The Last Tomorrow (30 page)

It made him feel, for a time, almost human.

But now he feels as though it was a betrayal. His wife is dead, but her spirit still occupies their house, and he has yet to face it. He has yet to say goodbye.

But it was the cramps and the sweating which pulled him from her bed, and the urge like a rash in his mind needing salve.

He picks up his pants from the floor and steps into them without bothering to fasten the button. He grabs his coat from a chair in the corner and walks out of the bedroom, down the hallway. He
looks out to the living room where Candice’s new couch sits, a blue couch with red stripes. He walks to the bathroom and closes the door.

He doesn’t want to do this here. He wants to be normal. He wants to cook eggs and bacon and sit across the table from Candice while they eat breakfast and talk about nothing, flipping
through the paper, chuckling about something amusing in one of the comics. But what he wants doesn’t matter. His legs are cramped. He’s covered in sweat. He feels sick to his
stomach.

He drops his pants and sits on the toilet. His guts come rushing out. He either can’t force out anything or else he has diarrhea, there’s no in-between. And there’s that itch
at the back of his brain. That itch that demands attention. That itch that will not allow him to focus on anything else until it’s scratched.

Goddamn it, he misses his wife.

Goddamn it, he wishes he could have a relationship with someone new without fucking it up and without it feeling like betrayal.

Maybe someday. He hopes so. But not today.

He wipes, checks for blood, flushes, and sits back down. He grabs the syringe box from the inside pocket of his coat. He looks at the inside of his arm, at the puncture wounds dotting it.
He’s glad it was dark last night when he and Candice undressed one another. He’ll have to put on a shirt before she wakes up.

He opens the syringe box.

2

Candice sits up in bed. She’s glad the space beside her is empty, though she hopes Carl hasn’t yet left for work. She simply wants a few minutes to wake up. She
wants to brush her teeth and wash the makeup from her face. Usually she washes it off before bed. Last night that didn’t happen. She’s certain that with her makeup smudged as it is she
looks a bit like an out-of-focus picture, and she doesn’t want him to see her like that just yet. They haven’t known each other long enough for that level of comfort.

It’s been a long time since she’s shared a morning with someone new, and she hadn’t planned on such a thing happening today. Despite the fact she told him on the phone there
could be nothing between them, she knew she had feelings for him; she told him there could be nothing between them because she
did
have feelings for him, and she didn’t think she was
ready to step into something new, and she didn’t want to sabotage whatever this was – if it was anything at all – by hurrying into an affair so soon after she lost her husband.
She feels raw. Despite the fact that she’s holding herself together, she feels perpetually close to a breakdown. But she doesn’t regret that it happened. It felt right in the moment and
good, and she needed something that felt good after all the bad she’s suffered. Even if this morning turns out to be awkward she won’t regret last night. Even last night had its awkward
moments, but despite them, or because of them, it felt wonderfully human. Last night she felt like herself for the first time since Neil was murdered. It made her wonder where she’d been.

This morning she must again deal with this mess her life has become. She must drive down to the district attorney’s office to sit with Sandy while he’s coached on his testimony. She
must discuss the terms of Sandy’s deal with Markley and her lawyer, with whom she’s only spoken once before. If everything’s in order, then paperwork can be signed, making the
arrangement official.

But last night let her know that this isn’t all she can have. There’s something beyond this, even if she isn’t yet there. Last night was a glimpse of it. She hopes, though her
hope is a cautious one, that Carl might take her hand and help lead her there. Maybe she can help him too.

She gets to her feet, finds a pink nightgown hanging over her door, and slides it over her head. The material is night-chilled and as it slips over her body it brings out gooseflesh on her
arms.

She walks to the living room.

‘Carl?’

No response.

She wanders through the living room and the dining room to the kitchen, but the kitchen too is empty. A brief but intense sadness overwhelms her, like a wave crashing on the shore and then
quickly retreating. He left without saying goodbye. Maybe he left a note for her somewhere. Or maybe he simply stepped out to get some fresh morning air. There’s almost nothing finer than a
spring morning after it’s rained.

She walks to the living-room window and looks out. She doesn’t see him, but she does see his car, which means he hasn’t left after all. Simply seeing his car parked out there on the
street causes a smile to touch her lips.

She turns from the window and makes her way to the bathroom. She has to use the toilet. She hopes it doesn’t burn when she pees. The first time she urinates after sex is sometimes less
than pleasant. She might have a urinary-tract infection. It’d been so long that she’d forgotten she often gets them after first making love with a new partner. She supposes she’ll
know soon enough.

The bathroom door is closed. She gives it a tap with her knuckles, says Carl’s name, and when he doesn’t respond pushes the door open.

As the door swings wide she sees flesh, sees Carl sitting on the toilet, smells the stink of shit, and starts to pull the door closed with sorry on her lips. But before the door can latch she
stops. There was something strange about what she saw. Carl didn’t look up at her with surprise in his eyes, didn’t look up at her at all. He just sat there, slumped. There’s
something very wrong about that.

Slowly she pushes the door open again.

‘Carl?’

Still he doesn’t move. His legs are sprawled out in front of him, feet jutting from wrinkled slacks, pale and gnarled. The toenails are yellow. His head is tilted down, chin resting on his
chest. His eyes are closed. Drool hangs from his open mouth. Spittle clings to the patch of hair between his pectorals. It runs down his pear-shaped stomach.

A needle hangs from his left arm, a glass syringe.

She looks from that to his face and understands.

She thinks of her first husband, Lyle, always drunk; controlled by the bottle. Often he’d barely manage to stumble home before passing out on the lawn in his own sick. He couldn’t
hold a job. He was married more to his addiction than to her, and of course he finally chose it over her. You need to quit or leave, Lyle, that’s your choice.

Then goodbye.

No. She will not be anybody’s mistress. She will not be second in anybody’s life. She’s been through too much. She’s worth too much.

She walks into the bathroom, stands over Carl. She says his name, and when he doesn’t respond she says it again.

He picks up his head and looks at her. He smiles.

‘Candice,’ he says. ‘G’mornin.’

‘You need to get out.’

‘What happened?’

‘You need to get dressed and you need to leave.’

‘What?’

‘Now,’ she says.

‘What did I do?’

‘What did you—’

She stops. She leans down and pulls the syringe from his arm and holds it up in front of his face.

‘This is what you did. I’m not having that in my life. I’m not. I won’t.’ She throws the syringe down and it shatters on the tile floor. She feels the sting of
tears in her eyes, and blinks repeatedly, wanting to hold them off, wanting to get control of her emotions. She exhales.

‘You need to go,’ she says again. This time she says it calmly.

3

Carl looks down at the shattered syringe on the bathroom floor. He can see through the shards to the black and white tiles on which they lie. He looks up at Candice. She glares
down at him angry, her brow furrowed, her mouth a narrow line. She shouldn’t be so angry. She should smile instead. He should tell her that.

‘You . . . you should—’

‘Get out of my house.’

She wants him to leave. He supposes it’s best if he does. They can talk about this later. He’ll call her later and they can talk about it then. He’ll make her understand that
it’s not how it looks. He isn’t an addict. He would never let himself become an addict. He needs to explain that to her. He’ll do it later, though. Right now she’s too angry
to listen to him. Right now she’s too angry to listen to reason.

‘Okay,’ he says, and gets to his feet.

The syringe box, his bindle, his lighter, and his spoon all fall to the floor.

‘Oh.’

He leans down and picks up his belongings. He puts them into his pockets. He looks at Candice again. She stands with her arms crossed in front of her chest. When he tries to make eye contact she
looks away.

‘Okay,’ he says again.

He walks to the bathroom door. He can hear glass cracking beneath his feet. He supposes he can feel it too, though it doesn’t feel like much. It doesn’t really feel like he can feel
it, but he guesses he must.

‘You’re cutting your feet.’

He looks behind him, sees a trail of blood.

‘Sorry,’ he says. ‘I’ll clean it up. I’ll go get something to clean it up.’

‘Just go,’ Candice says.

‘Okay. We’ll talk later.’

‘I don’t want to talk later. I don’t want to see you again.’

He doesn’t respond to that. There is no response. He turns and walks to the bedroom. He sits on the edge of the bed and brushes glass from his feet, picking shards from his flesh when he
needs to and setting them on the night table. Then he puts on his socks and his shoes, his shirt and his tie. At first he cannot find his coat. After a few minutes he remembers he took it to the
bathroom. He doesn’t want to go back there. Candice is angry. He’ll leave it.

He walks to the living room. His fedora hangs by the door, the lone fruit on the hat tree. He plucks it from where it hangs.

‘Shit in it and pull it down over your ears,’ he says to himself before setting it on his head. He looks over his shoulder. Candice stands in the hallway entrance, arms still folded
over her chest.

Blood fills his shoes.

He takes a step toward her, thinking maybe he can hug her goodbye. If he hugs her, if she can feel how much he cares for her, she’ll forgive him. She’ll soften in his arms and
forgive him and everything will be fine.

But before he can take a second step she’s shaking her head.

He turns around without responding and unlatches the deadbolt. He grabs the doorknob. It’s cool to the touch.

He pulls.

4

Candice watches him walk out the door. As soon as he’s gone she slides to the floor and puts her face in her hands. That was hard to do. He showed her kindness, he made
her feel understood, he made her feel there might be something good on the other side of all this shit she’s been wading through, but she will not be second to an addiction. She’s been
that woman before and she’ll not be her again. She simply won’t.

After a few minutes she forces herself to stop feeling sorry for herself. She wipes at her nose with the back of her wrist. She gets to her feet. She walks to the bathroom and looks at the mess
on the floor. She needs to clean it up, then she needs to get showered and dressed.

She still has to meet with the district attorney and her lawyer.

At least she gets to see Sandy today. That will be the single bright spot on what she thinks is bound to be an otherwise black square on her calendar.

5

Carl sits in his car and stares through the windshield at nothing, blank as a blackboard during summer vacation. After five minute he blinks and thoughts once more begin
passing through his mind. He starts his car. He looks down at his feet. Blood is leaking from his shoes. He probably shouldn’t have stepped on that glass. He didn’t mean to. He
didn’t think about it.

Candice shouldn’t have thrown it on the floor.

He puts the car into gear and pulls out into the street.

He considers heading straight to work. He doesn’t want to be late. But he knows he can’t do that. He knows he has to be careful. If he isn’t careful other people will find out
something’s wrong. He needs to clean up, bandage his feet. He thinks he can fix things with Candice. He just needs to make her understand that he isn’t a junkie.

He isn’t.

But nobody else can find out what he’s doing.

He drives toward the boarding house. He’s going to be late for work, but that’s better than showing up looking like he does right now.

1

Leland Jones stands in the bathroom, looking at himself in the mirror. He wears no shirt, only a pair of dark pants. He isn’t muscular, but his torso is tree-trunk solid
and tanned from mowing the lawn shirtless every Saturday. His hair is wet and finger-combed back. His nose is swollen and purple. His eyes are black.

2

Two days ago, on Saturday, he was bashed twice on the head with a shower rod. He fell face-first to the wood floor and broke his nose. He was knocked out. When he came to, the house was empty.
He woke and called out to Vivian but received no response. He got to his feet. Blood ran from a gash on the back of his head. It ran down his neck, staining the collar of his shirt. More blood ran from his face. He felt wobbly and unbalanced. He walked to the couch and sat down. He stared
at the ceiling and held his nose so blood wouldn’t run from it. Instead it ran down the back of his throat. He had no idea what had happened. He walked through the door saying that everything
went smooth as a baby’s backside and next thing he knew he was on the floor. He called to Vivian again while sitting on the couch, his voice sounding strange with his nostrils pinched shut,
but knew she wasn’t home. She’d had a funeral to attend.

He couldn’t believe she’d leave him lying on the floor bleeding. It didn’t make any sense. It wasn’t like her. It didn’t make any sense at all.