Shatter My Rock (6 page)

When
Jenna sees them, she softens, takes on the countenance of a kindly aunt or a
distant but loving cousin. “He’s gorgeous,” she tells Tim.

Tim
radiates pride. “Why, thank you,” he says. “He’s my little buddy.” He pats the
baby on the back. “Aren’t you, buddy?”

Muffin
lumbers along and sniffs at Jenna’s coat, still uneasy over his new role and
the ever-present threat of punishment. I hate to see him like this, but he left
us no choice; we had to break him.

“I
forgot about
you,
” Jenna coos at the dog. “You big oaf.” When Muffin was
a puppy, I took him to work. That’s where Jenna fell in love.

She
slips her coat off and passes it to me, but when I turn toward the hallway, she
says, “Hold on.” She reaches for the coat, roots around in search of the right
pocket and withdraws a number of quarter-folded sheets of paper. “The report
you wanted.”

“Uh…okay,”
I say, surprised she’s brought it here. “Great.”

In
the time I’m gone, Jenna meanders to Ally’s room, where I find the duo
pondering a glossy magazine advertisement featuring a picture-perfect ice cream
sundae.

“You
should use that,” I tell Ally with an approving nod. “It’s so you.” Her teacher
has assigned a project: vision boards. My daughter has been clipping and
pasting for a week.

“I
like this one,” Jenna says, pointing out the family tree that anchors Ally’s
poster, tiny apples representing Tim, Owen, Ally and me.

Ally
just grins.

I
slip in and plant a soft kiss on her head. “We’ll be back in a few hours,” I
say. “Help Jenna with Owen…and Muffin.”

I
don’t know how Tim thought of this, and I prefer not to know.

“What
is this place?” I ask, as we roll into the lot of an industrial-looking
building on the outskirts of town, a small up-lit sign on the lawn largely
obscured by an overgrown bush.

“An
adventure,” says Tim.

I
was expecting champagne, raw oysters, and excitement of a sexier kind. “Okay…”

“It’ll
be fun,” he assures me. “We need this.” As persuasion, he unleashes the kind of
kiss I thought we’d long ago left in the dust.

“I’m
a believer,” I say when he pulls his lips from mine.

He
smiles. “Let’s go.”

He
grabs a duffel bag from the cargo area of the van and grips my hand, a move
that sends ticklish flutters racing through my belly. I squeeze back, wishing
he could read my mind and know that, now more than ever, he’s the answer to a
secret prayer. My spiritual home.

The
first hint of what we are in for is a cluster of pulleys and wires I glimpse
through a bare window. Tim holds the door. “After you.”

I
want to be mad at him, say,
What were you thinking?
Remind him that my
incision may not be fully healed. But the fact that he has enough confidence in
me to even consider a place like this gives me wings. And I’m going to need
them.

“So
what do you think?” he asks expectantly.

I
say, “I’ve never been rock climbing.”

This
building seems the size of a football stadium. Tim points at the far end, where
four giant bubbles float and spin on the surface of a pool. Human-sized bubbles
with people inside, running nowhere. Hamsters. “I thought you might like that,”
he says.

The
hamster balls remind me of a psychedelic tumbler at the end of a funhouse, the
kind that unceremoniously spits me onto a rickety metal deck every time. “I
don’t know…”

There
are so many unusual contraptions here (trapeze swings; bungee trampolines;
balance boards; a hulking rock wall) that my eyes can’t find a place to settle.

Tim
stalks up to the circular check-in desk, the hub of the wheel. “We’re going to
do the adventure warrior package,” he tells the athletic teenage girl in
charge.

The
girl’s expression morphs from surprise to bemusement. She pushes a laminated
sheet of hot-pink paper across the desk. “We have
a la carte
options,
you know.”

This
is akin to ordering the four-pound sirloin at a Texas steak joint and being
offered the rib-eye instead.

“We’ll
take the warrior package,” Tim reiterates.

I
don’t feel much like a warrior, but I’m inclined to agree: We’re not dead yet.

Tim
shells out the cash, and I lose myself in the exhaustive safety literature.
Then we split up—each to our respective locker rooms—where I don the yoga pants
and baggy tee my husband has so thoughtfully prepared.

Ten
weeks out from delivery, I’m feeling better than expected—physically, at least.
My mental state is another matter.

“So
where do we start?” I ask when we meet near the rock wall. From the sign over the
check-in desk, I know that, as adventure warriors, we have two hours of
unlimited access.

Tim
gives the wall a solid thump. “How about right here?”

“Work
our way up?” I say, literally and figuratively; rock climbing is the least
intimidating activity here.

“Precisely.”

I’d
rather Tim goes first, but then again, I shun the responsibility. “What do I
do?” I ask, locking my fingers with one of the floor-level holds.

He
grins and playfully slaps my ass. “Get in line.”

If
there were a way to injure oneself with cotton candy, I’d find it without
trying. “My neck hurts,” I tell Tim on the way home.

It’s
obvious he is still on an adrenaline high, this outing having satisfied two of
his great passions: fitness and engineering.

“But
you had fun, right?” he asks, pushing the complaint aside.

I
reach across my chest and massage my shoulder. “Yeah. We should do that sort of
thing more often.”

He
lets the comment hang for maybe a whole minute before saying, “I miss you.”

The
words are so honest and tender they catch me. And I know what he means. We see
each other every day, and yet there are places in him I seldom touch anymore,
places he seldom reaches in me.

But
we want to.

“With
the baby…” I say. “And work…”

He
requires no excuses. “I know.” He nestles his hand into the crease of my thigh.

There
is no need for me to say more, the understanding between us complete. I close
my eyes and try to force this neck pain, whatever its source, from my body. If
it doesn’t move now, it’s set to pave the way for a killer migraine I can
already feel backing in.

In
no time, Tim nudges me. “We’re home.”

I
inhabit the hazy space between wakefulness and sleep. “Uh-huh,” I groan.

“Come
on. It’s late,” he says. “Jenna’s waiting.”

Some
things rouse me from slumber better than others, the thought of my less-than-maternal
colleague at the end of her rope with my colicky infant among the former. “Be
right there,” I say, but Tim is too far gone to hear. Before my feet hit the
garage floor, he shoulders the door open and heads inside. I think he has
missed Owen even more than I have, a notion that plagues me with dread.

By
the time I catch up, Tim is already helping Jenna on with her coat. “How was
it?” I ask her, still groggy.

She
appears somewhat haggard, but happy and at ease. “Great,” she says. She
gestures toward Ally, who is curled up at the end of the sofa, a teddy bear for
a pillow. “We had a blast.”

“What
about the baby?” I wonder. “Any problems?”

She
shakes her head. “He only woke up once. Sound sleeper, that one.”

I
am relieved and finally satisfied. “Thanks,” I say. Once again, I notice that Muffin
is nowhere to be found. I glance around as if there’s some way I could have
missed him, but come up empty.

Tim
says to Jenna, “Can I walk you out?” It’s a formality not required in this
neighborhood, yet he always offers.

And
she accepts. “See you Monday,” she says over her shoulder, with a smile that
strikes me as too upbeat for this time of night.

I
struggle to mirror her pep. “Thanks again. You’re the best.”

The
narcotics I’ve procured from my primary care doctor for this unrelenting neck
pain are doing the trick. I hardly sense that I have a neck anymore, let alone
register the random stabs of a hot poker that once afflicted me.

But
relief has its price. Since the day I filled the prescription, disturbing
dreams have stalked me. Nightmares that run my blood cold and snap me awake in
a sweat. The only blessing is that they vanish swiftly, leaving behind nothing
more than a vague sense of unrest.

Until
I find the first note.

A
week before Christmas, Mother Nature teeters on the brink of winter, unsure if
she should take the plunge or hop a getaway flight to the Caribbean. I hustle
to my car, an icy mix of sleet and freezing rain marring the suede boots I’ve
worn to work without as much as a cursory check of the weather forecast.

Today
I need not fumble with my keys, though, my thumb glued to the
unlock
button of my fob in preparation. I time the maneuver perfectly and slip into
the car, thankful to be dry, at least, even if I’m still as cold as a
frostbitten Thanksgiving turkey.

From
the driver’s seat, I spot something that was invisible outside: a soggy
envelope clamped under my windshield wiper. Probably a Chinese restaurant menu
or a rashly deposited slice of political propaganda. Whatever it is, it must be
moved, so I can clear the window and get on my way.

I
shake my head and resign myself to the task, abandoning the relative warmth of
the car, if only for a moment. But the envelope fights me, clings to the glass
like a starfish to a slick rock. I pry it free a millimeter at a time until I
have won, then retreat in victory.

What
could be so important that someone would brave this nastiness to deliver it?
I wonder.

I
steal a glance at the other cars in my row but fail to locate the sisters and
brothers of the disintegrating mess I hold in my hands. Then again, maybe they
are camouflaged as this one was until now.

It
hardly seems worth the bother, but something tells me to look, unveil what has
been left to me. Yet the same voice fails to warn of trouble, drop the breadcrumbs
so I can find the way home.

The
envelope comes apart in gummy clumps that I drape across my lap. Inside is the
last thing I expect to find: an advance copy of next week’s Food Mart sales
flier. I wonder if some underling has mistakenly placed this, its intended
target the marketing VP.

But
I unfold it and look anyway, and what I see drops a boulder on my gut. In mismatched,
cut-out letters—the serial killer kind—a message:
If you don’t tell, I will.

These
words fall just short of paralyzing me, force my hands to quake.
You will
not,
I tell myself, knowing what I must do.
I will not let you.

I
hurl the flier out the window, then crank up the engine and drive over the
thing, smashing it to soggy bits. For good measure, I reverse and slaughter it
twice.

The
credit card statement Jenna has pulled for me provides a glimmer of hope, some
ammunition in my secret war. There are meal and entertainment charges I could
question, point to as inappropriate uses of company funds, characterize as
blatant theft.

But
these may be hard to prove, having occurred in the context of normal business.
What I do catch Eric on is a single hundred-dollar lapse, a purchase he cannot
explain away: gambling chips. An unauthorized excursion to Foxwoods.

I
highlight the offending purchase and march into Bob Evans’s office, without the
courtesy of a VP-to-VP heads-up.

“Hey,”
I say as he looks up from the computer. “Got a minute?” Usually I only bother
him with personnel matters, and this is how I plan to frame our exchange today.

“Yeah.
Come in,” he says, despite the fact that I already have. “Pull up a chair.”

I
breeze past the seating area and halt beside him, where I thrust the credit
card statement over his shoulder—and inches from his face. “You need to see
this,” I say, maximizing my physical advantage. In my standing position, I
tower over him where he sits.

He
coaxes the paper from my hand and sets it on the desk, studies it. “Should I
know what this is?”

“Theft.
Chapter four, section two of the employee handbook. Look it up.”

He
squints, shakes his head.

“I
want it dealt with,” I state flatly. And in these matters, what I say goes.

He
fishes an old day planner from his desk drawer and flips back, then back some
more. “Baltimore?” he says, still connecting the dots. “But…”

I
aim to be abundantly clear. “He hit Foxwoods on the way back,” I say, as if I’ve
witnessed the deed firsthand. “Used the company credit card for poker chips.”
With a snort, I demand, “Fire him.”

Bob
appears panicked, and I know why: Eric makes him look good. Despite the
reptile’s penchant for depravity, he really is superb at what he does. Bob is
sure to flounder without him.

“Have
you cleared this with legal?”

“No,”
I say. “But it won’t matter.”

“Talk
to me when you have.”

It
never ceases to amaze me that when do-gooders break rules, they invariably wind
up caught. Yet vermin like Eric Blair creep around among us, evading
repercussions at every turn.

I
can’t go begging legal to fire him, lest I draw attention to what has
transpired between us. Even though it was rape, I need it to stay quiet, fade
away.

Something
did come of my meeting with Bob, though: One of Eric’s barely legal conquests—a
frisky redhead from accounting—got canned. It turned out
she
was the one
who swiped the credit card at Foxwoods, a move that seems foolhardy until one
considers the fact that she arrived at the gambling mecca on Eric Blair’s arm.

I
would love to share all of this with Jenna, if for no other reason than to rid
my mind of it. But I cannot afford such an indulgence. “So what happened?” she
asks as we burst through the exit door for our noontime walk. On Fridays, we
now skip lunch in favor of burning calories.

I
shrug. “It was incidental. I didn’t even know who made the charge. But once I
saw it, I was obligated to…”

No
one would dare say so, but it seems as if people assume I’ve had Eric’s girlfriend
fired out of jealousy.

“I
thought you were checking on one of the tech guys.”

“I
was,” I maintain, “but I didn’t find anything.”