Jagged Edges Read online

With the kids down at nine, I go back to work. I get most of my household chores done between now and midnight (not kidding). It’s simply impossible to leave the room for more than two minutes with the munchkins knocking into things like billiard balls. Especially laundry. But sometime between ten and the wee hours I make my appearance on the fabulous sofa. Tommy gets annoyed at watching me bound around the house all night doing “busywork.”

  “Ain’t you done yet? Sheeit… set your ass down for a minute,” he moaned. He was still in his construction work clothes, a scruffy flannel over muck-smattered blue jeans. His long black hair spilling onto his shoulders in a tangled briar.

  I pushed the dig aside, “In a minute. Have you seen my picture?”

  “What’re you talking about?”

  “My picture… of dad, you know.”

  I really don’t give a shit cements his face. “Godsakes, set the hell down, exhausted just watchin’ you. We got business to attend to.”

  “What business?”

  “You talk to Bob yet?”

  “About what? The toilet? No.”

  “Why not?”

  “No time,” I said abruptly.

  He brooded silent, shaking his noggin. “And the electric bill?”

  I said nothing.

  “Jeez Courtney. Got all damn day to do a few things.”

  “All day taking care of kids you mean. You seen my picture?”

  He drew a belabored breath. “Not again. I gotta keep track of your shit now?”

  “I was just asking about my picture, but you had to make it—whatever.”

  “Maybe I tore it up.”

  “You would.”

  Cold sarcasm slithered from the corner of his twisted mouth. “Be doin you a favor—addicted to the damn thing like Bun Bun’s bottle.”

  I went silent with a glare I wished would kill him. “You’re a Cretin,” I finally muttered.

  Fury bloomed on his lips, wanting to strike back, but he had no idea what I had just said. I took it as a victory and strode past him, then shambled into the bathroom for a quick shower. It’s a good time for it too because after he’s had a good ribbing, he knows I’ll be thoroughly uninterested if he tries anything (and he often does waddle in like a basset hound in heat. Big sloppy guess-who’s-here grin across his mug).

  I twisted the industrial strength rusted-out facets to get the hot water going and disrobed quickly. When you have three youngsters you learn to do everything at breakneck speed. It becomes your life rhythm. But at least it’s hot. I take it scalding like a hot tub and soon the bathroom is billowing with steamy clouds. It’s the closest thing I’ll ever get to a spa so I indulge in it, owning my own precious space.

  I could feel it washing away the grime of the day. Pure—yeah, and the sensation takes me away. Away from my hollering man, screaming angels, grubby apartment, grimy town—this filthy world. My eyes clasped shut, I live here for as long as I can, lost in the hypnotic rhythm of the hallowed cascade.

  I toweled off, and breathed a sigh of relief that Tommy didn’t crash the shower this time. Then I went to check on the kids. All asleep except Joey who’s always last to go. In the azure glow of the night-light his head is a shadowy bump, “Mom, can we go on a Narnakia ship?” His voice a dreamy whisper of enthusiasm.

  “Shhhh. Go to sleep,” I whisper firmly. I take a moment to gaze at my babies. Tiny Bun Bun in his little crib, the sweetest look donning his face. Bugs too. Their tiny breaths puffing out with the gentleness of autumn, their sweet skin like sugarcane. Swaddled in the sweet bliss of consecrated innocence. I gazed my last and pulled the door closed to a gap of a hand’s-width.

  Three

  Today turned into emergency diaper day. I wasn’t supposed to go to the store, but I was running low on inventory. Luckily for me, Jarod was home and so I dropped off the Rat Pack (I mean munchkins) on my way out. Then marched straight on to the store. And no, I don’t have a car. I haven’t worked in three years and Tommy don’t make squat so—besides, I know he wouldn’t let me have one anyway. No way. That would mean independence. And he wants me right where he can tend to me, like a zoo animal.

  All that to say I’ve learned to hoof it. Been doing it most of my life, besides, everywhere I have to go is within walking distance so… there ya go. At Walmart I grabbed the knock-off brand diapees (what I call ‘em), a box of wipes and a jug of water and headed back. A biting cold nips my nose and the rings of my ears and I notice the melting snow slushes edging the walk that I usually ignore. By the time I enter the apartment complex my right arm is completely dead. (I’m real strong for someone who weighs all of a hundred and nine pounds). I decide to unload the jug-barbell before grabbing the kids at Jarod’s and trudge on to the far corner of the building, into the dark hovel of number 17.

  Inside, I close the door behind me. I immediately sense something. Something’s wrong. I just know it. Like a mother’s alarm to check on her kids. No imagined vampires or monsters this time. I think someone’s been in the apartment. There’s an odor—foul. I head for the kitchen wanting to drop the barbell from my clenched, aching fingers. I notice a few things out of place, more than what the kids usually do: a lamp that has been knocked to the floor, a dining chair toppled over. My alarm goes off again. I tell myself it must’ve been the kids earlier. What else could’ve—?

  Then I see it.

  There on the kitchen floor, a pair of dirty-white sneakers. They are my husband’s big feet. Panic grips me. I creep forward. Now legs, torso, the rest of him face-down, sprawled lifeless across the cracked linoleum. His long raven hair tumbling into a pool of blood. Horrible crimson pooling out from around his chest, coloring the room.

  I’m knocked back with disbelief—this isn’t happening—can’t be happening. Not real. Just a trick someone’s playing on me. He’ll jump up laughing at any moment. Ha ha! But he doesn’t. He’s still there. And I feel like I’m going to blackout. Reality slipping away.

  Light fades into gloom. Darkness spreads like crude-oil, gushing from the earth, blotting out the world.

  Then sunshine cleaving through. And I am suddenly five years old kicking my legs into the air as I feel my daddy heave me on the swing. I’m in our old front yard, under the giant elm. My daddy’s sure, massive hand pressed to the crux of my back, sends me away like a crow and I fly over the course green grass then zoom up into the blue where I join the birds and the clouds and everything free. It’s all I can see, oceans of blue. I remain here awash in the shimmer of sunshine.

  Then just like that, I’m back, and there’s Tommy lying in a heap. A gleam catches my eye, something I hadn’t noticed until this second. Beside him lies a serrated kitchen knife, soaked in blood. This is really happening. I scream, blood curdling. I have to do something. But I am the most pathetic of persons, all my strength evaporated, my thoughts gelatinous. I call out to him in the thinnest of voices as I creep forward, “Tommy! Are you… can you hear me?” He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t stir. Doesn’t breathe. Oh my God. Jesus he’s gone. Gone… hangs like a gallstone. I don’t want to say it. Don’t want to think it, but murder clouts like the hammer of Thor.

  A flurry of questions flash like heat lightening; who? Why? What do I do? I inch another step and my shoes slip in the slurry of blood. I’m sliding to the floor. Then get my feet back underneath me. And back away helpless, there’s nothing I can do.

  Tommy’s dead.

  I am filled with dread, and for what I’m not really sure. I myself have wished him dead a thousand times. But not like this. Never. This is ghastly. Then a thought anchors my fear—everyone will think I did it. Know I did it. I mean, who else?

  I make the inevitable call to the police, the phone slippery in my clammy hand. I can’t remember the number and dial 611, then 411, then finally 911. A very calm voice, a woman’s voice, asks if this is an emergency. I tell her yes. “Can you tell me what happened?” the voice says.

  “My husband’s been hurt… um… stabbed. I think he’s… dead.”
r />   “Okay. Just remain calm…” I am everything but that. “Are you in any immediate danger yourself?”

  “I—don’t think so.”

  “Are you in your home?”

  “Yes. Apartment.”

  “Is there anyone there in the house with you?”

  “No. Not that I know of.”

  “I want you to give me your address then go to a neighbor’s house and wait for officers. Do you understand?”

  I hear the words but they muddle together and the words I try to form in my mouth roll around on my thick tongue like steel ball bearings. “O—okay,” I say.

  “Where are you dear? Can you tell me your name and address?”

  I give her the address and finish with the calm lady. Then stumble out of the apartment like a hysterical, crazy woman. I head to Jarod’s and try to stop shaking but I’m a wreck. I tell him what happened. He doesn’t quite believe me. “I should take a look,” he says.

  “No! Don’t go in there. The police are arriving any minute.” He backs off and in the next moment we hear the sirens already wailing in the distance.

  Jarod tries to calm me and pours some coffee. I take a sip, but can’t imbibe anything. I’m sick to my stomach. I just sit on his stoop in a fog, cradling the cup in my clammy paws, waiting for the uniforms to arrive. Any second now. Any second. I cling to the hope that Tommy’s not really dead. They can revive him at the hospital. My mind is racing with worst case scenarios (the way it always does) and I can see it all now. The big picture. They will all come with their circus. The ringmasters will set up their tents and the lion tamers and sword swallowers will arrive to kick me out of my own home to perform their acts. So I can wait. I can wait. And I do.

  * * *

  Jarod and I went bouncing through town behind the ambulance, me riding shotgun. I whirl into the hospital like a tropical storm. But I’m barred from the OR, relegated to fidget in the miserable waiting room full of dispirited, collapsed faces. Jarod had to watch my babies so I went it alone. A TV monitor barked world news a little too loud for the small space that only added to the sense of forlorn: bombings in the Middle East, the big murder trial of the month and another NFL star arrested for domestic battery (regular mood music). I wanted to turn the damn thing off. It would be hours before the doctor would come through the locked security-door with any news—and when it comes it doesn’t look good. I could tell by the masked, silent horror on the doctor’s face. “Courtney? Courtney Lane?”

  “Yes?”

  I am invited to a private corner to talk and follow the white-coated dragon in wobbly steps. The doctor went silent a moment to anchor what he was about to say. “I’m sorry. We did everything we could. But your husband was in bad shape when he arrived. The lacerations and hemorrhaging was severe. Lost a lot of blood. Even if we could have revived him… significant brain impairment would have—” He cut himself off. “I’m sorry.”

  I’m jolted even though I already knew deep down this was it. I stiff-bite my lower lip in natural reflex, thank the doctor, and we stand in a chasm of awkward silence. He nods wordless to show compassion and curves his lips into a quarter smile that isn’t really a smile at all. It’s all mechanical for him, something he’s done a thousand times. And yet I know he feels something. He has too. We’re both human after all. “Well… again, my condolences.” His cue that he’s done.

  I turned and headed back through the miserable waiting room of slumped heads and emerged outside into the frigid air of the burgeoning night. Somehow the traffic noise and chill are a subtle relief over the stifling, airless interior of the hospital. I hit the guardrail and pressed my palms against it, folding over like a ragdoll. I felt as if I could puke, and decided that I wanted to. But nothing came up. I took a breath. Then called Jarod.

  Four

  We bobbed into the apartment complex that was now a swarm of police activity. Cop cars jammed in the small parking lot like animal crackers. A local news van was double-parked on the street with its crew stacking equipment onto the sidewalk. This was way worse than I had anticipated. But then I’d never had anyone die in my house before. There’s nowhere to put Jarod’s car so he lets me out. I emerged with the apprehension of a cockroach on a bustling dance floor. I wheedled my way down the walk to find neighbors huddled outside their doorjambs ogling like owls over at the crime scene that was my apartment.

  I marched straight to Jarod and Delaya’s to see my kids that are probably freaking out by now. I wanted them to know mommy’s okay. I tapped on the door and Delaya hauled it open. “Oh my God honey… how are you? You holding up?” she said nearly weeping. A colorful apron wrapping her chest and the smell of oregano bleeding about her tells me she was in the middle of cooking dinner. Delaya, mid-thirties, is a beautiful mix of Latina, Black and Asian with some Irish thrown in for good luck. Her demeanor exudes uncanny warmth and I’ve rarely seen her brooding like so many do (especially around here). A flower that somehow flourished in a junkyard lot. I sometimes tell myself, I want to be her when I grow up.

  I took a winded breath, stiffened up, “Not so good.”

  I entered and she wrapped me in her arms, holding me in a long embrace. I accepted her compassion like a whimpering dog. “Sweetie. Sweetie. I’m so sorry. Hang in there.” She lets go, I thank her without words, and the silence is deep.

  “Thank you for watching my babies,” I say.

  “Oh my god… no, it’s nothing. Please,” she said while caressing my shoulders like a mother comforting her fallen child.

  I moved to my children. Joey eyes me immediately with a sallow look that tells me he has a clue to what’s going on. The others are too young to understand what all the commotion’s about.

  My eldest waddled up, “What happened mom? Is daddy okay?”

  I’m caught off-guard like a punchy boxer slammed with a right hook. Never in my wildest dreams have I imagined a conversation of such horror with one of my children. There’s no candy-coating this one. I decided to put off the inevitable until things have calmed down. “Daddy’s still at the hospital honey. He’s very sick.” His face furrowed. It’s all I could do just then. I was red-lining, circuits overloaded. I didn’t want to put the little man into shock either. I’d give him time to get used to the idea and break it to him slowly. Sometime in the next day or two. But not now. Not now.

  There was a knock on the door. By the immaculately trimmed haircuts out the window, I had an idea who they were. Delaya hauled the door open to find two plain-clothes detectives, a man and a woman, one white, one black. As dead-faced as robots, they looked like an interracial couple from the Blade Runner movie. “Is Courtney Lane here?”

  “Yes. She is. Just a minute.”

  I wobbled to the door. “I’m Courtney.”

  “Misses Lane,” the woman began, donning a pantsuit that looked fresh from the drycleaners. “I’m Detective Voss. This is Detective Carver. How’re you doing right now?”

  The question seemed ridiculous. I stuttered, “Um… I dunno. As expected I guess.”

  “Sure. Sorry for your loss.” She paused to give the air the dignity it deserved. “We’re going to need some information from you. We’d like to get a few things as soon as possible, if you’re up for it. But we can do the rest down at the station… when you’re—things settle down. I know you’ve been through a lot today.” I respond by wilting in a way that says, no shit, I’m about to collapse in a heap. But I remain on my feet. “First though, do you need any medical attention? Did you see anyone at the hospital for anxiety or stress?”

  “No. I was just there for… my husband.”

  “So you’re feeling okay as far as that right now?”

  I shrug, sure.

  “Where are your children?”

  “They’re here. Jarod and Delaya have been watching them so...”

  “Okay well, we’ll make this quick. Can we come inside?”

  “Sure, well wait—I’d rather my kids not hear any of this.”

  “
Okay, then, why don’t you step outside and we’ll talk out here.” I hobbled out and we shuffle a few feet down the walk, our shoes sinking into the dirt and crabgrass of the central courtyard.

  The black cop, a towering bull-shouldered man with a cleanly shaved head, finally said, “We just need a few things answered at this time. You can come down later or tomorrow to finish the interview if you like.” He studied me with dark, intelligent eyes that exuded quiet assuredness. “You may want to be with your kids tonight. Do you and the children have a place to stay?”

  I hadn’t even thought about it. But it’s a good question. “I guess we’ll just stay here, with Jarod. Then—”

  “Your apartment is going to be sealed for at least a few days while the investigation is underway. Once that’s done, a bio team will come in and put things back to normal. This could take up to a week.”

  “Do you have any family where you and the kids could stay for the time being?” the woman said.

  “I guess, my mother and father-in-law’s.”

  “In town?”

  “Yeah. Not too far.”

  “Okay. Let us know if you need help with the kids or anything. We have services…”

  I slipped a smirk because I’m all too familiar with their services since cops have been called out to our house for domestic violence before. “Yeah, I know.”

  “Did the children witness anything?” She asked.

  “You mean…?” Each referent to the incident is like a big fat elephant sitting on my head. “No, they were at Jarod’s.”

  “Okay, good.” She paused as if getting that out of the way. Then pulled out a notepad and scratched something down with a ballpoint pen. “Well, first is, were you home? Did you witness the event at all?”

  “No, I was at the market.”

  She scratched again. “When did you first know about it?” My blank face told her to elaborate. “Was it when you found him?”

  “Yeah.”

  “When was the last time you saw your husband before the incident?”