When the Shit Hits the Housewife by Johnny Ostentatious

PROLOGUE

Marie tried to keep up with the backpedaling woman who held her hostage. The woman was behind Marie and had her arm around Marie’s throat. Marie tried swallowing and placed her hands on the woman’s arm in an effort to loosen the chokehold. Marie dropped her freckled hand from the woman’s skinny, ashen arm when the muzzle of the pistol in the woman’s other hand pressed harder against Marie’s temple—if that was at all possible.

Marie closed her eyes. Would this be happening if she and Matthew had never gone went to that happy-hour party?

1

The month: May. The night: Friday. The time: 8 p.m.

It was a perfect spring evening, the workweek a fading aberration, and the only worry was how to spend the next restful 60 hours or so. Über-beautiful 80-degree temperature and the setting sun made this Friday night particularly pleasant. All around, excited voices partook in intellectual conversation or office gossip. The best of both worlds.

Thirty-seven-year-old Marie Dougherty enjoyed this on the deck of Graham Archer’s house. Graham worked with Matthew, Marie’s husband, at Leaf & Dashiell, a healthcare publisher. Graham was the executive editor, overseeing a staff of 20. His house was in Narberth, a Philadelphia suburb. Graham’s deck overlooked a sprawling backyard that ran into a park. Marie wasn’t sure where the property line lay, since the Archers never put up a fence.

Matthew joined Marie at the wood railing. He held a 16-ounce Deer Park bottle. “Nice night.”

Marie nodded. She was unsure what to do with her margarita. In hindsight, she should have never accepted it from Graham. Matthew was coming up on 90 days of sobriety. He attended Alcoholics Anonymous meetings four nights a week (Thursday through Sunday). She didn’t think he had a problem with the bottle. Sure, he had imbibed on weekends, and about once a month, he got sloshed, but it wasn’t as if he boozed every day. However, he wanted to put the kibosh on his partying, since alcoholism ran deep on both sides of his family.

Graham stepped out of the house, closing the sliding door behind him. He swerved through the mid-size crowd on the deck. “There’s the man I’m looking for!” He wrapped an inebriated arm around Matthew’s shoulders.

Graham measured 6 feet, 6 inches and was 44 years old. He had a mane of brown hair that receded slightly, and with each passing year, he packed on a couple more pounds. Marie couldn’t call him fat because his body distributed the weight well, but if kept up at the current rate, he would—without question—be obese in the next six years. Regardless, she thought he looked like Penn Jillette from Penn & Teller, though Graham lacked the booming voice of that loquacious half of the comic-magic duo. Graham had a slight lisp and a gruff voice, the latter a result of his cigar-a-day habit.

“What’s going on?” Matthew asked.

Graham clapped his bearish arm around Matthew, who stumbled from the force of the greeting.

“I’m going to be honest with you, Mrs. Dougherty,” Graham said. “We couldn’t have wrapped up the latest project in time without your little honeybunch here. And a week ahead of schedule, no less! Yes!!!”

Matthew blushed. He fiddled with the label of his Deer Park bottle.

Graham removed his arm from around Matthew and said, “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to go tinkle.” Their host staggered back into his five-bedroom house.

Marie beamed at Matthew. Unlike most American men, he probably wasn’t figuring out how to parlay Graham’s compliment into a pay raise. It made her love him even more. Like her, he was content to live in their three-bedroom house in Glenside and travel abroad once a year for a week or two.

“Volleyball time!” Graham yelled from the kitchen, his forehead pushing against the screen of the window overlooking the deck.

Everyone on the deck except Marie and Matthew streamed down the two flights of steps into the backyard.

“Sure you don’t want to go down?” Matthew asked.

Marie shook her head. “Let’s stay up here for a few more minutes.” She touched Matthew’s cheek, her fingers on his earlobes, thumb grazing his five o’clock shadow. “It’s been a long week.”

In order to finish his project, Matthew had worked 12-hour days all week, except today. He never worked past five on Fridays.

Marie removed her hand from Matthew’s face. She grinned.

Abruptly, Matthew bent to kiss Marie. His amorous movement surprised her, but she had enough time to purse her lips for his peck. The kiss over, a jolt of arousal shot through her. She couldn’t wait to get home. Her overactive imagination had a few sexual scenarios she was eager to try out.

Down below, in the backyard, partygoers split up into two teams. The team on the left side of the net consisted of six players, three of them huddled in the corner farthest away from the deck. The triad were girls in their early- to mid-twenties: a blond, a brunette and a redhead. The blonde and the brunette both wore tight white T-shirts and shorts that in a different decade would have been called hot pants. The redhead wore a long-sleeved, ankle-length white dress with daisies on it.

Marie pretended to drink. “Which one is she?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Matthew said.

“To me it does.”

Matthew sighed. “The blond wearing the Gwen Stefani T-shirt.”

Marie frowned. The bimbo’s blond hair had the luster of a shampoo model. Marie tucked a curl of her own red hair behind her ear. She hadn’t examined her roots lately. Any more gray hairs? Maybe I should dye my hair. Mentally, she shook her head. As an adolescent, she dyed her hair so often, the routine nowadays bored her more than an Anita Blake novel.

“If it makes you feel any better,” Matthew said, “her semester’s over next week.”

Marie gulped her margarita.

The blond bimbo was an intern for the spring semester at Leaf & Dashiell. Almost from day one in mid-January, the Bimbo Intern zeroed in on Matthew. That hadn’t surprised Marie. He resembled a young Harrison Ford and had been the object of many indecent proposals over the years. But the Bimbo Intern’s persistence startled Marie. Matthew told how the 22-year-old had bragged about her sexual adventures ending each tale with: “But I’m, like, totally sick of college boys. I need to experience a mature, older man.”

The volleyball game began. The redhead did the first serve. The brunette and the Bimbo Intern hovered near the net. The redhead’s serve was impressive—low and fast. The opposing team scrambled to keep the ball in the air. The Intern jumped up and down, her copious breasts bouncing around like sacks of silicone.

Marie set her glass on the wooden railing and folded her arms across her own chest. She was happy with her body, except for her breasts. She didn’t like having A-cups; they made her feel inadequate. She knew she shouldn’t think so much about her neighbors, as Matthew called them, but she couldn’t get over being shortchanged in that department. And it didn’t help that her well-endowed mother, who died last year, had referred to them as “sunny side up.” Sometimes, Marie wished she hadn’t been adopted.

“Don’t even go there,” Matthew said.

“What?”

In the backyard, the redhead spiked the volleyball, scoring a point. The Bimbo Intern gave her a high five, the slapping of skin echoing.

Matthew said, “You know I love you and would never do anything to hurt you.”

Marie frowned. “Loyal, loving husbands have fallen into temptation before.”

“But I won’t. Besides, I’ll never see her again after next week.”

“You know what worries me?”

“That the world will probably never see peace in the Middle East?” Matthew joked.

Marie smiled politely. “No, when she came into your office to show you her tattoo.”

Matthew’s thumb played with the white, plastic ring on the lip of his Deer Park bottle.

A couple months before, the Bimbo Intern had barged into Matthew’s office early one Wednesday morning, when no one was in yet. She announced that the previous night, after her weekly visit to the Empire Rock Club for ladies’ night, she had gotten a tattoo. Would he like to see? Before he could answer, she planted a foot on the edge of his desk and inched up her miniskirt to display a quarter-size rose on her upper-inner thigh. And she wore no underwear.

“You have to admit,” Marie said, “that was very forward, even in this day and age.”

“I know.”

“Don’t get me wrong. I’m proud you ushered her out of your office. Not a lot of men would have the willpower to do that.”

“But,” Matthew prompted.

“But you should’ve fired her or at the very least reported her to human resources.”

“Hon, how many times do we have to go through this? It’s pointless to go down to Judy in H.R. Sexual-harassment suits almost always favor the woman. Besides, let’s not forget how she got the paid internship in the first place.”

“I know, I know.”

The Bimbo Intern’s uncle was Raymond Dashiell, son of one of the company’s founders. Raymond Dashiell was active in the Montgomery County Republican Party and he sat on the board of directors at Leaf & Dashiell. In theory, no board member outranked any other, but 90 percent of the board’s decisions favored Raymond.

Marie uncrossed her arms and picked up her drink. What really bothered her was that since the tattoo incident, Matthew had told no more Bimbo Intern tales. The 22-year-old floozy didn’t strike Marie as someone who gave up easily. I mean, look at her down there, chasing the ball all over the place.

“Isn’t there anything you can do?” Marie asked.

“Like what?”

“I don’t know. I’ve never interned or co-opted. Isn’t there a report or e-mail sent to her school, letting them know how well or bad she did?”

“I don’t know. She’s actually Graham’s responsibility—his gofer, more or less. And from what he’s told me, she’s a pretty good worker.”

“I bet.”

The volleyball landed on the grass. Someone kicked it, and the ball shot into the park. The player apologized and jogged after the ball. The other players used the unofficial time-out to imbibe their drinks. One of the players, who looked like an extra from The O.C., ducked under the net and whispered in the Bimbo Intern’s ear. She batted her eyelashes.

Wonder if they’re fake, Marie thought. Probably are. Like the rest of her.

Graham came out of the house holding two unlit torches, each on a six-foot stand. “Glad to see at least two of my guests possess the aptitude to stand back and be spectators. Not everyone can be a superstar on the field of life.”

“Need a hand?” Matthew asked. A little too eagerly, Marie thought. Glad for the diversion?

“Nah, I’m fine, mate.”

Marie hadn’t seen Graham in a while. She’d forgotten about his fondness for British slang. That personality quirk had always fascinated her because Graham never left the continental United States.

Graham placed one of the torches in a corner on the deck and the other by the stairs to the backyard. He lit both. Marie inhaled the torches’ scent (vanilla-pumpkin mixed with citronella) and felt the heat from the one near the steps.

Marie finished her margarita and listened to cicadas. A mosquito buzzed near her ear. She swatted it. Off to the left, the sun sank like the Titanic.

Graham grabbed a bottle of Sam Adams from the cooler on the deck. “Hey, hey!” He staggered down the steps to the volleyball court. “Quit loafing around! I paid good money for these tickets, and I expect to be entertained, goddamnit!!!”

Most of the players laughed. The Bimbo Intern cackled. Marie rolled her eyes.

“Oh, shit!” Matthew said. His Deer Park had slipped from his hand and bounced off the railing. The bottle landed on the shoulder of a man with a crew cut, who was built like a missile launcher. The spring water spilled down his back. He jerked. The bottle tumbled down his front. He punched the plastic. It zoomed under the deck and crashed into a lawn chair.

“Sorry, Mick,” Matthew said. “Need a towel or anything?”

Mick blinked at Matthew, lips straight, eyes seething. He stepped out from under the porch. His casual dress shirt soaked, he undid the buttons and took it off. Marie noted that Matthew had a similar one. Red and black checkers with a button-down collar.

“That’s Mick Collins,” Matthew whispered to Marie. “He’s the new art director. I’ve eaten lunch with him a few times in the picnic area.”

Marie stole another glance at the wet art director. He knelt on the grass and fussed with the trade paperback he had held during his unscheduled shower. She squinted. Couldn’t make out the lettering on the book, but she recognized the image on the cover. Ayn Rand’s Atlas Shrugged.

Matthew leaned over the railing. “You sure I can’t get you anything?”

Mick blinked for about five seconds, then turned away, shaking his head and waving a hand. Marie saw that he wore blue jeans and black Converse high-tops, just like her childhood friend Nick.

Matthew took Marie’s hand. “I think we’ve overstayed our welcome.”

“Speak for yourself.”

“Are you saying you’d rather hang out here all night instead of going home to the privacy of our own bedroom?”

“Why, what would we ever do there?” Marie smirked.

“Oh, I don’t know. Play a little skin flute, maybe.”

“I’ll be in the car,” Marie joked.

As Marie and Matthew said their goodbyes, three deer stood on the edge of the forest, staring at the volleyball court.

2

Marie waited as Matthew unlocked the passenger-side door of their Toyota Prius; he held her door open with the arm that had a tattoo of his old band, Mr. Mainstream. A moment later, he was in the driver’s seat. A millisecond after the engine turned over, he unclipped his iPod from his belt and hooked it up to the car stereo. He pressed shuffle songs. The first tune to play was the Thompson Twins’ “We Are Detective.”

“Wow, look at that.” Marie pointed at a car that looked like the kind Mike Myers drove in the Austin Powers movies, except this one didn’t have the British flag painted on it. However, it did have a miniature Union Jack on the tip of its antenna.

“That’s Graham’s latest toy,” Matthew said.

“He sure does love the U.K., doesn’t he?”

“To each his own.”

Matthew reversed out of the driveway, and they left the heart of Narberth. To get to their house in Glenside, the Prius had to cut through Philadelphia. Matthew knew a shortcut.

Fifteen minutes into the ride, the sun had set. The Prius headlights punctured the darkness. The streetlights on Tabor Avenue were either blown out or their timers were out of whack—Marie went with the latter.

The Prius was the only auto on this two-lane road. Plenty of cars were parked on the residential/commercial avenue, but no other traffic was in sight. Marie noticed that no pedestrians were around.

At the intersection of Tabor Road and Godfrey Avenues, the light turned red. Matthew slowed to a stop. Activity materialized. Cars and trucks zoomed by in both directions on Godfrey. From a few row homes on the left, residents exited to race down the houses’ concrete steps.

The light turned green. On the right was the Defense Supply Center; on the left, more row homes.

“Goddamnit,” Matthew muttered.

The Prius had gone no more than 100 yards before hitting another red light on Tabor Road between Cheltenham Avenue and Rosalie Street. The iPod played Adorable’s “Submarine.”

“I ask you,“ Matthew said, slapping the steering wheel, “what is the point of this light here?”

“Well, there is that.” Marie’s nose motioned to the right, at a black gate belonging to the Defense Supply Center.

“Pshaw. I was telling somebody at work about this the other day. In the five years I’ve been taking this road to work, I’ve yet to see that gate open once.”

“Why don’t you speed? That way, you can get the green light.”

Tabor Road had a speed limit of 30 miles per hour. If you did 40 or 45, you could catch all green lights until it was time to turn left on Martins Mill Road.

“I’m trying to be good,” Matthew said. “That’s one of the things I like about AA. They talk about doing what’s right. On the downside, they can’t go five minutes without babbling about God.” He frowned. “Stupid Christians.”

Marie nodded. Growing up, she and Matthew had fallen prey to the Catholic Church’s aggressive brainwashing policy. He went to CCD classes for a few years; she spent grade school at Presentation Blessed Virgin Mary.

“Go,” Marie said. The light was green.

Matthew put the Prius in park, took his foot off the brake and unsnapped his seatbelt. Before Marie could say anything, he tore out of the car. He left the door open, keys in the ignition ding-ding-dinging.

An SUV coming the other way on Tabor slowed down. The driver lay on the horn. Matthew ran in front of the SUV. From her seat, Marie watched his body momentarily slice through the headlights.

Marie put on the Prius’ hazards, unbuckled her seatbelt and opened her door.

Matthew was on the opposite side of Tabor. He sprinted across Cheltenham Avenue’s pedestrian strip. A car (Marie couldn’t tell the color, make or model—it was too dark), which had been behind the SUV, was in the process of turning onto Cheltenham, but Matt’s darting forced the car to swerve around him. Bassy, bellicose hip-hop blared from the car.

Marie squinted. Matthew veered left into an alley.

An 18-wheeler barreled around the right of the Prius. The truck driver, who wore an unwashed NASCAR cap, called Marie a “liberal cunt.”

3

Marie didn’t get home until 3 a.m. The cops took her down to the Second Precinct and interviewed her over and over and over again. She told the story so many times, she was sick of her own voice. Yes, Detective, my husband jumped out of the car, almost got himself killed running across the street, then dashed down an alley. No, I don’t know why he did it. No, we don’t know anybody in the neighborhood. Yes, we’re happily married.

Crawling into bed, Marie didn’t bother changing into her pajamas. She wondered if the adrenaline from the evening’s events would keep her awake. Not to worry. She fell asleep quicker than an Ergs’ intro guitar riff.

4

Late Monday morning.

Marie had spent the weekend sleeping, watching Netflix DVDs and eating takeout. Right now, she lounged on the living-room couch. On the muted TV, Bob Barker yapped about the Showcase Showdown on a Price Is Right rerun. From the kitchen wafted the smell of last night’s dinner: Seafood Delight, Cantonese style.

All weekend, Marie had stayed close to the phone. Not surprising, no one had called. She had no immediate family left, and the friends in her Rolodex were acquaintances at best. For the past 15 years, her world had consisted of Matthew and her career.

Marie was a writer. In addition to turning out four romance novels a year, she wrote for women’s magazines, and she had recently landed a monthly column in Philadelphia Weekly, the city’s premier arts and entertainment newspaper.

Any other Monday morning at the current time—11:30—Marie would already have spent two and a half hours writing. Fortunately, she was between projects, so she could afford the time off.

Marie glanced at the phone. She thought about calling the police precinct, but the past 60 hours or so of vegging had the unintended effect of regression. Her present state of mind was similar to her worldview at age 16, when she was more antiauthoritarian than Jello Biafra.

Why should I call the cops? Marie thought. They don’t care. They’re probably too busy scoffing down donuts and framing innocent minorities because they’re too lazy to do some actual investigating.

Marie jumped off the sofa. Enough self-pity. Time for a little action and reaction.

Swiping her keys from the bookcase near the front door, Marie marched with the stride of a woman invigorated with hope. She would find out what happened to Matthew. But first she needed a little help.

5

Marie parked her Prius in Center City at the corner of 20th and Spring Garden Streets. She hopped out of the car and slammed the door with her heel. At a baroque-Gothic building on Spring Garden, she pressed a red button for an apartment on the eighth floor.

“Um, yeah, articulate,” said a groggy voice via the intercom.

“Hi,” Marie said, “David?”

“Uh, no, this is Butch, a friend of his.”

“Oh. I’m looking for Nick Marsh. Does he still live here?”

“Sorry, no. Gotta go. My soaps are coming on.”

The intercom clicked off. Marie pressed the red button again. “Hello? Hello?” No answer. “Damn.”

Marie trudged down the gray-painted cement steps to the sidewalk. It didn’t surprise her that Nick wasn’t there. She hadn’t seen him in years. And she couldn’t call him. She’d lost his number eons ago. (Directory assistance would be useless; he had always been adamant about being unlisted.)

Shrugging, Marie dug her keys out of her purse. Time for Plan B.

6

A short skip and a screech later, Marie and her car were a block from the University of Pennsylvania campus. The Prius played nice with a parking meter while she walked into a coffee shop called the Internet Café.

Marie took a window seat near the front door. The wood chair she temporarily called home had a high seat and a low back. On the oval table in front of her was a PowerBook. She tapped the touchpad. The screensaver disappeared to reveal the Firefox Internet browser. The previous patron had visited a news site called DemocracyNow.org.

Sipping her small mocha latte, Marie—out of the corner of her eye—saw a middle-aged, bearded, bespectacled man turning the page of the Daily Pennsylvanian. Her imagination began doing the creative version of spontaneous pushups. Why was this man alone, on a Monday morning, in a café packed with college-age students, most of them girls? Was he a professor? A predator? Recently divorced? Marie rubbed her chin. He would make an interesting character, and she had been meaning to write a non-romance thriller. Was this the kernel of a story idea to kick it off?

A waitress breezed past Marie’s table with a tray of blueberry muffins. The aroma, mixed with the waitress’ rosy perfume, snapped Marie out of her reverie.

Time to get to work.

Marie typed “farting out a fetus” in the Yahoo! search-engine bar. She scanned the results and clicked the third choice. It was supposed to take her to www.
fartingoutafetus.net, but the site redirected to the punk band’s My Space page. Before a song started streaming, she raced the mouse to the contact portion of the page. She hit send message, and a prompt told her to log onto My Space. She did so, then returned to http://www.myspace. com/fartingoutafetus. Her message read:

Subject: Nick

Hi, I’m trying to track down Nick Marsh. It’s VERY important (seriously). My name is Marie Dougherty, although he might remember me by my maiden name -- Abraham. He can contact me here or at UniquelyUntalented@yahoo.com

THANKS!!! Marie Dougherty

Marie hit send, logged out and picked up her drink. Blowing on her overpriced coffee, she contemplated how long to wait for a reply.

7

Marie stayed in the Internet Café for about an hour, nursing her mocha latte and performing her favorite pastime: people watching. She would have stayed longer, but three college boys tried picking her up in 15 minutes. She had flaunted her wedding ring at the first one, but that hadn’t stopped the two who followed. She decided to go home.

Back in Glenside, Marie checked her e-mail every five minutes. She soon realized that was overkill, so she cut back to every 15, 20 minutes.

Between checks, Marie straightened up around the house. She didn’t know if her unexpected burst of energy was from the latte or her weekend of vegging. Whatever the reason, she knew she couldn’t concentrate enough to read any of the magazines and newspapers stacked by the TV.

After cleaning every square inch of the living room, Marie wondered if Nick would ever get her message. Farting Out A Fetus’ (FOAF) My Space page said they last logged in the day before. Hopefully, one of the band members would check it today.

Maybe I should have given my phone number. Another thought occurred to Marie: Did Nick still play bass for the band? Sure, his name was in the About Farting Out A Fetus section of the Web page, but that didn’t mean it was up to date.

Marie froze. She hoped FOAF wasn’t on tour.

With these thoughts caroming inside her head, Marie tapped her chin and walked into her office. She hit refresh on her computer.

8

Around 1 a.m., Marie fell asleep on her office floor, MacBook next to her, index finger on the touchpad. An hour and a half later, she jerked awake.

Standing above Marie was Nick Marsh, looking the same as he did the last time she saw him. It was—what?—10, 12 years ago?

Nick had a shaved head. He wore a white T-shirt, blue jeans and black Converse high-tops. Marie stretched and stood up, her vision blurry. Through her grogginess, she noticed the torchiere lamp in the corner was on full fluorescent blast, glaring off the white walls and stucco ceiling.

“Wha—how?” Marie managed to mutter.

“Got your message a couple hours ago,” said Nick, who could still be a stand-in for Ian MacKaye, except Nick was a half-foot shorter than the Fugazi vocalist. “Took a little while to track ya down. Obviously.”

Marie tried to stand up and stumbled. Nick placed a steadying hand under her left arm, saying, “I got ya.” She had forgotten how raspy his voice was. It still reminded her of Tim Armstrong’s cigarette/liquor-stained singing voice, especially on Rancid’s masterpiece, Let’s Go.

“How. . . .” Marie rubbed her eyes. “How did you find me? I’m unlisted.”

“I had a hacker buddy of mine hack into Yahoo!’s database to get your address.”

Now fully awake, Marie remembered that years ago, when signing up for Yahoo! Mail, she had to provide a phone number and physical address. The next time she was online, she’d have to update her profile with false information.

“So what’s up?” Nick clapped his palms together. “Ready to renounce your sellout suburban ways?”

Marie folded her arms. “Matthew’s gone.”

“Who’s that? The right-wing Republican who made you give up your DIY lifestyle?”

“He was—is—a libertarian, and he didn’t make me give up anything.” Pause. “He’s missing.”

Nick dropped his wise-ass smirk. He placed a hand on Marie’s shoulder. “What happened?”

Marie told him.

9

Fifteen minutes later, Nick and Marie were on her back porch. He appreciated that it was nothing elaborate (his own place gave new meaning to the word spartan). Marie’s porch was simply several slabs of concrete, with a rusty drain in the middle. An aluminum awning hung over the porch supported by three trellis-like posts.

Nick lounged on a vinyl beach chair, the kind that kept your legs horizontal and your feet off the ground. Marie leaned against the middle post, her left foot on the grass. The backyard was 20 square feet, enclosed by a waist-high chainlink fence.

“Yo,” Nick said, patting the patio chair next to him, “pull up a seat. Don’t be such a stranger.”

Marie shook her head. “I’d rather stand. I spend 60-hour weeks sitting in my office. My back gets stiff, so I try and stand as much as possible.”

“Check.” Nick gulped from the Pepsi can he had grabbed from the refrigerator. “So why’d you contact me?”

Marie didn’t answer at first. She sipped from her glass of Country Time pink lemonade.

A warm breeze made wind chimes clang and jangle.

“Why you?” Marie asked.

“Yeah.”

Marie sucked on her lips. Crickets chirped.

“I mean,” Nick said, “there are people who do this for a living that are really experienced at this sort of thing.”

“I know.” Marie set her drink down on a white plastic table. “I wrote an article last year on private detectives, so I have more than enough contacts I could call. But I wanted someone I truly trust, you know? Plus, I remembered all the good times we had as teenagers. And yesterday, I was recalling all of those situations you found yourself in, how you always knew exactly what to do.”

Nick nodded.

“There was the time we visited Chauncy,” Marie said, “after his family moved out to Villanova. He was driving us to the train station, so we could go home. Do you remember this?”

Nick didn’t.

“We were going to miss the train,” Marie continued, “and it was the last one, but the parking lot had just been paved or painted. Chauncy gunned his truck, running over the traffic cones at the entrance. When we got out, a cop ran toward us, yelling. I forget exactly what you said, but I remember you calling him ‘sir’ a lot. You used just enough tact to defuse him, so Chauncy didn’t get a ticket.

“Then there were times when you used violence because that was the only way to resolve the situation.”

Uncomfortable with the adulation, Nick redirected the conversation back to Marie’s side of the porch. “And you have no idea why your husband jumped out of the car and ran down the alley?”

Marie shook her head.

“Was there any . . .” Nick ransacked his high school-educated brain for the right word (Marie may have been a childhood friend, but she was still in a stunned state—he needed to be sensitive). “. . . tension between you and Matt?”

“No, everything was fine.”

“No problems at all?”

Marie stiffened. “What are you getting at?”

“I’m just asking. I haven’t seen you in over 10 years. I don’t know what your relationship was like. Maybe you thought it was all hunky-dory, but a observant outsider might be able to pick up on something that hinted otherwise.”

Marie stared at her hands, thumbs twiddling.

“Myself,” Nick said, “I though things between me and David were picture perfect. Then I come home from tour a day early, and he’s banging a cowboy twink, you know?”

Marie nodded, not making eye contact. Lightning bugs created an aura around her head.

Nick had more questions, but they could wait. Marie obviously wasn’t in the best frame of mind. Better let her get some sleep.

10

Nick felt a knee jabbing his side. He forced his eyes open. Marie stood over him. “Ready, sleepyhead?” she said.

“What time is it?” Nick’s pupils adjusted to the light that flooded the living room.

“A little after nine,” Marie answered.

“Give me till 10.” Nick pulled the sheet up to his chin and buried his face in the couch where he had spent the night.

Marie sighed. “We should get moving.”

“C’mon, Abe, I usually don’t get up till noon.”

Abe was what Marie had been called as a teenager. It was short for her surname: Abraham.

Marie tore the sheet away. Nick still wore his T-shirt and jeans, but he curled tighter into a ball.

“Uncouth, Dougherty!” Nick yelled, eyes closed. “Like a Karl Rove wannabe, you don’t know how to fight fair.”

“Nick, please.” Marie’s voice had a tinge of whining in it.

As a rule, Nick didn’t hesitate to get acerbic on somebody specializing in self-pity. But he cut Marie some slack. He couldn’t imagine what it was like to have a loved one go AWOL. Gotta give credit where credit’s due. If it was me, I might be breaking down, blubbering like a Morrissey fan every five minutes. Haven’t see Abe cry yet. Who knows, maybe that’s how she fell asleep last night.

“All right, all right.” Nick sat up and put on his white athletic socks and black Chuck Taylor high-tops.

“Did you sleep all right?”

“Oh, yeah. You know me. I could pass out at Ozzfest. How’d you sleep?”

“Fine.” Marie looked down, making her way towards the kitchen. “Need anything before we leave?”

“Coffee, if ya got it.” Nick picked up his cigarettes from the end table. Lighter in hand, he headed out back.

11

After breakfast, Marie drove her Prius. In the passenger seat, Nick fiddled with the radio, switching between 91.7, WKDU and 103.3, WPRB. Eventually, he settled on the former.

“So, Abe,” Nick asked,“ how come you and Matt never had kids?”

Marie shrugged. “Never got around to it.”

“For truth?”

“No. We were just so caught up in our careers. The timing never felt right to have any children. Besides, I had reservations about putting any offspring through the terrors of adolescence. I barely made it through mine. Thanks to writing and punk rock, I survived, but it could have easily gone the other way.”

“Did Matt have any problems?”

“What?”

“Drinking, drugging, gambling, womanizing,” Nick explained. “Anything that might have put a strain on your relationship.”

“He recently started going to AA meetings, but I didn’t think he had a problem. Apparently, he thought he did.”

“Fuckin’ AA! Does more harm than good. I can’t tell you how many people I know who relapsed and were worse off after falling off the wagon, all because AA’s steps tell newcomers they’re powerless over alcohol. So when somebody relapses, they go for broke because they’re brainwashed. I bet if they did a poll of AA members, 90% of ‘em would be conservative Christians. Fuckin’ assholes!”

Nick growled and shook a fist out the window. Quicker than a one-hit wonder’s career, he brought his hand back in and asked, “Hey, how come you moved out of the city and dropped out of the scene?”