by JB Malory
In early January, Marianne came home from work and announced that we were having lunch at the real estate agent’s home. She was sure I would like him, he was cultured and had a passion for music. She was work acquaintances with his wife, though this was the first I had heard of it, but they had since divorced, a detail that did not escape me.
I slid into the passenger seat in a daze. As usual, Marianne had the heat set on maximum, and the sweltering, plastic-infused air immediately set me on edge. I had spent all week in a fugue of self-pity, rousing myself only to check the clock to see how many hours had passed and how much closer I was to night and sleep.
Marianne smiled at me hopefully, but as she turned onto the main road, I pounced.
“Do you miss the city?” I said, doing my best to sound innocent.
Her smile fell away.
She pulled the car over to the side of road.
“Enough. I won’t let you ruin this,” she said, her voice hard. Then she checked herself and said, “Please, Paul. Can you give this a chance before you leap to any conclusions?” She had never spoken to me like this before. Some change had taken place. Had her patience finally run out after all? Even the most seasoned spies under deep cover eventually crack, often they defect to the other side or just disappear into the crowd to start a new life.
I was terrified to see a side of her that could snap and break under strain. Still, I listened to my own voice with a kind of sick relief as I went on:
“What is your obsession with this real estate agent?”
“Obsession? Paul, are you okay? Is everything alright?”
I balked. All the things I wanted to say to her suddenly seemed more dangerous than ever, I could not bear the thought of exposing my weaknesses to her. Was I going to accuse her of faking her love for me for all these years? Of having pushed me down this precipice of despair and loneliness in such a way that I could only blame myself? For what? To have an affair with a real estate agent in a small town?
Scenes from movies flashed before my eyes—women slamming doors, leaping from cars at red lights, tossing drinks in men’s faces, throwing themselves on beds to sob into pillows—but none of them bore any similarity to my own case.
“We’re not talking about this now. We’re going to lunch, and I’m not going to be rude and cancel,” she said, pulling the car back onto the road.
The real estate agent lived in a sprawling ranch with immaculate gardens all around, a castle compared to the rest of the houses in town. Everything about the house was tasteful, and I had the sensation of being an actor arriving on location to shoot some suburban drama, a sympathetic serf to the petty upper-class squabbling of the town lords. But if only I knew the script, perhaps I could play my part, instead I was flying blind, improvising my scenes.
In the driveway next to a red sports car was a familiar blue pick-up truck.
“Isn’t that our neighbor’s truck?” I said, trying to connect these disparate puzzle pieces. My implausible theories suddenly didn’t seem so absurd.
“Don’t start again, Paul. We thought it would be best to get you here and introduce everyone.”
“I see,” was all I managed to respond. So this would be my final reckoning, and to think it had come so soon. I hadn’t even finished a draft of my screenplay, yet here I was, cast to the center of my own denouement. I should have never left the city, at least there I had anonymity.
I was aware of Marianne’s anxiety as she rang the doorbell. She expected an unpleasant scene from me, perhaps she even hoped for one: if her friends witnessed an outburst, then she would have proven her point and could be rid of me. Unpredictability was my last remaining weapon.
But my resolve was short-lived. When the door opened, I was face to face with an old college friend named Brian Tearney.
I was aghast. This was the real estate agent? How had a figure from my past come to inhabit my current life? Surely, I was not meant to believe that coincidence would explain this all away. I had not seen Brian in many years, but we had once been fast friends, had even talked about collaborating on a film project together.
“Paul, it’s so good to see you. It’s been too long. We should have done this ages ago. I’m really happy you’re here, both of you,” said Brian. In college Brian had once been a promising actor, receiving accolades for his performances in several plays, he had a knack for his convincing portrayals of likable villains. Perhaps he had given up too soon.
Brian took me to a spacious and tastefully decorated living room where Tom was waiting with a glass of wine to hand to me. Unable to regain my bearings, lightheaded with the impossible cruelty of life, I sat and listened as the three of them exchanged pleasantries, aware that they were all watching me to gauge my reaction.
“Mare tells me you’re a writer.” It was Tom, staring at me with brown, intellectual eyes, his voice unnaturally gentle. “I write a bit myself, mostly poems, it’s not much, but I enjoy the process. It’s just a hobby really. But I’d love to see what you’re working on.” It was hard to reconcile this placating man with the sinister figure I had seen at the window, but I would not be taken in so easily.
“I barely write, hardly ever really,” I said. Once again, my voice was not my own, but an echo.
“Paul, you can tell them,” Marianne’s hand settled on my shoulder. “He writes everyday, a screenplay. He’s very dedicated,” she said, addressing the two men for my benefit, or perhaps it was for her own.
In spite of myself, I smiled shyly.
“It’s nothing. I’ll have a draft done by spring, then I’ll pitch it around. We have a few friends who work in the industry out in L.A. that have expressed interest. Of course, our roots are on the East Coast, so it would be quite a big change to move out there.”
It was as if I had spent so long living inside my screenplay that I no longer knew how to control my own dialogue. Was I a man escaped from prison giddy for human interaction, or had I simply been moved to solitary confinement and was talking to the walls?
“Sounds interesting,” said Brian. My attention honed in on the familiar blue eyes and expressive, narrow mouth. He was a fit and classically handsome man. How long had it been since we sat on the college quad smoking cigarettes, sidling up to some passing girls, coercing them into joining us? It seemed like only yesterday.
Was it really possible that Marianne had become acquainted with him so randomly? None of it made sense, I was looking for an explanation of the inexplicable. Whatever logic Marianne expected me to accept, whatever story she wanted me to swallow, it would surely end up poison in my stomach. I could not allow myself to be humiliated further. They might think they had me cornered in their labyrinth, but not every mouse is motivated by cheese. For some, escape is the only goal.
I stood abruptly, and, hardly aware of what I was doing, I spun on my heels and marched from the room like a machine launched from a spring.
For the first time in months, I was almost gleeful. Freedom was at hand, I had humiliated them all. I skipped out the front door and into the driveway. The afternoon chill was a reprieve from the suffocating atmosphere of my drumhead trial.
But my spontaneous rebellion came up short: there was nowhere for me to go without the car, and Marianne had the keys. I had to laugh at the absurdity of it all. I climbed into the passenger seat and put on my seatbelt to wait.
Five minutes later, Marianne came out.
Confined in the tiny car with her, my optimism faded. We drove in silence back to the house. I had sabotaged her effort at reconciliation. But why? I ached for the sanctity of my office.
“You should give Tom a chance,” she said, breaking the silence. She was not ready to give up. “He’s a doctor, a psychiatrist. We thought maybe you would like to talk with him. It could be very helpful for you.”
We were approaching the center of town, where a single gas station convenience store was the last remaining business.
“Let me out,” I said.
Marianne hesitated.
“I need to go to the store. Stop the car,” I shrieked. My skin was on fire, my palms itched with adrenaline. I could not be in that car for another second, even if I had to walk the rest of the way home alone, it was a risk I was willing to take.
Marianne protested, but as the traffic light ahead turned red, I jumped from the car. Unsure where to go, I jogged across the street into the convenience store and hid behind a newspaper rack. Hemmed in by cars on all sides, Marianne was forced to pull away or cause a scene. It must have tortured her to leave me like that. I had put her in an impossible position, but my excitement quickly soured as I thought about the walk home through town and the dozens of eyes that would be watching me, all of them fully aware that I was without my protector. Somehow I had to prove that I was not as weak as everyone believed.
Of course, Marianne might refuse to let me inside when I returned home, or worse still, pack her bags and abandon me. Brian could no doubt sell the house at a profit while Tom kept an eye on things from across the street. Together, the three of them would button up my life neatly, and I had no say in the matter.
I was being watched.
I stood cautiously and scanned the brightly lit rows of snacks and car accessories. Next to the self-serve coffee station, a wall of refrigerators hummed like electric sarcophagi.
Behind a laminate counter, the clerk made himself busy rearranging a tray of lighters. We were alone in the store. Trying to act natural, I began to browse the aisles, feigning interest in a chewing gum display. The rows of shelves were only shoulder high, leaving my head exposed. I was sure the clerk was watching me, but perhaps it was his habit to thwart shoplifters.
The bell above the front door rang and a man and woman entered with two young children in tow. I locked eyes with the man. I saw his jaw clench. He whispered something to the woman who turned to look at me.
Sensing that their parents were momentarily distracted, the children ran from under their mother’s arms and to my horror came skipping over and stopped before me.
The six of us froze in a stand off. If this were a film, the clerk would reach under the counter and trigger the silent alarm, but he only paused in his charade of tidying up the countertop to stare. The children’s parents also seemed at a loss as to how to proceed.
The older of the two children, not knowing any better but sensing the tension in the room, hesitated. The younger one, a boy of no more than six, raised his little hand and pointed to the shelf of candy that I was now blocking. Deducing his meaning, I picked a chocolate bar from the shelf and held it out to the boy.
“This one?” I said.
But before the boy could answer, his mother called out:
“Benny, no candy. We’re here for drinks only. Go pick something out.”
Was there a twinge of fear in her voice, or was it contempt?
By presuming I would be off guard in this public space, these five people had cleverly cornered me here with no way out. The nearest exit was behind the counter where the clerk kept guard, and the main entrance was blocked by the mother and father. Or perhaps they were no more parents to these children than I was and had only borrowed them as props for this carefully laid trap.
The two kids smiled up at me sheepishly. Children are not natural deceivers, and I saw the pain of their lying written all over their faces.
My whole body was shaking. I could bear the strain no longer.
I ran toward the exit, hoping that the parents would take pity on me and let me pass without incident, but in my panic, my hip bumped roughly against the smaller child and he went flying to the ground. I heard the thump of their small head against the linoleum and a startled, almost euphoric scream.
For an instant, I contemplated helping the child, but I knew if I did then all would be lost.
Instead, I shouldered my way past the parents and through the door, leaping out into the dusk. I sprinted up the road. Certain I was being pursued, I did not stop until I reached the house.
I collapsed in the front yard.
All was quiet, the street was empty. Or was it?
Under an unlit streetlight, a black dog slunk away into a row of hedges.
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