Coincidences Pt. 02

Part Two of Two

Facing the mistake

After exhausting her remaining vacation with six straight days of crying, Paula reluctantly returned to work. Her fuck-buddy, Bart, surely would be angry. She had not answered his dozens of calls, texts and emails. He did not know where she lived. And, of course, he had no idea what had happened.

His back was to the open doorway when she stepped into his office. "We're done," she declared. Her voice was soft but firm. Wounded soft, not sexy soft. As he spun in his chair, she spouted out answers before he had a chance to ask questions.

"It was a mistake. A stupid fling. I don't love you. I don't want you. I know the office is so small that I still have to work for you. But I'm sending out applications this week, and you'd damned well better give me a good reference."

Silence hung for a while before Bart responded, "He knows?"

Paula turned away, partly to hide her tears and partly to enforce the promise she had made to herself not to humiliate Bic by discussing him in any way with her lover. Well, now her ex-lover.

"Does he know who I am? Is he mad? Should I be scared?"

Paula looked back, sizing him up in disbelief that she threw away her perfect life for this.

"I don't know exactly what he knows, or exactly how he feels. We haven't talked. I'm sure he must know who you are. I'm not saying you should be scared. But if you knew who he was, you would be."

"So who is he?" Bart asked with urgent concern.

"None of your business."

"That's not fair. He knows who I am but I don't now who he is? How do I defend myself?"

"You don't, asshole," Paula said as she began moving back toward the door. "What I did was my fault and I accept the blame for it. But seducing married women - and you did know I was a married woman - is dangerous business. I have just one piece of advice for you, and you should listen to it very carefully: There are no coincidences."

Waiting and waiting

At home, Paula spent what felt like hours every day checking and rechecking her cellphone for texts or emails. When it would ring, she lunged for it. But there was nothing from Bic. Wickerhaus and Lankersham provided no insight, and seemed to barely tolerate her calls. She must have left a dozen messages on the FBI emergency contact line. The operator accepted them dutifully, but without result.

Paula was eating tuna out of a can in her kitchen, imagining that Bic was baking pork chops for dinner, when the daydream was interrupted by knocking on her front door. Bic wouldn't knock. Would he? The stranger on the stoop handed her a large envelope. Her heart pounded as she expected to hear the words, "You've been served." But the man departed without uttering a syllable.

Her hand trembling, Paula dumped the contents onto the kitchen table: Assorted financial documents and a note in Bic's handwriting. It read, "This will be helpful to you. The bank account and credit cards are still open. My paycheck will still be directly deposited. I will withdraw $3,000 for living expenses on the 15th of each month."

There was no signature. No emotion. No mention of her betrayal, nor of a divorce, nor of forgiveness. No address or phone number. No indication when or whether he might come home. The detective's wife did spy one clue. There were maybe a dozen little oval wrinkles on the page, each about the size of a teardrop. Paula added about a dozen of her own.

Insights on an ego fuck

Her life slowly regained a semblance of structure, in that she was working, eating and achieving occasional success with sleep. But the unrelenting weight of her situation was crushing. Sometimes almost literally. At random moments she might find herself struggling just to catch a deep breath.

Food had no taste. Music had no beat. When she tried to watch TV, the show she saw on every channel was the same: a fuzzy review of the collapse of her life, played over and over in bleak black and white.

She felt no urge to reach out to others for comfort. Not to her mother, 500 miles east, nor her brother, half that far south. Not to friends, who had once openly admired Paula's obvious marital bliss. None of them had known her secret. Nobody but Bart. And her feelings about him were dead. Not love. She never was never remotely close to in love with him. But not hate either. He might be a pig, but she knew that she had willingly, even eagerly, joined him in the slop.

Bart had been just a thrill, an ego fuck that any new cock might have provided. Yet there was no thrill in the memory. Two weeks into her despair, facing the prospect of another lonely night, Paula let her fingertips wander under the elastic of her panties in search of release. She knew from experience that even vigorous rubbing would be futile without engaging her imagination. Not until reaching a small climax - the only kind available - did it occur to Paula that with no conscious consideration whatsoever, she had chosen to imagine herself writhing under Bic. It seemed that Bart, so recently the subject of her tawdry fantasies, had metaphorically left the building.

As if her circumstances were not bad enough, a police spouse begins each day with the real possibility of ending it widowed. The risk may be recognized with an extra embrace or a long good-by kiss on the way to the door. But for Paula there were no more embraces, no more kisses. Just the fear that Bic could die today without knowing how sorry she was. How much she loved him. Only him. And without an opportunity for her to seek absolution.

That fear, more than everything else, led Paula to seek counseling. It was not with the police psychologist, but a woman that he had recommended. Twice a week Paula met with her for an hour. Absent the husband, the counselor could hardly assess the prospects for the only thing now driving Paula's heart: a reconciliation.

If there were only limited insights to the couple's future, the sessions drew out some telling ones about Paula's own past. Her teen years were frustrating, marked by too much acne and too little shape development. Her beauty bloomed late, in college. And despite semi-serious relationships there, some deep part of her longed to recover the missed years of high school dating and young male adulation. Bic, while truly being her knight in shining armor, also was a subconscious competitor, diverting too much attention from her at gatherings of friends and relatives. The counselor explained that Paula was dry tinder for a spark from a smooth talker like Bart.

This new ability to grasp the motivation for her infidelity provided a small but perceptible lift in her spirits. The sun shone brighter, and the breeze tasted fresher as she emerged from the entrance of the counseling office and toward her red Hyundai Elantra just a few steps away. Running late, Paula had been fortunate to find an empty parking spot right outside the front door. She vividly recalled pulling right in, and her tires bumping the parking block hard. So how was it that her car was now backed into the same spot? She always hated backing up. She didn't think she had ever backed into parking place in her life.

A hopeful sign

A fresh flood of tears soaked the front of her sweater as she climbed behind the steering wheel. She was still receiving Bic's signals! He must have used his spare key to sit right in this car. In this seat. Just within the past hour. She climbed out and stood, suddenly aware that he might still be nearby. Maybe hiding. Maybe watching her reaction. A scan left to right revealed nothing. But how do you spot a surveillance expert? She realized that she would see him only if he wanted.

Paula was so overwhelmed that had traffic not been light, she might never have reached her office safely. Her new office. True to what she had told Bart, she found another job in her old line. The miles between the former lovers brought her comfort, although whatever attraction she ever felt for him was long gone anyway.

She presumed that Bic's pranks during the affair were a sort of warning: A way to communicate that he knew, without actually telling her he knew. And, oh God, how she wished she had heeded those signals from the start. She bit her lip as she considered the remote possibility that if Bic had seen the affair stop quickly, their marriage might even have endured without a confrontation.

But what could be the purpose of today's prank? She settled on two possibilities that melded into one: He wanted her to know he was still watching, which implied that he still cared. And, given where her car had been, he probably knew she was receiving counseling.

When Paula walked outside the next morning, she glanced up and down the street. Was he watching? Since yesterday, she felt his eyes on her all the time. What should be creepy was instead oddly reassuring. She allowed herself the fantasy that if she stumbled on the sidewalk, he would emerge from nowhere in time to catch her. Just as he must have tried to stop her when she was stumbling with Bart.

More weeks passed without another sign. Paula despaired. Had he lost interest? Had she misread his turning around her car? Or had she just been wrong about the way she had parked it? Was there some way to construe it as a goodbye? She called his FBI contact number regularly, if less frequently. At police headquarters, Bic's partner and boss said that since they were not part of the task force, they had no contact with him. She wasn't certain they would tell her either way.

Perhaps - and she hung her hopes on this - Bic was out of town on assignment, as Lankersham said. It would suggest that her husband had made his presence known on a visit back. His assignment would last at least six months, his boss had told her. Two-thirds of that had already passed.

Terror knocks

It was five months to the day of Bic's departure that someone banged on Paula's door about 7:15 a.m. Her racing heart beat even faster when she peeked out a window to see two men in suits on her doorstep, one with a small gold shield clipped to his belt and a leather credential case in his hand.

She held her breath before opening. Five seconds, ten. It was as if by stalling she was prolonging Bic's life. They banged again and she relented.

The taller FBI man first verified that she was Bic's wife. "He's been hurt," the man said, adding words that Paula initially did not hear. She was busy processing the implication that the love of her life was at least alive.

The shorter agent reached out his hand to hers in reassurance. "This is not life-threatening and not crippling," he said. "His right femur is broken and is being repaired by surgery as we speak. That's the thigh bone," he clarified. "I can tell you he was not shot, and except for abrasions he has no other wounds. I cannot tell you what happened, or where, except that he is abroad. If there are no complications, he will be stateside later this month."

"How can I reach him?" Paula asked.

The taller agent stepped in after his partner hesitated: "You can't, ma'am. On his instructions. You remain his next of kin, which is why we are here. But he left explicit orders that you not reach out to him. We've never had this happen, but it's none of our business. Headquarters has forwarded a written message from him, addressed to you." He pulled an envelope from his coat pocket and handed it to her, feeling compelled to add, "We have not read it."

The shorter agent said, "I'm sorry," as the two turned back through the shadows toward their car. Naturally, it was another dark Ford.

Paula set the message on her kitchen table, staring intently as if trying to read right through the envelope. Her eyes never left it as she popped a fresh K-cup into her Keurig. For 153 days, coffee had been her closest companion. Now, with her fingers wrapped around a steaming cup of her best friend, she prayed to find encouragement in Bic's words. Any tiny encouragement would do. She tore off the end of the envelope.

"Meet my plane, or not. Your choice. Lankersham will call with details."

Words don't get much more neutral than that. Paula screamed in joy, knowing that at least she would finally see him. But what would she say? What would he say?

How could she explain betraying the most perfect husband she ever imagined? Having shared what she pledged would always be only his? How could she describe the addictive cheap thrills without pushing him away forever? Make Bic understand that Bart was never a threat to steal her away, and in no way was ever his equal?

Hardest of all, how could she convince him that if given a chance, she would be loyal forevermore? She cried herself to sleep for the first time in weeks. While she had arisen every day to the possibility of facing Bic, the certainty of a confrontation - and soon - left her stomach in a knot.

The reckoning

The phone call from Lankersham came two weeks later. "Delta 898, arrives at 5:05 p.m. Thursday," was all he said. He still sounded disgusted. Her reply was just as terse: "Thanks." The meeting would happen tomorrow.

For a short while, what to wear seemed as important as what to say. Bic would, after all, see her before they spoke. Flirty? No! That would flaunt her transgressions. Businesslike? Too cold. Slacks and a blouse? Too androgynous. She finally opted for a casual dress and flat shoes. Easy and comfortable, like the marriage she lost and desperately hoped to regain.

It was at the security checkpoint for Terminal B that she spotted him coming from the gate. A silhouette in the distance of a man in sweats, on crutches. A chiseled fellow in a dark suit walked beside, tugging a maroon suitcase that Paula recognized as part of their set.

The urge to throw herself into Bic was strong. But she held back, worried less about sending him sprawling than that he might brush her away. She had been invited here, of course. But for what?

Bic gave her an enigmatic smile. Her heart soared. He nodded to his somber travel companion, who nodded back and uttered just three words that briefly froze Paula in her steps: "Summit Inn, right?" Bic nodded again. The fed and the bag disappeared toward the garage.

"He-he-hello, Bic." Paula said. "Are you OK?"

He responded by lifting one crutch to demonstrate that he would not fall over. Then came his first spoken words to her in almost a half a year: "I have to talk to you."

There could not have been a more uncomfortable place to reveal their hearts than the Summit Inn. But that was where Bic asked her to drive him. "Courtney Gladholder is going to watch over me," he explained, in the longest sentence spoken during the ride. She nodded, knowing that he knew that she knew the significance of the name.

The hotel arrival was harder than she expected. Given Bic's condition, she used the parking valet. She didn't recognize him, but was that a smirk on his face, or just her imagination? She knew the concierge on sight for sure. No smirk there, just eyes that seemed preoccupied with his own shoes.

Paula shuddered when she realized that, since the fed had come separately with Bic's suitcase, the couple was arriving without luggage - just as she and Bart had. Humiliated, her gut wanted to scream out: "This one is my husband!" Her brain vetoed the urge.

The front desk was no problem. Bart had always checked them in while she waited out of sight. But the elevator. Damn, the memories of those elevator rides. Her knees had trembled with anxiety on every trip up, but nothing like they were shaking now. In the hallway, she watched Bic walking beside her and figured that if she collapsed here, a man on crutches could never catch her.

As he stopped at the door of his room - she dared to hope their room - Paula drew back, studying the numbers 1089 glued to the door. She jumped for an instant when his voice broke the silence: "You've never been in this one," he said, intuitively. "Courtney checked."

It wasn't one of the tryst rooms, yet it was. In a way, they all were. Her eyes darted around. The same wallpaper. The same drapes. The same smoke detector on the ceiling over the bed. The same deep red duvet that could slide so easily to the floor. The same couch with a back that conveniently stopped waist high. The same shower that was big enough for two.

Vibrations from her knees had migrated up to her chest, now fluttering wildly. It's one thing to be beyond denying your crime, but quite another to be forced to join the victim back at the scene.

Bic's face held no emotion. This, she figured, was the deadpan that many a suspected killer had seen across the table in an interview room downtown: Probing eyes, closed lips, and ears that seemed to cant forward to intercept any sound.

Bic leaned one crutch against a wall and hobbled on the other to line up for landing on a chair. But first, he reached beneath his left pants leg and pulled a Glock Model 26 from its ankle holster. Paula gasped and recoiled. Bic stared at her as if she had lost her mind. With practiced hands, he released a magazine of 9-millimeter rounds from the handle and tugged back the slide to clear the remaining cartridge from the chamber. "Damn thing gets heavy," he explained, stowing the pistol and its ammunition inside a drawer.

He eased his way down to the seat, propped his lame leg on an ottoman and drilled her eyes before asking, "Where do we start?"

Confessions

Paula had spent months choreographing this moment. Imagining the expressions and gestures and words to use. But overwhelmed by this man, by this setting and by the depth of her guilt, she couldn't remember a single bit of it. It was pure improvisation when she dropped to her knees, grasped one of his hands with both her hers, and shed tears that filled the eyes she could not seem to lift from the floor. "I love you," she whispered "I love you. Only you. Only you. Only you. Only you." Did she say it ten times? Thirty?

When Paula dared look upward to meet his gaze, it took away her breath. Bic was there in body, but not spirit. He was staring right through her. Not glaring, staring. It was as if whatever he was thinking was barely connected, if at all, to what she was saying.

"Bic? Bic? Talk to me, Bic."

His eyes focused once again on her face, searching as if the answers to his questions were somehow painted on her skin. Sobbing, she blurted out, "If only I had recognized your signals, your tricks. Oh, God. You were trying to stop me and I was too stupid to realize."

Bic shook his head slowly, mumbling in a voice almost too low to hear.

"What kind of signals?" he was asking, in a tone that implied he might really not know what she meant.

Not what it seemed

Their last time together, life had been good, at least outwardly. If Paula had been struggling with guilt, or Bic with suspicion, the other had not realized it. But now, after months of suffering in solitude, the couple realized their old familiarity was gone. They were mired in Paula's betrayal. Neither knew what to say next.

"I'm sorry," Paula whispered. "I'm so, so sorry. It meant nothing to me. I was so stupid. I don't deserve your forgiveness, but I cannot go on with my life without asking for it. Begging for it." Then she wept while searching in vain for sympathy in Bic's solemn expression. "I never loved anyone but you. I can never love anyone but you. I would do anything to keep you."

Then a long silence.

A rap on the door startled them both. Paula answered it to find a face she had sometimes seen in the office behind the Summit Inn registration desk; the face from that news clipping.

"Hello, Paula. May I come in?" Gladholder asked. His tone seemed warm to her, even though they had met only once, at the hero ceremony that now seemed a lifetime before. He moved to the couch, wearing a compassionate smile that evoked calm. Of those who knew about her sin, Paula thought, only her psychologist had felt kinder.