Four Friends

  “Well, I hope so,” BJ said. “Because they’d do anything for you.”

  “Yeah,” she said, smiling. “All of a sudden I have a lot of good people around. But really, BJ, you’ve been there for me so much. I already thanked you for all that stuff—finding me bottomed out twice. But the running—thinking of something that could be good for me, then doing it with me every morning. I just love you for that!”

  “Sonja, don’t get melodramatic,” she said. “I run every day. You know that.”

  “I think we could run a 10K. In fact, I think in time we could actually run a marathon.”

  BJ frowned. “Is your OCD kicking in? Because I’d feel terrible if I brought out a new avenue for your OCD.”

  “Dr. Kalay said she thinks running is a wonderful idea—she wishes more of her patients took to exercise. She also said if I find myself running through injuries or weakening and painful joints, I’m not running for exercise anymore and that’s a signal I had to promise to tell her about.”

  “Well, that makes sense....”

  “So what do you think? In a year or so could we actually run in some kind of race? I mean, not to win or anything, but to do it?”

  “Sonja, I don’t think I’ll be living in the neighborhood that much longer. I think the owners of my house have other plans for it. I’ll probably be moving in the next few months.”

  “You won’t be moving to New Zealand, will you? Because we both have cars. And phones. There are a million places to meet and have a run.”

  “But with work and the kids...”

  “I know, you’re on a much tighter schedule and budget than I am—we can work with that. If you do have to move, I hope it’s not too far. But I’m very flexible.” She shrugged and smiled. “I doubt I’ll find another running mate with as much patience as you have.”

  BJ was touched, but she didn’t smile. “Listen, can I ask you something personal and very specific?”

  “You can ask me anything. There are only a few things I can’t tell you—and believe me, you wouldn’t want to know.”

  BJ frowned. “What kinds of things? Just out of curiosity.”

  “I have a very serious pact with my therapy group,” she said. “Their business is no one’s business, and mine only during group. We don’t tell each other’s stories. We just can’t run the risk of having someone who’s very vulnerable recognized or identified outside the group. You know—we never say names, we never give descriptions, we never repeat confidences.”

  “And you guys don’t ever slip up? Not even accidentally? Because there are drugs involved, you know. I mean, face it, Sonja—you’ve gotten a lot freer. Loose, if you don’t mind me saying so.”

  She laughed. “I don’t mind. I’ve loosened up a lot—but I haven’t lost my ability to be rational or logical. I know what’s going on.”

  “Uh-huh,” BJ said. “Well, listen, before you start planning our marathon, I should probably tell you some things about my past. But because I don’t ever want my kids hurt by the things I’ve done, it would have to be confidential. I mean, even if you completely hate me after I tell you, it would still have to be confidential. Like the pact you have with your group—nothing said. Ever. Are you up to that? Or would you rather just not know?”

  “What’s the matter?” Sonja asked, concerned. “Is everything all right?”

  “That depends on your point of view. But you have to make a promise—a pact of silence. And then the hard part—I have to trust you. Trust doesn’t come easy for me.”

  “We’re not going to draw blood or anything, are we?”

  “No. Pact of silence?”

  “Pact!” Sonja promised.

  “Okay,” BJ said, drawing a deep breath. “God, I hope you can do it—keep your mouth shut.” She took another deep breath. “I’m an ex-con. I did time in prison. I killed my husband. I got out almost a year ago and I’m on parole, working for my brother.”

  Sonja went a little pale. She sat back on her heels, her mouth slightly open.

  “Prison is where I picked up running. We had very little time for exercise and I needed it fast and hard. At first I did it to burn off tension and fear, but I figured out almost right away that it changed everything—my thinking, my ability to manage my emotions, my sleep, my energy. There was a small track we could use, a quarter-mile track, and we had an hour if the guards were patient and felt generous. I’d hit that track running and go as fast as I could for as long as I could, rain or shine. The others spent their hour gossiping or smoking or maybe lifting weights. I tried weight lifting, but it didn’t give me the same high running did, so I stuck to running. I’m addicted to it, really. I need that daily run. You really shouldn’t run six or seven days a week—it’s not that good for the joints, the back. But I need it. It brings my crazy world back into place.”

  Sonja was quiet, her mouth still hanging open slightly. She closed her mouth, swallowed. “You killed your husband?” she asked quietly.

  “I did. Let’s start way back before that happened. I was a bad kid in junior high and high school. I was in trouble a lot. It made no sense because no one else in my family was like that. But I started smoking pot and drinking at thirteen with my friends, who were also bad kids. I got myself messed up with all the wrong people over and over, got in trouble with the police, had a juvie record and dropped out of school. And then I got hooked up with the worst one of all—my husband. He was a few years older and I was a wild child. We ran off and got married when I was eighteen—probably because my parents were constantly on me about working or going to school. In no time at all, he was knocking me around. Beating me senseless, even in front of his family and friends, who seemed to enjoy it as much as he did.”

  “Oh...” Sonja said weakly.

  BJ swallowed hard. “Okay, here’s what happened. He got worse. He drank and used more drugs, though he seemed to always manage some kind of job. I know he did crimes, but I never got the details. I know he sold dope when he had the chance. But there were other schemes and cons and burglaries that he and his friends pulled off. A lot of the time we lived with his parents and siblings. On and off we’d have a cheap, nasty place of our own, but the money would dry up or he’d be in jail for a while and we’d be back with his family—and they were all like that. They never questioned him beating his wife because they all beat on each other. My mom and dad were heartbroken, but they couldn’t have him in their house, so they couldn’t offer the two of us a place—only me, if I’d come home, alone.”

  “You wouldn’t leave him?” Sonja asked.

  “I couldn’t. He threatened to kill me, my parents, my brothers, their wives, their kids. I don’t know if he ever actually killed anyone, but his threats were real to me. I wasn’t going to have kids but I ran out of pills and got pregnant. Then I got pregnant again. He put me in the hospital three times. I was in the emergency room a bunch of times. He actually did time for felony battery twice. His father did time for felony battery. My kids were so little when he started whacking them around—and I knew it was coming to a head.

  “I had these precious little kids—they were two and four years old and he’d actually hit them—it was impossible to imagine. They were adorable little towheaded, freckle-faced kids—and when he’d let me see my folks, we’d show up with bruises where he’d knocked someone in the head or grabbed our arms so hard there were thumb and finger prints.” She looked down. “I have three brothers. Three brothers who always acted like they’d like to beat the crap out of me themselves. But I heard them one night at my mom and dad’s before I was picked up by my husband—heard them talking about how they could take him out, get us home where we’d be safe. They were trying to figure out how they could do it without being caught, but if anyone got caught it would be worth it if I could get free with the kids. They were going to draw straws to see who’d take a chance on prison to get me out of there. And God, they were all good men, all married with kids....”

  BJ sniffed, wiped at her
eyes and shook off the emotion. “You know, I didn’t deserve that from them. I wasn’t ever that nice to them, my brothers. Growing up, they were ruthless to me—I hated them. But they never hit me and they tried to keep me safe, warn me, get me to behave and I just blew them off like the idiots I thought they were. Then I heard them talking about killing my husband to save my life, to get my kids out of that hellhole.”

  “You must have been scared to death.”

  BJ cracked a half smile. “I was beyond scared. I’d tried everything. I went to counselors, went to shelters, called the police, ran home to my parents—I always ended up back in the same place. And then I began to worry about what would happen to my kids when he finally did kill me. Would his parents get them even if he went to prison? I was pretty desperate.”

  “I can’t even imagine this,” Sonja said, shaking her head.

  “Yeah, I know. You ready for me to stop talking now? I mean, you don’t have to hear the rest of this. You already know how the story ends.”

  “Are you kidding? Keep going. Finish it,” Sonja said.

  “You still up to the pact? Because if you’re not...”

  “Believe me, I’m not just a boring mental case. I actually heard things in the nuthouse that would burn your little ears. Finish it.”

  “Well, there’s not much more. He beat me mostly, but he hurt the kids, scared them to death. We were in our own place for a little while—he liked his own place so he could have his friends over without family around—and I decided that I wasn’t going to let my family get in trouble for doing something to him. Not when he was my problem. I knew what was going to happen. I knew the laws. I’d have to finish him off when he was defenseless or I wouldn’t be able to win against him, and that is not self-defense, not legally. I knew I’d end up going to jail. But that wasn’t the most important thing. So one night when all his friends were over, I helped serve the shots. I kept adding some of his precious cocaine into his. Most of his buddies left, a couple of them passed out.”

  “What about your kids? Weren’t you afraid of what would happen to the kids?”

  “Only a little bit. My family was squeaky clean and his was full of priors, including prison time for battery domestic. I was betting on the system that had failed to help me. I couldn’t imagine the courts giving the kids to his family. And I was careful—I never told anyone in my family I had a plan. That way they weren’t a part of it.”

  “What happened?” Sonja asked.

  “I put the kids to bed and told them to stay there. I added what I thought would be a fatal dose of coke to his last drink. I never did drugs. I even gave up alcohol after seeing firsthand what it had turned him into. I watched him throw back that shot full of cocaine. Tequila. And he crashed. I knew he might survive it even though I’d been poisoning him all night and I was scared to death. I woke the kids, put them in the car, drove them to my parents’ house and waited. I didn’t have the stomach to stab him or anything that awful. That’s why he had to be stoned or drunk. That’s why I OD’d him. And when the police came to find me and said someone killed him I was so afraid they might blame the wrong person, I admitted it was me.”

  “Wow,” Sonja said.

  “I murdered him,” BJ said. “I didn’t know what else to do.”

  Sonja was quiet for a long moment. BJ could see her trying to think it through, process it. Finally their eyes met. “Well. Damn. Good for you!” Sonja said.

  * * *

  Gerri forced herself out of bed at seven on Sunday morning and headed for the kitchen. She had to make her own coffee, get her own paper. Not for the first time she missed her partner and their routine. She decided that later she’d hit the grocery store, maybe make a nice dinner if everyone was going to be around. Including Phil.

  She poured herself a cup of coffee and began leafing through the paper, beginning with the front page. On to local news. A quick run through the Life section and finally, the editorial pages where most of the political banter took place, especially with the op-ed columns. Suddenly she was looking at the face of her husband beside that of a well-known criminal defense attorney. The headline leaped out at her. Gilbert to Run in District Attorney Race against Archrival.

  She stopped breathing. It was difficult to concentrate long enough to read the article, to get past the headline; she had to remember to breathe again. Apparently the chief contenders for the position being vacated by Clay Sturgess were Phil and a criminal defense attorney he’d been up against in court many times, Byron Carter. Carter’s campaign would revolve around his ability to put away criminals because of his vast experience in defending them. There was no comment from Phil.

  He’s running? Now? How could he do this to us?

  Gerri left the kitchen. In her bedroom she exchanged her robe and nightgown for jeans and a sweatshirt, slipped on some flip-flops. She went back to the kitchen, scribbled a note for the kids, who probably wouldn’t be up for another three hours. She grabbed her purse and the editorial section of the paper.

  Gerri got in her car. She caught a glimpse of herself in the rearview mirror, then took a closer look. She hadn’t even glanced at herself before leaving the house. Her hair was spiking every which way and she had a crease down the side of her face from her pillow. What the hell, she thought. This was hardly a social call.

  She parked right behind Phil’s car and went straight to his door. She tried just opening it, but found it locked, so she pounded. It was not yet seven-thirty, but she knew he wouldn’t be asleep. When the door opened, she was met with his frown. He was freshly showered and shaved, his pants barely pulled on, zipped but not buttoned, his chest and feet were bare, a towel was draped around his neck. This was not his usual Sunday–morning routine or attire, to shower right off and wear decent pants, Gerri thought. In fact, he could usually manage to look like a vagrant till late afternoon. She said nothing, holding the newspaper toward him, her expression dark, her voice unreliable.

  He didn’t take the paper. He stepped aside so she could enter, then pushed the door closed. The coverlet was pulled over the sheets on his lumpy bed and the newspaper was scattered there. “It’s a leak,” he said as she came toward him. “I haven’t announced anything. I’m as surprised by the editorial as you are. I was on my way over to the house to explain.”

  “Someone thinks you’re running,” she said angrily. “Without even mentioning it, much less talking to me about it.”

  “Because I made it clear that until you and I get our issues resolved, I can’t make a firm commitment.”

  “So—you’ve been talking to someone,” she said hotly.

  “I was approached, of course. Who else are they going to approach when Sturgess moves on? I didn’t think it would be this soon, but I wasn’t exactly shocked. He has bigger fish to fry.”

  “Who approached you?”

  “First it was Sturgess. Then it was his election committee. They’re trying to be patient, but if you read the article, you can see—they need a candidate right now. A strong one. They can’t let that yahoo gather votes while they shop around.”

  “Why in God’s name didn’t you tell me you’d been approached?” she railed. “I didn’t even know Sturgess was leaving!”

  “Because I didn’t want it to get in the way of the stuff we’re trying to sort out,” he said, raising his voice to match hers. “This isn’t a reason to work things out! This is a possibility that comes after we’ve worked things out!”

  “But you want it! Admit it, you want it!”

  “Of course I want it! It’s what I’ve worked toward for more than twenty-five years! There was a time we both wanted it! I want it almost as bad as I want you, but I’m not going to make that kind of choice. Not now. Not yet!”

  “Have you told them we’re separated? That you had an affair?”

  “What do you think? I had to tell them. You don’t let people put in their time and go looking for money if you’re hiding things.”

  “And they still wan
t you? With this shit going on in your life?”

  “A consensual relationship years ago, brief separation and counseling—not even interesting these days. Certainly not front-page news. That bastard Carter is going to go after my prosecutorial record and try to make me look like a wimp who won’t be able to put away bad guys and we’re going to make him look like a defender of bad guys for over twenty years and therefore unable to make the transition. That’s what the real fight’s going to be about—not about our marriage. Besides, Carter has way more dirty linen than I do. If he draws first blood, he’ll be up to his eyeballs in mistresses....”

  “God,” Gerri said, tossing her paper on his bed. “You already talk like a candidate. You can’t reel this back in, can you?”

  He stepped toward her. “This isn’t how I wanted to do this. I wanted to get us back together, healthy and on track, then make a final, official decision, together. If this hadn’t been something you’d always wanted to do with me, I wouldn’t even have listened to the proposal. But you wanted it, too!”

  “You’re doing it again! Keeping secrets!”

  “No! It’s not a secret! I didn’t agree to anything—aren’t you listening?”

  “Have you thought about what it will be like if it comes up—the other woman? Humiliating your family publicly?”

  “I haven’t told anyone but Kelly the reason for our separation!” he stormed. “You’re not humiliated, goddamn it! You’re self-righteous!”

  She took another step toward him. “What makes you so sure she isn’t going to come out of the woodwork and claim some kind of abuse or harassment? Making your situation interesting?”