The first thing Trent Jacobs registered as he began the slow climb to wakefulness was the sweet aromatic smell of freshly brewing coffee. This, the fact that coffee was brewing, gave him quite a start. This shock was only solidified when he glanced at his digital alarm clock, which was flashing all zeros.
“Oh fuck,” he muttered springing upward in bed and reaching over to the nightstand on his side of the bed, grabbing his watch.
It read 9:35. He was late. The damned storms that rolled through in the night, he realized, must have knocked the power out. He nearly tripped over his slippers as he tore out of the bed, headed to the bathroom.
Being late to the office wasn’t that big of a deal. Trent was, after all, senior partner in the law firm; which specialized in maritime law. Half the time he worked from home anyway. However, the big meeting with some of the reps from Anderson Shipping Company; a particularly high profile and quite possibly lucrative client if ever there was one in this Godforsaken industry, was scheduled for eleven.
The first thing Trent actually felt as he made his way to the bathroom was the horrid throbbing in his temples.
“Christ,” he muttered to himself. “I really tied one on last night.”
Images from yesterday’s drinking spree were vague and fuzzy at best. It had begun in the early afternoon at Morton’s, on the lake, with Roger, Paul and that idiot Tabor. There was a strip club a little later in the evening and then…the rest was a blank; for the most part.
He didn’t even remember coming home, but every few seconds between the bleating throbs in his head, he caught flashes: a girl (probably a dancer) in garish makeup; laughter; crowding into a cab; the fireplace.
Ah, the fireplace, Trent thought. Maybe, I do remember coming home after all. Maybe. Maybe I…What? Maybe you weren’t pathetically drunk with all your doughy, middle-age friends? It’s called a blackout, dude, as the kids like to say these days. And you had one, of full-blown proportion.
Tiffany, his wife of slightly more than twenty-five years, didn’t care for his drinking. In fact, there were lots of things she didn’t care for: the way he left his shoes in the foyer; when he forgot to remove dirty dishes in the sink and place them into the dish washer; when he forgot to empty the filter of the coffee pot. Tiffany could be so…so…
“She sounds like my wife,” Trent remembered Paul cackling last night as they slammed tequila shots like virile frat boys; which they weren’t any more. “You know what I call it? OBD, obsessive bitch disorder. Why do they have to be such bitches?”
“Well I can’t speak for Mildred,” Tabor said, pointing a finger at Paul. “She’s always been a bit of an odd bird. But Trent over here, Trent, you really have a prize in Tiffany. She’s a class act.”
“I think Tabor here wants to get in your wife’s pants,” Roger, who was by far the drunkest of them all, slurred heavily.
“Oh shut up,” said Tabor. “That’s not what I was talking about.”
Maybe or maybe not, Trent mused to himself. But he’d caught Tabor shooting longing glances on nearly every occasion they all got together as family. And, Trent remembered an occasion or two when Tiffany had reciprocated.
Anger flared in his gut, but he dismally ignored it and drank.
“It’s just the way of the world,” Paul interrupted. “Men were put on the earth to make women crazy and vice versa. I mean hello, Adam and Eve, don’t eat the mother-fucking apple. It’s all a balancing act. It all equals out in the long run.”
“Yeah, that must be why the divorce rate in this country is so high,” muttered Trent as he sipped his scotch.
“No the divorce rate in this country is so high because an entire generation of people have been born who lack the ability to commit,” Tabor said.
“Yeah but the experts on Dr. Phil would argue that the reason these fucktards you speak of lack the ability to commit is because they come from broken homes,” said Paul. “It’s all chicken versus the egg shit. And it bores me gentlemen. It bores me to tears.”
Trent’s stomach flip-flopped as he opened the door to the shower stall and turned the handle of the hot water, dabbing his fingers under the water; which came blasting out cold at first. As he waited for the water to heat up under his slightly shaking fingers he noticed something else…some sort of crud under his finger nails; which was brownish-red and dried under his nails.
But under the now-hot running water it streamed out a vivid, streaming reddish-pink color.
“It looks just like,” he murmured to himself.
And then he caught another flash. This of Tiffany’s leather clad heels (the pair of Christian Louboutin heels she had to have last summer, that he could have practically bought a new car for; or, as Paul had so crudely pointed out, “That’s a helluva lot of lap dances) tapping out a message, as if in Morse code, on the hard wood floor of their living room; loud and urgent at first, then slowing in intensity until falling completely silent.
His stomach now heaved and he threw up; or tried to at least. It was mainly drive heaves. And he shivered coldly, even though the water teeming down on him from the shower head was practically scalding.
But he had to fight it. He had to fight this sheer raw panic. Because if he didn’t it was all over for him too.
The next few minutes were very unsure and very unreal ones for Trent Jacobs. He was poised on the precipice of a great many things. But somehow he maintained, made it out of the shower, and shaved without slicing his jugular vein wide open. He continued to try to focus on his day ahead, the meeting with Anderson Shipping reps.
Dammit, he’d worked hard; too fucking hard for this deal to go south. Besides. If he lost his cool now, lost the deal….he didn’t want to consider the possibilities. Suffice it to say he had to make this deal happen, so this is where he focused his energies.
With that, he dried his face, brushed his teeth and went on about the business of his morning, feeling bolder and more confident with each move of every muscle. It was true what they said, he thought, that ritual calmed the soul. The motions of the morning made him feel good, normal, not like the monster he was sure he might have become.
“Don’t think like that,” he muttered to himself as he sat down on the side of the bed and slid on his shoes and socks. “It’s like Tabor always says, PMA, positive mental attitude.”
Yeah, but is that before, after or during the time when he’s making ‘come fuck me eyes’ at your pretty little wife, asked another voice; an inner voice; an angry, tired and sallow voice.
“Completely, uncalled for,” Trent said as he rose and walked to the closet, looking for a shirt.
Of course, there were none there. He had put off the inevitable long enough. He had to walk out into the kitchen, through it, to get to the laundry room.
As he made his way, again he smelled the fresh coffee and also the fresh aroma Pine Sol. They were good smells. They were normal smells. And as he rounded the corner to walk into the kitchen, relief flooded through him. Sitting there in her silk robe, the one he’d bought her while he was away on business in Singapore, was Tiffany.
“Oh Tiffany,” Trent moaned, exhaling deeply. “I was so scared, so worried. I had the most horrible dream last night.”
He walked up behind her, laid his hands on her shoulders and rubbed them gently and kissed the top of her head.
“It was horrible,” he said. “Absolutely horrible and now, I’m afraid I’m going to be late for my meeting with the Anderson reps today. I’ve really got to hurry up now. Did you manage to pick up the dry-cleaning yesterday?”
Before Tiffany could reply, Trent answered for her.
“Oh I picked up a few pieces there on Tuesday. I think they’re still in the Escalade,” he said, opening the door to the garage.
He plowed forward and nearly tripped over a garbage bag lying in the walkway.
“Fuck,” he hissed. “Who the hell left this here in the middle of the walkway anyway?” And then, with some afterthought, murmured, “Oh.”
He bent over to pick the bag up and it resisted, in a sickening, liquid sort of way, which sent a cold shiver up his arm. He tossed it aside in revulsion and then used the key to pop the lock on the Escalade. There he found his shirt, the white one he wanted to wear.
He laid his tie on the seat, slid on the shirt and then moved to the wall switch and hit the garage door opener. He removed the shirt from its hanger, slid it on and then glanced at the garbage bag. The garbage men had already passed, so he glanced disgustedly at the bag.
Finally he walked over to it, picked it up and, wincing ever so slightly, placed it into the back of the Escalade.
He walked back into the kitchen, buttoning his shirt as he walked. His tie was slung loose over his shoulder. He walked to the sink, opened the cabinet and removed a coffee cup. He glanced back at Tiffany and realized she hadn’t poured herself a cup yet and grabbed another cup from the cabinet. He shut the cabinet, poured out two cups of coffee and brought Tiffany’s to her.
“You’re welcome,” he said, laughing nervously., and then finally saying, “Oh come on now Tiffany, really, the silent treatment? Aren’t we a little old for that?”
He flipped his collar up as he tied on his tie. He straightened it, and then buttoned his collar down. He ran some water from the sink, wet his hand and ran his fingers through his hair.
“Are you hungry?” he asked Tiffany, as he removed the carton of eggs from the fridge. “I’m going to make eggs? Do you want yours over easy or sunny side up?”
He placed them on the counter as he sliced a slab of butter from the stick and placed it into the cast iron skillet on the stove.
Tiffany grunted in response, changing the playing field drastically nearly shattering everything. Trent nearly jumped out of his skin but quickly regained his composure.
Sometimes they can do that you know, the little voice inside said. They can burp, fart, the male ones can even get hard-ons sometimes….like hours after….the human body is really a fascinating thing…fragile but fascinating in its moments of cessation. You know, if you…
“Shut up for God’s sake,” Trent yelled, as he cracked the first egg. “Not you honey, just…”
Trent felt the knot in his throat begin to rise and he tried, rather halfheartedly, to stifle a sob.
“Oh sweet Jesus, what have I done? What have I?”
He paused.
“Never mind,” he murmured. “Sunny side up will be fine.”
The eggs were cooked in a matter of minutes and Trent placed them on two plates and set them out at the table; one for him one for Tiffany. He sat down and began to eat.
“Look honey, I know I probably said some terrible things last night,” Trent said. “I’m under an extreme amount of pressure at work. But you didn’t exactly act like the Virgin Mary last night either. I mean really, do you really stay up at night wishing me dead? Wishing to be free? You know what they say, you have to be careful what you wish for? Still not going to talk to me?”
He shrugged his shoulders and told her to suit herself as he opened the newspaper to the business section. Out of habit, ritual, he slid the living section over to her. She liked to read socials. Half the time they were in them; or, if not them, people they knew. The societal gene pool didn’t run very deep in Madisonville.
He laid his napkin on the table, excused himself and rose.
“Have it your way Tiffany, you always do,” he said, bringing his plate to the sink and washing it.
He ran the water for an inordinately long time, letting his gaze fall absently on the greenness of the front lawn and the way the sun seemed smaller and less significant with autumn in full swing. They’d need more wood chopped tonight for the fireplace; but outside; not on the fireplace bricks….not on the fireplace…
“Not on the fireplace bricks you stupid jack ass,” Tiffany hollered at him. “Jesus Christ you’re drunk as a fucking skunk. I am so fucking sick of you and your stupid bullshit Trent. Stop it Trent, you’re getting wood chips all over the damned floor and on the rug. And you’re going to chip the bricks too if you miss the log; which is bound to happen in your damn condition.”
“Shut up,” Trent had murmured. “Leave me the fuck alone.”
He glanced down and saw the heels she was wearing. Why the hell was she wearing those heels at this hour? What hour was it, anyway?
“No, I don’t have to,” she said defiantly. “Don’t tell me what the fuck to do.”
“Who are you wearing the shoes for anyway you whore?” he finally managed to spit out drunkenly.
“Wouldn’t you like to know,” she said.
“No that’s just the point Tiffany, I don’t even really give a rat’s ass,” he replied. “But I can certainly venture a guess, Tabor.”
This shut her up. And the silence was golden. And when she began to scream again and flail her arms he spun around suddenly….and…..
He finally turned off the sink, grabbed a dish towel and dried his hands, turned around and walked towards her.
“Have a good day honey,” he said as he leaned over and gently kissed his wife on her forehead.
He rose slowly, finally forcing himself to look at the hatchet that still protruded from the side of her head. The hatchet he had placed there. It hung there, firmly embedded at an embarrassingly awkward angle that defied gravity itself. Through looking came ownership; which finally brought responsibility.
And this, Trent thought, was a step in the right direction. Looking and seeing for that very first time, had been the hardest part. The rest would be easy.
Trent grabbed an apple from the basket by the kitchen door, rubbed it on his sleeve and took a bite and walked outside, ready to begin his day. It was going to be a busy one.
The Anderson Group was a must-win.
And, he still needed to figure out what he was going to do now about Tabor.
