THE SKY WAS AN INKY midnight blue as the bus climbed the hill towards the train platform. The people standing on the platform reminded Carolyn of those jerky black forms in a Jacob Lawrence painting.
It had been only twenty four hours since the last time she’d been here, but everything within those scanty few hours had changed.
She rode the escalator up to the platform intent on nothing more than getting a good seat for the long ride into town. It was getting colder everyday. Maybe this morning, she thought, she’d get a seat away from the doors, so that every time they opened up, she wouldn’t get hit by an icy cold blast of air. But one thing was for certain. She wasn’t going any where near car one. She was thinking car three, this morning. The farther away the better, she thought to herself.
When the escalator was level with the train platform, she hurried forward, laser focusing on car three, for she didn’t fully trust herself not to give in to her desires. Finding the seat she wanted, she settled in for ride.
Jacob Lawrence Migration Series, Continued.
Her heart gave a lurch when she heard the familiar rattle of his motorman’s keys as they danced to his step. This time when the shiny black shoes stepped out of the darkness, she pretended not to notice them. She shifted her weight in her seat and held her James Patterson novel up in front of her face as though she were nearsighted.
After a few minutes, when the shiny black shoes did not move, she lowered the book and looked out the window. He made no attempt at disguising his disappointment nor did he attempt to enter car three. He just stood there with an ugly scowl on his face, and his gaze fixed on her.
How dare he have the nerve to be upset with her? She thought. He was the one who’d been locking lips, in public, with a woman young enough to be his daughter. “Bastard!” she mumbled before raising the book back to her face.
After what seemed forever, the shiny black shoes headed towards car one and Carolyn let out a sigh of relief. Soon, she heard, “DOORS CLOSING. DOORS CLOSING. THIS IS A BLUE LINE TRAIN TO DOWNTOWN AND O’HARE. THIS IS BLUE LINE TRAIN NUMBER TWO O TWO”
TAYLOR PARALLELED PARKED his 1989 Bronco in the 3600 block of N. Waveland Avenue across from his Wrigleyville apartment and sat behind the wheel wondering whether or not he should call before bounding up the stairs to his apartment.
For a long while — he sat like that — staring down at his phone, the face of which was lit with that eerie blue light, trying to figure out what he’d one wrong this time.
“Cant’ a man have a friend? He asked aloud to the silent phone. A friend who’s a woman. It’s not like Carolyn and I are sleeping together, he yelled. We’re just friends.”
He’d tried telling Anna that. But her irrational jealousy wouldn’t allow her to believe it. “Shit!” He yelled at the phone, again.
He didn’t want to lose either one of them. He wanted both women in his life. He could talk things out with Carolyn. Reason with her without the fear of saying the wrong thing. A man needed that. But on the other hand, a man needed sex, too.
And Anna was perfect for that. She fit his body to a T. And he liked the way she looked and smelled. “Hell, he’d done everything that he was supposed to do to keep a woman. He’d been attentive. He’d apologized when he knew for a fact that he wasn’t the one who was wrong. He’d watched girlie movies on a Saturday night when he’d much rather been out with his buddies at a bar. He’d stayed in bed, on Sunday mornings and cuddled, rather than getting his hands dirty rebuilding that old 1962 vintage motorcycle. Damn! Damn! Damn! He yelled as he smashed the unresponsive phone against the Bronco’s dashboard. “What’s a man supposed to do? You’re damned if you do and double damned if you don’t. Cheat that is.”
Exhausted from arguing with the phone, he rested his head on the steering wheel, before getting out of the Bronco.
Glancing up at the apartment building, he realized that all the front windows were dark. Either Anna was already gone or she was sitting at home alone in the dark. Either way, it wasn’t good. Walking slowly towards the building, he resigned himself to yet another defeat. Another woman was leaving him.
IN THE SEMI DARKNESS of that early Fall evening, Carolyn had taken the train home. And despite her broken heart, when the train had pulled up to the platform at Irving Park, she had sneaked a peek to see who was driving. Much to her relief, it had been another motorman — a short Hispanic guy.
She entered the train and took a seat. Without Bon Ton’s presence to distract her, she could read, sleep, or just stare out the window.
But her restless mind settled on the one topic she least wanted to think about. That at forty, she was still single with absolutely no chance of that ever changing.
God how she wanted to be married! Every night, she’d sit at home alone watching TV and see the happy couples in the TV sitcoms and pray that one day, she’d be part of a happy couple, too.
And like most women, she had picked out her dress and had planned her wedding day in meticulous detail right down to the color of the groom’s socks.
Mrs. It was the brass ring. It was the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. It was the title that announced to the whole world that you were worthy. Worthy of being loved. How she wanted to be loved. To be held by someone who really loved her, warts and all.
At twenty-one she’d wanted to be like Marlo Thomas on ‘That Girl’. She’d wanted the beautifully furnished apartment, the career, and a boyfriend like Donald. But unlike Donald, who was content with a peck on the cheek, the men she’d dated wanted nothing less than full on sex. Regretfully, all of the relationships she’d had in her twenties had turned out to be nothing more than mattress affairs.
By her thirties, she started demanding more — more time together, more talking, more honesty, and more commitment. Unfortunately, the more she demanded, the less she dated. Black men it seemed weren’t into ultimatums. The few relationships she did manage to have all ended with the same statement, “It’s not you. It’s me.”
As the tears trickled down her face, she dabbed at them gently trying her best to make it look like she had a cold. She needed to take her mind off her one great failure in life or else the tears would keep flowing.
She pulled out the detective novel, ‘Violets are Blue,’ that she carried in her purse. She’d started reading a lot of James Patterson’s Alex Cross novels since Taylor had joined the firm. She read a few lines, but her mind kept coming back to the same subject.
Forty and single. And Bon Ton and Miss Firm Body. Obviously, he wasn’t the one. But, perhaps he was there to remind her that she was still a woman. Maybe he was God’s way of telling her to shed the extra pounds she’d packed on eating pizza and ice cream while spending every night sitting at home watching TV and waiting for the right one to come along. Masturbation, she reminded herself did not take the place of a man’s arms, the press of his body on yours, nor the sound of his labored breathing in your ear.
‘Let’s Get Married’, by Jagged Edge
http:dancingwiththefatwoman.wordpress.com
By
Eliza D. Ankum
Author of
Ruby Sanders
STALKED! By Voices
OneThreeThirteen
Flight 404
If you bought and liked Ruby Sanders, you’ll be blown away by One Three Thirteen – Master of the Day of Judgment.
CAROLYN WAS ALREADY standing outside when he glided the Bronco to a stop in front of Dorkin and Dorkin.
“I thought you had forgotten about me,” Carolyn said easing herself into the front passenger seat.
“I’d never do a thing like to you, Taylor said, laughingly. You know where I live.”
“And don’t you forget it.”
They drove in silence for a few minutes neither one willing to risk their friendship by asking the questions that needed asking.
“So, what brought you into the office today?”
“A new case. A man accused of murdering his wife.”
“Why is it always the wife who gets killed?. I think more women should start killing their husbands. Put things on an equal basis.”
“What makes you think things aren’t equal? He asked turning to look at her. Women get away with plenty.”
“No we don’t. We’re the ones stuck at home with the babies, cooking, and cleaning. And holding down a full-time job to boot! Who has time to cheat? We don’t have time to get away with anything the way you men do.”
“Sounds like you’ve been talking to Anna.”
“Anna? What’s Anna got to do with it?”
“Ahh. We’re here.”
Taylor pulled into the first open space he found. He needed to fortify himself with booze before he talked about Anna.
He cut the ignition and hopped out of the car pulling the collar of his dark brown leather jacket up around his ears. The temperature had dropped about five degrees since the morning.
He opened the passenger side door and extended his hand helping Carolyn out of the car. They walked side by side into the restaurant.
They were regulars at Marias. So when they walked in, Mario nodded for them to take a seat wherever they wanted. Taylor chose a booth under a picture of a mariachi band. The one with the bright red shirts. He wanted privacy. A waiter arrived promptly ready to take their drink orders.
“I’ll take a Long Island Ice Tea, responded Taylor. Carolyn glanced at him over her menu. Well, since we’re drinking, I’ll have a Screwdriver. The waiter thanked them and hurried away to place their order.
“Anna thinks I’m cheating.”
“Are you?”
“No.”
“Well then tell her that.”
“She knows there’s someone else”
“I thought you said you weren’t cheating.”
“I’m not.”
“Ohhhh. I see. You mean you’re not cheating yet. But you’ve thought about it.”
“I’ll answer that question if you tell me what had you so upset this morning.”
“How do you know I was upset this morning?”
“M&Ms. With – peanuts. You always eat them when you’re upset.”
“No wonder the firm hired you.” She responded, smiling.
The waiter returned and set their drinks on the table. “Are you ready to order?” he asked.
“The lady will have the house salad and the Enchiladas Suizas. Instead of three of a kind, she’d like one of each. And I’ll have the soup of the day and the Carne ala Mexicana. Medium. Hold the rice and beans on mind.”
“Very well, sir.”
“I didn’t know I’d lost the power of speech,” remarked Carolyn after the waiter had gone.
“You order the same thing every time we come. Now give.”
She took a sip of her drink and started. “I thought, she said hesitating a bit. There was this man, he’s the motorman on the train I take to work everyday. I thought he was interested in me. But I was wrong.”
“Are you sure?! I mean how do you know he’s not interested. Did you give him a chance?”
“I’m sure he’s not, she responded, taking another sip of her drink. He spent the night with another woman. And yes, I’m sure, because he thanked her for giving him a ‘wonderful night’ before sloppy kissing her in front of everyone on the train this morning.”
Taylor lowered his eyes to the brightly colored tablecloth before volunteering. “Anna put me out — of my own apartment. I slept in the Bronco last night.”
“Here’s to us, Carolyn said raising her glass while snorting with laughter. When it comes to love, we’re both losers.”
THE INSIDE OF RAYMOND WALTERS’ house was a testament to money.
Money, By Barrett Strong
The entrance way was painted a soft taupe and beige travertine marble tiles covered the floor. Twin hand painted Italian credenzas, topped with gold statuary, flanked the entrance way walls. And a Tiffany Mission style chandelier swung overhead. To Taylor’s right was a sun filled solarium and to his left, was one of the most luxurious living rooms he’d seen in a long time.
“Where was Mrs. Walters shot?”
“Upstairs in the master bedroom.”
“Figures.”
Taking the steps two at time Taylor led the way to the upstairs private quarters.
“To the left,” directed to rookie. “Mrs. Walters was found in there he said, pointing to a door at the end of a long carpeted hallway.
Taylor opened the door and was met by the stale metallic smell of blood. “I guessing she bled out before she was found?”
“Yup. It was a real mess.”
“Were you and your partner one of the ones responding?”
“We got here within five minutes of being called.”
“How many times was Mrs. Walters shot?”
“Six times. Your client emptied the gun.”
“Allegedly, emptied the gun.”
“Sure. Whatever.”
“From the blood splatter, I’m assuming she was shot while in bed?”
“Yup.”
“When you guys got here, was she dressed? And alone?”
“The husband was the only one present when we arrived. And Mrs. Walters was wearing a light blue nightgown. We could tell that the husband had placed the gown on her because there were no bullet holes in it. And she was lying face up but had been shot in the back. Husband admitted to dressing the body. Said he didn’t want people seeing her naked.”
“Umph. Mind if I check out the bathroom?”
“Help yourself.”
Taylor found more travertine in the bathroom. Not to his taste. Made the room seem cold, he thought.
Using an ink pen he pulled from a plastic pouch, he eased open the medicine cabinet. It was filled with the usual stuff. Nothing out of the ordinary, except he noted that Mrs. Walters had a couple of prescriptions for tranquilizers. And one of the bottles was empty.
Walking back into the bedroom the thought hit him, “If I were Raymond Walters and I suspected my wife of cheating, I’d want proof. Where would I hide the camera? He asked himself. None of the obvious places for sure. No, I’d be a bit smarter than the average guy. Looking around, he thought, what area offered the best view of the bed – curtain rod or light switch. Yeah. That’s where I put it, too. No matter what was going on, I’d always have a view.
“What you looking at?’ asked the rookie.
“Nothing, replied Taylor. Just wondering what the view looks like from the window.”
He’d come back later when the noisy neighbors were asleep and when he didn’t have the rookie dogging his heels.
It might not be in the firm’s best interest to reveal any secret video recordings of the murder to the prosecution.
Besides, if he left right now, he’d make it back to Dorkin in time to meet Carolyn for lunch.
TAYLOR URGED the bronco out of the Jiffy carwash an onto Sheridan road, and at the light banked a left turn onto the Edens expressway heading north towards the affluent suburb of Winnetka. On the way, he turned the radio to WVON to shutting out Anna’s accusing voice in his head.
He cracked the window just a little bit and put the heat on low. There was a definite chill in the October air. He was already thinking about what he’d find once he arrived in Winnetka. Graceful tree lined streets, big ass house on a big ass lot. All flash and show with no substance. But it worked for those folks. Well probably not for the Walters, since one of them was dead.
It took about forty five minutes for him to reach 671 Lincoln Avenue. He’d been right about the big ass house. Small mansion really. From the looks of place Raymond Walters was doing alright for himself.
He parked the bronco in the driveway of Raymond Walters two story McManison and waited. A Black man, not driving a delivery van, in this neighborhood was sure to draw attention. He’d rather wait for the cop here in the driveway than be surprised, by them, inside the house.
It took about five minutes for the two patrol cars to pull to stop in front of the house. Taylor was standing by his bronco with ID in hand watching as the four officers leapt from their cars, guns drawn. Taylor, immediately raised his hands above his head.
“Sir, what is your business in this neighborhood.”
“I’m an investigator for the Law Firm Dorkin and Dorkin. I’m here on behalf of our client, Mr. Raymond Walters. I’m holding my identification in my right hand.”
The lead cop, a big guy, a real ball buster, Taylor thought, yelled to the kid trailing behind him, “Rookie, get the gentleman’s ID, please.”
Stay cool, Taylor told himself. He’d worked with a lot of guys like the big one during his years on the force. They were always spoiling for a fight. Taylor handed the rookie his papers and the kid backed up and handed them to the big guy who looked amused by what he read.
“I heard you got shot, dead, on the job.”
“Yeah. I did.”
“You look dead to me.”
“Depends on what you mean by dead.”
“Rookie, give the man his ID back.”
“So, what are you doing here.”
“Investigating on behalf of a client, like I said.”
“It’s clear as day. The old bastard found out she was screwing around and shot her. Hell, I might have done the same thing if I found out my wife was screwing half the damn neighborhood.”
“Well, you better get home then,” yelled one of the other guys before walking back to their car.”
“Yeah. Yeah.”
“Rookie, show Investigator Anderson here, the crime scene. I’ll be in the car.”
“Talking with your wife, no doubt.” yelled Taylor as he walked towards the house.
TAYLOR ANDERSON walked out of the offices and Dorkin and Dorkin and hurried to the parking lot where his 1989 Ford Bronco was parked.
He unlocked the back door and started pulling out all evidence that he’s spent the night sleeping in his car. He didn’t want anyone to know that he and Anna had had another fight and she had insisted that he leave. The woman had thrown him out of his own damn apartment.
But being the gentleman he was, he’d left. Bullshit. Enough of the baloney, he thought. He’d left because he couldn’t stand the thought that some of his old friends from the force might respond to the call of domestic violence and see how far he’d fallen.
After he’d stuffed the pillow and blanket in the trunk he climbed into the front seat and took out the envelope that Winston Dorkin had handed him earlier. It was a dossier on one Raymond Walters. Mr. Raymond Walters, as it turned out, was a close friend of Winston Dorkin, senior partner and founder of Dorkin and Dorkin. The firm was pulling out all the stops in Mr. Walters’ defense, including bringing him in as lead investigator.
Inside the envelope was a picture of Mr. and Mrs. Walters, taken in happier times, no doubt, since they were both smiling. A list of known associates and key information about Mr. Walters, such as where he worked, where he went to school and where he partied, such as Country Clubs, hotels, etc. Also, in the envelope were keys to the man’s house.
It was nine thirty and he had some time to kill before lunch. He might as well check out the firm’s new client’s digs and try and get a handle on the man and why the State thought he murdered his wife. Looking around at the inside of his car, he thought he should at least get it washed and detailed before he picked Carolyn up for lunch.
He wanted things as nice as they could be for her. He’d witness her assault on the Dunkin Donut shop that morning. He’d waited at her train stop with the intention of driving her to work and getting her take on him and Anna, went he saw her ‘run’ out of the station and across the street. Something was obviously wrong.
WHEN IT COLD like it was today, Gus, defied the rules and let her off right in front of Dorkin and Dorkin instead of two blocks down at the bus stop. Thanks to him, she was on time.
She lugged her heavy heart through the glass doors covered in big black lettering that read, Dorkin and Dorkin, Legal Services, LLC. The taupey-gray three story building in the forty-eight hundred block of Irvin Park road had been her second home for the past ten years.
Jennifer, Dorkin’s receptionist was already hard at work answering phone calls. Carolyn kept her head down and tried her best not to attract the attention of the bubbly twenty-five year old who stood five-seven and wore a size six. “Eye candy or window dressing’ was how the senior partners referred to her, but in all honesty, Jennifer was a hard worker.
She lumbered down the hall, feeling the building move slightly under the weight of her step. Her office was on the second floor. Well not really, her office. As secretary to Harold Wiseman, one of the senior partners at Dorkin and Dorkin, her desk sat outside Harold Wiseman’s office.
She took her time climbing the two sets of stairs leading to the 2nd floor. Mr. Wiseman never came into the office before nine, unless the partners were getting together for a meeting.
She went into the ladies room, relieved herself of the large caramel coffee, checked her makeup, and popped a mint. It was a little past eight in the morning and the office was slowly coming to life. She hung up her coat and thought about grabbing a cup of coffee before getting started. Rubbing her hand across her stomach, she decided against it. And went straight to her desk.
Checking her desk, she found that Mr. Wiseman had left several tapes of dictation for transcription and a stack of files to be refilled. Getting coffee, sounded like a good idea, after all, she thought, looking over the work on her desk.
An hour later, she’d finish a page of dictation only to look down and find that what she’d typed was a page of un-comprehendible gibberish.
She just couldn’t shake it, that image of Bon Ton kissing another woman. “Damn it!” This time, she’d thought, unrealistically it seemed now, that she had chance of having a man in her life.
She decided to take a break. The vending machine down the hall had the kind of M&Ms she liked — the ones with the peanuts. A fat counselor at one of those summer camps for fat kids had once told her that she liked chomping on crunchy foods as a way of dealing with her aggression. He was probably right, she thought. But all she knew was that she liked smashing things with her teeth and that crunching sound in her ear as she ate them. And right this moment, all she wanted to do was stomp Miss Firm Body into the ground and listen to the sound of her bones breaking as she did so. Chomp, crunch, chomp, crunch!. The thought made her happy and she smiled for the first time that day.
“Hey wanna have lunch?” asked a familiar voice from behind her.
“Sure! Why not?” She responded without turning around. She didn’t need too. She knew the voice belonged to her one and only constant male companion, Taylor. But when she swung around, the yellow bag of peanut M&Ms nearly slipped from her hands.
“I swear you’re getting more buff every day. How much have you lost?”
“Forty pounds”, Taylor answered, smiling proudly.
“You certainly look it, Carolyn responded jealously.”
Since that comment four months ago in the sandwich shop when those idiots had asked them, “how do two fat people make love,” Taylor had been on a diet.
“Thanks. Well?”
“Well, what?”
“Lunch? Will you have lunch with me?
“Can we eat real food or is it rabbit food only” she quipped brushing past him. She wanted to sprint back to her desk and hide behind something wider than her.
“You can order whatever you want. I’m celebrating.”
“Celebrating what, she asked pulling open the top of the M&M bag.”
“I passed the bar!”
“Whaaaaaat!?” Carolyn’s face shone with surprise and delight. Taylor Anderson had come to work at Dorkin and Dorkin two years ago after recovering from a bullet wound he’d suffered on the job as a Chicago cop.
He’d been serving an arrest warrant on a Westside drug dealer when someone in the house had opened fire. Taylor had been standing in front of the door. The armor piercing round had caught him in the lower left quadrant and had damn near killed him. It had endured two months in the hospital and another two months of physical therapy only to be sidelined with a desk job. He’d packed on nearly sixty pounds from depression and inactivity.
“How about Maria’s on Foster? I have my car.”
“Can you have Mexican?”
“I can have anything I want.” He said bending over her teasingly.”
“Alright, alright. I’ll have lunch with you. Now go away. Mr. Wiseman will be in any minute now.”
She watched him as he walked towards the door. He’s really looking good, she thought. Then caught herself. Behave. Taylor is a friend. Don’t mess it up. Besides, that girlfriend of his doesn’t take kindly to other women stepping on her territory.
The thought of another woman got her thinking about Bon Ton and Miss Firm Body again. “Damn it!”
ALL MORNING LONG at work she’d thought about it. Played it over and over in her mind until her brain hurt. Bon Ton kissing Miss Firm Body in front on everyone on the train. Her train, the one she took every morning to her job at Dorkin and Dorkin where she worked as a legal secretary.
After Bon Ton’s train had pulled away from the platform, she’d hurried down the stairs. Something she never did. The unpaded concrete stairs were hard on her knees and because of that, she moved too slowly for the younger more agile folks coming down the stairs behind her.
Once out of the grimy soot covered L-station she raced across the street and into the crowded Dunkin Donuts pushing her way to the head of the line. She knew exactly what this situation called for – a double caramel coffee and large apple fritter. She needed food to squelch the scream that was on the verge of erupting from her throat.
She stood in the corner by the window of the little shop, staring outward rather than risk seeing the disdainful stares of the thin folks, as she consumed her drugs.
As another train lumbered overhead, she imagined Bon Ton in bed having sex with Miss Firm Body. She imagined his black butt going up and down, felt the sweat from his body dripping down onto firm up-tilted breast, and heard his labored breathing as he worked he worked to bring Miss Firm to a climax. “Shit!” She muttered aloud, startling those standing nearby. She needed another fritter, but if she didn’t leave now, she’d miss her bus and have to walk the rest of the way to work. “He wasn’t worth that!”
She staggered out of Dunkin Donuts, drunk on caffeine and sugar making her way back across the street just as the number 80 Irving Park Road bus rolled to a stop.
The bus doors opened and there was Gus, her usual driver. When he saw her, he hit the hydraulic lever lowering the steps of the bus so that she wouldn’t have to make that long upward stride from curve to bus with her short pudgy legs.
On the bus, she chit-chatted with Gus about nothing in particular. It was easier pretending everything was OK rather than talk about the dull ache in her soul or about Miss Firm Body and Bon Ton and the cold empty bed waiting for her at the end of the day.
Dancing With The Fat Woman 