Live and Let Die (8 page)

Sondra ordered up some Thai food and went in search of the box of Tracy’s things that she’d gone through a few months earlier. She’d told Mimi she’d bring a few things out that she figured her mother would want; she’d keep the rest.

Sifting through the photo albums, jewelry and other mementos again was no less bittersweet than it had been the first time. She decided to keep the small purple photo album, the Tiffany necklace and her diaries, setting everything else aside for her parents, making a mental note to take her big suitcase to California with her. The Thai food came and as she slurped down Soba noodles, Sondra absentmindedly flipped through Tracy’s last appointment book before she threw it out, but then stopped at the last appointment. She had seen it the first time she’d gone through the book but hadn’t thought about it much at the time. Today, it made her stop and think. There was an appointment for the Monday after she’d disappeared with D.R. at ten a.m.

“D.R. D.R.” Sondra wrinkled her nose. “Doctor. Of course.” Sondra was about to toss the book in the trash when a thought occurred to her.

“Maybe… maybe it wasn’t a routine visit… Maybe it was something she wouldn’t have wanted Phillip to know.” That would explain what she may have been unhappy about—according to Jack—and why Phillip wouldn’t have known about it. Sondra chewed her bottom lip, her heart racing at the awful possibilities.

“Only one way to find out,” she muttered, as she looked down at the phone number scribbled next to the initials. She picked up her phone and dialed.

“Damon Randall and Associates.”

Sondra was taken aback, surprised there wasn’t a “doctor” in front of Randall.

“Oh, uh, hi, yes, may I speak with Mr. Randall please?”

“Who’s calling?”

“Sondra Ellis.”

“And what is this regarding?”

“Um, following up on an appointment.”

“Hold, please.”

Sondra munched on a peapod while she waited to be connected with Damon Randall. Finally, a deep baritone came on the line.

“Damon Randall.”

Sondra cleared her throat. “Mr. Randall, good afternoon. My name is Sondra Ellis and well, this is going to sound strange, but I think my sister may have been meeting you a few years ago and I’m just wondering who you are and why she would have been meeting you.”

“I’m afraid I don’t follow.”

“Sorry. Let me start over. My sister, Tracy Ellis, disappeared about three years ago and I was going through her old date book and found your number in it. She’d made an appointment to meet with you and—”

“Did you say Tracy Ellis?” Damon Randall interrupted.

“Yes.”

“Hold on a minute.” Sondra could hear him shuffling papers and opening drawers.

“You said three years ago.”

Sondra nodded. “Right.”

“What month?”

“February.”

“Ah. Yes. I was going to meet with Ms. Ellis on Monday morning at ten a.m., February first. She never made it. I do remember now she disappeared and later died, so obviously, we never met.”

“Mr. Randall, why was my sister coming to meet you? I mean, what is it that you do?”

There was a small pause. “She wanted to discuss a divorce.”

Sondra’s heart began to stab her chest. “Whose divorce?”

“Hers.”

The box of Soba noodles slipped out of Sondra’s hands and spilled onto the floor, lashing her bare foot with thick, brown sauce. “You’re a divorce attorney?”

“Yes. A friend of Ms. Ellis’ gave her my card and she contacted me and asked if we could meet first thing that Monday. She wanted to file for divorce from her husband.”

“Are you serious?”

“Quite. She plainly said she wanted to talk about what steps she would need to take to file for a divorce from her husband. We didn’t discuss many details, planning of course, to do that when we met.”

“Mr. Randall, my sister had only been married six months.”

“I’ve seen shorter marriages.”

Sondra shook her head. “But… man, this makes no sense,” she whispered to herself. “And she didn’t tell you anything, nothing at all?”

“I’m afraid not. I’m sorry, Ms. Ellis, but I have a very busy afternoon and I really must go.”

“Oh, yeah right. Thank you.”

“My condolences on the loss of your sister. I do recall it being a rather gruesome crime.”

Sondra squinted, distracted. “Yeah… yeah it was. Goodbye. And thank you.”

“Good day.” The phone clicked in Sondra’s ear.

Sondra hung up her own phone and winced when her foot squished into slimy, now useless Soba noodles. She wiped her foot and floor as she contemplated this bit of information. A divorce? This was so contrary to… Sondra went in search of Phillip’s letter to Mimi, finding it stashed in the black mesh file holder she crammed her bills into. She pulled it out and examined it before she reread it for the first time in a year. She examined the photo of Phillip and his new wife. Sondra looked up, a new thought occurring to her.

Maybe Phillip was cheating on Tracy and that’s why she wanted a divorce.

Sondra threw the envelope down on the kitchen counter and went digging for Tracy’s last journal so she could re-read the passages. The same rosy picture she’d read before still filled the pages. Of course… she looked at the date again, reminding herself the last entry was three months before Tracy disappeared.

What the hell could have happened in three months time?

She fished a cigarette out of the box on the kitchen counter and lit up. Her eye fell on Tracy and Phillip’s wedding album and she went over to pick it up. She flipped the book open to a picture of the bride and groom smiling for the camera at the reception. Sondra sucked hard on her cigarette and let out a deliberate exhale, the smoke curling around her in a lazy cloud. The happy couple’s glowing smiles beckoned to Sondra to figure out what secrets had driven them apart.

A
s long as Paula could remember, she had loved Phillip.

It was the first day of sophomore year and she had seen him in the hallway by his locker outside of gym class. He wore a pair of stiff blue jeans, a plaid button-down shirt and thick glasses. She had watched as he unloaded and loaded books into his locker. It turned out they had biology together and became lab partners. They were both shy and quiet and she spent each day hoping he would look at her as more than someone who could hold the frog open while he cut it. She was in awe of him. He was so smart and nice and Paula fell hopelessly in love.

At the end of the year, he finally asked her if she wanted to see a movie and Paula thought she would die. He had kissed her that night, his soft lips caressing her trembling ones with sweet, gentle pressure. After that, they became inseparable, planning to marry. However, he went off to Chicago to study psychology and Paula stayed behind to go to secretarial school. They tried for a while to keep up the relationship, but it was too difficult and they parted ways. Phillip stayed in Chicago and eventually met and married Tracy. Paula stayed behind and became a secretary at an insurance company. She kept up with Phillip through his mother and wondered if he still thought about her at all. She had dated some, but no one could measure up to her first love.

Paula had been staring out of her kitchen window thinking about her marriage, before she got back to the task at hand. She rinsed the final breakfast dishes and swiped her now-damp dishtowel across the white bowls from this morning’s bran flakes before placing them in the rack to finish drying. She hugged herself at how lucky she was to have Phillip back after all these years. She knew that sometimes she disappointed him and every day when she woke up, she concentrated on how she could be the best possible wife to him. He deserved nothing less. She hated that Tracy had to die for her dreams to come true, but it was like Carlene said—everything happened for a reason.

P
aula didn’t like Tuesdays. Tuesdays was meatloaf. Tuesdays was the day the little Mexican man with the gold earring, ponytail, and dirty green t-shirt came to mow the lawn.

Tuesdays was sex.

Every Tuesday and Thursday, Phillip and Paula had sex and Paula didn’t like it. It was now Tuesday morning and Paula had all day to dread the nighttime custom. At the moment, she was scrambling eggs, brewing coffee and browning toast for Phillip.

After arranging the table with his breakfast, Paula went outside to retrieve the morning paper from the end of the driveway. She withdrew the sports section and placed it next to Phillip’s breakfast plate before discarding the rest into the trash. She then went to the kitchen and poured herself a glass of orange juice.

“Dear? Dear, your breakfast is ready,” she called out.

Phillip appeared and smiled at Paula. “Good morning,” he said, walking over to her, preparing to perform the daily morning routine.

“Open wide,” he said, holding out his hand, which contained one tiny white pill and one larger blue pill. “Vitamin time.”

An obedient Paula opened her mouth and Phillip dropped the vitamins on her tongue. With a swish of her juice, she washed them down into her system. She smiled at Phillip and went to rinse out her glass. Phillip waited for her to seat him and give him the first sip of coffee.

As Phillip read the paper and ate breakfast, Paula packed his lunch. A turkey sandwich on wheat with mustard on one side, mayo on the other; a speared pickle, a thermos of tomato soup and two chocolate chip cookies for dessert. Paula heard Phillip clear his throat and she rushed out to clear the dishes. Phillip continued to sit at the table as Paula gathered up her husband’s lunch into a large brown bag and presented it to him with flourish.

“All your favorites,” she smiled.

He nodded his approval. “Don’t forget my jacket.”

She gave him a knowing look. “Of course not, dear.” Paula went to the hall closet and pulled out the blazer she had pressed earlier that morning. She helped him into it and turned him around to survey his appearance.

“Perfect,” she said, smoothing down the lapel. “Have a wonderful day, dear,” she said and smiled.

Philip gave her a dry peck on her cheek. “Thank you, dear.”

With a pivot, Phillip walked out of the door and started up his green Chevy. Paula couldn’t remember the last time she’d been inside Phillip’s car. Might have been last year sometime. She herself never drove. Paula had never been a good driver to begin with and then after the accident, she vowed to never again get behind the wheel. Paula shuddered at the memory as she locked the door behind Phillip and set about doing her chores for the day, trying not to think about tonight. Vacuuming, scrubbing, laundry, and dusting made the day pass quickly and before Paula knew it, it was time to prepare the meatloaf she didn’t like. It was her mother-in-law’s recipe and she always found it too salty. Once, she decreased the amount of salt and was thrilled with the results. Phillip, however, had a fit and put her in the hall closet for two days, so it was back to the heaping tablespoons of salt the following Tuesday.

Dinner passed without incident and Paula tried to steel herself for the task ahead. She took extra time washing the dishes, swirling the damp dishtowel across the gleaming white plates until they squeaked. She placed the last dish in the rack, her heart about to jump out of her chest over the stress about what was coming.

“Paula?” Phillip called out from the living room.

She gulped. “Yes, dear?”

“Hadn’t you better be getting ready?”

“Of course, dear. I was on my way now.”

Paula entered their bedroom and rummaged around her drawer until she found her pink flannel nightgown, the one Phillip insisted she wear every Tuesday. She’d grown to hate the soft, prim material and everything it represented. With a heavy sigh, she removed her stiff white bra and thick white panties and slipped into the nightgown. She flipped off the light, lay down in bed and waited, wondering if Phillip could hear the pounding of her heart from the other room. The TV went silent and Paula closed her eyes, listening for Phillip’s silent tread down the hallway to the bedroom. The door creaked open and she could see his silhouette illuminated from the glow of the hall light. She tensed up at the familiar jingle of his belt buckle, followed by the whoosh of his pants as they fell to the ground. He took his time undoing each of his buttons and Paula knew he was watching her. She squeezed her eyes tighter and tried to slow the ragged rhythm of her breath.

The bed dipped and groaned with Phillip’s weight and Paula tried to keep herself from flinching as the hem of her nightgown trailed up the curve of her thigh and over the flat plane of her stomach. His fingers flicked across her nipples and Paula gulped, hoping the promised tears wouldn’t slip out of her eyes. He took both hands and jiggled her breasts haphazardly, rolling them outward, then up and down, the cue for her move. Paula lifted her hand and groped along Phillip’s inner thigh until she found his penis, small and flabby against his leg. She took a deep breath and began to manipulate it between her fingers, raking her hand up and down until it finally grew stiff within her palm. Phillip stopped squishing her breasts around and rolled on top of her, pushing himself into the dry, rubbery space between her legs with a soft grunt.

He rammed against her, trying to get comfortable and Paula gripped the mattress to keep from crying out in pain. Finally, he began to jackhammer inside of her, shaking the bed until it squealed in agony. Beads of sweat slid down Phillip’s forehead and splashed against Paula’s nose, though she didn’t dare wipe the drips away until he was done. His breath started to come in short bursts, Paula’s sign that this torture would be over soon. He pushed, up and down, up and down, knocking the top of Paula’s head against the bulky oak headboard. He stopped and planted his knees on either side of Paula’s head, before shoving himself into her mouth. Paula fought back her tears and tried not to graze against him with her teeth. She’d made that mistake once before and had spent five days chained to the handle of the cabinet and forced to eat the two daily meals he’d allowed her on the kitchen floor. Phillip stopped for a moment and Paula closed her eyes, bracing for the explosion. He shuddered and cried out as the slippery white cream spilled out of him and into her throat.