Thought Farm | Chapters 10, 11, 12

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-10-

It was almost seven. Scott was due home any minute. I sat cross-legged on the floor in front of the desk drawer with an assembly of glue and art supplies spread on the rug. I’d tried to straighten the letter opener but decided it was hopeless and buried it in the garbage beneath a banana peel and some spent coffee grinds. A double dose of Xanax was working its spell. The world was now at a safe distance. The damned rap tune had finally stopped cycling in my head. The guard dog was passed out.

After I glued the wood chip in place, a blond divot remained against the patina. An alchemy of raw umber, sienna, and a pinpoint of burgundy would camouflage the scar. All business, I hurried to plug in my heat gun from my art supplies and held it over the patched wood. This and I didn’t even get the drawer opened. I grabbed the scrap of paper from the desk mat and tucked it in the pocket of my jeans. Wanna be your master, gonna make you my slave. Damn, that song again.

In truth, the desk repair had been therapeutic. It gave me a chance to sort through the issue. I would tell Scott about my conversation with the young reporter. I would listen calmly to his logical explanation for withholding the truth, and everything would go back to the way it had been the day before. Then I could get some work done. I owed Amanda two paintings consigned by the lawyer in Pacific Heights...A craftster, wanna be your master, gonna make you my slave.

-11-

“I’m beat,” Scott said. He closed the door behind him and tossed his keys and briefcase on a bench in the foyer.

I met him in the entryway. “Scott, I need to talk with you.” The tiles were still sun-warmed against the soles of my feet.

“Not now, baby, okay? Not now.”

“It’s important. It can’t wait.”

“Just give me a few minutes.” He headed for the kitchen. The sleeves of his shirt were rolled up, and his tie was loose around his neck.

I followed on his heels. “I really want to talk with you, now.” The pitch of my voice was too high.

“Can’t it wait two minutes?”

“No. It can’t.”

“Fine, he sighed, and it made a hiss through his teeth. “What is it?” He checked his watch and grabbed a fistful of ice from a bucket in the freezer. The cubes clinked against his glass.

I tailed him to the living room, where we’d converted a built-in cabinet into bar[. “A reporter came to the door today.”

He paused for a moment, then continued to uncap a bottle of Hangar One. “Jesus,” he sighed.

“She told me what happened. She showed me the article in the paper. Why didn’t you tell me that guy in the security office was your research assistant?”

“He was a grad student of mine.” He poured three fingers of vodka over the ice in his glass. “I hired him to help administer a routine study. It wasn’t worth mentioning.”

“I suppose the fact that he’s dead wasn’t worth mentioning either?” My voice cracked. “Why did you lie to me, Scott?”

“Now, sweetheart, I want you to stay calm.” His jaw muscle flexed. “You saw the poor kid. He was out of his mind.”

“I will not stay calm. I want to know why you didn’t tell me the truth.” My tone grew higher with each syllable.

“Chloe, you need to get a hold of yourself.” Scott’s voice grew lower, velvety. “I thought it would be easier on you. I didn’t tell you because I knew how much it would upset you, baby.”

Perhaps it was the weight of the circumstances together, my doubts, and his lies, compounded by his now blatantly condescending attitude. The voice that spewed from my mouth was despicable and shrill, even to me. “Don’t call me baby!” I shrieked.

“Fine,” Scott raised his arm in the air. “How about spoiled brat? Is that better?”

I screamed. “That is so like you, to twist things around so it looks like everything’s my fault, like I’m the guilty one.”

“Chlo, you’re getting agitated again.”

His voice sounded so even and modulated. It was as if I watched the exchange from a distance. How can he be so calm? “Yes, I’m agitated.” I have a right to be. Don’t I?

Scott placed his drink on a coaster and strode to the entryway where he’d deposited his leather case. He removed a prescription bottle from an inside pouch and tapped the open bottle against his palm.

“Take this.” He held out his palm, a round pill sat just left of his lifeline.

“No.” My voice was suddenly calm and defiant.

“I’m tired. I don’t want to fight about it. Just take it.”

“No. I won’t.” I sounded taunting, childish. “And you can’t make me.” I didn’t mean to say it like that.

Scott’s eyebrows rose as if to say, ‘dare me’. A hint of a smile crossed his lips. “I’ll bet I can.” His eyes flashed.

I stepped back.

Scott stepped closer, pill between his fingers. “Take it. Or I’ll make you take it.” The corner of his mouth curled in one of his halfway smiles.

“You take it.” I slapped his hand, and the pill skittled across the tiled entry.

He looked at me and shook his head, like a parent disappointed in a shameful child. “Fine, have it your way.” He grabbed his case and keys and headed down the hall to his office.

“Don’t walk away from me.” I watched as he disappeared behind the closed door. “Scott, talk to me.” I said it to myself.

-12-

Now feeling guilty, innately unreasonable, I poured myself a glass of cabernet and walked, head hung, toward the stairs. Scott liked everything even, including my temper. If he so much as opened a jar of peanut butter, he’d re-smooth the surface before returning the jar to the cupboard.

The doorbell gonged. I tiptoed to look through the peephole and saw Brenda Breedlove’s scrubbed-cheeked face. I opened the door and issued a lackluster greeting.

Brenda smiled, “I hope you don’t mind. I decided to stop by instead of call. I live in the neighborhood. With my parents,” she added. “I saw the car.” She nodded toward Scott’s sapphire-colored coup.

I placed my wine glass on the foyer bench. “He’s behind closed doors.” I sounded like a secretary holding guard at the gate. “I suppose I can check to see if he’s available.”

“Oh, thank you, Mrs. Stanton.”

I thought about inviting her in but decided against it. “Wait here a moment.” I left the door open.

I knocked on the door of Scott’s study. “Honey.” My voice was purposely meek. “Remember the reporter I told you about? She’s here. It would help her out if you could talk to her.” I waited. There was no answer. I kneeled to look through the keyhole. The tiny window was closed. He’d locked the door to sulk. I stood to knock again and tapped a playful beat against the door. “Sweetheart? Brenda Breedlove is here from the Atherton Crier. Do you have a minute?”

“Not now, Chloe.” His tone was clipped.

I held my breath and pressed my ear against the door, hoping he wouldn’t miss the letter opener. There was only a thick silence that made me feel unwanted and alone.

Brenda’s eyebrows rose as I returned to the entryway. “I’m sorry,” I said. “He’s in the middle of something important.”

Brenda’s face fell, and her lower lip plumped into a pout.

“It’s too bad about your deadline.” I tried to console her.

“Oh, it’s okay,” Brenda’s expression brightened. “My boss says I can do a whole series of articles.”

“Oh.” I felt my own face fall.

“You know, Mrs. Stanton?” Brenda said. “I tried to follow up on that lead about Jason Leroux, you know about his mental illness.” She whispered the words. “Don’t you think his family would have known about something like that?”

“Didn’t they?”

Brenda shook her head. “His mother seemed shocked when I mentioned it. I almost felt badly for bringing it up.”

“Maybe she didn’t know. Delusions can be episodic.” I recalled the book passage I’d read earlier that day.

“Yeah, I know. I did some internet research.” Brenda started to rustle through her purse, presumably for her notes, but gave up after a few seconds. “If you don’t mind me asking, how did you hear about his illness? From Doctor Stanton?”

“I don’t recall,” I said, unsure why I felt the need to lie. “Maybe I was mistaken.”

“I’ve got an appointment with his roommate tomorrow. He should know something,” Brenda said.

“Yes, I would think so.” I closed the door slightly to hint that the conversation was coming to an end.

“I’ll check back with Dr. Stanton tomorrow.” Brenda bounced in place. She waved and darted off the steps.

I watched her walk toward an apple green Beetle. It looked like she might break into a skip, but she didn’t.