Mean Woman Blues (23 page)

He brought his mouth down on hers like a weapon. She shook him off. “What’s wrong with you?”

He answered her in a loud whisper, more or less a hiss, partly designed to keep anyone outside from hearing. But it unnerved people even more than yelling. “You’re my wife, bitch. Act like it!” He pulled her back toward him.

She twisted sideways and tried to pull away, but he still had a firm hold on her wrist. He reeled her back in, and now she shoved him with her free hand. That infuriated him. He backhanded her across the face, and before she could recover, he slung her by the arm he held and let go. She sailed across the room like a scarecrow, coming to rest only when she smacked the opposite wall, losing her balance and sliding down it.

Suddenly alarmed, he knelt beside her, “Darling. Karen, are you all right?”

There was a tiny, almost inaudible knock, and the door opened. Tracie said, “Oh, God. What happened? Is there anything I can do?”

He held Karen so tightly around the wrist that she had to take his meaning. “Mrs. Wright… tripped. She’s fine, aren’t you, darling?”

Dutifully, as he had known she would, Karen smiled up at the producer. “New shoes,” she said. “David calls them Jezebel pumps.”

“Ever the gentleman. That’s not what most people call them.” Tracie left and closed the door behind her.

As soon as it clicked, he went into full-tilt apology. “Omigod, Karen, I don’t know what happened there. I saw you, and I was so excited… then when you wouldn’t… I don’t know… the adrenaline… we had so much riding on that show… I’ve really been under a lot of pressure.”

He tried to help her up, but once again she writhed out of his grasp, and this time he let her go. “Don’t you touch me, you bastard.” She strode out of the room on her fuck-me pumps.

Well, hell, she’d be all right. Mr. Right was philosophical about it. Why shouldn’t she be? No one was more of an expert on women than he was. They got upset; they got over it. In the end, it just made them more passionate. But this thing was going to cost him: He was going to have to give up sex with his wife tonight, and he was going to have to buy her some kind of fancy present to make up, and it was going to be tedious going through all the crap he was going to have to go through.

Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!
He wished he’d never seen that goddamn Terri Whittaker. Well, one thing— he sure wasn’t going to be betrayed by his own son.

He went into the hollowed-out book where he’d kept the cell phone he’d bought to deal with Lobo and punched in the gangbanger’s pager number.

When the phone rang, Lobo said nothing, just breathed.

“It’s me.”

“I know ya. Bettina frien’.”

He told Lobo what he wanted him to do, and as he did so, a Bible verse came into his head. He thought that he had named his sons well: Daniel had certainly ended up in the lion’s den, and the Lord had his own plans for Isaac.

After the show, Isaac spent half an hour shaking, trying to recover. Several times, he picked up his phone, but he couldn’t get his fingers to work. And when his coordination finally returned, he couldn’t reach Terri; either she had her phone off, or she’d forgotten to charge it, as usual.

He dialed the station and asked for her.

“I believe Miss Whittaker’s left, sir.”

“But you don’t know for sure?”

“I didn’t see her walk out, but I’m fairly sure she’s gone.”

“This is her boyfriend,” he told the receptionist. “Can you tell me where she’s staying? She left me a message, but it was garbled. The, uh…” He held his breath, hoping she wasn’t the suspicious type.

“We put our guests up at the Bluebonnet Motor Lodge.”

He exhaled. “Did she leave alone?”

“The producer probably took her back.”

“But you don’t know for sure?”

“No sir.”

He pushed it. “Does Mr. Right produce his own show?”

“Sorry, sir. I have another call.” She rang off, having apparently gotten suspicious.

She could be with his father. Errol could have asked her out to dinner or something, and she, in all innocence, would have been flattered, would have accepted. If his father understood the connection between her and Isaac, he’d kill her the second he thought he could get away with it.

Hands shaking, he called the Bluebonnet Motor Lodge. “Whittaker?” a female clerk said. “Just a moment, please.”

Isaac breathed a sigh of relief. At least he could leave a message here.

The operator came back on the line. “Ms. Whittaker has checked out.”

“What? When?”

“I’m sorry, sir. I do not have that information.”

“Give me the front desk, please.” Maybe someone would remember her.

“This is the front desk, sir.”

“Oh. Do you remember Ms. Whittaker?”

“No sir, I don’t.”

“Is anyone else there?”

“Mr. Ramos is helping a customer, sir.”

Isaac gave up, thinking,
Okay, that’s that.
She was supposed to stay overnight; if she wasn’t there, something was wrong. Seriously wrong.

He felt like he was going to pass out.

His hands slick with his sweat, he picked up the phone to call the Dallas police, then realized how futile that would be.
Well-known television personality’s about to kill my girlfriend
? Uh-uh, it wouldn’t fly.

Langdon!
he thought. Langdon could get to them— they’d believe another cop. Where the hell had he put her number? He fumbled for it, his fingers dull and uncooperative. Eventually, he thought of calling the Third District.

“Officer Langdon has been reassigned,” he was told. “Can someone else help you?”

“No. No one.”

Absolutely no one
, he thought.

* * *

Karen left the studio with dignity, heels clicking, even mustering a smile for anyone who passed. Once in her car, she sat there in shock, trying to convince herself that what had happened was real, to give it some kind of a name.

What about if I were trying to tell it
? she thought.
What would I say? Would I say my own husband tried to rape me? Would it be true?

She couldn’t explain that part at all. She wondered if, in some crazy, sick fashion, he was sexually excited by the thrill of his performance, turned on in some kind of twisted, violent way. But there were two kinds of violence at issue: sexual and physical. He may or may not have tried to rape her, but he’d most certainly knocked her around. You really couldn’t call it anything else, and you couldn’t forgive or excuse it. She wanted to; she really, really wanted to pretend it hadn’t happened. But her back hurt too badly.

Falling against the wall, she’d hurt herself. Her back was killing her; she had to get some ice on it. And she couldn’t go home. David would be home soon; if he wasn’t, so much the worse. She’d be there alone, contemplating the ruins of her marriage.

She wanted her mama.

Without thinking much about it she drove to her parents’ house. If she’d analyzed it she’d have remembered that they had fought and then made up, would still have gone there, as countless women did when their husbands hit them. But she didn’t think; she just drove. After her first marriage exploded, she’d had to live at first simply and then in poverty. Now, with David, she was slowly, painfully trying to recreate the warmth and luxury of her parents’ home, but she wasn’t succeeding, and she felt it. Felt the lack of warmth she didn’t know how to find. She hadn’t her mother’s knack or, for that matter, her mother’s money. She really didn’t know where to start and she was too proud to ask anyone except a decorator. Her wonderful new home looked like someone else’s; it had an iciness, an aloofness. It didn’t look loved.

She thought of her parents’ den, with its two wide-screen TVs and its books; its worn, cozy furniture and her mother’s needlework; its framed photos of family vacations; its seldom-used fireplace; her dad’s golf trophies. Now that was home. She wanted nothing more than to be in that room, with her mother’s arms around her as if she were a little girl again. She realized with surprise that her own home had hardly a book in it, hadn’t any of the earmarks of two people’s mutual interests, their shared life.

She knocked shave-and-a-haircut (the family signal) and entered through the door that was never locked till bedtime. Her parents were having dinner on trays in front of one of the televisions. Even though she’d grown up in this house, in this room, she felt like an intruder. “Oh. I’m sorry to interrupt your dinner.”

Her father didn’t speak. He returned to his lamb chop with an aggrieved air.

Her mother was gracious as always. She crossed the room to kiss her daughter lightly. “Karen. Congratulations. We saw the show and it was wonderful.” She sounded underwhelmed.

“Mother… Mother…” Karen felt her face breaking; no need to hold it in anymore. “Mother, he hit me.” She let it all out as she collapsed in her mother’s arms— the tears, the sobs, the body shakes, everything that conveyed her desperation. She wasn’t just hurt; she was heartbroken. And she’d had to walk out of that studio and drive over here as if nothing had happened. Now she was screaming.

Her mother said, “Calm down now. Calm down.” That was the last thing she wanted to do; she’d been calm for the last forty-five minutes. She wanted to be her mother’s child. “Boyd, get her some water.”

In a moment, she looked up to see her father holding a glass of water. The expression on his face terrified her almost more than the thought of her husband.

Her mother took the glass and held it out to her. “Drink this now. Drink this.” Karen hated the way people repeated themselves when someone lost it. She took the glass, and she sipped, momentarily quiet. And then she began hicupping.

Her dad sat down on one of the big, shabby sofas, looking like something that belonged on Mt. Rushmore. He didn’t speak at all, didn’t even look at her, just stared at the wall. He had turned off the television.

“You’re all right now. Tell us what happened.”

“Oh, Mother, I was so happy tonight! I wanted to surprise him. So I went to the studio and sat in the front row.” Her mother nodded. Karen hiccupped.

Her father said, “For God’s sake, drink that water.”

Karen obeyed. “He wasn’t happy to see me. I don’t… know why. I tried to kiss him, and he called me a whore.”

At this, her father’s face whipped toward her, stonier than ever, as if he agreed with David. “Then he started to get… sexual…” She glanced furtively at her father, oddly embarrassed. “…and I pushed him away.”

Her father spoke angrily. “Now why the hell would you do a thing like that? You just said you tried to kiss him.”

She was taken aback. “Because… uh… he called me a whore.”

Her mother reached to stroke her forearm. Her father said, “Hmmph,” to acknowledge her answer. “And because… uh…” She was finding it hard to tell. “He got rough. He scared me. So I pushed him away. And then he tried to pull me back…”

Her father’s stare was like an icepick. “Y’all into little games?”

She couldn’t believe what she’d just heard. She felt herself blushing, not out of embarrassment but out of shame. “No! No, we’re not into little games. Daddy, this was no game. What do I have to do to make you understand? He threw me against a wall.” Her hiccups were gone.

Her mother pulled her close again. “Oh, honey.”

Her father got up and paced. The phone rang. All three of them ignored it.

Finally, Karen said, “Mama, my back really hurts. Do you think I could have some ice for it?”

“Oh,
honey
,” her mother said again and got up to get the ice.

When she was gone, her dad turned to her, furious. “Now you listen to me, Missy. You’re supposed to be grown up, but you don’t ever grow up. You just make one bad decision after another and expect this family to clean up your messes. You’re going to have to figure this one out on your time, you understand? You leave your mother and me out of your filth.”

Karen felt sick. “Excuse me, Daddy,” she said, and ran to throw up. After washing her face and rubbing it with some of the ice meant for her back, she started to feel a little better.

Damn the McLeans
, she thought later, lying on the bed in her old room.
Why couldn’t I have the kind of Southern father who’d kill any bastard who messed with his little girl?
It was all her mother could do to persuade Boyd to let Karen stay the night.

She was dozing, trying to cope with the pain, when she heard the doorbell ring. She knew who it was even before she heard her father’s heavy footsteps on the stairs. “Come on down. Your husband’s here.” He didn’t wait for an answer.

David was waiting in the den, her parents having tactfully melted away. “Karen. My poor little lamb.” He crossed the room and tried to put his arms around her. She grabbed them and shoved him away. “All right. I deserved that. I came to apologize.”

“I’m not going home with you, David.” She would have to tomorrow, but at least she could have one night of peace.

“Karen, darlin’, you mean the world to me.”

“David, you
hit
me!”

“I most certainly did not. I’ve never hit a woman in my life.”

She shrugged. “Shoved then. What’s the difference?”

A strange look came over him, something she’d never seen before. It was pain, she thought. Trouble— the kind the guests on his show had, nothing she’d ever associate with Mr. Right. “Honey, something bad happened tonight.” He held up a hand to stave her off. “I mean besides my hurting you. I am truly sorry about that Karen. You may not believe it but I am. When I said I was under pressure, I didn’t mean from some stupid television show. I was afraid for my life, honey. And yours.”

She couldn’t believe what she was hearing.

“Baby, I’ve got some things to tell you. I’ve got some enemies. I saw someone tonight, someone from my past… and I couldn’t help it, I just went nuts. I was so crazy with worry— and so
damn
upset to see you at the studio— I just lashed out at you. Honey, I swear to God nothing like that’ll ever happen again.”

“What do you mean ‘enemies,’ David?” She heard the edge in her voice and hoped he did.