The Achilles Heel (13 page)

“I don’t give a good goddamn if I’m on the cover of every magazine in the Piggly Wiggly
with this outfit on; this is what I’m wearin’! Now tell me what Santa Claus has in
store for me today,” he cackled with serious excitement.

“Okay, I thought that first we’d drive the Jeep to a bar called The Domino Club; way
out on the west side of the island and totally submersed in the jungle. We have to
take a tiny dirt path off the main road to get there. This little gem is a St. Croix
icon, and you’re just the kind of guy who can fully appreciate all the amenities packed
into one tiny restaurant. They have the best Johnny Cakes you’ve ever put in your
mouth, and the house specialty is a drink called a Mamma-Wanna. It’s some kind of
rum concoction that will certainly bring out your stellar personality, and after a
few of them, you’ll fit right in with the pigs,” I said.

“Pigs?” he asked with a raised eyebrow, stroking his handlebar mustache.

“The main attractions at the Domino Club are Patty and Gus; two, four hundred pound,
beer drinking pigs,” I said with a smile, pleased that I’d just made Wade’s dreams
come true.

“Ha-ha!” he squealed with a high pitched laugh, slapping his knee. “No fuckin’ way
that’s true.”

“Swear it, and I’ll even buy you and the pigs a round,” I offered.

Just then Hope came out of the bedroom in her swimsuit, with a towel wrapped around
her waist, carrying a book.

“Why are you dorks so excited?” she asked, never once looking at us as she started
to line up all the fixings for a Bloody Mary on the counter.

“Baby, me and Kess are fixin’ to drink some beers with real pigs at a jungle bar today!
Can you believe that shit?” Wade asked her, still speaking in an excited and squeaky
voice.

“Pigs, huh? Well, maybe you’ll see some of your family members there, and it’ll be
a big ole reunion. I have two rules for you today, Wade Rutledge,” she said as she
looked up at him and directly into his eyes, pointing a long skinny finger in his
face. “One, do not get arrested, and I could not be more serious about that rule.
Two, if you do get arrested, do not call me, because I ain’t driving all over St.
Croix to find some tiki hut hoosegow in the jungle. Today I’m taking the day off from
boys. I don’t care what dumb shit y’all do today or the pigs y’all do it with, just
don’t involve me in any kind of trouble you stir up, and I mean that with every fiber
of my being,” she cautioned in a very calm but stern tone. “Now, I can see you’re
excited, baby, and I’m excited for you, so take off that stupid Clark Griswald outfit
and go have some fun with your friend,” she urged as she finished stirring her drink,
smacked Wade on the ass, picked up her book, and went out the sliding glass door to
the patio.

Wade turned to me with a shit eating grin and gloated, “If I can make it through the
entire weekend during Mardi Gras in a jail cell filled with vomit, piss and the craziest
bunch of fuckers to ever leave their houses, then I guess that pretty much makes me
invincible. I’ll take my chances in the jungle. Woooo pig! Sooie! Let’s go call those
hogs!”

ANNIE

T
he UPS parking lot felt more like a penitentiary than a place to park a car, as I
changed my mind about mailing this felony package about a thousand times. Last year
on my birthday, Jack surprised me with a white Ford Explorer, and I have loved this
car every day up until now. Today, I was a prisoner in my car, enslaved by my desire
to commit a substantial crime. After some research, I found that the penalties consisted
of a considerable amount of jail time (I guess any amount of jail time is probably
defined as considerable) and a permanent record if I mailed this package containing
a fake passport. If caught, I was facing a minimum of ten years in jail, and the thought
of that made the sweat collecting along my hair line start to run down the sides of
my face; it physically sickened me.

Please God; help me make the right decision
.

I don’t know if God necessarily puts the people who are praying about whether or not
to commit a felony at the top of his “Prayers to Answer” list, and I’m pretty sure
when beckoned, an automatic eye roll is in order, but it hasn’t deterred me from asking
for help on a daily basis. My little chats with God have gone through quite the roller
coaster of emotions in the last four months; screaming at his lack of caring for me
as a person, to begging him to show me the way. Now my prayers sound more like, “I’m
really sorry to bother you, but it’s me again…”

We all face a series of “fork in the road” choices throughout our lives, the seriousness
of the choice and the magnitude of the punishment becoming greater as we age. This
was certainly the biggest fork in my road, and it had been jammed into the ground
right through my shoes, leaving me stuck in one spot and unable to choose which road
to walk down. This wasn’t a hand in the cookie jar type of punishment; this was ten
years of freedom taken from me by the choice to get out of my car or to simply drive
away.

I began to undergo an out-of-body experience becoming a spectator to an argument between
the angel and the devil, the good and the bad, the right and the wrong sides of myself;
both of which debated very valid points. Could I live the rest of my life thinking
that my marriage might have been a sham, only knowing a shell of the man Jack Whitman,
and was I prepared to live in a world exchanging pleasantries with a brother-in-law
who quite possibly wanted me dead? No matter what excuses I could make for my actions,
above all else, what I was planning to do was not only against the law, but morally
wrong. Strangely enough, the morality of the issue bothered me more than a prison
sentence. In the past thirty-five years, I’d had my moments of stupidity, and made
some foolish decisions, but nothing this high-caliber. I was pissed at Jack for putting
me in this situation, angry at Jamie for always being Jack’s shadow and riding his
coattails right into some kind of fire he couldn’t put out, but I was mostly mad at
myself for having sat in this torture car with still no decision made. One of my biggest
concerns is Max and Mia; how would they would perceive me if they visited with me
through a glass wall? Would I ruin their innocence with the sickly smell of a prison
waiting room or shame myself enough so that they would completely write me out of
their lives? I would never forgive myself if the loves of my life were lost over this
decision; hindsight would certainly be helpful right now.

As I pondered these questions, something started to happen inside my body; a clearing
of the mind if you will. A slow moving warmth entered into my stomach and spread to
my head and toes at a rapid pace. I’ll call it a shot of clarity, but it felt very
similar to a shot of tequila. I grabbed my package, opened the car door, and went
inside.

How could I not do this?
I thought, although, it was more like self-imposed encouragement.

This is their life, too, and they should grow up knowing the truth about their family;
I’ll be damned if I let them down. Besides, if Martha Stewart can make it in a white
collar jail cell, than so can I. Maybe I’ll start a crafting club; make curtains for
the bars, doily coaster sets, and all the inmates can scrapbook our yard-time memories
together. If I’m going down, I’m swinging.
I walked into UPS with an ear to ear grin and peace in my heart.

After I mailed the box, I returned to the car and immediately called Gail.

“Hello?” she answered.

“The package is on its way to a lovely vacation spot, and its ETA is the day after
I arrive,” I said, with some resident bad ass in my tone of voice.

“Annie, you did it! You really did it! I have to admit, I thought you might bail on
the whole idea once it came time to mail the package, but damn girl, you’ve got balls!”
she exclaimed.

“Thanks, Gail; this master plan couldn’t have been concocted without your help. Let’s
meet for drinks before I get out of town and run through the rest of the details.”

“Sounds great. I could use a rare steak and strong bourbon. How about The Majestic
around eight o’clock? We can sit in the lower level; I absolutely love the darkness
down there, it has the feel of a 1920’s speakeasy. It’s Friday, so we can listen to
the jazz trio; they fire up about nineish,” she said.

“You certainly are skilled at coming up with a good plan, and it’s quite impressive.
I’ll see you there,” I said, hanging up.

I went home and set my alarm for six o’clock; my body needed sleep in the worst way.
All the build-up of that one crucial mailbox moment was draining out of me and taking
my energy with it. After four hours of solid sleep, I would be able to enjoy one of
my last nights in Kansas City with great food and a good friend.

***

The Majestic is located in downtown Kansas City in the historic Fitzpatrick Saloon
Building; a handcrafted masterpiece built long before strip malls in a time when integrity
was more important than a paycheck. Eye candy is everywhere, and each time I eat there,
I’m still not sure what impresses me more: the copper façade on the exterior of the
building, the molded tin ceilings throughout the interior or the show stopping forty-foot
long mahogany bar which was shipped in from New Orleans in the early 1900’s; that’s
just the décor. They’re famous for their dry aged steaks, handcrafted cocktails and
a selection of over a hundred different kinds of whiskey. If you took a poll of Kansas
City locals, you would find they believe The Majestic is the overall experience and
damn hard to beat.

It was sprinkling as I started the walk from the parking lot to the front doors, and
Gail was standing under the awning frantically waving me over. I hurried along, crossed
the street, and when I reached her, she put her arm around my waist and said, “Hurry,
let’s get inside!”

“What’s the rush? Do you need a drink that bad?” I joked.

“I couldn’t tell for sure because of the rain, but it appeared someone was following
you through the parking lot and then turned that corner over there when he saw me
waving to you,” she said as she pointed across the street. “Come on, it shouldn’t
be much longer on our table, and when we’re ready to leave, we’ll have security walk
us out; you parked right next to me.”

Could that be Jamie?
I wondered, realizing that only when peering through my rectangle airplane window,
the wisps of white clouds replacing the brown, flat topography of Missouri, would
I finally relax.

Over a rib-eye and some Kentucky Bourbon, Gail and I hashed out the details of what
was to come in St. Croix, and we were both shit-canned when we stumbled out of there.
Our waiter called us a cab, and we laughed and talked over each other at a deafening
volume the whole ride home. After that, I don’t remember much, except I’m positive
I had a great time! The Majestic didn’t disappoint, it never does.

KESSLER

A
s we cruised down the highway enjoying the scenery, I advised myself to take a mental
picture of this moment; the jungle to our left, the ocean on our right and the wind
blowing through the Jeep, beating my shirt against my skin. Wade hadn’t stopped smiling
since he found out there are such things as alcoholic pigs, and he’s acting so pleasant,
he didn’t even try to tackle the keys away from me in the driveway. This morning was
a wake-up call for me. It was extremely evident how much I liked having people in
my house again. After living a bachelor’s life for almost eight years now it had become
somewhat lonely, and even though Hope has only been here a day, a woman’s presence
is unmistakable. Southern women can be stubborn, pushy, and mean as hell, but I’ve
come to realize that Mama D and Hope are right; these same women can also be what
makes life worth living.

I finally found the dirt path after only circling the area twice, which is pretty
good for someone who doesn’t live here year-round, and Wade was hopping all around
in his seat barely able to contain his excitement. Wade grew up in Arkansas and has
been a die-hard Razorback fan since he was still in diapers, so he has a kindred spirit
towards hogs. I guess he felt like he would be among family today. The burgers here
are deliciously famous and almost as big as my face; the smoky smell of the grill
wafted into the grass parking lot and invited us inside.

There are no windows per se at the Domino Club, only square cut-outs around the outside
of the hut and screen doors every few feet. The thatched roof is a handmade sensation
and jets out five or six feet from the walls to act as an awning, keeping the rain
from blowing in during storms.

“We’ll have two beers, two Mamma-Wanna’s and a menu, please,” I ordered from the voluptuous,
friendly woman standing behind the bar.

We clunked our plastic cups together, and Wade toasted, “Thanks for having us out,
buddy.” After slamming our cocktail concoctions, we chased them down with the room
temperature beers.

“You know, I’ve been sent out here as somewhat of an informant on behalf of the women,”
he opened. “Are you still gonna announce your retirement to River Rock Records in
a few months? I’m only asking ‘cause you know what a pain in the ass they’re gonna
be if you do, and you’re probably gonna get railroaded if you ever want to sign with
someone else. Even if your contract is up and you have no legal obligation to the
company, they still own your early songs, and you’ll be taking a gamble if you ever
want to perform any of them. Let’s be honest, if you do have a change of heart and
want to tour again, you know the fans will be pissed if you don’t sing the songs that
made you famous; John Fogerty is a perfect example. Even Paul McCartney had to buy
back some of the songs he wrote with the Beatles ‘cause Michael Jackson owned them.”

Wade may be a lot of things considered country, but when it comes to business, he’s
an urban tycoon. Just because he grew up around tractors doesn’t mean he can’t figure
out how to drive a Bentley. Grossing around ten million dollars last year off royalties,
promotions, appearances and endorsements, I’d say he’s got the music business figured
out. When you’re dealing with a cowboy, there are three things you don’t fuck with:
his woman, his money and his hat; that’s just a fact.