the edge of the sink to steady herself and closed her eyes tight. What had she been thinking? The next-door neighbor? What was she, trailer trash? The town slut who couldn't keep her panties up for five minutes? What if one of the kids had surprised them?

Her heart hammered as she imagined the crack in her world turning into spider web of fractures and then breaking into a tumble of shards. There was no way to fix what had happened. She couldn't trust Don to keep his mouth shut. He might even run home and confess to Caroline. Yes, that would be him, all right. He'd get a jump, blame it all on the jezebel next door, and present it as a chance for husband and wife to reaffirm their bonds of marriage.

Of course Caroline would swallow whatever bullshit he spouted. After which she'd spread the word around the neighborhood. The phones and internet connections would be humming. Someone would find out at the office and Mariel Kelly would be gossip headline number one. And for what? A few sweaty couplings driven by a desperate urge that amounted to
her
midlife crisis. And just to make sure she couldn't construct any worse of a disaster, it had come to a crashing climax the night before Christmas.

The disgust convulsed her stomach and she leaned over the toilet to let its sour contents come up in a noisy, stinging rush. When she finished, she rose shakily, washed out her mouth, and brushed her teeth. Then she opened the small window to let the cold air calm her rioting brain, if only for a few seconds.

She had no choice but to put up a front and hope for the best. Which meant she would have to get dressed and go to the party. Don would show up, too and Caroline and the rest of their neighbors would be there to greet her. She'd make an excuse for Joe's absence and maintain a game face, smiling and chatting even as she was crumbling inside. What else could she do?

Her heartbeat slowed and she spent a moment gazing out over the snow-crusted rooftops, wondering where her husband had gone and trying to imagine what would happen when he came home.

—

Reverend Franklin Callum of The Light of the World Tabernacle stood watching the snow settle on the windowsill. Tall and round in the middle, his cheeks were fringed in a white beard. His eyes were dark and intense, but mostly benign. Only the closest inspection would discover blades of despair hidden in their depths.

The reverend was musing on the blessed weather when his assistant Willie stepped into the office. He offered a smile as Willie handed him the keys to the van. “How are the streets out there?”

“They' getting slick,” Willie said. “But it was all right.”

“You need to get on,” Reverend Callum said.

“I can stay,” Willie said. “I don't mind.”

The reverend waved him out with a gentle hand. “No, your family will be waiting.”

The two men walked through the tiny chapel to the front door. The reverend turned the key in the lock and they stood watching the silver flakes falling from the night sky.

Willie said, “You know you're welcome to come spend the evening with us.”

The reverend shook his head. “Someone might need me. Imagine being out on a night like this with no place to go?” He saw the look on Willie's gentle face and said, “Don't you worry. I'll be fine right here.”

Willie stepped outside. “Well, then, the blessings of the night and the day on you, Reverend.”

“And the same to you and your family,” the reverend offered. He watched Willie tramp off down the sidewalk, then closed and locked the door. He had just settled back into his office with a cup of coffee when the phone rang.

The truck rolled south on Third Street and by the time they reached the river, the driver had clearly had enough of his passenger's grim silence and was too happy to dump him. They mumbled at each other as Joe stepped to the curb.