By Eric Eisenberg
As my wife slept, my head banged against the wooden headboard. I couldn’t sleep. For the past hour I had tossed and turned, flipping from one side to the other, back to stomach, side to side. The sleep medication I had taken two hours ago failed to kick in. Clear your mind, I thought. Focus entirely on sleeping. But something was keeping me awake.
I rose from the bed and thrust the sheets towards my wife’s feet. I leaned over, hoping she would wake so that I would have company, but she simply turned over and let out a sigh, a smile slowly stretching across her face. I hated her at that moment. My frustration continued as she slept peacefully, her eyes flittering under her eyelids as dreams took her to places where she danced with celebrities and dated football players. My pain resonated in the room and trapped me in misery. She continued to smile.
I walked through the bedroom doorway and down to the kitchen, feeling the cold of the wooden stairs on my feet. When I opened the fridge, the light burned my eyes as I grasped blindly for the milk. Warm milk helps you fall asleep, I had heard. Pulling out the carton, I shook it, checking to see how much was left. Not much. My eyes craned to the ceiling and closed as my lips whispered curses. Over $200 spent at the supermarket and she couldn’t even pick up some goddamn milk. My frustration mounted. Pouring what little was left into a mug, I put it into the microwave. I crushed the empty carton in my hand and hurled it towards the trash can. The carton hit the side of the can with a loud thud, causing it to tip. Garbage splashed across the linoleum floor. My eyes focused on the stairs, but my effort was futile. She still slumbered. I could see her upstairs, sleeping soundly, smiling in her dreams.
As I bent down to pick up the scattered garbage, the microwave beeped. Flinging the apple cores and crumpled paper towels back in the bin, a small movement caught the corner of my eye. As I took the mug from the microwave, I turned and saw a small calico cat perched on the doormat outside the sliding door. It watched every move I made, its golden eyes flittering and never blinking.
I slid open the glass door. Kneeling down, I slowly placed the mug in front of the tiny beast. It didn’t look down; it kept its focus on me. Still crouched, and nearly eye to eye, I bit my lip, feeling a bit dizzy.
“What do you want then?” I asked, returning the feline’s gaze.
“We want your wife,” it stated stoically.
“What for?”
“Everyone needs to eat.” The cat’s head turned back and I my eyes followed, seeing hundreds of glowing eyes in the darkness, staring back at me.
“Why my wife?” My eyes returned to the cat in front of me.
“Everyone needs to eat.”
I backed away slowly, but did not touch the door. They didn't move. I crept up the stairs silently, and returned to the bedroom. I pulled the sheets over my head and willed myself into slumber, ignoring the brush of fur and the light pressure of paws as they passed over me.
© Eric Eisenberg, All Rights Reserved
Divorce
By Eric Eisenberg
As Mark figured, because it was a Tuesday night, St. James was nearly empty, which gave him a chance to just be alone. The pub was dark, with only the stained-glass lamps over the pool tables providing light. The fluorescent bulb that used to be over the bar burned out months ago, but no one had bothered to replace it. The other drinkers sat at tables; small groups of old men sat quietly throughout the pub, occasionally lifting their gin and tonics and vodka gimlets before placing them back down on their coasters. A young couple sat at the other end of the bar talking with Martha, the bartender, who spent her evenings having hearty laughs between pulling taps and pouring shots. Beer mirrors and assorted bric-a-brac patterned the walls, attempting to give the pub a sense a family and homeliness, but it was a failed effort. Instead, Mark always thought that they were simply items to be damaged during a bar fight. He had been coming to St. James with Jack from the day that they turned twenty-one, eight years prior, finding it ideal because it reminded them of the places that they saw in the movies and it provided a place to hang out that was far off campus, where they wouldn’t run into former professors.
He had told Jack that he was going to show up at 10:30, but instead opted to arrive early. While they had been friends for over a decade, Jack never grasped the concept of solitude. He preferred to be surrounded by people, which always made Mark wonder why he spent time at St. James. Three beers later he gazed up at the clock. Jack would arrive any second.
As the minute-hand fell perfectly on the six, the door opened and Mark didn’t need to turn around. Jack made a habit of never showing up early and not even a second late, which seemed to run contrary to his laid-back attitude. Mark always imagined Jack waiting outside the door staring at his watch and impatiently tapping his foot. Mark had never been able to confirm the theory, as he’d never been able to catch Jack keeping an appointment with someone else. The chair next to him became shrouded in a long black jacket and thin palms thudded on his shoulders.
“How are the lucky people of St. James doing tonight?” Jack called to the rest of the pub in a fake Irish accent. Murmurs erupted and Mark could hear the slow lifting and dropping of glasses. He looked at the bottles sitting in front of Mark. “You started without me. As he sat down, Mark turned towards him and Jack’s eyes widened at the sight of a large gap in Mark’s smile. “What the hell happened to you?”
“Almost forgot about that,” Mark replied, sticking his tongue between his left canine and his incisor. “Had a bit of an accident.”
“Where? You playing for the Rangers now?”
“I got called down to the Morgan Library because there was some confusion about my plans for the new wing.”
Jack’s attention left Mark as he raised his hand and looked down the bar. “Need a beer, Blue Eyes. And might I say, you’re looking prettier than an Irish rose.”
Martha, a woman with forty years on Jack and a thick, authentic Irish accent, walked down the bar and pulled the tab labeled Guinness, filling a pint with dark stout and leaving a perfect, creamy head. She walked towards Jack, placing the cold stout into his waiting hands.
“Calling me Blue Eyes doesn’t excuse you from saying please, Johnny.”
Jack winked at her and his voice changed back into his fake accent. “Only me mother calls me Johnny, Blue Eyes. Put it on my tab.” His attention turned back to Mark. “People don’t lose teeth going over plans.”
“I was out on the sight talking with the foreman so that I could show him exactly what I wanted for the new wing. There is this thing that I am doing in the corner of the northwest corridor and I guess I didn’t make it clear enough. So we’re walking and I am trying to show him what I wanted when some guy wielding a piece of lumber turned and smashed me in the face. Doctor said I was lucky that I didn’t break my cheekbone or my nose. We couldn’t find the tooth so I have an appointment to get a porcelain tooth next Saturday.”
“Ouch. What day was this?”
“Thursday.”
“Yikes. That’s fucked up timing.”
“That is definitely a subject that I don’t want to talk about tonight.” Mark scratched his eyebrow with his thumbnail, ran his hand through his brown hair and massaged the back of his neck.
“Bullshit. That is exactly why we’re here.” Jack took a sip of his drink and licked the foam off of his upper lip. “So? What happened?”
“I’m not talking about it Jack. Stop asking.”
The two sat in silence for a moment sipping their beers.
“It’s been a cold spring,” Jack said.
“I know; I hate it. It was such a bad winter you would think Mother Nature might cut us a break. It’s already April and it’s still in the 40s.”
“I could have sworn that I saw David Wright shivering last night during the game. The Mets’ bats seem to be really slow.”
“I saw that too. I think they’re going to Arizona in the next couple of days though, so it should get better. What’s going on at work? You get any new cases?”
“Come on, man. We didn’t come here to talk about baseball and work. Tell me what’s up.”
“I don’t know. Ask her.”
“That won’t work. She doesn’t like me.” Jack smiled and his teeth glistened with stout.
“And who could blame her,” Mark said, faking a smile back.
“You, on the other hand, you do like me. Talk. How out of the blue was this?”
“We’ve been separated for the past three months and I’ve been staying in the guest house.”
“What?” Jack gasped, leaning in.
“I didn’t think much of it at the time. This kind of stuff happens. Couples hit low spots.”
“You still should have told me, man. That’s not the kind of stuff you hide from a best friend. What started it? I know you didn’t cheat on her.”
“God no. I don’t even know where it began. Frankly, I thought we were fine. Then she tells me that I spend too much time at work, that I don’t do anything around the house and, the kicker, that I don’t seem like I am ready to start a family with her.”
“What did you say?”
“I said that it was my busy time of the year and that I would work harder at doing more around the house.”
“And the family thing?”
“I showed her the back of my hand, pointed at my wedding ring, and said that I wouldn’t have married her if I didn’t want to start a family.”
“That doesn’t seem like you.” Jack said, his hands behind his head, pushing up his long black hair. “Is that what got you shit-kicked?”
“She told me that she wanted to separate for awhile and I moved into the guest house that night.”
“That doesn’t sound like Susan.”
“And five days ago she called me at work asking me for a divorce.”
“Jesus.”
“Frankly, things were going fine during the break too. We ate dinner together every night ‘cause she can’t really cook, we went to the movies… We were back to how we were at school.” Mark shifted in his seat and took a sip from his fourth beer.
“Look at me,” Jack said, turning to his friend. Mark turned and faced him “No more bullshit. You’re not telling me something. What happened?”
“Fuck you. That’s exactly what happened.” Mark’s hand came up and wiped his upper lip.
Jack stood up from his stool and leaned down the bar to where Martha was standing with the young couple. “Can we get four shots please, Blue Eyes?”
Martha moved toward them with a bottle of Jameson and four shot glasses. She placed the glasses on the bar and whiskey splashed on the hard wood as she poured from the metal spout. She quickly returned the bottle to the shelf and walked back.
“Just like in school. 1…2…3,” Jack said. The two grabbed the shot glasses and threw them back, slamming them back down on the bar once finished.
“Honestly, I don’t understand why you married her in the first place.”
“What does that mean?”
“I don’t get why you got married in the first place. You’re 27, man. You’re a fucking architect in the city of architecture. You build skyscrapers and museum wings. You’re rolling in it. You shouldn’t be married! You should be out with me on the weekends picking up girls at three AM and seeing them out the door at six. You’ll be happier once the divorce is finished.”
“You sound like my dad. He said that the twenties were designed for fucking around.”
“And I’ve always said Mr. Stevens has a good head on his shoulders.” Jack threw back the remainder of his pint and called down to the other end of the bar. “Can we get two more shots down here, Blue Eyes?”
“Do you even remember college? I was the guy walking home alone while you were checking your wallet for a rubber.”
“You’re a good looking guy, Marky-Mark. You could have been right there with me.”
Mark stood from his stool and stumbled, grabbing the bar to stabilize himself.
“I’m going to the bathroom. Don’t leave.”
“I’ll be right here.”
Mark made his way to the back of the pub and walked into the bathroom. As he began to go, splashing the rim and the floor before finally hitting water, he hooked his arm back on his shoulder and inhaled deeply, blowing a raspberry as he exhaled.
“It’s only been five days,” he said to himself
He finished up, closed the toilet lid, and flushed. He reached up to grab the handle on the door, but hesitated and sat down on the closed toilet. He put his elbows on his knees and pushed his thumbs into the corner’s of his eyes, just trying to breathe.
As he exited the bathroom, the door quickly shutting behind him, he saw that Jack had not only stayed, but now had a couple of guests sitting on either side of him.
“There he is!” Jack called, his arms pointing straight out, palms extended to draw Mark in. “Ladies, this is the guy I’ve been telling you about. Mark, this is Gillian and Becca.”
As he got closer, Mark looked back and forth between the two girls. Gillian wore a low-cut black top and a skirt that defied the weather. She had shoulder length black hair with short bangs and a nose that seemed to slightly point up at the end like a pixie. Becca had shorter red hair and was dressed less provocatively, wearing a more conservative black top that was concealed by a denim jacket and paired with a pair of tight black jeans. Jack placed two fingers on Becca’s far shoulder and nodded, a system Jack had created in college to designate that he had made his claim. It wasn’t the girl’s appearance that first caught Mark’s eye, however, but their age: something that Jack could see in Mark’s facial expression.
“Gillian and Becca are juniors over at NYU. Apparently they don’t have classes on Wednesdays and have decided to go bar hopping. Either that or they are intent on destroying their lives,” Jack said smiling. The girls shot him mixed looks of disgust and attraction, Becca playfully slapping him on the shoulder.
“You jerk,” she giggled. It was obvious this wasn’t the first bar they had gone to that night.
“Are you kidding? I’m the nicest guy you’ll ever meet!” Jack said laughing. “Mark, aren’t I the nicest guy you’ve ever met?”
“Yeah, you’re a real peach,” Mark sniped back. “Can I talk to you for a minute Jack?”
“Yeah, sure.”
Jack rose from his stool and left the two girls laughing and falling over each other. Occasionally staring back at the pair, Jack walked over with Mark to a far corner of the pub where they could talk privately.
“What are you doing?” Mark said angrily.
“You see what I did with the shoulder, man?” Jack asked. “Just like back at school. I’ve always wanted to get with a redhead.”
“How old are you?”
“What?”
“We’re not in college anymore, Jack. You’re 29, not 19.”
“Well maybe you need to relax a bit. Go back to being a 19 year old. Have some fun, get with some random girls.”
“No I don’t!” Mark’s voice was rising. “We’re working adults now. I’m getting divorced. It’s time to grow up.”
“We used to have fun! We used to go out, get fucked up and then be paranoid about security guards in the dorms. We used to pull pranks on the RA. We used to make stupid bets about who would eat the grossest things or gorge themselves on ridiculous amounts of food! You used to at least go out with me to try and pick up girls. I was just trying to make you feel better man! What happened to you?”
“I grew up, Jack! You think I’d rather be like you? Do you think anyone would rather be like you? I was happy! You’re fucking miserable! You spend weekends picking up random bar skanks and spend weekdays sitting in some oversized office in some Podunk law firm where people can’t tell the difference between you and the fucking wallpaper! I’m sick of it. We meet in some pub for some stupid nostalgic ideal and do nothing. We talk about shit. We talk about what we did ten years ago. This has been a long time coming, Jack.”
The pub was silent was now silent. Mark headed to the bar to grab his coat off the back of his chair and walked out, slamming the door behind him. It was getting close to midnight and he held his arms close to his chest while waiting for a taxi to come.
The door of the pub opened and Jack stepped out and stood next to Mark, neither of them looking at each other.
“My firm is offering me a job in Boston and I’m thinking that after the divorce goes through that I am going to take it,” Mark said.
“That sounds like a good opportunity. Boston’s a growing city,” Jack replied. “Plenty of museums and skyscrapers to be built.”
“Give me a call if you’re ever in the area. Big college town up there, plenty of places to hang out.”
“I’ll be sure to do that, man.”
A taxi pulled up to the curb and Mark opened the door and stepped in. Closing the door behind him, the taxi drove off, leaving Jack alone.
© Eric Eisenberg, All Rights Reserved
As Mark figured, because it was a Tuesday night, St. James was nearly empty, which gave him a chance to just be alone. The pub was dark, with only the stained-glass lamps over the pool tables providing light. The fluorescent bulb that used to be over the bar burned out months ago, but no one had bothered to replace it. The other drinkers sat at tables; small groups of old men sat quietly throughout the pub, occasionally lifting their gin and tonics and vodka gimlets before placing them back down on their coasters. A young couple sat at the other end of the bar talking with Martha, the bartender, who spent her evenings having hearty laughs between pulling taps and pouring shots. Beer mirrors and assorted bric-a-brac patterned the walls, attempting to give the pub a sense a family and homeliness, but it was a failed effort. Instead, Mark always thought that they were simply items to be damaged during a bar fight. He had been coming to St. James with Jack from the day that they turned twenty-one, eight years prior, finding it ideal because it reminded them of the places that they saw in the movies and it provided a place to hang out that was far off campus, where they wouldn’t run into former professors.
He had told Jack that he was going to show up at 10:30, but instead opted to arrive early. While they had been friends for over a decade, Jack never grasped the concept of solitude. He preferred to be surrounded by people, which always made Mark wonder why he spent time at St. James. Three beers later he gazed up at the clock. Jack would arrive any second.
As the minute-hand fell perfectly on the six, the door opened and Mark didn’t need to turn around. Jack made a habit of never showing up early and not even a second late, which seemed to run contrary to his laid-back attitude. Mark always imagined Jack waiting outside the door staring at his watch and impatiently tapping his foot. Mark had never been able to confirm the theory, as he’d never been able to catch Jack keeping an appointment with someone else. The chair next to him became shrouded in a long black jacket and thin palms thudded on his shoulders.
“How are the lucky people of St. James doing tonight?” Jack called to the rest of the pub in a fake Irish accent. Murmurs erupted and Mark could hear the slow lifting and dropping of glasses. He looked at the bottles sitting in front of Mark. “You started without me. As he sat down, Mark turned towards him and Jack’s eyes widened at the sight of a large gap in Mark’s smile. “What the hell happened to you?”
“Almost forgot about that,” Mark replied, sticking his tongue between his left canine and his incisor. “Had a bit of an accident.”
“Where? You playing for the Rangers now?”
“I got called down to the Morgan Library because there was some confusion about my plans for the new wing.”
Jack’s attention left Mark as he raised his hand and looked down the bar. “Need a beer, Blue Eyes. And might I say, you’re looking prettier than an Irish rose.”
Martha, a woman with forty years on Jack and a thick, authentic Irish accent, walked down the bar and pulled the tab labeled Guinness, filling a pint with dark stout and leaving a perfect, creamy head. She walked towards Jack, placing the cold stout into his waiting hands.
“Calling me Blue Eyes doesn’t excuse you from saying please, Johnny.”
Jack winked at her and his voice changed back into his fake accent. “Only me mother calls me Johnny, Blue Eyes. Put it on my tab.” His attention turned back to Mark. “People don’t lose teeth going over plans.”
“I was out on the sight talking with the foreman so that I could show him exactly what I wanted for the new wing. There is this thing that I am doing in the corner of the northwest corridor and I guess I didn’t make it clear enough. So we’re walking and I am trying to show him what I wanted when some guy wielding a piece of lumber turned and smashed me in the face. Doctor said I was lucky that I didn’t break my cheekbone or my nose. We couldn’t find the tooth so I have an appointment to get a porcelain tooth next Saturday.”
“Ouch. What day was this?”
“Thursday.”
“Yikes. That’s fucked up timing.”
“That is definitely a subject that I don’t want to talk about tonight.” Mark scratched his eyebrow with his thumbnail, ran his hand through his brown hair and massaged the back of his neck.
“Bullshit. That is exactly why we’re here.” Jack took a sip of his drink and licked the foam off of his upper lip. “So? What happened?”
“I’m not talking about it Jack. Stop asking.”
The two sat in silence for a moment sipping their beers.
“It’s been a cold spring,” Jack said.
“I know; I hate it. It was such a bad winter you would think Mother Nature might cut us a break. It’s already April and it’s still in the 40s.”
“I could have sworn that I saw David Wright shivering last night during the game. The Mets’ bats seem to be really slow.”
“I saw that too. I think they’re going to Arizona in the next couple of days though, so it should get better. What’s going on at work? You get any new cases?”
“Come on, man. We didn’t come here to talk about baseball and work. Tell me what’s up.”
“I don’t know. Ask her.”
“That won’t work. She doesn’t like me.” Jack smiled and his teeth glistened with stout.
“And who could blame her,” Mark said, faking a smile back.
“You, on the other hand, you do like me. Talk. How out of the blue was this?”
“We’ve been separated for the past three months and I’ve been staying in the guest house.”
“What?” Jack gasped, leaning in.
“I didn’t think much of it at the time. This kind of stuff happens. Couples hit low spots.”
“You still should have told me, man. That’s not the kind of stuff you hide from a best friend. What started it? I know you didn’t cheat on her.”
“God no. I don’t even know where it began. Frankly, I thought we were fine. Then she tells me that I spend too much time at work, that I don’t do anything around the house and, the kicker, that I don’t seem like I am ready to start a family with her.”
“What did you say?”
“I said that it was my busy time of the year and that I would work harder at doing more around the house.”
“And the family thing?”
“I showed her the back of my hand, pointed at my wedding ring, and said that I wouldn’t have married her if I didn’t want to start a family.”
“That doesn’t seem like you.” Jack said, his hands behind his head, pushing up his long black hair. “Is that what got you shit-kicked?”
“She told me that she wanted to separate for awhile and I moved into the guest house that night.”
“That doesn’t sound like Susan.”
“And five days ago she called me at work asking me for a divorce.”
“Jesus.”
“Frankly, things were going fine during the break too. We ate dinner together every night ‘cause she can’t really cook, we went to the movies… We were back to how we were at school.” Mark shifted in his seat and took a sip from his fourth beer.
“Look at me,” Jack said, turning to his friend. Mark turned and faced him “No more bullshit. You’re not telling me something. What happened?”
“Fuck you. That’s exactly what happened.” Mark’s hand came up and wiped his upper lip.
Jack stood up from his stool and leaned down the bar to where Martha was standing with the young couple. “Can we get four shots please, Blue Eyes?”
Martha moved toward them with a bottle of Jameson and four shot glasses. She placed the glasses on the bar and whiskey splashed on the hard wood as she poured from the metal spout. She quickly returned the bottle to the shelf and walked back.
“Just like in school. 1…2…3,” Jack said. The two grabbed the shot glasses and threw them back, slamming them back down on the bar once finished.
“Honestly, I don’t understand why you married her in the first place.”
“What does that mean?”
“I don’t get why you got married in the first place. You’re 27, man. You’re a fucking architect in the city of architecture. You build skyscrapers and museum wings. You’re rolling in it. You shouldn’t be married! You should be out with me on the weekends picking up girls at three AM and seeing them out the door at six. You’ll be happier once the divorce is finished.”
“You sound like my dad. He said that the twenties were designed for fucking around.”
“And I’ve always said Mr. Stevens has a good head on his shoulders.” Jack threw back the remainder of his pint and called down to the other end of the bar. “Can we get two more shots down here, Blue Eyes?”
“Do you even remember college? I was the guy walking home alone while you were checking your wallet for a rubber.”
“You’re a good looking guy, Marky-Mark. You could have been right there with me.”
Mark stood from his stool and stumbled, grabbing the bar to stabilize himself.
“I’m going to the bathroom. Don’t leave.”
“I’ll be right here.”
Mark made his way to the back of the pub and walked into the bathroom. As he began to go, splashing the rim and the floor before finally hitting water, he hooked his arm back on his shoulder and inhaled deeply, blowing a raspberry as he exhaled.
“It’s only been five days,” he said to himself
He finished up, closed the toilet lid, and flushed. He reached up to grab the handle on the door, but hesitated and sat down on the closed toilet. He put his elbows on his knees and pushed his thumbs into the corner’s of his eyes, just trying to breathe.
As he exited the bathroom, the door quickly shutting behind him, he saw that Jack had not only stayed, but now had a couple of guests sitting on either side of him.
“There he is!” Jack called, his arms pointing straight out, palms extended to draw Mark in. “Ladies, this is the guy I’ve been telling you about. Mark, this is Gillian and Becca.”
As he got closer, Mark looked back and forth between the two girls. Gillian wore a low-cut black top and a skirt that defied the weather. She had shoulder length black hair with short bangs and a nose that seemed to slightly point up at the end like a pixie. Becca had shorter red hair and was dressed less provocatively, wearing a more conservative black top that was concealed by a denim jacket and paired with a pair of tight black jeans. Jack placed two fingers on Becca’s far shoulder and nodded, a system Jack had created in college to designate that he had made his claim. It wasn’t the girl’s appearance that first caught Mark’s eye, however, but their age: something that Jack could see in Mark’s facial expression.
“Gillian and Becca are juniors over at NYU. Apparently they don’t have classes on Wednesdays and have decided to go bar hopping. Either that or they are intent on destroying their lives,” Jack said smiling. The girls shot him mixed looks of disgust and attraction, Becca playfully slapping him on the shoulder.
“You jerk,” she giggled. It was obvious this wasn’t the first bar they had gone to that night.
“Are you kidding? I’m the nicest guy you’ll ever meet!” Jack said laughing. “Mark, aren’t I the nicest guy you’ve ever met?”
“Yeah, you’re a real peach,” Mark sniped back. “Can I talk to you for a minute Jack?”
“Yeah, sure.”
Jack rose from his stool and left the two girls laughing and falling over each other. Occasionally staring back at the pair, Jack walked over with Mark to a far corner of the pub where they could talk privately.
“What are you doing?” Mark said angrily.
“You see what I did with the shoulder, man?” Jack asked. “Just like back at school. I’ve always wanted to get with a redhead.”
“How old are you?”
“What?”
“We’re not in college anymore, Jack. You’re 29, not 19.”
“Well maybe you need to relax a bit. Go back to being a 19 year old. Have some fun, get with some random girls.”
“No I don’t!” Mark’s voice was rising. “We’re working adults now. I’m getting divorced. It’s time to grow up.”
“We used to have fun! We used to go out, get fucked up and then be paranoid about security guards in the dorms. We used to pull pranks on the RA. We used to make stupid bets about who would eat the grossest things or gorge themselves on ridiculous amounts of food! You used to at least go out with me to try and pick up girls. I was just trying to make you feel better man! What happened to you?”
“I grew up, Jack! You think I’d rather be like you? Do you think anyone would rather be like you? I was happy! You’re fucking miserable! You spend weekends picking up random bar skanks and spend weekdays sitting in some oversized office in some Podunk law firm where people can’t tell the difference between you and the fucking wallpaper! I’m sick of it. We meet in some pub for some stupid nostalgic ideal and do nothing. We talk about shit. We talk about what we did ten years ago. This has been a long time coming, Jack.”
The pub was silent was now silent. Mark headed to the bar to grab his coat off the back of his chair and walked out, slamming the door behind him. It was getting close to midnight and he held his arms close to his chest while waiting for a taxi to come.
The door of the pub opened and Jack stepped out and stood next to Mark, neither of them looking at each other.
“My firm is offering me a job in Boston and I’m thinking that after the divorce goes through that I am going to take it,” Mark said.
“That sounds like a good opportunity. Boston’s a growing city,” Jack replied. “Plenty of museums and skyscrapers to be built.”
“Give me a call if you’re ever in the area. Big college town up there, plenty of places to hang out.”
“I’ll be sure to do that, man.”
A taxi pulled up to the curb and Mark opened the door and stepped in. Closing the door behind him, the taxi drove off, leaving Jack alone.
© Eric Eisenberg, All Rights Reserved
Roadside Assistance
By Eric Eisenberg
George had changed since his return, but Judith would never admit it. Her devotion to her husband was as strong as the day they had married, the day before George had been shipped off to Iraq. Their friends said that he never smiled anymore, but Judith disagreed. He just smiled when only she was watching.
George dressed in the style of the 1920s. Although that was almost a century ago, George knew his history and believed that it was a better time. People were unaware of what lay ahead back then and were simply happy with the way things were. He never left home without his trench coat and fedora, and this night was no different. His hair remained short, unchanged since the war, and what used to be thick black locks when he was in high school was now salt and pepper sod. George stood in front of the car, which they had pulled over to the right side of the road, the hood now up the strut. His trench coat blocked one of the emergency blinkers, but the headlight pierced the black fabric, shooting between his legs and down the side of the highway. He ducked into his coat and rolled a cigarette.
Judith sat in the driver’s seat watching her husband with admiration. She understood George’s appreciation for classic style and rejected those who said it was strange. She smiled and used her fingers to brush her brunette hair, which hung down to her shoulders and now had streaks of gray, back over her ear. She looked down at her watch to confirm a passing thought: it was the middle of the night. She looked back towards her husband and saw that he was now facing toward her.
“It’s really amazing, isn’t it?” George asked, the cigarette now perched in his lips. “People have no respect for their fellow man anymore.”
“Isn’t that kind of generalizing, sweetheart? I mean, some people do,” Judith said, leaning slightly out the window.
“No, they don’t, honey. I’m sorry, but they don’t. How long have we been out here?”
Judith looked down at her watch again. She told him the time.
“It’s been almost an hour! That’s a sin!”
“But…”
“But what?” George interrupted.
“It’s the middle of the night! How many cars do you see passing by?”
“There are some that pass by, will you agree with me on that?”
Judith paused for a minute as a small sedan roared past.
“Well, yeah.”
“Then think about it! There aren’t many cars out here, but there are some. All the more reason that people should stop! People should see us on the side of the road and say, ‘Hey, there aren’t many cars out here, so if I pass them by, maybe no one else will see them. I should go help these people.’ But do they? Absolutely not. We’ve been out here for an hour. The emergency lights are on, the hood is up, and I haven’t seen anyone so much as slow down when they saw us. I love you sweetie, but you’re wrong. Nobody cares.” George grabbed the burned-out cigarette from his mouth and threw it to the ground in disgust. He twisted his foot until all the glowing embers were gone. He then proceeded to roll another.
“It is late. Maybe people just want to get home,” Judith said.
“How long does it take to pull over and help someone? I’ve pulled over to help people and I don’t think it’s ever taken me more than five minutes tops. Either you can help or you can’t, but you can’t know if you don’t stop.”
“You have an idea what you are doing with cars. You, unlike most people, can help people on the side of the road. An 80-year-old woman isn’t going to know how to flush a radiator.”
“That’s fair, but what if our battery is dead and we just need a jump? Maybe we just stopped on the side of the road to get some quick shut-eye, and the car wouldn’t start again? Most people know how to jump a car. Hell, most people keep jumper cables in their trunk.”
“You don’t.”
“That’s besides the point…” High beams flashed, and George put his hand up to block his face. He moved out of the way, towards the driver’s side of the car, as a red pick-up truck pulled alongside the car and parked ten feet in front of them. The truck was beaten from weather and dirt and was missing a back gate.
The door of the pick-up opened, and a large man dressed in a flannel shirt and long, narrow jeans stepped out. He wore a hat with an emblem, but George couldn’t read it in the darkness. He held his palm above his eyes as he walked towards George, blocking the light from his face. Judith had the brights on and the man could barely make out George’s face.
“Looks like you folks are having some car trouble?” The man spoke with a lisp, though it could have been a result of the mustache that covered most of his lips.
George took off his hat and handed it to his wife, who placed it on the passenger seat next to her. He walked back to the front of the car and held his hand out to the stranger. “George Packard.”
“Earl Wilkins.” Mr. Wilkins stuck out his palm and they shook.
“How are you, Mr. Wilkins?”
“Fine, sir. And yourself?”
George raised an eyebrow and gave a small smirk as he plunged his hands into the pockets of his coat. “We’re having a bit of car trouble tonight, unfortunately. The headlights are turning on, but the battery can’t get the engine going. I don’t suppose you have a pair of jumper cables we can use?” Mr. Wilkins brought his bottom lip up, scrunched his chin and began shaking his head.
“Piece o’ shit truck I’m afraid.”
The smirk disappeared from George’s face.
“Gate blew off a couple months back and I haven’t gotten around to getting a new one. Can’t keep nothing back there. I just live right o’er there, though,” Mr. Wilkins said, pointing down the road. “If you don’t mind waiting a couple more minutes, I could go get ‘em and come back.”
“Sounds fine,” George said dismissively.
Mr. Wilkins raised a bushy eyebrow but lowered it as the sight of Judith’s beautiful smile came through the windshield.
“Right then. I’ll be back.” The man returned to his truck and drove off into the darkness.
George turned to his wife, whose expression had not changed since the man had left.
“What are you smiling about, Judith?” George asked sternly.
“Kind of puts a hole in your argument there, doesn’t it? He stopped.”
“Do me a favor. Look at your watch.” Judith glanced down at her wrist. “What does it say?” She told him. “We’ve been out here for an hour and fifteen minutes! After an hour of waiting I have the right to label these people however I want.” George sneered remembering Mr. Wilkins’ dirty language. “No class,” he whispered.
The two stayed silent for a while; George leaned on the front of the car and Judith sat still in the front seat, now reclined.
“Maybe people are scared,” she called out the window.
“What?” George asked, not bothering to turn and face his wife.
“It’s dark out and you are dealing with strangers. That’s scary.”
George turned around; his expression had changed. It was back to the smirk that came when Mr. Wilkins called him ‘sir.’
“Well, isn’t that just perfect. You just proved my point, honey.” Judith tilted her head and squinted. “It goes so far beyond not caring. Not caring is part of it, sure. But it’s that fear that stops people from helping a couple in need on the side of the road. That fear is based in selfishness. Faith is about trust. When people say they have a faith in God, it means that they trust that God has a plan. They have faith that God will make sure that everything happens as it is supposed to. And that is exactly what we have lost between people. There is no more trust, no more faith. People just passing by.”
A midnight blue sedan began to slow as George and Judith’s emergency blinkers came into view. The sedan parked in the same place that the pick-up truck had. It was long and spacious with a trunk that seemed longer than the hood. From its driver’s side emerged a woman with red hair, dressed in white from head to toe.
“Bad time of night for car trouble, huh?” the woman said, closing the door behind her, holding her hand above her eyes like Mr. Wilkins had. Both George and Judith’s faces went straight. “Mind if I take a look? My brother’s into cars and you kinda pick that stuff up.” George moved towards Judith as the woman approached. She bent over to take a look under the hood. Judith switched off the headlights and the emergency blinkers as George’s hand slowly moved toward the hood strut, then yanked it. The hood came crashing down on the woman’s neck, which bent into an unnatural angle, her body a limp marionette without strings. George stepped toward the front of the car and lifted the hood up again, letting the woman’s body crumple to the dirt before slamming it closed. Judith stepped out of the car.
“She kept the motor running,” Judith said, lifting her arm to point. George turned and quickly headed over to the midnight blue sedan. “Did you remember your gloves, honey?” said Judith. Out of his pockets George pulled a pair of black leather gloves, holding them in the air for Judith to see as he slipped them on. He opened the door and reached in to remove the keys from the ignition. He pressed a button on the keys until he heard a soft beep and the trunk opened. Judith put on her own gloves, which she had taken from the center console of her car, and together they lifted the girl’s body into the trunk and slammed the lid. George looked behind them and saw no cars approaching. The two began to walk back toward their car. George gripped the blue car’s keys in his gloved fist and entered the passenger-side door. He opened the glove compartment and threw in the keys: a new addition to the collection. Judith stood outside with a puzzled look for a moment before returning. Once in the car, she turned the key and moved into first gear. The engine purred. Before she pressed on the gas, she turned to her husband.
“That truck had no gate. We couldn’t have put the body in there.” She paused, hoping that George would pick up on what her question was. He didn’t. “I mean, I don’t think he could really see us with the brights on, but what would you have done if he had jumper cables in the cab?”
“I’d have improvised.” A wide smile appeared on George’s face.
“That was a nice name you picked. Why Packard?”
“Classic car.” He leaned over and gave Judith a kiss. “I love you, sweetheart.”
****
The doctor called it propranolol. Judith had a hard time pronouncing it, and George didn’t even bother.
“It’s a beta blocker and it’s a bit experimental…,” the doctor said to their blank faces. He shook his head. “Let’s just put it this way. You’ll sleep easier.”
The first week, Judith was unable to sleep. Although she finally had George back at her side after waiting so long, her sleep was disrupted night after night by George’s movements. Some nights he would kick the sheets off the bed. Some nights he would wake up screaming. Some nights he would cry; on those nights, Judith would cry too.
Ten days after George’s return from Iraq, Judith was awakened by a loud crash. Peering out the window, she could see a garbage truck down the street. The driver stood beside it and checked the damage that ramming into a low brick wall had caused. He screamed at his co-worker. Judith turned back to wake her husband, but he was gone. Grabbing a robe, Judith began searching the house for George and found two doors that weren’t supposed to be open: the gun cabinet and the front door. Quickly she ran outside, screaming and crying George’s name. Then she saw him, marching down the street, a rifle pressed against his chest. George was still at war.
George refused to tell the doctor what had occurred overseas, but Judith, her hand on her husband’s knee, described how he had been acting since his return. The doctor explained the frequency of post-traumatic stress disorder in returning veterans and prescribed the medication. George took the medication home and placed the orange bottle on the oak washstand in the bathroom, feeding the morning dose to the sink drain and taking the evening dose to help his wife sleep.
Barbara Jefferson, a friend of George and Judith’s from high school, had moved back to the old neighborhood and invited them to dinner with other members of the class of ’89. Contrary to what Judith expected, George was happy to go, anticipating going out for a change.
Rain poured onto the skylight above as the party of ten sat down to a meal of pan-seared filet mignon with sides of asparagus and twice-baked potatoes. Barbara’s husband, Gordon, pulled Barbara’s chair out for her, kissing her on the cheek. Judith turned and smiled at George. They reminded her of themselves.
After dinner the husbands went out to the patio to smoke cigars and George his rolled cigarettes, and Judith sat with Barbara and the other wives in the living room, occasionally peering out the window to watch their men.
“So, Judith, I heard that George served over in Iraq,” Barbara said, turning everyone’s attention to the soft-featured brunette in the red recliner and returning Judith’s attention to the living room.
“Yes, he just got back…” Judith paused to check the date on her watch. “Almost nine months ago.”
“I’ve heard some awful stories from over there,” said Carmen Banks, another acquaintance from high school.
“Uhh, yeah. It… it was pretty bad over there,” Judith said hesitantly. The women peered at her as if expecting something more and seemed disappointed when Judith didn’t deliver.
“He seems to have changed,” said Ms. Banks innocently. “I remember in high school when he spray-painted your names onto the town water tower.”
The women laughed, but Judith didn’t. “What exactly are you implying?”
“She didn’t mean anything by it, Judith,” Barbara said, laughing. “She just meant that he seems a bit more serious now. Like those clothes…”
Judith had had enough. She rose from her seat. “Thank you for a wonderful evening, Barbara, but I’m afraid that George and I have to be leaving now.”
“Now, Judith, don’t be like that. We didn’t mean anything.”
Judith went to the back door and knocked. George looked up and on seeing her, quickly got to his feet and went inside without saying goodbye to the other men.
The rain continued to pour and George brought his wife closer to him as they walked toward the car, wrapping his trench coat around her. They began to drive home, deciding to take the highway rather than the back roads.
The engine simply died, letting out a sputter, and George pulled over to the shoulder on the right side. Rain poured down from a starless sky and hit the newly tarred pavement, causing steam to rise out of the cracks. A mist surrounded George’s feet as he exited the driver’s side door, his coat pulled over his ears. He popped the hood to take a look around, but even with his experience, he didn’t know what was wrong. With the hood balanced on the strut, George retreated to the car while they waited for someone to come by. They didn’t have to wait long; within twenty minutes a man in a silver SUV pulled in front of the car to offer his help. He was just slightly shorter than George, standing at six feet tall with a healthy roundness to his form. George got out of the car to meet the man and exchanged pleasantries, explaining what had happened. The man called George “Mr. Bane,” which Judith knew he appreciated.
While the man’s head was under the hood, George watched from the side of the car, his hand resting on its side. The rain had made the surface of the car slick, and before he could stop it, George’s hand slipped and hit the strut, causing the hood to crash down on the man, the hood latch nearly detaching his head from his body. Judith didn’t see the accident occur, but she saw her husband’s face, the military stoicism that let him reach over and release the body to the ground. The man’s car keys slipped from his pocket and landed on George’s brown loafer. George then reached for something beyond Judith’s sight, but when George rose, his hands were sheathed in black leather gloves.
Judith stepped from the passenger side.
“George, oh my God, what happened?”
“It’s okay Judith, just get back in the car.”
Judith didn’t move. George bent down, took the keys that had fallen on his shoe, and opened the trunk of the SUV. He slid the keys into his pocket, and she watched as George lifted the man into the trunk, his face never showing a sign of effort. Once the trunk had been closed, George returned to the car and after a few stalling starts, the engine revved, and George placed the car into gear. He opened the passenger side door and called to her. “Come on, Judith. We need to go.”
Judith looked at the silver SUV and then up and down the road. She saw nobody coming and replied nervously. “Okay.”
Days passed and each morning Judith looked through the paper, but there was no mention of the silver SUV or the dead body. She began to suspect that George may have done it on purpose. He was always sturdy on his feet; he never seemed to slip. She wondered where the gloves came from. She wondered why he was so calm.
Another rainstorm hit the next weekend. A crack of lightning streaked the sky and echoed through the house, waking Judith to find nothing but an indent by her side. She thought about the morning with the garbage truck. Getting up to search the house, Judith could hear a slight fumbling that sounded like pocket change as she neared the first floor bathroom. George stood before the oak washstand next to the sink and didn’t hear the door open. The top drawer was slightly ajar. After a moment, Judith could see the source of the sound: George was handling that man’s car keys. It was the first time she’d seen him smile since his return. She looked on the top of the washstand where the little orange bottle stood. It was the propranolol. It was still half full after nine months.
“You haven’t been taking your medication.”
George spun around and tried to put the keys back in the washstand drawer, but fumbled and dropped them. Judith reached to pick them up and placed them in his open fist. She said five words: “Is this what you need?”
As the car pulled out, leaving the midnight blue sedan on the side of the road, Judith looked over at George. She continued to do so frequently as they drove home. The smile that George had grown never left. It was the smile that nobody else got to see.
She understood that George had changed since he had returned. Nobody could deny that. Something occurred while George was overseas that Judith would never know, and even if she did, she knew she could certainly never truly empathize. She could only understand the fact that he had changed, and now she had to go along with it. She would give her life for him, but it was not only out of love. It was out of faith.
© Eric Eisenberg, All Rights Reserved
George had changed since his return, but Judith would never admit it. Her devotion to her husband was as strong as the day they had married, the day before George had been shipped off to Iraq. Their friends said that he never smiled anymore, but Judith disagreed. He just smiled when only she was watching.
George dressed in the style of the 1920s. Although that was almost a century ago, George knew his history and believed that it was a better time. People were unaware of what lay ahead back then and were simply happy with the way things were. He never left home without his trench coat and fedora, and this night was no different. His hair remained short, unchanged since the war, and what used to be thick black locks when he was in high school was now salt and pepper sod. George stood in front of the car, which they had pulled over to the right side of the road, the hood now up the strut. His trench coat blocked one of the emergency blinkers, but the headlight pierced the black fabric, shooting between his legs and down the side of the highway. He ducked into his coat and rolled a cigarette.
Judith sat in the driver’s seat watching her husband with admiration. She understood George’s appreciation for classic style and rejected those who said it was strange. She smiled and used her fingers to brush her brunette hair, which hung down to her shoulders and now had streaks of gray, back over her ear. She looked down at her watch to confirm a passing thought: it was the middle of the night. She looked back towards her husband and saw that he was now facing toward her.
“It’s really amazing, isn’t it?” George asked, the cigarette now perched in his lips. “People have no respect for their fellow man anymore.”
“Isn’t that kind of generalizing, sweetheart? I mean, some people do,” Judith said, leaning slightly out the window.
“No, they don’t, honey. I’m sorry, but they don’t. How long have we been out here?”
Judith looked down at her watch again. She told him the time.
“It’s been almost an hour! That’s a sin!”
“But…”
“But what?” George interrupted.
“It’s the middle of the night! How many cars do you see passing by?”
“There are some that pass by, will you agree with me on that?”
Judith paused for a minute as a small sedan roared past.
“Well, yeah.”
“Then think about it! There aren’t many cars out here, but there are some. All the more reason that people should stop! People should see us on the side of the road and say, ‘Hey, there aren’t many cars out here, so if I pass them by, maybe no one else will see them. I should go help these people.’ But do they? Absolutely not. We’ve been out here for an hour. The emergency lights are on, the hood is up, and I haven’t seen anyone so much as slow down when they saw us. I love you sweetie, but you’re wrong. Nobody cares.” George grabbed the burned-out cigarette from his mouth and threw it to the ground in disgust. He twisted his foot until all the glowing embers were gone. He then proceeded to roll another.
“It is late. Maybe people just want to get home,” Judith said.
“How long does it take to pull over and help someone? I’ve pulled over to help people and I don’t think it’s ever taken me more than five minutes tops. Either you can help or you can’t, but you can’t know if you don’t stop.”
“You have an idea what you are doing with cars. You, unlike most people, can help people on the side of the road. An 80-year-old woman isn’t going to know how to flush a radiator.”
“That’s fair, but what if our battery is dead and we just need a jump? Maybe we just stopped on the side of the road to get some quick shut-eye, and the car wouldn’t start again? Most people know how to jump a car. Hell, most people keep jumper cables in their trunk.”
“You don’t.”
“That’s besides the point…” High beams flashed, and George put his hand up to block his face. He moved out of the way, towards the driver’s side of the car, as a red pick-up truck pulled alongside the car and parked ten feet in front of them. The truck was beaten from weather and dirt and was missing a back gate.
The door of the pick-up opened, and a large man dressed in a flannel shirt and long, narrow jeans stepped out. He wore a hat with an emblem, but George couldn’t read it in the darkness. He held his palm above his eyes as he walked towards George, blocking the light from his face. Judith had the brights on and the man could barely make out George’s face.
“Looks like you folks are having some car trouble?” The man spoke with a lisp, though it could have been a result of the mustache that covered most of his lips.
George took off his hat and handed it to his wife, who placed it on the passenger seat next to her. He walked back to the front of the car and held his hand out to the stranger. “George Packard.”
“Earl Wilkins.” Mr. Wilkins stuck out his palm and they shook.
“How are you, Mr. Wilkins?”
“Fine, sir. And yourself?”
George raised an eyebrow and gave a small smirk as he plunged his hands into the pockets of his coat. “We’re having a bit of car trouble tonight, unfortunately. The headlights are turning on, but the battery can’t get the engine going. I don’t suppose you have a pair of jumper cables we can use?” Mr. Wilkins brought his bottom lip up, scrunched his chin and began shaking his head.
“Piece o’ shit truck I’m afraid.”
The smirk disappeared from George’s face.
“Gate blew off a couple months back and I haven’t gotten around to getting a new one. Can’t keep nothing back there. I just live right o’er there, though,” Mr. Wilkins said, pointing down the road. “If you don’t mind waiting a couple more minutes, I could go get ‘em and come back.”
“Sounds fine,” George said dismissively.
Mr. Wilkins raised a bushy eyebrow but lowered it as the sight of Judith’s beautiful smile came through the windshield.
“Right then. I’ll be back.” The man returned to his truck and drove off into the darkness.
George turned to his wife, whose expression had not changed since the man had left.
“What are you smiling about, Judith?” George asked sternly.
“Kind of puts a hole in your argument there, doesn’t it? He stopped.”
“Do me a favor. Look at your watch.” Judith glanced down at her wrist. “What does it say?” She told him. “We’ve been out here for an hour and fifteen minutes! After an hour of waiting I have the right to label these people however I want.” George sneered remembering Mr. Wilkins’ dirty language. “No class,” he whispered.
The two stayed silent for a while; George leaned on the front of the car and Judith sat still in the front seat, now reclined.
“Maybe people are scared,” she called out the window.
“What?” George asked, not bothering to turn and face his wife.
“It’s dark out and you are dealing with strangers. That’s scary.”
George turned around; his expression had changed. It was back to the smirk that came when Mr. Wilkins called him ‘sir.’
“Well, isn’t that just perfect. You just proved my point, honey.” Judith tilted her head and squinted. “It goes so far beyond not caring. Not caring is part of it, sure. But it’s that fear that stops people from helping a couple in need on the side of the road. That fear is based in selfishness. Faith is about trust. When people say they have a faith in God, it means that they trust that God has a plan. They have faith that God will make sure that everything happens as it is supposed to. And that is exactly what we have lost between people. There is no more trust, no more faith. People just passing by.”
A midnight blue sedan began to slow as George and Judith’s emergency blinkers came into view. The sedan parked in the same place that the pick-up truck had. It was long and spacious with a trunk that seemed longer than the hood. From its driver’s side emerged a woman with red hair, dressed in white from head to toe.
“Bad time of night for car trouble, huh?” the woman said, closing the door behind her, holding her hand above her eyes like Mr. Wilkins had. Both George and Judith’s faces went straight. “Mind if I take a look? My brother’s into cars and you kinda pick that stuff up.” George moved towards Judith as the woman approached. She bent over to take a look under the hood. Judith switched off the headlights and the emergency blinkers as George’s hand slowly moved toward the hood strut, then yanked it. The hood came crashing down on the woman’s neck, which bent into an unnatural angle, her body a limp marionette without strings. George stepped toward the front of the car and lifted the hood up again, letting the woman’s body crumple to the dirt before slamming it closed. Judith stepped out of the car.
“She kept the motor running,” Judith said, lifting her arm to point. George turned and quickly headed over to the midnight blue sedan. “Did you remember your gloves, honey?” said Judith. Out of his pockets George pulled a pair of black leather gloves, holding them in the air for Judith to see as he slipped them on. He opened the door and reached in to remove the keys from the ignition. He pressed a button on the keys until he heard a soft beep and the trunk opened. Judith put on her own gloves, which she had taken from the center console of her car, and together they lifted the girl’s body into the trunk and slammed the lid. George looked behind them and saw no cars approaching. The two began to walk back toward their car. George gripped the blue car’s keys in his gloved fist and entered the passenger-side door. He opened the glove compartment and threw in the keys: a new addition to the collection. Judith stood outside with a puzzled look for a moment before returning. Once in the car, she turned the key and moved into first gear. The engine purred. Before she pressed on the gas, she turned to her husband.
“That truck had no gate. We couldn’t have put the body in there.” She paused, hoping that George would pick up on what her question was. He didn’t. “I mean, I don’t think he could really see us with the brights on, but what would you have done if he had jumper cables in the cab?”
“I’d have improvised.” A wide smile appeared on George’s face.
“That was a nice name you picked. Why Packard?”
“Classic car.” He leaned over and gave Judith a kiss. “I love you, sweetheart.”
****
The doctor called it propranolol. Judith had a hard time pronouncing it, and George didn’t even bother.
“It’s a beta blocker and it’s a bit experimental…,” the doctor said to their blank faces. He shook his head. “Let’s just put it this way. You’ll sleep easier.”
The first week, Judith was unable to sleep. Although she finally had George back at her side after waiting so long, her sleep was disrupted night after night by George’s movements. Some nights he would kick the sheets off the bed. Some nights he would wake up screaming. Some nights he would cry; on those nights, Judith would cry too.
Ten days after George’s return from Iraq, Judith was awakened by a loud crash. Peering out the window, she could see a garbage truck down the street. The driver stood beside it and checked the damage that ramming into a low brick wall had caused. He screamed at his co-worker. Judith turned back to wake her husband, but he was gone. Grabbing a robe, Judith began searching the house for George and found two doors that weren’t supposed to be open: the gun cabinet and the front door. Quickly she ran outside, screaming and crying George’s name. Then she saw him, marching down the street, a rifle pressed against his chest. George was still at war.
George refused to tell the doctor what had occurred overseas, but Judith, her hand on her husband’s knee, described how he had been acting since his return. The doctor explained the frequency of post-traumatic stress disorder in returning veterans and prescribed the medication. George took the medication home and placed the orange bottle on the oak washstand in the bathroom, feeding the morning dose to the sink drain and taking the evening dose to help his wife sleep.
****
Barbara Jefferson, a friend of George and Judith’s from high school, had moved back to the old neighborhood and invited them to dinner with other members of the class of ’89. Contrary to what Judith expected, George was happy to go, anticipating going out for a change.
Rain poured onto the skylight above as the party of ten sat down to a meal of pan-seared filet mignon with sides of asparagus and twice-baked potatoes. Barbara’s husband, Gordon, pulled Barbara’s chair out for her, kissing her on the cheek. Judith turned and smiled at George. They reminded her of themselves.
After dinner the husbands went out to the patio to smoke cigars and George his rolled cigarettes, and Judith sat with Barbara and the other wives in the living room, occasionally peering out the window to watch their men.
“So, Judith, I heard that George served over in Iraq,” Barbara said, turning everyone’s attention to the soft-featured brunette in the red recliner and returning Judith’s attention to the living room.
“Yes, he just got back…” Judith paused to check the date on her watch. “Almost nine months ago.”
“I’ve heard some awful stories from over there,” said Carmen Banks, another acquaintance from high school.
“Uhh, yeah. It… it was pretty bad over there,” Judith said hesitantly. The women peered at her as if expecting something more and seemed disappointed when Judith didn’t deliver.
“He seems to have changed,” said Ms. Banks innocently. “I remember in high school when he spray-painted your names onto the town water tower.”
The women laughed, but Judith didn’t. “What exactly are you implying?”
“She didn’t mean anything by it, Judith,” Barbara said, laughing. “She just meant that he seems a bit more serious now. Like those clothes…”
Judith had had enough. She rose from her seat. “Thank you for a wonderful evening, Barbara, but I’m afraid that George and I have to be leaving now.”
“Now, Judith, don’t be like that. We didn’t mean anything.”
Judith went to the back door and knocked. George looked up and on seeing her, quickly got to his feet and went inside without saying goodbye to the other men.
The rain continued to pour and George brought his wife closer to him as they walked toward the car, wrapping his trench coat around her. They began to drive home, deciding to take the highway rather than the back roads.
The engine simply died, letting out a sputter, and George pulled over to the shoulder on the right side. Rain poured down from a starless sky and hit the newly tarred pavement, causing steam to rise out of the cracks. A mist surrounded George’s feet as he exited the driver’s side door, his coat pulled over his ears. He popped the hood to take a look around, but even with his experience, he didn’t know what was wrong. With the hood balanced on the strut, George retreated to the car while they waited for someone to come by. They didn’t have to wait long; within twenty minutes a man in a silver SUV pulled in front of the car to offer his help. He was just slightly shorter than George, standing at six feet tall with a healthy roundness to his form. George got out of the car to meet the man and exchanged pleasantries, explaining what had happened. The man called George “Mr. Bane,” which Judith knew he appreciated.
While the man’s head was under the hood, George watched from the side of the car, his hand resting on its side. The rain had made the surface of the car slick, and before he could stop it, George’s hand slipped and hit the strut, causing the hood to crash down on the man, the hood latch nearly detaching his head from his body. Judith didn’t see the accident occur, but she saw her husband’s face, the military stoicism that let him reach over and release the body to the ground. The man’s car keys slipped from his pocket and landed on George’s brown loafer. George then reached for something beyond Judith’s sight, but when George rose, his hands were sheathed in black leather gloves.
Judith stepped from the passenger side.
“George, oh my God, what happened?”
“It’s okay Judith, just get back in the car.”
Judith didn’t move. George bent down, took the keys that had fallen on his shoe, and opened the trunk of the SUV. He slid the keys into his pocket, and she watched as George lifted the man into the trunk, his face never showing a sign of effort. Once the trunk had been closed, George returned to the car and after a few stalling starts, the engine revved, and George placed the car into gear. He opened the passenger side door and called to her. “Come on, Judith. We need to go.”
Judith looked at the silver SUV and then up and down the road. She saw nobody coming and replied nervously. “Okay.”
Days passed and each morning Judith looked through the paper, but there was no mention of the silver SUV or the dead body. She began to suspect that George may have done it on purpose. He was always sturdy on his feet; he never seemed to slip. She wondered where the gloves came from. She wondered why he was so calm.
Another rainstorm hit the next weekend. A crack of lightning streaked the sky and echoed through the house, waking Judith to find nothing but an indent by her side. She thought about the morning with the garbage truck. Getting up to search the house, Judith could hear a slight fumbling that sounded like pocket change as she neared the first floor bathroom. George stood before the oak washstand next to the sink and didn’t hear the door open. The top drawer was slightly ajar. After a moment, Judith could see the source of the sound: George was handling that man’s car keys. It was the first time she’d seen him smile since his return. She looked on the top of the washstand where the little orange bottle stood. It was the propranolol. It was still half full after nine months.
“You haven’t been taking your medication.”
George spun around and tried to put the keys back in the washstand drawer, but fumbled and dropped them. Judith reached to pick them up and placed them in his open fist. She said five words: “Is this what you need?”
****
As the car pulled out, leaving the midnight blue sedan on the side of the road, Judith looked over at George. She continued to do so frequently as they drove home. The smile that George had grown never left. It was the smile that nobody else got to see.
She understood that George had changed since he had returned. Nobody could deny that. Something occurred while George was overseas that Judith would never know, and even if she did, she knew she could certainly never truly empathize. She could only understand the fact that he had changed, and now she had to go along with it. She would give her life for him, but it was not only out of love. It was out of faith.
© Eric Eisenberg, All Rights Reserved
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