UNDESERVING

 

An intimidating knock on the door jarred Lucy Burroughs from her slumber on the couch. Slowly adapting to the darkness, she reached under the nearby lampshade and yanked the cord, spreading fingers of light on her pallid face. Squinting and rubbing her eyes, she asked who was there. A response came in indistinguishably garbled speech, like that of a malicious crank caller attempting to scare her. The grumbling became louder. Her vision less hazy now, Lucy glanced at the clock on the wall. 3:30 a.m.

Another mysterious knock…then another—just as foreboding and similar in sound to a heavy suitcase being dragged down wooden steps. Her mind whirled with uncertainty and anxiety. She stared at the door, making sure the doorknob lock and deadbolt were secure. Extinguishing the lamp, she got up from the couch to get her fiancé, Tom. She wasn’t surprised that he hadn’t yet awakened; his sleep was always much deeper than hers.

Lucy tiptoed to the bedroom. She called out to Tom in whispers, careful not to draw the visitor’s attention to her presence. Although she was unnerved, she knew not to overreact. Over the years drunken teenagers had pulled pranks in the neighborhood, playing ring-and-run, soaping cars, vandalizing property. Lucy knew it could be the Gables’ obnoxious kid outside. Or maybe even the Jamesons’ delinquent teenage daughter, who had spent several years in a juvenile rehab for her wild behavior.

The eerie pounding on the door resumed. Lucy’s pulse quickened. “Damn it, Tom,” she said in a low voice tinged with frustration, “must you sleep through everything? Some-body’s whaling on our door. Tell him to go away.”

Tom remained unresponsive. What’s it going to take, she wondered, to rouse him to action? What’s he waiting for? He most certainly has heard the noise. But, then again, maybe he had experienced one of his ongoing late-night anxiety attacks and was sitting in the kitchen drinking shots, in the dark corner by the pantry, as he had done numerous times when the symptoms had been severe. Once stricken with an attack, Tom became emotionally inaccessible, virtually unaware of what was going on around him. What now?

With quivering fingers Lucy groped the bedroom wall in search of the light switch. Even though she was familiar with the layout of the room she had difficulty finding the switch-panel in the darkness. After about ten seconds of finger-spidering the wall, her thumb jabbed the switch.

The light revealed a jolting discovery: Tom was not there!

Stunned, puzzled, Lucy left the room, putting out the light as she moved past the switch. In the living-room she saw the wall-mounted phone, and for a brief moment she considered calling the police. But first she wanted to know who was outside; she wanted to have more to tell the cops than that some drunk or unruly neighbor, for the umpteenth time, was causing a disturbance. She crept up to the front door and pressed her eye against the peephole.

No one.

She flicked on the outside light, surveyed the area again, and was shocked to find Tom within range of the peep-hole—dirty, disheveled, trembling, crying.

Alarmed, Lucy opened the door and helped him to his feet and into the house. His eyes were glazed, his clothes sagging off his body, his hair drenched with sweat, his hands grimy, spasmodic—a condition she had never seen Tom in. Now, thrust into the pressure and confusion of the moment, Lucy attended to Tom and tried soothing him. He looked as if he might have been mugged and beaten. But when? Where? Questions bombarded her.

She helped him to the couch, the one she’d been sleeping on before the unexpected ripped her from pleasant dreams. He sat down and leaned his head back, his tears ceaseless, the tendons of his jaw line pronounced. In the past nothing had ever moved him to tears. Not movies, not music, not all the tender thoughts she had shared with him over the years. In fact, the last time Lucy saw him show strong emotion was when he had told her he loved her over six years ago, and even that could hardly be considered crying. That didn’t make Tom a lesser man, not in her mind; it just made his present behavior more mysterious, more baffling, more desperate.

Lucy got up, closed the door and secured the lock. Double checked. With a warm cloth she fetched from the bathroom she gently wiped away the grime and tear stains from his face. An afghan lay over the back of the couch.

She wrapped it around him. In the few minutes Tom had been inside, he hadn’t said a word, had not looked at her. He only mumbled incoherently and cried; his teeth were chattering so severely nothing was comprehensible. Lucy showed patience.

She got close to Tom and wrapped her arms around him, reassuring him that he was okay, in a safe place, in the comfort and privacy of his own home, out of harm’s way—whatever that meant to him in his current state of mind—and that he could take his time telling her what he had been through. Staring at the emptiness and terror in her husband’s eyes, Lucy wondered how he had found his way home, and, even more baffling, why he hadn’t come inside. She was certain he was on drugs or had been drugged. Although she had no memory of Tom ever taking drugs, his face and behavior suggested that he was under the influence of a dangerous substance.

Hugging him, rubbing his back, Lucy said, “Can you tell me what happened? Take your time. You have all the time you need.”

Tom’s eyes met Lucy’s. His stare was empty, that of a dementia patient. As Lucy looked more closely at Tom’s wretched face she could see his bloodshot retinas, his eyes darting back and forth with paranoia, as if he were besieged by danger. She suddenly became aware of a stench whose origin she couldn’t place. Where could he have been? What had he come in contact with? Had he been in a musty basement? A contaminated room? Had he come in contact with toxic chemicals? As repulsive as the odor was she tried to ignore it and focus: Tom was becoming more alert.

Through his cracked, bloody lips, he mumbled “He did it…why?”

She placed her hand on his shoulder, pulled him closer, and with the other hand wiped a smudge of black dirt off his cheek using the sleeve of her nightgown. “Who did what, Tom? Please, what happened to you? It’s just us here. There’s nothing to be afraid of.”

Tom looked down at his grimy hand. The commitment ring Lucy had given him—an old ring her mother had passed down to her from her grandmother—was gone and a white circle of skin remained. A bead of sweat from his forehead fell into his dirty palm. “Ashamed. I’m… so…so… ashamed.” He said this word as if learning it for the first time.

“Of?”

“Of…”

“Of what, Tom? Come on. Don’t hold it in.”

“Of…”

“I’m not leaving this couch until you start talking. I don’t care how long it takes. How grueling it is.”

“You’re gonna be hurt. Real bad.”

Consternation registered on Lucy’s face. Her lips twitched, her eyes blinked, her jaw sagged—but even though torrents of emotion were rushing through her, she remained determined to help her husband open up to her. “I’ve felt pain before, Tom. I’d rather hear what you have to say than be kept in the dark.”

Tom sipped from the glass of water Lucy had gotten him earlier. He licked his lips. “I was closed in.”

“Where? Who locked you up? Why? When?”

“I think I’m gonna be sick.” Tom tried to get up but Lucy stopped him.

“No!” she said firmly, holding her weak fiancé down on the couch with her outstretched arm. “You’re going to tell me something first.” She snatched a nearby wastebasket and placed it on his lap. “You can be sick in here if you have to. I told you I’m not going anywhere until you tell me more.”

Tom held the wastebasket up to his face as if preparing to vomit. “I got scared. Last night,” he said, his voice echoing in the hollow pail. “I broke into a cold sweat. I freaked.”

Lucy noticed his shivering had intensified; she tightened the afghan around him. “Freaked? What made you freak?”

Tom shrank in his seat, pulling his knees up to his chest; his countenance took on a cowardly expression and he tried to conceal it by holding the waste can against his face.

“Are you gonna answer me, Tom? What made you freak?”

“You,” he answered in a barely audible voice.

Stunned, she swallowed. “What?”

Tom repeated his response. “Y…you.”

Lucy pulled the basket out of his hand and raised her voice. “Did you say… me?”

Tom bowed his head shamefully. With her hand, Lucy grabbed his chin and lifted his face. “Me?” she asked again, flabbergasted, not knowing what to feel or how to respond. She stared at her future husband as if she’d never seen him before; she assessed the mess he had made of himself. “I’m at fault for this?” she said, perplexed. “I don’t know what’s happened to you…but I’m to blame for finding you on our front stoop looking and acting like some battered waif, frightening me half to death?”

Tom shook his head, cleared his throat. “It’s complicated-ted.”

“I’m begging you,” Lucy said in a high, raspy voice, “to come clean. You’re scaring me. You’ve never acted this way.”

“A big wedding. A…A…A big house. Kids. You always wanted those…those things…r…right?”

Lucy sat still, vexed, frustrated she couldn’t make sense of Tom’s random, disjointed comments. Nor could she imagine what her desire for such ordinary things could have to do with the way he was behaving. She was going to get the truth out of him tonight, even if it meant calling for help. “Yes. So what? I’ve always wanted that kind of life. Where’re you going with this?”

Lucy’s concession apparently gave Tom the strength—the courage—to say more. “I got scared last night, Luc. I lost my mind. Thinking about the road ahead—how much it’s gonna cost to keep you happy. The endless hurdles. What happens if nothing works out right.”

As if she’d just heard a bold-faced lie, Lucy’s eyes rounded. “I don’t like what you’re suggesting. Are you going to blame me—all I’ve ever wanted—for…for your acting insanely?”

“No. I—”

“How convenient. I become the target of your—”

“Let me finish. There…there’s more.”

“I’m sure there is. I feel like I’m under attack.”

Tom lowered his knees and began rubbing his hands together nervously. “We had a conversation last week… about these things,” he said, his hands shaking. “The wedding. The kind of house you wanted. How many kids. Remember?”

Lucy nodded reluctantly. She had no idea what details he would divulge next. The palpable tension had risen. She had been comforting her husband, sympathetic in the face of his vulnerability, but now she felt herself on the defensive. Her mood began swaying in another direction. “Yes. I recall the talk we had. Where is this headed? Or do you even know?”

A tear slithered down Tom’s cheek. Lucy coughed reflexively. She averted her gaze and stared at the clock on the end table next to her; she couldn’t believe all this was happening in the wee hours of the morning. A full day’s work lay ahead of her. With his ripped, grungy sleeve, Tom swiped his face. “You said…then…that within one year you wanted to be in the perfect house… and have the perfect wedding…and start a family… and so on. You had a timetable.”

Lucy passed her tongue over her front teeth, then grabbed the corner of a throw-pillow and squeezed it in her palm, anything to subdue her mounting dismay.

“Well,” Tom continued, “we don’t have the money. We just don’t have it. Nowhere near it. I could never give those things to you, Luc. Not on what I make. Don’t you see that?” Tom looked around the room at their shabby furnishings, their hand-me-down carpet and appliances, their walls and floors in disrepair—proof that a better life was virtually impossible. “We’re scraping by as it is.”

Lucy glared at Tom. Her stomach roiled as heartache overtook her. “None of what you just said explains your actions. We’re both working. We’re both working toward the same goals. Goals we’ve agreed on as a couple. We’ve got to start somewhere.” A long sigh: “I still don’t get what happened. Or why you’re making a scene which you haven’t fully explained.”

“Look, Lucy, the story has a darker side to it. I mean, what I just told you is only what drove me out of the house in a panic, what started this nightmarish evening. This is all a result of something far worse. It will explain why I’m a wreck, why I’ve made a fool of myself.” Tom started blubbering again.

“Well?” Lucy’s patience gave way to her need for more information, less procrastination.

“I survived a fire,” Tom blurted. “When I should have died. Because I was stupid… and weak… and drowning in self-pity.”

Once again feeling sorry for Tom, Lucy embraced him. “Oh my God! Where was the fire? How did it happen?”

Tom pushed her away. Using a closed fist, he repeatedly struck his forehead in a sign of self-disgust. “I felt trapped last night. Terrified… that I was going to let you down. That you would one day think less of me…as a man…as a husband…as a provider.”

“Why didn’t you come to me if you had those feelings? Am I an ogre? Have I ever pushed you away? Questioned your manhood? For Christ’s sake, Tom! Don’t pin this all on—”

Tom interrupted her, his voice imbued with urgency. “So I took a long walk in the middle of the night. I felt like I couldn’t breathe.”

“And?”

“Ah, this is so messed up.”

“And?”

“And I walked for miles…to… to an old friend’s.”

“Whose?”

”John Hampton.”

“Hampton?” Lucy combed through her hair with her fingers. “The guy whose wife I can’t stand for reasons you already know? The alcoholic? He’s bad news, Tom.”

“Yeah, he’s had his problems. I guess I wasn’t thinking straight at the time. I wasn’t exactly clear in the head, you know?”

Lucy rolled her eyes, sighed, and glanced up at the ceiling in disbelief.

“Couldn’t stop myself, Luc. I was coming apart. I wanted to do something crazy, rebellious. I don’t know what got into me.”

“Apparently.”

“Well…I told him what was on my mind…” Tom seemed reluctant to continue. Lucy’s patience was thinning, but she knew he was about to reveal something—something even more unbearable perhaps.

Tom closed his eyes and pinched his lips together. Mucus from his nose started running down onto his mouth; he wiped it away, gathered his breath. “He gave me some pills. And I took them. Lots of them.”

Lucy shook her head. “Life with me is that bad, huh? I’m a monster? My plans for a better life for us drove you to immaturity and danger, to take drugs—is that what you’re telling me? What an eye opener! I can’t imagine what other secrets you’ve been keeping from me.”

“They’re not secrets—they’re insecurities, I guess. I didn’t know how to confess them, was unsure how you’d react. I was feeling terribly inadequate and the pressure became too much. I’m human, aren’t I?”

“Sure, you’re human. But I’m not comfortable accepting the brunt of the blame. I mean, put yourself in my position. Here I am feeling horrible for you, Tom, like you’ve been traumatized by something out of your control. Something sudden and unforeseen. Yet somehow I get labeled pushy wife, dictator—someone questioning your manhood. Well, if you feel your manhood’s in question, then…be a man, speak up. Show a little backbone.”

“Okay, I will. But what you’ve heard is not the worst of it.”

“No? No?”

Tom shook his head no.

“Go on. What more could there be? This is all so sickening. What about the fire?”

Tom’s emotions had once again gotten the best of him; his tears were flowing more heavily now, his face turned blotchy red, his fingers became tremulous. “We went out to Garfield’s Point, to the old shed we used to hang out in. And we got drunk. Took more pills. I was a total mess at this point.”

“I can’t believe you, Tom. Can’t believe you would do something so reckless and stupid and—”

“That makes two of us, Luc. I don’t need a reminder.”

“Sorry. But what do you expect? What have you become? What if I was the one doing this to you? Sneaking out. Getting loaded. Out with God knows who, doing God knows what. Scaring you half to death in the middle of the night. Piling blame on you. You know you would be more than irritated yourself.”

Tom nodded. “I can’t dispute that, Lucy. I know I’ve lost my head over lesser things.”

“You sure have.”

“That’s not all I went through tonight. I’m already humiliated enough. Might as well give the rest.”

Eyes watering, Lucy rubbed her hands together. “Go on.”

“Then I took Hampton’s car for a ride. Crashed into a pole.”

“What the hell…?”

“What a disaster. Sparks were everywhere. Fire under the hood. Gas tank almost ignited.”

“My Lord!”

“I fainted. A couple of hours later I woke up in some guy’s pick-up truck.”

Even though Tom’s revelations were disconcerting to hear and uncharacteristic of any mature, self-respecting man, Lucy endured his devastating tale. Tom’s attention drifted around the room from one object to the next, from one corner to the other, from floor to ceiling. “It was Randy Watkins who pulled me out of the wreckage. He saved me. The car was minutes from… from I’d hate to imagine what. I have no idea how he happened to be there, except I think he’s a fireman in that town. He must have been off duty. But I’m alive… because of him.”

“That jerk saved you?”

“I’m…I’m as shocked as you are. He was a bully.”

“And a slime…a compulsive liar.” Then she shouted “A backstabbing jerk! A thief! Don’t you remember our past? Don’t get me started.”

“Yeah. I’m fully aware of his track record. His checkered past. But he pulled me out of the wreck, Lucy. Got me home. Dumped me out front. He said, ‘I warned her about you.’ Whatever the hell that means. Never said a word other than that.”

Lucy dropped her face in her palms. “My mind is spinning so fast I can’t stop it. He said that because he ran into me after we had been dating a while. He had the audacity to tell me that I shouldn’t get involved with you. That you were a softy…a weakling. That’s typical of Watkins, though. Always running his mouth, insulting everyone he comes across. He’s finally done something against character. Something human.”

“He really said that to you about me? Man, that’s rotten.”

“Watkins was never decent. Except for a month here and there, when he was going through therapy.”

Tom was rubbing his head, as if he had a headache. “I’m numb…confused as hell. Don’t know what to think anymore.”

As dark and ill-timed as this evening had become, the chain of events explained Tom’s wretched condition, his volatility; none of these remembrances, however, shed light on his flimsy, contrived excuses for sneaking out on his fiancé, making irrational, dangerous decisions, acting idiotic, irresponsible. Lucy had heard of the various ways in which men reacted to the fear of marriage and permanence and monogamy and kids; most grown men, she had been told by countless other women, were nothing more than little boys trapped in adult bodies, evolving in form but not in mental and emotional capacity, secretive and deceitful. She had also heard that statement from her married friends and from her mother, who had often spoken disrespectfully about Lucy’s father; she complained constantly about her forty-year marriage, but never tried to improve it. Not in a million years did Lucy think she would now feel the same about the man in her life, a man who had brought her to a horrible crossroads, leaving their future in a dark void of doubt. The events of this particular evening were going to linger in her mind for an unbearably long time no matter how remorseful and apologetic Tom was, no matter how hard he worked to mend his and Lucy’s threadbare relationship. Her mom had been right all those years, Lucy thought: Sometimes men commit to a relationship knowing they will regret it later in life and then make you spend the rest of your life paying for it.

Lucy stood and looked down at Tom. She knew what she was about to say was untimely and hurtful, but she couldn’t stop herself from voicing the thoughts at the forefront of her mind. “If this is the way you have felt for so long, maybe we’ve got a rough road ahead of us. Maybe we ought to rethink what we want out of life.” She shook her head, groaned. “Now that I think about it, it might be better if we consider going our separate ways. I mean, do you think we can endure much more?”

Tom, as usual, said nothing. Just when he could have maybe risen from the couch, stood confidently before his wife, and promised to put all the turmoil behind him and demonstrate his commitment to a better, more fruitful future, he lapsed into nothingness. He didn’t even turn his head in Lucy’s direction. Didn’t even make the slightest movement. Didn’t even move his lips or open his mouth to form a response. Pathetic indeed.

Lucy walked away. “I’m going to bed,” she said. “Please sleep out here. I want to be alone.”

Abjectly hopeless, devoid of the strength and determination to seize the moment and take control of himself, Tom sat in silence, fresh tears spreading down his face as he tried to figure out whether the whole calamitous evening was an accident or merely a cowardly way to end his life on his own terms—just another botched suicide. After all, this wasn’t the first time he’d gone bonkers. More than once Lucy had tolerated his drinking binges, his overnight trips to the casino, which always left Tom dealing with sleepless nights of unyielding, unrelenting regret and anguish. Regardless of his actions and intentions, did he now deserve a chance to make it up to the lady in his life, the one who’d made a commitment to him in spite of his many shortcomings? Now that he had finally divulged his inner turmoil, his deep-seated fears, could he in time prove to be her worthy counterpart, if given the chance? Could he conquer his own demons, manage his own weaknesses? Doubtful? Could he shatter the stigma attached to so many men? If his life and relationship were doomed, could he ever be a match for another woman? Would he ever be emotionally and psychologically capable of rising above the ruins he had left in his path, overcoming his obstacles, and being a better, more stable man? Could he handle the challenging, unpredictable realities of the life ahead of him? This is what Tom was left to ponder all alone: the disaster, the tumult, the ongoing shambles his life had become—and his utter lack of direction to set it straight, as he sat in the dark, once again, staring at a wall he couldn’t see, though he felt as if all four of them were creeping toward him with the intention of squashing him, putting him out of his misery.