Working Stiff (24 page)

D
om pulls his car around behind the house and into the garage. The drive home was a silent one once Dom gave up on his attempts to get me to talk. I can't talk. I am too stunned, too confused, and too heartbroken.

I notice the car parked beside the garage—a dark sedan I recognize immediately—with a sense of resignation. The car itself is empty, but when I crane around to look back at the cottage, I can make out a dark shadow sitting on the steps of my porch.

“You can come into the house and hide out if you want,” Dom offers as he turns off the engine and hits the button on the garage door opener.

I give him a wan smile. “Thanks, but I can handle Hurley.”

“He's gonna be pissed after the way you ditched him at The Cellar.”

“He'll get over it.”

I open my door and start to get out but Dom reaches over and stops me with a hand on my arm. “Are you going to be okay?” he says, concern marking his face.

I nod, though we both know I might never be okay again. I spent the ride home trying to make the facts add up to something other than the inevitable conclusion, but it was like trying to prove that two plus two equals five, an exercise I failed in my high school algebra class and can't seem to master any better now. Still I keep trying, unable—or maybe unwilling—to accept the obvious.

I can't even harbor any last hopes that Cinder might have mistaken someone else for David. She described him to a tee and when I showed her a picture from my wallet that was a group shot of David and me with Desi, Lucien, and two other couples, Cinder picked David out without hesitation.

I am struggling to accept the fact that the man I married, the man I thought I knew, is involved in all of this. I find it hard to believe that I've been so blind, so utterly clueless all this time.

I am appalled, confused, and furious. I want to scream, hit someone, kick someone, or
break
something. Which is why I feel prepared to take on Hurley. Right now, any man that ticks me off even the slightest bit will be putting his life—and a few precious anatomical parts—at great risk.

I lean over and give Dom a quick buss on the cheek. “I'll holler really loud if I need anything, okay?”

“Okay, I'll be listening. Hey, why don't you come over and have breakfast with me in the morning?”

“Thanks, but I don't think I'll be very good company.”

“Since when does that stop you?”

Despite the vicious storm roiling inside me, I smile. “Thanks for the offer, but I think I'll be better off alone for now, Dom.”

“I'll make Belgian waffles.”

Dom's Belgian waffles are legendary, the stuff culinary wet dreams are made of. The fact that his offer doesn't make me instantly start to salivate proves just how upset I am.

“Please, Mattie? I'm kind of lonely with Izzy gone and I'd really enjoy your company, bitchy or not. Besides, I want to know what happens with Mr. Gold Star over there,” he says, nodding toward Hurley.

I know Dom is no more lonely than he is straight, but I am touched by his efforts nonetheless. “Okay, fine. You win. I'll see you in the morning.”

As I step out of the garage and walk toward Hurley, I concentrate on keeping my face impassive. My breath clouds before me as I sigh, and I wonder why Hurley is sitting outside on my steps rather than in his car, given that the temperature is hovering somewhere in the midforties.

“Aren't you cold?” I ask him when I am a few feet away.

“I seem to be rather hot at the moment,” he says, his voice tight. “I get that way whenever someone tries to make me for a fool.”

“Who did that?” Pure innocence.

“Give it up, Mattie. You sicced that…creature on me on purpose, didn't you?”

“Whatever are you talking about? You've lost me, Hurley.”

“No, I'd say it was you who lost me. And nicely done at that. Distract me by having some she-male try to rape me in public and then sneak out the back door. Very clever.”

“I left out the front door.”

“It's a figure of speech,” he says irritably. “And you know what I mean. Where'd you go?”

“Dom and I stopped at another bar for a nightcap.”

“Bullshit.”

“Are you calling me a liar?”

“Gee, I don't know. Have you ever lied to me?” he snaps back.

Score one for his side.

I don't want to play any longer. Generally I enjoy Hurley's presence, not to mention the opportunity to just look at him. And that kiss we shared is still hot on my mind. But discovering that the man I've been married to for the last seven years had a romantic liaison with not only another woman, but with an HIV-infected man, doesn't exactly put me in the mood for romance. I need to be alone.

“Go away, Hurley. I don't want to play your games tonight.” I storm past him and onto the porch. I unlock the door, push it open, reach in, and flip the light switch. I am about to look back to make sure Hurley is leaving when I see what awaits me in the living room.

“What the—”

Hurley comes up behind me and leans in over my shoulder. The two of us stand there, staring, trying to make sense of what we are seeing.

My living room floor is covered with dozens of white fluffy tufts, like some sort of cotton batting. It looks as if someone murdered a small mattress by blowing it to smithereens. Except most of these chunks of stuffing have strings attached. Scattered amidst the tufts are tiny pieces of shredded paper, some with blue writing on them. I tilt my head to read a fairly large piece near my foot, making out the letters
t-a-m
. And then Rubbish struts out from under the couch proudly carrying his latest kill in his mouth—more of the white cottony stuff. But this piece is as yet unchewed and unclawed and in its original form, the string trailing along the floor.

Hurley reaches down and picks up one of the malformed tufts by its string. He holds it aloft, staring at it. “What the hell is this?” he asks.

“It's a tampon, Hurley. Don't tell me you've never seen one before.”

He drops it as if it burned him and takes a quick step back.

“Geez, Hurley, relax. They haven't been used or anything.”

His face turns a bright shade of crimson and suddenly I know how to get him to leave. I lean over and pick up the mutilated tampon he just dropped.

“Want me to explain how it works?” I say, swinging it by the string like a hypnotist's watch. I step closer.

He backs up another step. “No, really. That's not necessary. I…um…I just wanted to make sure you got home okay. Everything looks fine here so I guess I'll be on my way. Good night.”

He spins around and is gone so fast I start to wonder if he was ever really here. Seconds later his car engine fires up and I listen to the sound of it fading as he goes down the driveway. When he reaches the road, I hear him lay down rubber as he peels out.

Oddly, the sound brings tears to my eyes. I brush them away and begin rationalizing to myself.
It's good that he left. I need to be alone. I need to think. The last thing I need around me tonight is some damned man.

I hear a mew followed by a
thump-ump.
I laugh and then, as I start to pick up the mess on my living room floor, I cry.

 

After tossing and turning most of the night, I give up on trying to sleep once the sun comes up. I feel edgy and hung-over, so I make a pot of coffee and sit on the couch, trying to figure out what to do next. I realize I'm going to have to confront David, and the thought of doing so fills me with both sadness and dread.

A little after eight, I head over to the main house, knowing Dom will be up and about by now. Half an hour later we are seated at the kitchen table, our plates heaped with fluffy waffles smothered with fat strawberries and mounds of whipped cream. Bright morning sunshine streams in through the window in stark contrast to the darkness inhabiting my soul.

“Thank you for insisting I come over here this morning, Dom. Being alone wasn't as good for me as I thought it would be.”

“Did you get any sleep?”

I answer him with a weak smile.

“Didn't think you would.”

“I just can't believe it,” I say, shaking my head. “I mean, forget the risk to me. David is a surgeon, for God's sake. He's routinely messing with other people's bodily fluids and delicate organs. Doesn't he realize what could happen? What the hell was he thinking?”

“Sounds like he wasn't thinking,” Dom says. There is a period of silence and then he adds, “Assuming he did what you think he did.”

I look up at him, my mouth hanging open in disbelief. “Don't tell me you're going to defend the bastard.”

“Not defend necessarily, just give him the benefit of the doubt.”

“Doubt? What doubt? There is no doubt, Dom. Cinder clearly identified him as the man who met Mike Halverson at the Grizzly. So what's to doubt?”

He shrugs. “I just think you might be jumping to conclusions. David never struck me as the type.”

“You mean the type to screw around? Because I can assure you he
is
that type. I saw that with my own eyes.”

“That's not what I meant. Obviously he did the nasty with Karen. I meant I don't think David is gay. My gaydar may not be infallible, but it's pretty good. And David just doesn't fit.”

“Oh, yeah,” I scoff. “
There's
solid evidence.”

“Come on, Mattie. You're usually more open-minded than this.”

“Excuse me if having my life blow up before my eyes doesn't do much to enhance my objectivity.”

“Look, I know I'm acting on nothing more than a gut feeling. But I think you should try to talk to David, hear what he has to say before you jump to any conclusions.”

“Oh, I intend to talk with him all right.”

“Mattie.”

“Oh, all right,” I say, tossing my fork down in frustration. “I'll try to give him the benefit of the doubt.”

There is no conviction in my voice and Dom is too smart not to notice. “You should take someone with you,” he says. “That will help you stay calm. I'll be happy to go along.”

“I think I'd rather do it alone.”

“You're too emotional. Too close to it all. All you'll end up doing is pissing him off. Besides, if you truly have doubts as to what David is capable of, it just makes sense not to confront him alone.”

He is probably right, but I know that with him or anyone else there, David will never open up like he would to me alone. Besides, this is so very personal. Yet if I know Dom, he'll insist on coming along and will badger me about it until I give in. I think fast, knowing what I have to do but not sure how to pull it off. Then I remember that it is Sunday and, being a creature of habit, Dom always does his grocery shopping before noon on Sundays. He swears it's the best time to go if you want to avoid long lines because so many people spend the morning in church.

I don't want to make my capitulation look too easy, so I spend a few moments playing with different facial expressions, going from stubborn to conflicted, and finally, resigned. “You're right,” I say with a sigh. “How about if I call David and see if he'll be home this afternoon. We can go over there then.”

“Great. That will give me time to get my grocery shopping done.”

Bingo!

We finish eating and after helping with the cleanup I head back to the cottage. Within the hour I hear the rumble of the garage door and watch as Dom backs out and heads down the driveway. As soon as he turns onto the road, I throw on a jacket and head off through the woods.

The one flaw in my little scheme is that I no longer know anything about David's on-call schedule and I'm not sure he'll be home, so I'm relieved when I see his car in the drive. As I cross the yard I notice that the wheelbarrow is gone, though there is a small pile of mulch beneath the window, serving as a testament to my stupidity. I climb the porch steps and, out of habit, reach for the doorknob. Then I remember that I don't live here anymore. Feeling awkward and oddly conspicuous, I ring the doorbell instead.

David answers wearing shorts and a T-shirt. A fine sheen of sweat covers his body and a small towel is draped around his neck. I know from past experience that he's just finished his morning workout on the treadmill. In the past, David's obsession with fitness struck me as appropriate, considering that he is a surgeon and presumably, somewhat health-conscious. Now, it seems merely obsessive, one more fault in the ram-shackle construction of his personality.

“Hi,” he says, his face registering surprise at finding me here. “Is this a social call?”

“Not exactly. I need to get some clothes. The weather is getting cooler and I need warmer stuff.”

“No problem.” He steps aside and waves me in with a magnanimous gesture that pisses me off. After all, this is my house, too. At least it used to be.

While the clothes thing serves as a delaying tactic, it is also a legitimate need. Worried that we might end up at one another's throats before my visit is done, though hopefully only in the metaphorical sense, I opt to gather the clothes first before saying anything. David tails me the entire time, indulging in inane chatter about the hospital, the OR, and a recent case he did. His incessant yammering annoys me and the way he follows me around everywhere I go, watching my every move, makes me wonder if he thinks I'll try to take something I shouldn't.

After sorting through the closet and dresser, I pack a suitcase full of sweaters, slacks, and flannel jammies and haul it downstairs, parking it by the front door. Then I go to the foyer closet and dig out gloves, a scarf, a sweater jacket, and my best winter coat, tossing them atop the suitcase. Nervous and anxious to be done with it all, I turn to David and, with no segue or warning, launch my first missile.