The Damp, Gray Gone Ch. 01

I sagged, staring at the landscape. Dying city. Dying men. Dying marriage. Maybe dying fatherhood.

I turned at the sound on the stairs.

"Dad?"

"Over here," I said, trying to banish the thoughts from my mind.

"What're you doing?"

"I'm gonna make some soldiers."

"Can I help?"

"Sure." I waved him over. "Get over here, little man."

He gave a broad grin and scurried to my side.

"What's this?" he asked, his eyes wide at the stark victim of the Nazi onslaught.

"This is what happens when people hate each other," I said, pulling him in and hugging him to my side.

"They do this?"

"Uh huh."

He nodded. "It's pretty sad."

"Yep."

"So what're we gonna make?" he asked, his voice getting bright at the excitement of getting to work with me on these for the first time in his life.

"Time to start carving some soldiers," I said.

I spent the next two hours showing Kyle how to carve and shape soldiers from clay before making plaster casts of them for the ultimate casting process.

Whitney never came down.

After I got Kyle bathed, brushed, and into bed, I went back to the living room and pulled out my book on the Punic Wars.

The Third Punic War, I knew by heart, had started because Carthage had finished paying Rome reparations from the Second Punic War. Rome, with a growing population and no more reparations coming in, decided to feed its people by conquering Carthage and its rich farmlands once and for all. Thus, they ultimately besieged Carthage and starved its people out. When the Carthaginians surrendered, they were all enslaved and the city and its magnificent harbor razed. And Carthage simply ceased to exist.

It was gone.

Never to rise again.

And the Romans, who had commenced the war on false pretenses and through trickery, were forever burdened with the Punic Curse.

* * * * *

Kyle and I spent Saturday morning carving and shaping soldiers, making plaster casts, and pouring molten tin into the casts.

At eleven thirty or so, Whitney appeared at the base of the basement stairs.

"Do you think that's wise?"

"What?"

"Letting our son play with molten metal."

"He's not playing with molten metal," I said. "He's learning how to do something. Learning the right way. The safe way. And learning, in the process, what can happen if he ever does something the wrong way."

"Still," she said.

"C'mon, Mom," Kyle said. "He's not letting me pour it. I just get to hold the funnel is all. And I have to wear this."

He held up his tiny arm to show the massive fireproof mitt covering his tiny hand and arm to the elbow.

"And it's fun," he continued. "We're making soldiers."

"Well," she started, then just looked at us.

I turned back to pour the last cast.

"Ready?" I said.

"Uh huh," he confirmed.

I poured a stead stream of liquid metal into the funnel, my free hand over Kyle's as I held the funnel steady, my eyes peering in to see when the cast was full.

"Okay," I said, putting the pan aside and guiding his hand as he lifted and let the last drops fall harmlessly before moving the funnel and setting it into the pan.

When I turned back, Whitney was still there, a soft look on her face. Catching my eyes, her face went taut.

"Do you . . . are you two going to be doing some more?"

"You need us for something?"

She struggled, her eyes avoiding mine. "I . . . uh . . . well, I was going to run out for awhile. I was wondering if you could keep an eye on him for a few hours."

I stared at her, not believing the words coming out of her mouth.

"You said you wanted to spend more time around the house. With Kyle, at least."

Whitney's teeth were grinding, and she sighed. "I know, but I--"

"That talk," I said. "With Kyle. Take some of your time with Superman planning it, because it's going to be tonight. After dinner. So try not to be late, got it?"

She looked at me for a moment, then jerked her head in a tight nod.

"What talk, Dad?"

I looked down at Kyle. Worry was all over his face.

I put my hand on his shoulder and squeezed. "Don't worry about it, okay?"

His face said it wasn't okay.

"I really don't want to say more now, Kyle. It's a family talk."

"Like when I wanted a dog?"

"Sorta like that."

"But worse," he concluded.

"Yeah."

"Did I do something wrong?"

I scooped him up and held him tight.

"Not a thing," I whispered into his ear. "Not a damned thing, little man."

* * * * *

Whitney was home when Kyle and I got back from the park at three. If she'd spent the lunch hour screwing her new love, it didn't show. To the contrary, she was a bundle of nerves, sitting at the dining room table with her hands fidgeting back and forth through a cookbook and her eyes looking to us when we walked in before turning back to the cookbooks, then the windows, then us, and so on. She couldn't sit still.

"You wanna do this now?"

She shook her head. "I'd rather just talk to you for a few minutes."

"Why don't you go hop in the bath now," I said to Kyle.

"But Dad," he pleaded.

"Hop in the bath, get cleaned up and into pajamas, and we'll order some pizza and stay up past your bedtime watching movies, okay?"

The grin nearly split his face. "Deal."

"Okay," I said once Kyle was in the bathroom running his bath and I was seated at the table.

"I'm confused."

"About what?"

"About everything."

I nodded, saying nothing.

After a minute, Whitney spoke again. "It's just that--I don't know--it all seemed like such a great idea. Like this fantasy I had in my head and it was getting better and better the more I thought about it."

Still I said nothing; I just relaxed back and sank lower into the chair and watched her.

"Are you going to say something?"

"I'm listening," I said. "Trying to figure out what's going on here. Just like I've been trying to do for the past four days."

"I told you," she said. "I maybe got carried away with a fantasy world."

"And with another man," I added. "Someone else has been part of it. How actively you've been fantasizing with him . . . ."

"I told you. I haven't been screwing anyone else."

"Then what have you been doing?"

She looked out the window.

"That's what I thought," I said. "And still you won't tell me. All you'll tell me is that I'm no longer really the one for you. That I'm--for some unknown, undefined reason--a major reason why you're in a rut. But you won't tell me why. You won't tell me what I can do to help fix it. And you won't tell me how to compete with some fucking quasi-lover you refuse to name."

I leaned over the table, and her head jerked to face me, her eyes wide.

"I shouldn't even have to compete with someone else, Whitney. We're fucking married here. This isn't junior high school. We're not going steady like a couple of fucking pre-teens."

"I'm sorry, Luke," she said. "I can't help it. It's just . . . I don't know."

"Yeah. I remember. 'It's just how you feel.' But tell me this: Did you start feeling like this before he came into your life or after?"

"What difference does--"

"Because I'm wondering if you started feeling this way all on your own or if he helped you along in ditching me."

"It's not like that," she argued.

"See," I said, leaning back in the chair again. "There you go again. Defending this guy. This guy you won't tell me about or tell me what you've been doing with--or doing to. It's like you think you have some kind of fucking right to keep all of this secret from me. Tell me you're leaving me; tell me there's someone else; but then fail to tell me what I did wrong or who he is or what he is to you or what you're doing with him."

"I'm entitled to a life of my own, too," she argued.

"That's right, Whitney. You're entitled to a life of your own. And that's exactly what you're going to get. A life of your own. On your own."

Her eyes went wide. "What're you--"

"I've got an appointment on Monday afternoon. I'm going to retain them as my lawyers."

"But I don't--"

"You don't what? Don't want one? But you still wanna keep your little fucking loverboy on the side? Keep things from me? And you want me to continue living with a wife who suddenly doesn't love me anymore?"

Tears were streaming down her face. "Why are you pushing this? Why can't you just give me some time?"

Her face was a mask of anguish, completely conflicted emotions. It tore at me, took the wind from my sails and the anger from my bones.

"Do you really see any chance for us here?"

"I don't know."

"So there may be some chance?"

She nodded.

"Better than fifty fifty?"

"I don't know."

I thought back to what Doug had said. Whatever it takes, do it. Anything to avoid divorce. Anything to keep the marriage together.

"When do you think you'll know?"

She shrugged.

"Would you see someone? Maybe a therapist or a counselor or something?"

In an instant, her face was a mask of fury. "For what? You think I'm nuts because I may not want to be with you anymore?"

I bit back my tongue and took a breath. "No. I think that maybe you're suffering from depression."

"Because I'm not happy with us? Because I don't want to be married to you anymore?"

"And there you have it," I said, pushing back from the table. "You can't even tell me the truth."

"What do you--"

"Thirty seconds ago you said you didn't know. That maybe we still had a chance here. Now you're saying you don't want to be married to me anymore."

"That's not what I said."

"But it's what you meant," I said.

I walked around the table toward the bathroom to check on Kyle. She reached her arm out to stop me, and I froze.

Without looking at her, I said, "We'll give him one last happy night tonight. Get your shit together enough for the talk with him tomorrow."

Her hand gripped my shirt, trying to hold me there.

I reached down and pried her fingers off of me, then I continued to the bathroom.

I had twelve feet to get my emotions in check so my little boy wouldn't realize his world was about to fall apart.

CHAPTER FIVE

Say this for Rebecca Galarza: She was smoking hot. I mean the kind that distracts you; the kind of incredible beauty combined with that extra something that exudes a sexual aura that leaves you fantasizing about her the whole time you're in her presence.

She strode into the small waiting room and held out her hand.

"Mr. Patterson?" she said.

"Luke," I corrected her, trying to keep my jaw off my chest. She was mid-thirties, and dressed simply in a white blouse and tan slacks. Yet, the simple colors somehow served to accentuate her smooth olive skin and long, black hair. Her face was that of a classic Spanish beauty with high cheekbones, narrow chin, large, round, deep brown eyes, and full lips, and her body was that of a Playboy centerfold. Her breasts were obvious, but not enormous, and the rest of her seemed slim and perfectly proportioned. It was the way she held herself, though, and the way she looked at you. Direct, challenging. It was a look that dared you to jump in the sack with her and try to screw her brains out. A look that must have men lined up around the block for a shot at her. And none, I noticed from the empty ring finger, had yet leashed her in.

"So, Luke," she said after a moment, a smile playing over her lips and her eyes twinkling at my response.

"Right," was all I could manage.

She waved her arm toward a door, and I walked around her and into a conference room.

"Okay," she said, pulling a pair of reading glasses from her pocket and putting them on to read my questionnaire. "Why don't you tell me what's going on?"

"I don't know."

She looked up and raised her eyebrow. "You don't know?"

"Seriously. Whitney--that's my wife--she tells me she's not happy. With her job, her marriage, me. Pretty much everything."

"Is she going through a bad phase of some kind? Death in the family or someone sick? Sudden pressure at work?"

I shrugged. "No one's died and no one's about to, either. Not so far as I know, at least. Still, I'm pretty sure I would've heard about it. Same thing with work. I mean, there's some kind of drug case going on now. Supposed to be a real big deal. The LaBruzzis?"

Her eyes narrowed. "Your wife's Whitney Patterson the prosecutor?"

I nodded. "That a problem?"

"Not really. It's just that most of the judges will probably recuse from the case. We'll probably end up with someone from out of county."

"And?"

It was her turn to shrug. "Hard to predict how another judge will react to certain things."

"But it's not a problem with your office?"

She shook her head. "I'll check with my partner, but I don't think so. I mean, we do some criminal stuff. Hell, I used to work with her before I started here four years ago."

"Were you friends?"

"Colleagues. We never had a drink or anything, though. So I wouldn't really say friends."

I nodded. "She says you guys are good."

She nodded, like such compliments were commonplace around the office. "So back to what's going on. Is there someone else?"

"Yeah. She says they're just friends, but she's let slip a few times. I'm pretty sure they're more than friends. How much more, I have no idea and she's not saying."

"Who is it?"

"She's not saying."

She pursed her lips, and I had a sudden fantasy of leaning across the table and kissing her.

Seeing my glassy eyes, she gave a smile.

"It says here you have a little boy together. Have you really thought this through?"

"In what way?"

She leaned over the table. "You sure you don't want to just wait a little while? Maybe see if she gets her head out of her ass?"

I shook my head.

"Pride? The other man?"

"It's not that." I paused for a moment, trying to put words to my jumbled thoughts. "Take that back: It's partially that. What it really is, though, is her adamant refusal to even tell me what the hell is going on. She's just . . . well, she doesn't want me anymore. I have no idea why, and she's not really telling me why. I mean, Jesus, I do everything for her. For us. For our family. I'm the one who takes care of Kyle; mostly, at least. I do most of the housework and everything else to help support her career. And the thanks I get is that she doesn't love me anymore."

Rebecca was writing furiously on a pad in front of her. "When you say you do most everything, including taking care of Kyle, let's get more specific."

"How?"

"Who makes his breakfast?"

"Usually me."

"Usually?"

"Nine times out of ten."

"Who helps him with his homework?"

"The same."

"Laundry?"

"Ditto."

"Dinner?"

"Ditto."

She stared into my eyes, and I saw that hers were ablaze with glee. "He's in first grade?"

I nodded.

"Did you go to the parent-teacher conferences?"

"Of course."

"Did Whitney?"

"She couldn't get out of the office."

She smiled. "You want custody?"

My eyes went wide. "Is that possible?"

"From what I'm hearing, it's not only possible, it's probable."

"Really?"

She gave a throaty chuckle. "The judge isn't going to care who has the pecker. You're both equal. Unless you're doing a pretty crappy job, though, the one who's taking care of him--we call that the primary caregiver--that's the one who gets custody."

I didn't know what to say. I'd assumed Whitney, being the mother, would almost automatically get custody. Now this Hispanic goddess was telling me that I'd probably get custody if I wanted it.

"Well?" she said.

"Well what? Of course I want custody."

"And you'll be able to handle it with your job as a . . . ." She flipped back to the first page of the questionnaire. "You're a history professor? At Chadwick?"

I nodded. "Yeah. And yes, I'll be able to handle it with my job."

"Sweet," she said, her face a gleeful mask. She wrote on the legal pad. 'Custody to LP.'

"Now let's go over your financials."

* * * * *

I was walking on air when I left the law offices of Taylor & Galarza. Was it going to suck? Yep. But it wasn't going to suck nearly as bad as I'd feared it would. The property split would probably be about fifty-fifty, the chances of alimony were slim, and--Thank You God!--I was probably going to be getting custody of Kyle.

I drove to the park to pick up Kyle. He was there with Sally Romescu, our neighbor, and her posse of children.

"Dad," Kyle cried out from the swings upon seeing me.

"Hey, little man," I said, walking toward him as he leaped off the swing and ran toward me and into my arms.

"You doing okay?" I asked as I held him to my chest.

"I guess so," he whispered into my ear, squeezing me tightly.

I squeezed him right back, knowing there would be times coming up when he'd again be crying as he had the day before. Sobbing uncontrollably at the loss of his family and of one of his parents.

"I love you," I said. "You know that, right?"

"I love you, too," he said, leaning back and looking at my face. "Can we go home now and make some more soldiers?"

"Absolutely," I said, letting him down as his weight began to make my hip ache.

I said our goodbyes to Sally, who seemed like the calm at the center of the storm with her four kids running around and screaming.

"Thanks," I said as we turned to leave.

"Anytime, Doc," she said.

Sally--and her husband Charlie--both called me Doc. At school, the students all called me Professor, but I was only addressed as doctor when being introduced to give some boring lecture or present a paper to my colleagues. Charlie and Sally, though, seemed somehow proud to be living next door to a real professor, like it was proof positive that an electrician and his wife, neither of whom had a college education, could still make it in America and live with all of us who got the educations.

So they called me Doc. Not so much to honor me in any way as to remind themselves of how good they had it.

Watching her patience around four screaming rugrats, though, it was I who envied them, and not for the first time. They made me realize how good they had it and how bad I now had it. They made enough money to live happily in a nice home and to spend time together and with their children. Their devotion to each other was obvious to all who saw them together, and I simply couldn't envision them ever being in my shoes.

And me in comparison? The only reason I had a doctorate degree was because it was the only way of really escaping my father's business; my family was collapsing around me; and I would soon be juggling a full-time job with full-time parenting.

So there you go: The bonus of seven years of higher education for both Whitney and me, and we were failures in the most important thing in our lives.

* * * * *

Again, Whitney was home by five-thirty.

"Hey, Baby," she said to Kyle.

"Hi, Mom," he mumbled back, not bothering to look up from his homework.

"That's it? No hug?"

He sighed, then got up, walked to her, and gave her a brief hug.

She tried tousling his hair, but he went back to his homework.

"What're you doing?" she said.

"Spelling."

"Need some help?"

"Dad already helped me."

She turned to me, and her face was sad.

I tried to feel bad for her, but I couldn't. Instead, I felt bad for Kyle. He wasn't old enough to really know what was going on, but he'd managed to figure out that Whitney was behind it all. Either that or he knew most of his time was spent with me and he didn't want to do anything to screw that up.

Whitney lowered her head and walked to the bedroom to change.

"You wanna come in here and help me for a sec?" I asked Kyle.

"Sure," he said, joining me with a smile all over his face.

"Here," I said, handing him a vegetable peeler. "Let's peel some carrots, okay?"

"Sure," he said, taking the peeler and starting in on the carrots.

"You know," I started, not really sure how to proceed.

"What?"