Chapter 6

Manasses, VA – May 27th, 1983 – 11:04 PM

Richard Mathers opened the door to his apartment. He was a little drunk. Not as drunk as he could have been; he had spent a lot more time talking, and bitching, than he had drinking. Mitch tended bar at The Grotto and Richard had known him since high school. He was a good bar tender and a patient listener, and had spotted Rich two shots of tequila. Rich did buy one drink and leave a tip, but he was going to have to be careful with the money. He had enough in the bank to pay rent and bills this month. After that, he wasn’t sure where the money would be coming from.

“Time to start donating blood,” he said to the empty apartment, turning on the light. It was a cheap one room efficiency. It was inexpensive—well, inexpensive for DC—and it did the job. It was sparsely furnished. Julie had gotten most of the furniture.

He went over to his little boombox—an Emerson radio/cassette player he had picked up on sale a month ago at Radio Shack—and turned it on. Duran Duran’s “Hungry Like the Wolf” filled his small apartment.

Richard plopped down in a black beanbag chair—Julie hadn’t wanted that; almost all of Richard’s remaining belongings came under the title of What Julie Didn’t Want—and closed his eyes and listened. He had been thinking about getting a TV. They had had a very nice TV, that had been a lot more money than Richard had wanted to spend on a television set, but had, at Julie’s insistence. Now she had the TV, too. No getting a TV, even a cheap one, for Richard now. He’d be lucky if he had a place to keep the few things he had in a month.

Richard rubbed his eyes. Lord, the fit Julie was going to pitch when he couldn’t make alimony. It wasn’t like her new husband-Josh or Jeff or something; Bishop was his last name—didn’t make ten times more money than Rich ever had. It would just be the idea that he wasn’t doing his fair share. No, that wasn’t quite true. It would be the idea that Rich wasn’t paying. That he wasn’t being punished.

And Julie had dropped hints on more than one occasion that Josh or Jeff or whoever had friends that handled domestic disputes in his firm. Yay.

She would take him to court, too, even if in the end she’d lose the alimony altogether. Even a rent-a-lawyer could make the case that Richard no longer needed to be paying alimony, given her current income, and Richard could probably make a better case for himself than he had during the divorce. She would know she would likely lose the case itself, and still do it, just to take him to court. To let him know again how much she hated him. To make him pay for . . . for what? For not having fixed her life for her? For not having been somebody else? Or maybe she would just do it for the hell of it. For some dark pleasure she derived from it. For some brief relief from some poisonous itch that only hurting him could scratch.

Duran Duran faded as Richard lay back in the bean bag, staring at the brown stains on the ceiling. A DJ came on, with bland patter about the song and the band. It was seventy-one degrees outside. It would be getting a lot warmer next week, but remaining sunny and clear. How nice.

Ads for used car dealerships followed, then a promo for the three radio jocks they had on in the morning—two guys and one girl—that they called “The Morning Zoo” but didn’t seem like much more than adults in their thirties and forties acting like they were fourteen. They would play maybe two songs in an hour. The rest of the time they would fill up with vulgar jokes and crank calls.

Commercials over, the DJ resumed playing all the hits, with less talk: “Now, here’s Hall & Oats. She’s a Maneater. I know she is! Watch out, baby! Here she comes, here she comes! Ouch!”

Rich grimaced, but didn’t get up to change it. It was one of the songs he just couldn’t seem to get away from. Since the first time he’d heard it, it seemed like he couldn’t turn on the radio without hearing it again. Case in point, he had turned on the radio five minutes ago and here it was now.
During the divorce proceeding, the song he had been unable to escape was “Love Will Lift Us Up Where We Belong”, from An Officer and a Gentleman. He had been unable to turn on a radio without hearing it. Now, the gods of FM radio had apparently dropped the humor and had gone on to direct assault. Maneater, indeed.

He closed his eyes. Julie, he thought. Julie, Julie. What the hell had happened? More than a year later, and he still wasn’t sure.

He saw himself walking into the penthouse apartment he had barely been able to afford—he had taken a second shift position at the Post’s printing plant to make ends meet. Granted, he had almost never been at the apartment because of it, but Julie had been desperate for it. He had thought it would be better for them to start out smaller and save—she had been a receptionist at Goldsmith, Goldsmith and Bryant, and he had been busy covering the local politics—the most insignificant, tedious local politics—at what amounted to little more than minimum wage for the Tribune. Put that together with his second shift at the Post’s printing plant, they had almost had a one real salary. And they had still only barely been able to afford a decent meal.

Although, when she had wanted something, Julie had usually managed to come up with the money for it.

It was only after that Richard had realized Julie’s budget hadn’t been so tight because she had been getting money from Jason—and that was his name; not Josh, not Jeff, but Jason. Jason Bishop.

One thing about the Tribune position was that he had often had gaps of open time during the day. That particular day, the day he had walked into his way-too-expensive penthouse apartment and had heard noises, he had had a break because a council meeting scheduled for the afternoon had been canceled. Unsurprising, for a Friday. It had been about two o’clock, so Richard thought he’d swing by, grab some lunch—leave a little romantic note for Julie, trying to keep the romance alive between the arguments—well, between her yelling at him about not making enough money or her sitting, not saying anything, glaring at the television.

When he had parked, though, he had seen her car. She didn’t tell me she’d be home early today, he had thought. The simple, stupid idiocy of the completely oblivious spouse. The reality of a dozen signs he should have seen but hadn’t didn’t begin to settle in on him until he had been there, walking into the apartment, and had heard the noises. Breathing. Thumping. Animal noises.

He rubbed his eyes, trying to sink further into the beanbag. Oh oh, here she comes. Watch out boy, she’ll chew you up. Oh oh, here she comes . . .

Richard had turned the corner, and there she had been with Bishop—both of them, butt naked, on the floor, with Julie going down on Bishop like . . . like . . . well, like she never had with Richard. Hell, she hadn’t even wanted to make out with Richard in the living room. Or in the middle of the day. Both of which she apparently had no problem doing with her favorite trial attorney.

Bishop had noticed Richard first, standing there, mouth agape. Bishop had had to tap Julie on the shoulder, still so busy at her work that she hadn’t noticed that her husband had entered the room, to get her attention. When she had finally looked up, she had smiled. It was the first time she had smiled at Richard, he would think later, in weeks. Maybe in months.

“Well,” she had said slowly. Deliberately. Almost as if she had been waiting for this moment, anticipating it. Almost as if this had been the entire reason, for her. “No point in trying the old, ‘I can explain, I can explain’ bit, huh?” And, pointedly, she had put her head back down and gone back to work.

She had known what she was doing. Backwards and forwards, she had known. Over the following weeks and months, Richard would come to realize how wrong he had been. How much the woman he had married, that he had been so crazy in love with—even though it had gotten awfully hard, that last year—wasn’t just attracted to somebody else. Sure, that was normal. She wasn’t just dissatisfied with married life, with Richard’s career prospects, with the money he brought home—that was normal, too, he figured. Richard would come to realize that his wife had hated him.

She had, too. She had hated him for a year, Richard thought. Maybe two. Maybe since the day they were married. Over the last year, as he struggled so hard to work things out, she had just wanted him punished. She had wanted him to suffer. And not just a little, but a lot. She had wanted him to know she’d gladly do things for her new man, and with him, that she wouldn’t with Richard. She had wanted him to know that the day after he had spent three hours enduring a torturous scream session about what a bad husband he was, or how unhappy she was, or how they would never have enough money—and there were plenty of days like that—she was going out on dates, having fun, and having sex—in short, all of the things she never did with Richard—with Jason Bishop, attorney at law.

Then came the divorce. He was slow to realize how much Julie had hated him, but the divorce proceeding would teach him what it was to be loathed. Despised. Reviled. By someone you had at least thought you had loved.

She did stop short of having him killed. But not by much.

Richard sat up, rubbing his eyes. Stupid dumb-ass, crying like a baby. Just the sort of stupid thing that had made Julie hate him, he was sure.

Richard, tired of his punishment from the radio gods, got up to turn it off when the radio moved on, from Darryl Hall and John Oates to Big Country, singing their eponymous “In a Big Country”.
“I guess that’s not so bad,” Richard mumbled, and left it going. He hated being in the apartment without some sort of background noise. The loneliness just became oppressive. He had thought about getting a dog or something, but now, without a job . . . well, that wasn’t going to happen. So his only companion was the radio.

He went to check his answering machine. Three messages. He pressed the red play button.

“Hey, Jack, is that you? I got some woo, if you know what I mean. Call me.” There was a beep.
Richard had no idea who the person who left the message was, or exactly what “woo” might be, but Rich received a lot of those sorts of messages. Apparently, whoever had his phone number before him had been something of a party animal, and possibly a drug dealer. He wondered briefly if he could sell a story about the secret lives of old phone numbers. No, he thought. Lame, lame. Just the idea of trying to research and write it made him nauseous.

Maybe a career in hospitality service would be a better direction. Certainly, it couldn’t pay worse than working at the Tribune.

Then again, maybe a job as a drug dealer. Or a party animal. Just from the wrong numbers he got, Rich was pretty sure that who ever had had his phone number before him had a more interesting and more enjoyable life.

A click and then a dialtone. Apparently, caller number two did not want to leave a message. Then another beep.

“Rich, it’s Debi. Pick up if you’re there.” A pause. “Okay, I guess you’re not home yet. Call me when you get home, okay? I want to know you’re all right. Also, I might have a lead for you. Love ya, kid. Keep your chin up and all that worthless shit people tell you when life kicks your ass.” Another pause. “Bye.” A click, a dialtone.

Rich sighed. There was a time . . .

He wanted to call her, but not tonight. They’d talk, she’d want to see him, he’d probably go over to her place—certainly, she wasn’t coming here–and one thing might lead to another, and then what? Rich was attracted to her. She was as sweet a human being as one could possibly hope to meet in DC and she was also the only person he had ever known personally who could literally have been a supermodel.

Statuesque was the word that sometimes came to mind when he saw her. Once, when on the phone with an old friend from his days in Alabama, he had been asked who she was—Walt had read a piece by her and been suitably impressed. Richard’s mouth had opened and it had said: “She is a woman of extraordinary beauty.” Which he had followed up with the obligatory: “And the best reporter I know. Smart as a whip. And as nice as they come.”

Clichéd, but it was all true. She was a great reporter. She was as smart and well-read and just plain grounded a person as Richard had ever known. She was also a woman of extraordinary beauty. Raven black hair and silky smooth skin, pale–she didn’t tan; no time, no point, she’d say–but radiant. Her teeth were perfect, white and straight, as if they had been capped with white porcelain. Her eyes were green, but not a regular green—a deep, dark green, almost a forest green. Her lips were full, almost swollen.

She went very light on the makeup—she apparently knew she didn’t need it—and in a maneuver that was maddeningly sexy to Richard, she dressed like a schoolmarm. Blouses came up past the neck, skirts down to the ankles. More dress slacks during the summer, and the occasional short-sleeved blouse or shirt, but always up the neck. She didn’t even wear V-necks. She dressed well, absolutely, but she didn’t use flashing neon to make her point. Richard had always found women who didn’t have to flaunt what they had appealing, even as a teenager.

After the last two years of his marriage, they had become much more appealing. During those two years, Julie had been working out, losing weight, and, he now believed, taking drugs to help keep the weight coming off. She had taken to wearing shirts that dove down to her navel or bared her midriff up to the bottom swells of her tiny breasts. She had started wearing shorts and little leather skirts that left about two-percent-past-nothing to the imagination. She had gone to the tanning bed all the time. She had gotten into the habit of spraying silver or gold glitter into her hair. The makeup had gotten thick. Any trace of natural hair color had vanished. She had become a walking neon sign. One that advertised, he had realized belatedly, how well she could fuck up-and-coming lawyers.

Debi, though. She had in spades the sort of deep and satisfying beauty that people like Julie could only dream about. In the same way Richard Mathers wasn’t ever going to be confused with Richard Gere, Debi was beautiful in a way that few people could ever hope to be. The fact that she didn’t hide it under a bushel, but she didn’t even come close to flaunting it—it was wonderful. Intoxicating. Even on the days that his memories of Julie and his hatred of his job had seemed the most oppressive, Debi could make him woozy. She was as close to perfect as Richard could imagine a woman being. She was beautiful, she was secure in herself, she was funny, she was smart. She was possibly the sweetest woman on the planet. Plus, she could cook like nobody’s business. She’d bring cookies up to the Tribune office around the holidays that he had told her, only half-joking, that he’d be willing to kill for. They were that good.

So, yes, Debi was wonderful.

But Julie had been wonderful. Julie had been sweet. Julie had been a decent cook. She hadn’t looked anything like a supermodel, especially when they had first started dating, but she had been sweet. She had been funny and thoughtful and a very good dancer. She had been interested in politics and social issues. At first blush, he had been intrigued, and then charmed. Then he had fallen in love, hard. He had thought she loved him, and maybe she had thought she loved him, at first.

But he had been wrong. So very wrong. And they had clearly been wrong for each other. They had been bad for each other. The pitch black, venomous hatred that had emerged during the divorce proceedings had devastated Richard as much as coming home and finding her butt-naked and on the floor with Jason Bishop, performing mouth-to-mouth resuscitation on the wrong part of his body. The divorce proceedings, however, had done it in a way that was much, much deeper. This was what being married to him had turned her into. His charming little Julie had become an angry, spiteful poisoned woman. That was what he had brought out in her. Black, bilious poison.

Then there was the effect she had had on him. Before Julie, he hadn’t exactly had his shit together, but he had been ambitious. He had wanted to do things—maybe too many things, but he had wanted to leave his mark. He had played bass. He had tried his hand at writing music. He had been into cars; he had liked working on them. He had loved to read—that was how he had ended up at the Tribune. He had read all the time. He must’ve read a hundred books or more in a year, before Julie. He had loved to check out the local bands and the local bars. Plus, although he hadn’t much liked it, he had tried his hand at the journalism gig and had been pretty good at that, too.

After Julie, there was nothing. That’s what she had left him with. Nothing. No money, no furniture, no television, no life. “Ambitious” was not a word he would use to describe himself. It wasn’t just that he hadn’t liked the job at the Tribune. He couldn’t imagine anything he would like doing. He had hocked the bass two years ago, but he wouldn’t buy a new one, even if had the money. He didn’t want to read anything. He would occasionally stop in a bar for a drink, but he didn’t make it a mission to check out the new bands. He didn’t care anymore. He certainly hadn’t given a shit about reporting on the latest city council meeting or zoning committee decision. That was why he had lost his job.

She hadn’t quite destroyed his will to live. She hadn’t gone that far. But almost. Perhaps it would have been better if she had. Well, better for him. She was probably pretty pleased with the outcome, to the degree anything actually ever pleased Julie.

Richard sighed, looking at the answering machine. He granted that it was an absurd notion that Deb, nice as she was to him, would have any interest in him beyond the humanitarian. He wasn’t exactly a catch. He could barely take himself, most days. Still, he wasn’t going to risk it. He had seen stranger things happen, and Debi did show an awful lot of interest in him. Florence Nightengale Syndrome, he thought. She wants to rescue me, maybe. And I haven’t ever seen the slightest interest on her part, but, tonight, after today, she might try to rescue me between the sheets. And I might let her try.

The Good Lord knew it wouldn’t be the first time a woman had tried to rescue a man from his life or himself in just that fashion. He just wasn’t going to go there, that was all.

She worried about him. He knew she did. She just cared about people; it was how she was. She had seen what Julie had done to him. One night, out at the bar with Debi and Clark and a couple of other guys from the Tribune, he had told her everything. No tears, no screaming. Just what Julie had done, what was going on in the divorce, the sheer hate Julie had for him, the blind rage. How incredibly, unshakably wrong he had been. He had gone on for an hour or two. Debi had listened sympathetically. Patiently. She was a sincerely good woman.

Of course, he had thought Julie was a sincerely good woman, too. Maybe she had been. Together, however, things had gone terribly, terribly wrong. That was not a mistake he wanted to risk making again. Which was why the phone stayed on the hook and calling to confer with Deborah was tabled until the sober light of day.

“To bed,” Richard said, turning off Culture Club’s “Do You Really Want to Hurt Me?” in mid-chorus.

“Yes, yes she did,” he told the radio. “And she did a good job of it.”

Richard ambled to the corner of his efficiency apartment and fell across the twin mattress that stayed on the floor; he hadn’t bothered to get a bed-frame or box springs—what was the point?

As he closed his eyes, he thought of Julie. Again.

She hadn’t just left him empty and aimless. She had left him haunted.

Sleep, although not terribly peaceful, came quickly.