The first trading days of the new millennium bring new highs for company stock listed on the New York Stock Exchange and NASDAQ, in spite of a landmark antitrust suit brought by the U.S. Department of Justice. Seven days later our stock price begins to slip a few points. Court rulings are handed down against the company, and the stock price continues to slide a little further. What only a few have predicted is that it won’t stop sliding for twelve months, and when it finally does stop it will be worth but a third of its prior value. This means that I too will be worth but a third of what I was a year ago. Thank you, Madame General. Thank you, Judge Jackson.
The atmosphere at work slowly morphs from typical merry optimism to gloom, a mood that seems to follows me from work to home. Lucille quits her job at the height of the market, and marvels at my anxiety over the dismal course of the year. When she asks why I’m suddenly watching our expenses, I merely gesture at the red stock ticker zipping along at the base of the screen on CNBC, the grainy image of my boss being deposed on videotape.
I now work all the time, as new market conditions require the company to do more with less. Lucille occupies herself with the ranch, while her ties to the city life she once relished diminish. In retrospect the motives behind the change are plainly clear. She seems to be always awake, making a run to 7-Eleven for a Slurpee at three in the morning, and when I see her on the weekends, her patience is on the wane. She has a new life of constant leisure and play and cannot summon much in the way of good cheer. The grating new attitude is, to my naïve mind, inexplicable. She no longer has access to pharmaceuticals; her name written in the pharmaceutical world’s computer network, chiseled in binary stone. When I happen across her prescription pad, I see that she’s now using it as a shopping list, its ordained use abandoned. She doesn’t appear at all high –- that is, she doesn’t slur her words, her thinking is reasonably cogent. It’s the kind of mystery that preoccupies the mind, never lets me completely relax, and makes me think I’m missing something important here – perhaps love’s hot fire has cooled in her heart. And yet, I have the deep-rooted sense that to inquire is to court Armageddon.
In March of 2000 I take the weekend off from work and head up to the ranch. Lucille and Emily have been there for two weeks now, but when I arrive that Friday evening the door is unlocked, lights on, the house empty. On the countertop is a hastily scrawled sticky note from Lucille saying Damien has a slight fever, that she has taken him to the pediatrician in Houston. I look around the living room, out the windows at the rainy darkness. So I’ll be spending the weekend alone.
The early afternoon is spent clearing brush, and later mending fence along the road to the ranch. In the midst of stretching a line of broken wire, a Honda Accord that has been beaten to hell suddenly slows as it passes, as though the driver recognizes me. Then it races off.
That evening I fix a drink, put on some dour R&B, and take a seat in a lawn chair to watch the sun set. Just as it drifts into the trees I hear a car pulling onto the gravel drive. A car door opens and slams shut, the gate squeals open. When I come around to the front of the house I see the Honda that drove by so slowly a few hours earlier. A woman approaches in the half-light, and says, “Are you Sterling Braswell?”
“I am. Who are you?”
“Colette Pierson,” she says. “Clyde’s wife. You have a minute?”
“All the time in the world.”
We head inside to the kitchen where I fix Colette a vodka and tonic and express my condolences on their imminent divorce.
She doesn’t possess, it would seem, the typical hallmarks of the church-going wife and mom. She chugs her drink like it was lemonade, every now and then releasing an expletive in regard to her soon-to-be ex-husband, that “piece of shit,” that “toothless fucking hillbilly.” Nor does she look like a woman I would figure for Clyde Pierson’s wife of seventeen years. The contradictions begin with her looks. She’s pretty. Wrangler boot-cut jeans, lace-up cowboy boots, a t-shirt that’s modest but just clingy enough to hint at a lovely shape. She also comes off with an air of wryness, which suggests that she’s smart in a way that extends well beyond mere common sense. She cannot, I tell myself, be married to Clyde.
I offer her a seat at one end of the sofa, and I take a seat at the other. She then draws a deep breath and begins to say what she “came here to say.” I tell her that I am all ears.
“You and I have two people in common,” she begins.
“Who’s that?”
“Clyde and Lucille.”
“I didn’t know you two were acquainted.”
“I know everyone Clyde’s slept with.”
She watches my mouth slowly arc into a grin.
“And that’s just the beginning,” she adds after allowing for a long silent moment. “You’re in for a show-stopper, Sterling.”
“Your former husband calls me ‘Mr. Braswell.’”
“And he’s been carrying on with your wife,” she says evenly.
“So what else did you come here to say?”
“Lucille was like a doctor, wasn’t she?”
“What does this have to do with anything?”
“She could write her own prescriptions, right?”
“Get to your point, Colette.”
“Then she got caught at the Kroger.”
I give nothing away, but merely reflect her strangely ironic gaze.
“She was caught,” she continues quite slowly, like a student reciting a list of facts committed to memory, “and now she can’t buy toothpaste from a pharmacy.”
“How do you know any of this?”
“So she had to come up with her own pharmacy… or someone or something who could do what that scribbled little note used to do.” Colette’s brown weathered fingers dance about either side of her long tendrils. “Somebody like Clyde and his magic chemistry set.”
“And where is this magic chemistry set of his?”
“Oh, maybe on a great big ranch where the owner’s hardly ever around and the clueless neighbors won’t pick up a nasty stench.”
“And what does Clyde’s chemistry set make?”
She smiles, parts her hands, and says, “Good ol’ fashioned methamphetamine!”
In spite of Colette’s intelligence, something about her worldly-wise demeanor compels one to disbelieve her. About her is an air of the small town conspiracy theorist, the meddling neighbor who has the low-down on the gypsy family down the street. Her thin lips smile as she implies that my wife has been unfaithful, that she is involved in a scheme in which Lucille exchanges sex for drugs with a man who looks like a hyena. For some reason she thinks it best to tell me this with so much certainty and lightness, as though she were confiding in me at a kitchen table over a hand of Old Maid cards. She doesn’t see the tremendous gravity of her accusations, which, I remind myself, should only undermine the veracity of the accusations themselves. Of course in my mind, their fantastic nature affirm the depths of Colette’s deluded state.
“You look like someone who doesn’t believe any news but good news,” she says.
“I have a weakness for plausibility, Colette.”
Her eyes pan from left to right, right to left in mock contemplation. Then she snickers, “So you’re saying you don’t believe me? Or you do…”
I come to my feet and part my hands in an expansive gesture of frankness. “Colette, my wife has her share of problems, but they aren’t necessarily mixed up in your problems. Now if you wouldn’t mind getting the hell out of here.”
The insolent smile is still there, the rocking eyes following the interior carom of menacing thoughts.
“Think how surprised you’d be if everything I said was true,” she says.
“No need to dump your domestic trash in my living room, Colette. I understand. You are getting divorced. You’re bitter.”
“But you see, it’s all one big trash pile.”
“Leave now.”
She drains her glass as she comes to her feet. She then stands and wags her hips as she heads out the door and into the night. Her car starts in the darkness, and is gone.
That night, I go to bed filled with drunk, uneasy thoughts. Deep in the morning the phone rings. “Is Lucille there?” a husky woman’s voice asks.
“No she’s not,” I grunt, “and it’s four in the morning.”
“Tell her Tanya called when she gets back,” and the phone goes dead.
I stare through the darkness at the glowing receiver in my hand. Who the hell is Tanya?
In the morning, the uneasy thoughts linger, prodding at the ancient, ever-vigilant part of the brain that silently insists all is not well. Sitting at the breakfast table before an overcooked Denver omelet, I decide that what’s needed is company. The weight of cabin fever must be offset. A party is in order. I punch out the numbers to home in Houston and get Lucille on the line. She’s all for a party. Damien isn’t so sick after all; she’ll park him with his grandparents for a few days and drive on up. Then I mention my conversation with Colette.
“Colette who?” she says.
“Clyde’s wife,”
“Clyde who?”
“Never mind. A woman by the name of Tanya called at four in the morning.”
“Thanks.”
“Who’s Tanya?”
“Somebody I met in rehab who’s always needing moral support.”
The conversation ends on that note. I remind myself that I am in search of company, and within a half-hour I’ve made a dozen phone calls with commitments from a dozen coworkers to make the drive up or down or over from Houston, Dallas and Austin. Within a few hours slightly dated sports cars begin a steady promenade through the gate to the ranch. The degree of willingness of everyone to scratch work plans on such short notice speaks to the overwhelming desire of all to blow off steam. The ranch, they know, is the place, for a bawdy reputation precedes it.
Lucille arrives at dusk in an uneven mood. She steps from the car yammering incessantly about dual-lane traffic, croupy children, uncooperative grandparents. When she finally pauses to breathe, she says, “Looking forward to some fun.”
I throw up my hands in a gesture of surrender. “That’s what we’re all here for.”
I am rewarded with a peck on the cheek. She then swings her small sporty duffle bag about her shoulder and trots off for the noisy crowd gathered in the kitchen.
The night is a series of bitter conversations about declining stock prices, impending layoffs, and devastated 401k portfolios. Lucille watches on as these people she once knew as high-tech kingpins drown their sorrows in bourbon and vodka. Swaggering confidence has given way to diffidence and brooding over what might have been, over the Department of Justice, a spinster from the Sunshine State, a judge who has yet to send his first e-mail, and a nineteenth century idea called antitrust that has pauperized the lot of us. I quietly watch Lucille as she listens in on a conversation between two former millionaires. Looking at her anonymously in profile, she appears disgusted, impatient with the circumstances of my coworkers. She listens but says nothing. I recognize the curl of her upper lip, the drawn eyes. Pure contempt.
As I’m watching her I feel a sharp tap on my shoulder. I turn about to see Clyde grinning at me. His clothes are clean, his jeans new, hair shiny with pomade. I’m thinking, This is the first time I’ve seen you in a shirt with a collar.
“Saw you were having a party and wondered why I wasn’t invited,” he hollers over the booming music.
“It was all spur-of-the-moment,” I shout. “Say, your wife paid me a visit last night.”
“She’s nuts.”
“She is.”
“Where can I find myself a drink around here?”
I point to the kitchen counter where a rampart of liquor bottles stands. At that point we part ways, and I end up launching the remains of the fireworks left over from that memorable Fourth of July. Lucille and her hypodermic needles, her cache of medicines, the world of safe and legal. The fireworks bloom overhead in globes of colored light as my mind momentarily trips backward.
Later in the night I wander back to the house to refill my drink, my back getting slapped everywhere I go. Computer geeks like it out here. Lots of booze and no technology. As I walk, my bladder alarm sounds, and I head to the bathroom off the master bedroom. A seam of light and a groan indicate it’s in use, so I just stand and wait in the darkness. Then comes another groan, this time from a woman, and I’m thinking it’s being used well.
An awareness dawns as disparate suspicions coalesce in the moment… you don’t know what’s going on in your own backyard… the man with the magic chemistry set… an unannounced presence… the abandoned prescription pad… a mental picture of my emaciated wife… I approach the door, my mind churning in a wave of sickening panic. The doorknob turns freely in my grip, and the door swings open. The vanity light bears down on Lucille’s black hair as it pours over her head, shrouding her face. Clyde’s eyes momentarily go wide as he thrusts himself away from the small of Lucille’s arched back. His pecker gleams in the harsh light as he struggles to yank up his starchy new jeans. Lucille turns to me and shouts, “It’s not what you think, baby!”
I look down at the vanity counter and see a pile of yellow-white powder on a picture of Lucille and me on the beach during our honeymoon. Pink clouds, turquoise sea. Upon my face, a razor blade stands lodged in a solid chunk of crystal. Then comes the other staggering sight.
Turning to Clyde, I see that he’s waving a pistol like he’s playing a part in a bad western.
“Guess we’ll be going now, Mr. Braswell,” he says as he blindly reaches for Lucille’s wrist. Incredibly, she lets him take it. He then leads her out of bathroom like she is a little girl and he her daddy, a reincarnated stepfather.
“Just let go of her, Clyde,” I say calmly.
“It’s not what you think,” Lucille says, the words trailing over her shoulder again and again as she’s pulled along. They move through the kitchen and living room where my drunken friends drink and smoke, oblivious of what’s going on. My eyes meet Lucille’s for the briefest moment.
“What the hell are you doing?” I shout over the noise. “Where are you going?”
She shakes her head as though confused. The music is so loud and here she is being led away by my employee, who has a gun. Her expression is one of reluctant compliance, a damsel in mock distress. Looking back at me, she knows (just knows!) I have misinterpreted what I have seen tonight. She loves me so much (do I even understand how much she loves me?), but she’s helpless…
“This is insane, Lucille!” I yell.
When they reach the front door Clyde hurls it open, and the two dash away. Clyde’s truck turns over, and then spins furiously through the wash gravel for the road. I stand in the darkness, staring at the ruby glow in the trail of dust, suddenly taken by an eerie calm. Everything feels so real, so lifelike; but surely this is a dream…
My project coordinator approaches me where I stand in the front yard. Apparently he’s the only one to have noticed that Clyde had a gun and that he left with my wife.
“What the hell just happened?” he says, utterly blown away.
“Lucille’s having problems,” is all I say. This is a side of my life that I wasn’t aware of sixty seconds ago; now that I am aware, I wish only that it remain private. Turning to face him, however, I see that this bizarre event has had a transcendent effect. Suddenly I am a mild-mannered techie living The Wild Life. Booze, guns, women, computers – all of the elements in life that he covets.
“Wow,” he says rather drunkenly. “Crazy man with a firearm. Takes off with your woman.”
“That’s about it, John.”
“Is Lucille also a crazy person?” he says, careful so as not to sound flippant.
“I’m afraid so.”
“Should we call the police?”
I consider this for a moment, then imagine Lucille being pulled over with a pound of meth in her purse. And who knows what Clyde would be capable of were he faced with the prospect of imminent arrest.
“Don’t call the police,” I say.
In as sober a voice as he can muster, John asks, “So what does the situation call for?”
It calls for everyone to go home. That’s what I want to say. But it’s late and everyone is drunk and miles from their beds. So I say what he wants to hear.
“The situation, John, calls for a drink.”
My back is then slapped with manly enthusiasm.
“It ain’t a party till somebody shows up with a gun!” he shouts as though he were a cowboy and not a project coordinator for a colossal software company.
In time a drink is presented, and the music turned way, way up. At that point I slip outside and sit within the shadow of a remote locust tree, shivering with what I can only describe as an electric panic.
My girl is gone. My god, she is gone.
Two friends from the networking division stagger by, ice cubes jingling against their glasses.
“That you, Sterling?” one of them asks.
“Sterling?” says the other.
A whispered exchange, and they walk off. Then in the distance, their voices magically mingle with the pop and crackle of the bonfire: “…just a total breakdown… fucking scary…”