- Brad and Emily - Column by Jim Carroll

A "column" is typically based on the writer's "opinion" which is supposed to stimulate the reader to thought or action. The thought may be "This guy is a lousy writer", coupled with the action, "I think I'll skip this column next time". I wrote an opinion piece last night, and sent it off in an email. But after reading it again, I realized that I had my OWN opinion about it: I didn't like it much. It was illustrative of my point, but it wasn't very entertaining. So my "opinion" is that you might just like to sit back and be entertained by a short story.

This story was originally rated R. Well, nowadays it was more like PG-13. But I have taken out the coarse language and the "intimate scenes" and it is now more socially acceptable. That said, I should point out that it was an entry in a "Stephen King Writing Contest," so you should expect something a bit grittier than Jane Austen.

"Brad and Emily – a slightly twisted modern love story"

Something about the way the keys skittered as he tossed them on the sofa table sent that old familiar jangle of anxiety and regret crackling up Brad's spine and into the still-wary, reptilian part of his brain. Emily! But of course Emily wasn't here now, nor would she be anytime soon. This was insane. Emily in the nut-bin for months now, and he could still smell Chanel.

He remembered how that perfume had filled his head and made his mind wander in the early days. Emily had been everything he had dreamed of in a lover and better yet, she had been the ideal partner in all the other ways, too. Brilliant and witty, Emily had been Brad's best friend. Life was perfect - for a while.

Brad could see Molly's room and the primary colors he and Emily had painted in her father's former study. He tried to remember when the "dark days" had started. Was it around the time that she had learned she was pregnant? Or was it the year before that, when Eldon had finally misplaced the last of his marbles and Emily had moved him to the Alzheimer's center? Brad couldn't remember. That was the way it was with a personal hell, he thought. Nobody would walk into a situation like that. But they say if you put a live turkey in a pot of water, and bring the temperature up gradually, you can boil him into soup and he'll never even try to move. That's the way it had been with Emily. The craziness wasn't there at all, and then it was everywhere.

When was the first time she had yelled at him for throwing his keys on the antique cherry sofa table? He couldn't remember. At first it was so out of character he just dismissed it. But it was one of a series of little things that had added up to a "major malfunction" before he even knew what had happened. Their lovemaking was like a soothing balm. The fighting would be forgiven and forgotten in their desperate desire to find some kind of a safe place together. But for him it was also the drug that dulled his mind to the shifting reality, and glossed over the growing, aching pain of the loss of his best friend. In fact, it was the last remnant of that which he had considered to be his "normal life".

When had she first started questioning his fidelity? Crazy! How could anyone who wore a man out like Emily did think that he would want or need more? The radio traffic report soon became the barometer of his well-being: Let I-405 be backed up and Brad was screwed! Or screwing around, according to Emily. He wondered again if it had started when she told him she was pregnant. Could that have been the explanation for her mood swings and accusations? No, it wasn't that simple, and it had started before that. In fact, for a while there, things had actually gotten better. Little Molly was good for Emily, and seemed to soften her. Brad never saw the wildness in Emily's eyes when Molly was in her arms, looking up at her mother. Not at first. Oh sure, Emily had a few bad months there, no doubt about that. But her father was drooling on himself right in front of her, and she was boxing up all his books and papers that no longer had any meaning in his world. That had to mess with somebody's head, didn't it?

Brad realized he had been sitting in the chair without moving for a long time. It was starting to get dark. He had dropped Molly off at Katie's birthday party an hour ago. The three hours he had looked forward to having to himself were slipping through his fingers. He sat up, surprised at the numbness in his butt and the tingling in his feet. Dinner. That'd be a good thing. Dinner and a shot of scotch. Not necessarily in that order.

He flicked on the dining room light as he shuffled into the kitchen, legs still tingling. His slacks were wrinkled and he had a nagging wedgie. He slipped off his jacket and tossed it over the back of the dining room chair. CRACK! His lethargic synapses fired in a knee-jerk reaction to the still-expected outburst from the non-existent Emily: “That's my father's chair, you jerk! You think since you're sleeping with his daughter in his old room you might at least let him have his chair?”

His heart pounded as the adrenaline slammed into his coronary arteries. Had he actually heard her? Even as one part of his brain tried to send the calming message that Emily was locked away, he snatched the jacket off the chair. His other arm had already flinched up to block the expected blow. The quiet, as he cringed in anticipation of some kind of madness, reminded him that this part of his life was over. Emily had been involuntarily committed. “Paranoid schizophrenia” was the latest diagnosis. So many big words for FUBAR. And so she had been. F.U.? You bet - and certainly unrecognizable when at her worst. But gone now. Gone for good. So why did her perfume still hang around just at the edge of consciousness? Try to sniff it and nothing, but forget about it and there it was on the edge of everything. Crazy.

Brad flipped through the options in the freezer and settled on Hungry Man Salisbury Steak. Eighteen minutes ‘til dinner, and no wine list required. Molly would be running on cake, ice cream, and candy when he picked her up, and bedtime wouldn't be 8 pm tonight. He had to admit that single parenting had never been in his plans. For that matter parenting at all was something they had hardly discussed. But here Molly was, and there Emily was, and the powers that be had declared him the sole custodian. That was just the way things were.

He poured the scotch and returned to the living room. As he passed by the foot of the oak stairway he caught the scent again. Stronger. No way, man. No way. Get hold of yourself here, Brad! Better catch up on the local news.

He picked up his keys and hung them on the key rack as he headed to the TV. Grabbing the remote from the top of the cabinet, Brad sagged back into the chair and sighed deeply. Oh man, the remote. Remember that one? Out of the blue one Saturday afternoon, Emily had nearly blinded him.

"How you doin', baby?" she had asked as he came into the room.

"OK, I guess. We landed a huge client today, and Stevens wants me to be point guy."

"That'll probably keep you late a lot, huh?"

"I don't really know, Emily, but it could. Right now I'm just blasted. Would you hand me the remote? I want to check the game."

"Sure, honey!" He still didn't know how he had missed the tone in her voice when she had asked about the late work. Lulled into a false sense of security by the "baby", he guessed. When the remote came it was moving like a Randy Johnson fastball. It caught him square on the bridge of the nose. The surprise, pain, and outrage were an icy blackness that became a spreading fire. His arms flew up to block what might come next, but she had gone around behind him. She grabbed his hair and wrenched his head back so hard he didn't know if a piece of scalp would tear loose, or if the back of the chair would suddenly flatten, leaving him off balance and vulnerable, arms flailing, throat and belly exposed, and oh-man-oh-man what comes next?

What came next was her voice. Or something like her voice, anyway - a hot, angry jet so unearthly that he simply froze. The fury and passion in that alien voice blotted out reason. "Hey there Brad! Guess you can tell that wifey isn't real pleased about doing your laundry while you play doctor with Susan at the office. You're messing with the wrong Marine, boy." This was followed by a fierce yank and another searing blast of pain in his neck and then she was gone, the front door standing open.

Brad didn't even know why he followed her out the door. What he did know was that the right front wheel of the BMW cracked as she gunned it up over the curb and straight for him as he ran across the front lawn. The fender hit him in the thigh and tossed him like a rag doll toward the driveway where he landed on his side. The pain blotted out sound and sight. He thought that maybe he should get up and run, just in case she came back to finish the job, but from the distant squeal of her tires he knew she was gone. He looked at his leg, marveling at the odd angle, but didn't even flinch as his head thumped once on the concrete and all was dark.

Brad had traveled a lot in his work. As the news theme blared from the surround-sound speakers, and talking heads filled the screen, he marveled that no matter where he went, the local "news at five" sounded and looked the same: Sound bites from stand-up politicians. Local violence. Sports and weather. All sandwiched into a format so familiar and repetitious that even having turned it on with the intent of watching, the program soon became background to Brad's ongoing memories; his continued amazement at how completely alien the plot twists had been. Who'd have thought?

After the car incident there was no way to hide the dirty laundry anymore. Mrs. Anderson had called 911 and half the freaking cul-de-sac had watched the paramedics poke him with IVs and splint his fractured leg. The police almost beat Brad to the emergency room. The cop was nice enough, but Brad's plan to cover for Emily and try to salvage a normal life went down the toilet pretty quick. Emily had stuffed a guardrail not a mile from the house, and though unhurt, was in custody at the station. Brad's efforts to downplay the incident at the house were wasted as the officer assured him he had enough witness accounts to take a charge of vehicular assault, maybe even attempted murder, to the prosecutor. He said that Brad was going to have to request a restraining order; something to make sure that Emily couldn't come around until she got some help. He played the whole thing off on Molly, and Brad couldn't very well argue about that, now could he? He really had no idea what Emily was capable of at this point. Nobody did.

She was out in 19 hours. She beat Brad's release from the hospital by almost a full day. When Brad got home the restraining order was there, too, signed by the judge. Emily was not to approach within 100 yards of either Molly or Brad. The hearing was set for Wednesday afternoon, the day after tomorrow. So much for work. His whole body ached, and his leg throbbed like a hammer-smashed thumb. He was also pretty clumsy on his walking cast. It was a great time to be off work.

The beep of the microwave brought Brad back to the present, and he pushed out of the chair to get his Salisbury steak. Carrying the foil-covered tray on a cutting board, he passed by the stairs again on his way back to the chair. The whiff of Chanel was still there, but he dismissed it with a wry smile and a shake of his head. He had to go get Molly in about half an hour. He'd better pound this meal and forget about a nap. How much time had he lost in the last few months reflecting on the crazy days? Molly never asked about Mommy, and Brad was relieved. What was he supposed to say, anyway? Mommy had nearly killed Daddy with a can of ravioli? On the courthouse steps, no less? Thank god he didn't have to tell her about that one.

No one could prove that Emily had stopped by the market on the way to the hearing with the intent to purchase a murder weapon. It looked like dinner to most folks. Still, it WAS the only thing in the bag. No salad-makings or bread. No bottle of Chianti. Just a family-size can of cheese Ravioli in a nylon-web shopping bag. It looked strange, but not threatening. Still, he should have realized that Emily was too loose - too cordial - on the courthouse steps. She was all apologies and promises of counseling - saying she hoped to see Molly right after getting things all straightened out at the hearing. Brad was cautious, but so willing to believe. Surely the woman he had loved - the quick-witted, funny, ardent lover of his dreams - had just been delayed in some strange wayside. He didn't think twice when she dropped her sunglasses on the step. He hardly noticed the lunacy in her eyes as he rose up with the glasses in his hand, and the ravioli caught him full on the temple.

That had been almost three years ago. Molly was four now. The hearing was forgotten, of course, and Emily had been held without bail. The court ordered a psychological battery and Emily had been committed. Since then, lots of therapy, lots of drugs, a lot of visits, and still as far as Brad could tell, no Emily. The lights were on, sort of, but the person that was home was no longer Emily. She looked like Emily, and there were times when she would laugh or brighten for just a second, and Brad would feel his world tilt, and his heart begin to hope. Then the dullness would descend like a translucent curtain and she would be gone again. He hadn't even bothered to visit for over a year. What was the point? Time to move on.

The breaking news bulletin came on while he was rinsing his glass and dropping the last of the TV dinner into the kitchen trash. He reached for the remote as he left the kitchen. The voiceover was saying something about "an orderly dead and two of three inmates recaptured after an escape at the county psychiatric hospital." He noticed that the scent of the perfume was stronger as the oak staircase creaked. With a strange certainty Brad knew that this time it wouldn't be a remote. No canned ravioli tonight. He didn't recognize his own shotgun as she raised it to hip level. He did, this time, notice the strange sparkle in her green eyes. She was so unlike his old Emily. The last thing he heard was her new, not-quite-Emily voice as she called out, "Hello there, Brad!"

This time the flash, and the warmth, and the darkness didn't surprise him at all.

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Jim and his wife Hollie Swanson are native northwesterners. They moved here last year from Whidbey Island to take new positions as island caretakers on Brown (Friday) Island. They are enjoying life on a "real" island and have been exploring the San Juans in their little tug "Shulala." Comments can be sent to Jim at shu@sanjuanislander.com.