There Are No Accidents Page 3

  “I thought your writing was just a hobby?” he says.

  “Actually not,” I say. “I’ve written many stories which my agent has sent for publication. But my publisher has chosen this story to publish first. This one, they say, is particularly good. So good in fact, that the New Yorker magazine is publishing an extract in their next issue.”

  “An agent? A publisher? Whoa… when did all this happen?” I don’t answer, I just smile.

  “Well, I must read it sometime,” he says.

  “Oh… I intend to read it to you now, during our journey,” I say. “The timing’s perfect and we have a few hours to kill.”

  Aware that I have a captive audience, I begin. I’m only into the second page and already he’s showing signs of discomfort. I notice him swallowing hard as he eases his shirt collar with his index finger. Next he’s wiping his sweating palms on his knees, dampening them and discoloring the fabric. I read on, pausing at pertinent intervals to check his reactions. He looks directly ahead, never at me. Not once does he dare make eye contact as the reality of the story is too recognizable.

  “I have to stop,” he blurts out. “I need a restroom.” I point to a gas station sign and he follows the lead. Without another word, he’s out of the car and almost running to relieve himself. I wait patiently. Ten minutes pass and he reappears. “Must have been something I ate,” he says, as he resettles himself in the driver’s seat. I watch him try to compose himself. He’s probably spoken to her and she’s told him to keep his cool. She’ll offer no sympathy if he weakens.

  I wait a few minutes and let my mind recall his boasting of how he manages to pass a polygraph, knowing he’s deliberately lied. He couldn’t do it now, his body language would betray him. Just as I resume my reading, he receives a text message. I glance sideways and see the name Kelly appear on his phone. “It’s only work,” he says and flicks it off. She’s applying pressure now and it’s too much for him. He’s in the hot seat between two strong women and he’s about to blow a fuse. I deliberately continue reading and note that the sweat on his brow increases when I read certain passages. It’s trickling down his side burns into his ears causing him irritation. He scratches frantically, momentarily losing control of the steering wheel and the car swerves. I’m startled! He shouts, “It’s all right!” He’s flushed, self-conscious, feels a fool. He doesn’t like to make physical or mental mistakes and he knows he’s failing once again. He’s been duped by me, and we both know it.

  “Why’d you write this stuff?” he shouts at me.

  “Don’t you like it?” I say, sarcastically.

  “It’s unrealistic,” he says in a belittling tone. I decide to play him like a game of chess.

  “Oh really? For me it evokes a feeling of déjà vu.” I have him in check. He says nothing, so I capitalize on the moment, “It’s being published as a story based on the truth.” Checkmate!

  I scrutinize his face again. He’s run the gamut of emotion since I began reading and is now expressionless. So I continue to push him further. “I always enjoyed talking with your boss about literature and I remember discussing the New Yorker magazine… he’s a subscriber you know, so he’ll definitely read the extract from my book.”

  “You’re paranoid!” he says angrily. “You’re suffering from paranoia.” he says again. “No one in their right mind would read this crap. I need another restroom,” and he pulls over by a diner. I’m not sure what to do now. I seem to have achieved my goal, but I didn’t anticipate this awkward interval. I sit a while and then I notice a fruit market about fifty yards ahead, on the opposite side of the road. I send him a text saying that I’m driving there to buy fruit and suggest he come and find me when he’s finished. He replies starkly, Ok.

  The smell of the fruit is like perfume and I inhale with pleasure to gain some light relief. The day has been extremely stressful, but conclusive. I’m choosing apples when suddenly I hear the screeching of brakes, followed by a loud thud. There’s an uncanny silence as if time has stopped. Then a woman screams and shoppers begin to rush outside. I’m not one to gloat over other people’s misfortunes, so I continue shopping, thinking that there’s little I can do. Soon I hear the sirens of the rescue services as they arrive in full force. I line up to purchase my fruit, glance at the time and realize that it’s fifteen or twenty minutes since I left him at the diner. I look around me, but he’s not here. I consider that he’s probably still in the restroom figuring out what to do next. Well that makes two of us!

  The girl at the checkout begins to talk excitedly about some man in the road.

  “He’s a real mess, loads of blood. Got hit by a pickup!” I step out of the line and make my way to the door. I overhear a police officer interviewing a distressed truck driver.

  “He come outta nowhere, splat… hit the bull bar.” The driver makes a fist with one hand and drives it into the palm of the other to physically describe the action. He is shaking, “I didn’t see him… couldn’t do nothing.”

  I walk towards the pickup truck. There’s the mangled body of a man wedged between the chrome bull bar and the rear bumper of the car in front. Their metal merged on impact, locking him into a restraint like a tooth in braces. There is still a flicker of life in him as I approach.

  “Keep away Ma’am,” a fire fighter orders.

  “I know him,” I say. “He’s my husband.” I bend over him and look into his dying eyes. “May I have moment please?” I ask the medics. They willingly oblige, retreating out of earshot, realizing that I am entitled to this last fraction of time alone with my husband. I crouch down beside him and whisper in his ear, “In life… there are no accidents,” I say. He can’t answer, so I maneuver my position and look for a response in his eyes. They widen slightly and look pathetically back into mine… and then he is gone.

  A medic wraps a blanket around my shoulder in kindness, thinking that I’m in shock. She must have thought I'd had some endearing words to utter, perhaps the last “I love you”. She asks if I’m all right, I answer truthfully, that I feel numb.

  *

  Two months have passed and I’ve come into a little money. An insurance claim paid over a million dollars. It was the accidental death policy that made the difference. The newspapers reported the scene of the accident, stating that his wife, Frances had a tender moment when she whispered loving words as he lay dying. My words were certainly not the sweet nothings spoken by lovers. My words were profound; In life, there are no accidents. When you have killing on your mind… first take care it’s not your own!

  PART TWO: CAT NAP

  Chapter 4

  LOVE

  It was love at first sight. I had turned on the outside lamp and there she was, sitting on the deck, her beautiful green eyes watching me through the glass doors. I slid them open very slowly and knelt down to her level. She remained quite still except for her head which tilted upwards until her gaze met mine. Our eye contact was prolonged as we penetrated the depth of each other’s soul and instantly fell in love. Then she rose, nestled my thighs and padded into my house and my heart. We had bonded spiritually and physically forever.

  Over the past two years she has sat on my lap, night after night, listening to my heartbreaking tales. I talk to her as though she were human and she responds with consoling purrs. She is my loyal companion, my confidant, the savior of my sanity throughout the most challenging period of my life. She gives me the gift of unconditional love, which is sadly lacking in most human beings.

  I bought the house when I was single. The previous owner had wanted a quick sale, so the deal was good. It was a sad situation; her husband was killed in a car accident, crushed between the bull bar of a small truck and the rear bumper of another car. I remember the event; it made the local news, so when I saw the house advertised I knew she had a legitimate reason to sell. If the death had occurred in the house, I may have felt a little hesitant about the purchase, which is silly I know, as I’m not usually superstitious. But the vibes were good, so I
bought it and we were very happy here… my cat and I, until I made a life-changing mistake.

  I got married. I met a man who wooed me with romantic words and roses. He was relentless. How could I resist? It didn’t take long for his charm and good looks to work their magic. He told me I was wonderful, sexy and beautiful. I was the woman he’d been waiting for all his life… and then he moved on. Onto the next woman, repeating the same rhetoric and she too thought he was charming. “Marry in haste, repent at leisure,” the wise saying goes, but I was deaf to these words and fell head over heels into his trap.

  *

  It all began when he moved in with me, saying he’d lost his home to an ex-wife and his savings to bad investments. I believed him… I loved him. He had nothing and I had so much, which I’d worked hard for, building my career in the precarious world of acting. My break came when I landed a part in a TV drama and managed to survive throughout the years of its production. Seven, in all, a little tedious, but it pays my bills… and his too.

  He has a job, but it’s commission only and some weeks are lean, so I lend him a little extra. He insists he’ll repay me, saying, “Darling, you know that I love you and wouldn’t accept the money if I wasn’t strapped for cash. It won’t always be this way, you know that, don’t you?” Then he kisses me, we go to dinner… and I pay.

  After a year of dwelling in blind love, the veil began to lift. I realized that I was spending more time alone, often two or three evenings a week and each absence was covered by an elaborate excuse. He sent and received an abundance of text messages and then there were the calls. If I picked up the house phone a woman’s voice would say, “Wrong number,” or there’d be a long pause before the inevitable click. Often when I was at home, I’d notice a car drive slowly past the house and without exception, there’d be a woman straining to look through the car window, hoping for a glimpse of him or possibly me. Once, I’d seen a flash from a camera, although I’m at a loss to understand what purpose this served. Maybe they wanted a souvenir?

  I’m a smart woman and I don’t like being taken for a fool. So I decided to confront him. I questioned the inconsistencies concerning timelines and venues. He was not forthcoming. He became flustered and blamed them on a bad memory. When I prodded too closely, he became irate and defensive. I remembered a line from Shakespeare, “The lady doth protest too much!” Regardless of gender, there is truth in these words. His behavior betrayed him, he was transparently deceitful. Sadly, I realized that the marriage had failed and it was time to consult an attorney.

  *

  Downtown in a large sterile building I sat opposite the attorney with my list of questions on how to proceed with a civilized divorce. I outlined the reasons, citing my husband’s infidelities as just cause. The attorney was male, with an arrogance that almost aligned him with my husband. Determined not to be disparaged by his attitude, I proceeded to relay specifics, but he impatiently interrupted me.

  “My dear lady,” he said, in a patronizing tone, “California is a ‘no fault divorce’ state. Firstly, you have no proof and secondly it won’t make an iota of difference!”

  “Well, what grounds do I have?” I asked.

  “You don’t,” he stated. “And what’s more you’re the one with the prime income. In simple terms it means that you will have to pay him alimony.” I was stunned! Surely this was wrong?

  “So you’re saying that if I proceed with a divorce, I’ll have to support him even though he’s wrecked the marriage through his countless affairs?”

  “Alleged affairs,” he prompted.

  “Can you offer me any helpful advice?” I almost pleaded.

  “Yes, I advise you to take a tip from the Italians and embrace their attitude to love. Turn a blind eye and let him have a mistress or two. The alternative will harm you financially… you may even have to sell your house and share the proceeds with him.”

  I walked to my car feeling totally demoralized. Tears were stinging my eyes and the dark circles beneath became exacerbated by streaks of black mascara. I hadn’t expected this scenario. Once home, I poured a glass of wine and sat in the garden to think. My cat sensed my anguish and in her warm affectionate way, she comforted me. “I built this garden,” I told her. “It’s my solace and you love it too.” I continued our discussion while stroking her soft fur. “What am I going to do?” We sat in silence surveying the tranquility which was directly opposed to the storm brewing in my head. “I have a choice,” I confided in her again. “If I proceed with the divorce I could lose everything. If I stay in this marriage, I could lose everything… and I couldn’t endure that.” Anger reeved up my confidence and I decided that I would not be swayed by a chauvinistic dictatorial male. Instead I’d seek advice from another attorney, preferably a woman.

  The next morning I was once again in a sterile downtown office, but one with a slightly softer ambience. Possibly, this was due to a feminine influence, I thought, but her appearance proved me wrong. The woman attorney who greeted me had strong masculine features set in a hefty frame. Her smile was welcoming and her references good. I laid out my agonies as she patiently listened to my sad tale and waited for her advice.

  “These men are outrageous,” she said verminously. “They get away with murder! Your biggest problem is the state law… ‘no fault divorce’. However, we can get around this,” she said gleefully. “All you have to do is say that he’s abusive.”

  “He is,” I said.

  “How often has he hit you?”

  “Never!” I said. “But he’s often verbally abusive.”

  “That won’t carry any weight in court,” she said. “You’ll have to accuse him of physical abuse, then you will get your divorce and the alimony you have to pay will be reduced.”

  “Look, he’s unfaithful and despicable in many ways, but he’s not been physically abusive,” I said emphatically. “And I don’t want to pay him alimony.”

  “Do you want to be rid of him or not? If you do, you’ll follow my advice. Go home, walk into a door, phone the police and make an official complaint. You’ll say he hit you in a fit of rage and you need a restraining order. Then you call me. It’s that easy.”

  “So, the only way I get any justice is if I lie?” I said.

  “Of course! The law is stacked against women. We have to use every trick in the book in order to get even.” I told her that I’d think it over and let her know. Any other answer would have brought an already angry woman to a raw state of rage. I went home, poured myself a glass of wine and sat in the garden with my cat. I had the resounding feeling that I’d played this scene before.

  *

  They say that if you have a problem, sleep on it and you’ll wake up with the answer, and so it was that morning. I discovered a way forward and it began with the purchase of a blank journal. I’m not sure why I made the decision to record all his past, present and future misdemeanors, but that’s exactly what I intended to do. I was aware that these collective accounts of infidelity would not stand up in a Californian court of law, but for me they would represent a kind of justice. I'd be vindicated and the process would be healing. I'd record in black and white every deceitful act; date, venue and the persons involved. I would stay on his trail like a bloodhound following a scent, although this one would be rancid.

  With my journal open on the first page I began my task. I had the day off from work, he was out and I would not be interrupted. I began by searching his night stand. I looked through countless bits and pieces until I found something interesting. It was an advertisement for men to become escorts for mature women. It invited men to contact this specific agency and sign up to escort mature women to dinner… and more. They would be paid a fee for their services and they were not expected to pay for any entertainment. The evening would end by a mutually consenting arrangement. Oh boy, I could guess what would come next… it'd be totally confidential and the tips would be awesome. My God, to think he would be tempted. Oh no! Underneath the advertisement was an ID card is
sued by the agency and his name was boldly inscribed. Well, I had my first entry for my journal. I photographed the ID, entered the details and continued my search, which took me deeply into his pernicious behavior.

  There were badly hidden notes, telephone numbers and even photographs. I found small books of encrypted codes, which didn’t make sense, but I collected these too. I took my collection of goodies to the copy machine, replaced the originals and dropped the copies into a secure box and locked it.

  I opened the closet and ran my fingers deftly through his suit pockets. I scrutinized every piece of fabric. Every smudge of make-up, every long stray hair. Being an actress made this task easy, as I’m used to studying detail and men are not. I found valet and garage parking tickets and extracted the exotic ones that obviously indicated an interesting date. I searched his old credit card cases and found phone numbers stuffed in the layers of leather. I even looked in his passport wallet, which I bought him one Christmas. Inside the black USA wallet were several cards with photos of voluptuous foreign girls all advertising their services. I copied these to see if they would correspond with his travels and then I cross-checked the credit card statements… unless he paid cash… umm! Probably my cash.

  Every day, after returning home from work, I’d continue my search. I wrote detailed accounts of everything I found. I numbered and copied the evidence and locked it up in my box. I was frighteningly efficient. As the journal filled, all respect for this man dissipated. The love was long gone and with my eyes wide open, I focused on investigation. I played the role of detective and loved it. It was satisfying, in a morose kind of way, to be concentrating on a goal which would bring vindication. I realized this was only the beginning and I would have to spend weeks, possibly months collecting evidence. This journal was ostensibly for my own satisfaction, but somehow I felt that it would be invaluable.