11. Fear & Resolve
The vast, super king sized bed seemed to stretch on for infinity, white and cold as a marble slab at the morgue. Frank preferred white sheets and wouldn’t permit Laila to buy any ‘fag colors’ to sleep on. She gathered herself to the extreme edge, lying on her back with yet another cigarette in her fingers. A full ashtray and a drink reposed on the side table within easy reach. Light streaming in through the window made for smoky, haunted moonbeams.
Grim realizations came to her in those moonbeams. She’d gone from home, to being Mrs. Frost, to being Mrs. Armstrong with hardly any breaks between. She no longer knew who she was. Maybe she had never known.
Thoughts of the many humiliations she’d endured as Frank Armstrong’s wife ran around her mind. She recalled the constant putdowns, the routine ignoring of her wishes, the off-handed dismissals of her simplest requests – the way Frank didn’t seem to hear when she spoke to him. At social functions, she was expected to “look pretty and keep her mouth shut” so as not to embarrass Frank in front of his high-powered associates with her inane observations.
Eleven years ago, she’d been swept away on a tide of love generated by Frank’s dynamism and wealth. He’d seemed to be everything she needed rolled into one – father, protector, provider – not to mention a fantastic, powerful lover. But it had all been a terrible mistake. The real Frank Armstrong was cold, calculating, unresponsive – a man who saw people as nothing more than objects. An absolute control freak.
And now his depraved kids were zeroing in on her.
There was also the issue of her own children. Laila wanted very much to be a mother. She cherished the idea of nurturing kids into healthy, confident adults – giving them a better start in life that she had received from her abusive, then absent, father and her neurotic mother. Not only that, but having children with Frank would cement her position in the family hierarchy.
Laila always assumed that she’d have children when the time was right, but that time had never come. She’d been on the pill with Keith, thank God, and Frank’s vasectomy had settled the issue in her current marriage.
The memory of it brought fresh resentment surging in her heart. Frank hadn’t even consulted her; he’d simply announced one day that he’d “got cut,” and that there was nothing further to talk about. But she had tried to talk about it, broaching the subject of adoption.
Frank stifled that conversation with a brusque: “What the hell for?”
Laila’s biological clock was ticking, but who could tell? Maybe in the not too distant future ... with the right man ...
Laila felt trapped in the Armstrong family jail; she desperately wanted out. But how? She couldn’t file for divorce because of the prenuptial agreement. And with sharp lawyers like Henry Armstrong against her, how much of even that limited amount would she be allowed to keep?
Could she sell some of her jewelry and secretly bank the proceeds?
No. Frank would find out pretty quick. He counted every adornment that he’d bought for her. Even her car was registered in his name. There seemed to be no way out of this dead-end maze ... except one, and it kept surfacing in her feverish thoughts like a corpse bobbing up from a lake bottom.
A dull thud sounded from somewhere downstairs. Laila jerked upright.
“Who’s there?”
She listened fearfully. Silence, except for her own thundering heart. The house was deserted, no pets or live-in servants to knock things over. Laila peered across the frozen wastes of the bed toward the other nightstand where Frank kept his 9 millimeter automatic pistol – his “Sweet Thing,” as he called it. Laila had no idea how to use it, though. She’d never handled any firearm before in her life.
She’d heard mysterious thumps in the night before, but with Frank lying beside her, she’d given them little thought. Not only did the 9 mm watch over them, but the electronic security system installed throughout the house was state of the art – wasn’t it?
Left to her own insecurities, it seemed as if some malevolent creature was stalking around the lower story. Had Patricia and Henry sent somebody over to kill her? Laila waited, scarcely breathing, expecting any moment to hear the sound of footsteps ascending the stairs.
But nothing materialized out of her acute dread. She took a long slug from her cocktail, the ice cubes rattling unnaturally loud in the dimness. Then she lit another cigarette and settled down onto her back again.
“Just my imagination,” she muttered.
Yes ... the house was simply too big to remain absolutely silent. All its pent-up noises had to come out sometime.
Few people crossed the threshold of Frank’s ‘castle,’ usually just the cleaning staff twice a week. Laila enjoyed cooking and, on the evenings when she wasn’t gracing Frank’s arm at some top flight restaurant, she prepared their meals, which obviated the need for an in-house chef.
Existence was comfortable here, nothing like in the cheap apartment she’s shared with Keith. But each situation was a prison in its own may. In both places she was dominated by men who were much more powerful than she was. Her beauty was her only playing card in these lopsided games. She had no real job skills, no advanced education, no connections except to other women who were in similar predicaments. It was high time for change ... drastic change.
There was that word drastic again.
As she puffed her cigarette, the smoke began to form itself into weird, threatening shapes swirling above her. Laila started to get frightened again.
She crushed out the cigarette, but it was too late. The smoke had formed into a thick layer. It pressed down upon her like a coffin lid. She put up her hands to ward it off, tried to cry out, but her voice was strangled in her throat.
The smoke formed into the face of the sheriff’s deputy who had supervised the men that tossed her possessions to the curb so many years ago. The face suddenly broke into a vicious grin. An arm reached out from the smoke toward her.
“Go away!” Laila gasped.
She tumbled out of bed, hitting the thick carpet on all fours. The smoke layer continued lowering toward her, a hand groping around from it like a giant spider. Laila fled the room, slamming the door behind her. Her footsteps hurried down the stairs.
“You can’t stop me!” she cried.
$$$
By the early morning, Laila had decided on a final solution. She snatched up her cell phone and punched in a number from the business card she’d found in the all purpose drawer. The answer came after only one ring.
“Bert’s Landscaping.”
The voice sounded calm and sturdy, like that of a man who knew how to handle things with competence.
“Hello, Bert? This is Laila Armstrong.”
“Well, good morning.” Bert sounded surprised. “How’s Mr. Armstrong doing?”
“He’s ... fine,” Laila said. “I need to talk to you.”
“Sure thing, Mrs. Armstrong.” The surprise had left Bert’s voice, replaced by a certain wariness.
“When are you coming over again?” Laila asked.
“I was thinking of later this morning,” Bert said. “With all the upset yesterday, I didn’t get as much done as I’d planned.”
“Uh huh,” Laila said. “That’ll be fine.”
“Is this about the tree that has to come down?” Bert asked. “You know, I was going to do that last week, but the weather didn’t cooperate.”
“It’s not about that ... exactly,” Laila said. “We can talk more about it when you get here.”
“Sure thing, Mrs. Armstrong. See you then.”
Laila hung up her phone. Her eyes were as bright and lifeless as a china doll’s.