Voodoo Heart (19 page)

I folded the note and placed it inside the coal car, beneath the ring box.

“Jacob,” Laura called down the tunnel. “You get lost?”

I made sure the train was righted properly, my hands trembling a little now. Then I opened my mouth to tell Laura to hit the power. But the words froze in my throat.

“Jacob?” Laura squinted into the tunnel’s entrance, searching for me in the darkness. Children huddled around her, tugging and giggling. “Hello?”

The ring box and the note sat waiting in the coal car.

Laura tucked her hair behind her ear. She looked worried. “Should we hit the power? Jake?”

“Hit it,” I finally said.

Laura called over her shoulder to the children. “Flip the switch.” All at once the current surged through the tracks. The engine began to pull away from me, but I wouldn’t release it. I couldn’t get my hands to let go. The ring box and the note shook in the coal car. Folded up, the note showed the message written on the other side of mine.

Boo.

A shiver ran through me. I looked up at Laura, at her beautiful face at the end of the tunnel, waiting. I was ready for this. For her. I had to be.

“Jacob,” Laura called. “Are you all right?”

The engine’s wheels spun, trying to pull away, but I held on. My heart was pounding fast. I glanced behind me, at the tunnel’s entrance. The hole opened up on the miniature summertime scene. Tiny children climbed trees bursting with flowers. They chased each other toward a bright blue pond. A girl flew a kite high above the rooftops.

“Jacob,” came Laura’s voice. “Jacob?”

I felt light-headed. I took the ring box and note out of the coal car and then I let the train go.

When Laura got off work, we went to a restaurant on the shore. It was all the way out on a pier, overlooking the ocean. The table I’d reserved stood at the far end of the room. It was pressed right up against the huge window and the view couldn’t have been prettier. The dark blue ocean stretched out forever, calm, flat as a cutting board. The sun was already down; the sky was covered in glowing pink gashes.

Still, all I could think about was what had happened back at the day-care room. I kept wondering what was wrong with me. What was so broken? Laura was talking to me, but I couldn’t hear her. Nothing’s broken, I told myself, taking a long sip from my gin and tonic. I just needed more time.

But on went the thoughts: What if it’s not just about time? What if you’re not built for this? What if there is something wrong, something that runs in the blood? What if all you’ll ever be able to do is leave? My face felt hot. I mopped at my forehead with my napkin.

Laura put her hand on mine. “Hey. What are you thinking about?”

I took another pull from my drink. “About you,” I said, trying to smile.

“I hope not,” she said. “You look about ready to kill someone.”

“I have a headache from all the kids today. Sorry. All the fucking noise.”

Laura looked up from the menu. “I thought you liked it there.”

“In doses,” I said, finishing my drink. “I shouldn’t have picked today to come by.” The ice cubes rattled as I set the glass on the table.

“Slow down,” said Laura. “We haven’t even ordered yet.”

I motioned to the waiter to bring me another.

“What is your problem?” Laura whispered loudly, leaning toward me. “What’s going on?”

I felt anger coursing through me, building. Part of me wanted to stop myself. Part of me wanted to apologize and start over, go for a walk down the pier together, look at the sunset on the water.

But another part wanted to hurt Laura; hurt her so bad.

“Talk to me. What’s wrong?”

“You look really ugly when you make that face,” I said. “When you crinkle your forehead up like that. You look about eighty years old.”

Laura stared at me. “Jacob. What are you doing?”

“I’m ordering a drink,” I said. “I’m a grown man.”

“Why are you acting like this? What did I do?”

My drink arrived. Laura tried to grab it, but I yanked it away, spilling some on the table. A couple nearby looked over.

“What are you looking at, fuckface?” I said to the guy.

“Jacob! Stop it!”

“Shut up,” I said to Laura. Then I turned back to the couple looking over from their table. The woman had turned away but the man was still watching us from the corner of his eye.

“We’re having a private conversation here. Turn that way,” I said to him. “Do it. Turn around. Before I stab you with your fucking lobster fork.”

Laura got up to leave.

I got up too. “You watch it,” I said, pointing at the man at the other table. I took out a bill for the drink and flicked it on the table.

By the time I was out in the parking lot, Laura had gotten into the car.

“Wait,” I said, but she was pulling out of the lot.

I stood in front of the car and Laura squealed to a stop.

“Wait,” I said again.

She was crying. “What do you want from me, Jake? What?”

“I want you to leave me alone,” I said. I could hardly believe the words coming out of my mouth. But right then it was true. All I wanted was to hold her, but at the same time, all I wanted was to rip her apart.

“That’s it?” she said. “That’s really what you want?”

“That’s what I want,” I said.

“You don’t love me. You don’t want to be with me anymore. Just like that.”

“I don’t love you,” I said. “I want to, but I don’t. Go find someone else.”

She stared at me, her eyes wet and red. “You’re lying. I know you are.”

“I don’t love you, Laura. I don’t want to be with you. Go away.”

“Jacob, I love you. I don’t care if you’re not ready for things, the house, or whatever. I just want to be with you. We can work it out.”

“Are you deaf? Go. Away. Fuck off. I don’t want to be around you anymore. Leave.”

Laura waited.

I slammed my hand on the car’s roof. “What else do you need to hear, you stupid bitch? You cunt! Go! Get lost!”

Laura shot me a look; her eyes were full of grief and pity. Then she put the car in drive and left me in the parking lot.

I took a while getting home. I stopped at a bar I liked, a small place by the airport called the Fly by Night, and I drank more than I should have. I didn’t feel drunk when I left, but by the time I got home, I couldn’t walk straight. The front door lock took me three tries to open.

The house was completely dark and difficult to navigate. Gripping the banister for balance, I climbed the spiral staircase to see if Laura had gone to bed. But of course, Laura wasn’t in our bedroom. Some of her clothes lay strewn about the floor, and it hit me then that she was truly gone.

I saw one of the walkie-talkies on the floor by the bed and I picked it up and turned it on.

“Laura?” I said into its receiver. “Do you copy? Kitty Kat?”

Nothing. Just static.

I clipped the walkie-talkie to my belt and headed downstairs. The house looked especially beautiful that night. Moonlight poured in through the windows, casting long blue shadows across the walls. The nails in the floorboards gleamed like stars. The tiny faces in the molding looked so alive, they seemed to be watching me as I made my way down the main hallway.

I wandered from room to room, trying to take in the whole house, all the work Laura and I had put into it. So many of the rooms were finished now. I wanted to appreciate every little detail; I sat and smoked a cigarette in the leather armchair Laura had bought for the study. I stared at my own fun-house reflection in the bottom of the glass bowl on the living room coffee table. I ran my hand over the points of the antique pitchfork hanging on the wall of the kitchen.

The garden room I saved for last. As I entered, the view caught me off guard. I’d been in the room at night before, but that evening the yard looked so beautiful through the huge windows, the grass shimmering purple in the moonlight, sloping away toward the old lemon fields. There were only a few small patches of shrub left to clear at the yard’s edge. The rest was smooth and clean. I took the machete from the box by the door and headed outside.

The cool air smelled like lemons and fresh-cut grass, and as I walked down the hill toward the far end of the yard I felt invigorated, wild. Just a little more work and the property would be done; I would finish the whole job that night. I walked faster. The machete made a low humming noise as the blade swung by my side.

When I reached the thicket at the edge of the yard I started right in, hacking away, chopping at the dense knots of vines and thorn-bushes. The machete was dull and it took a few whacks of the blade to cut through even the thinnest brush. Before long I’d sweated through my shirt, but I kept slashing. It was exhilarating, the glint and scream of the blade, the shudder it sent up my arm when it hit. Some of the vines sprayed a sweet, stinking liquid from their severed stumps.

Eventually, I found myself on the other side of the main thicket. The brush began to thin out, and soon enough I could hack through the vegetation without much trouble. I’d never been this deep behind the yard before. The old lemon fields were dried out, but tall, reedy grasses and bulbous weeds covered the area. I could hear rodents moving beneath me, and every few moments the grass rustled with the movements of larger animals I couldn’t see.

I walked for a long time, hacking away at everything in front of me.
This is my life,
I thought, and brought down the blade. I slashed my way forward.
This is my fucking face.
I was so busy swinging the blade I almost walked right into the women’s prison. I didn’t even notice the perimeter until it was in front me, a wide, glowing green line in the grass.

I looked across the line at the prison grounds on the other side. They appeared even more stunning than through the telescope; the manicured lawns glistened. The trees were clipped perfectly. The chalk-white walking paths wound across the grass.

I braced myself for an alarm to sound, and then waved the machete over the line. But nothing happened.

I put one foot on the other side of the line, then the other. Still no alarm. Maybe it was silent, I thought, but somehow I knew that there was no warning system.

I crossed the grass to the main walking path. Up ahead, the barracks rose from behind a line of trees. I headed toward them, the machete at my side.

The grounds were entirely silent. No crickets, no owls. Just the faint crunch of my feet on the path. I passed the jogging track, the small pond filled with koi, the vegetable garden with its little rows of trellised stalks. I passed the picnic tables where the women sat for lunch every day.

When I reached the barracks, I saw that the only thing blocking me from entering was a screen door. Slowly, I pulled the door open and stepped inside.

The barracks were darker than I expected. Small emergency plug-ins lined the base of the walls, casting dim puddles of light along the linoleum floor. All around me, I could hear the women breathing in their sleep. I walked past the first few bunks. I saw the eye surgeon in one of the bottom beds. She looked different in person. She slept on her back, her lips parted just slightly. I leaned over her, examining her face in the faint light. With her glasses off and her features relaxed she looked much prettier than she had through the telescope. Younger, more innocent.

I walked on. I passed the jazz drummer; I passed Shirley Sayles, the golfer, sleeping with a tanned arm thrown over her eyes. As I continued on, I noticed that many of the beds had photographs taped to the headboards. One woman had a picture of a puppy sleeping on a windowsill. Another had a photograph of a little boy with a balloon tied to his wrist by a ribbon. Some of the women had belongings or charms beside their beds, on shelves built into the walls: a stuffed giraffe, a library book, a snow globe with a miniature tropical resort inside.

Then I saw her. Rose Deach was sleeping on a bottom bunk near the window. I could tell it was her by her hair, white against the dark pillow.

I was careful to be quiet as I made my way over. There were no pictures taped to her headboard. No toys or trinkets or books on her shelf. There was just Rose, lying alone in the narrow bed.