Where’s Jack?

Bonnie wilted under the person with no face: a towering, dark, hooded figure demanding to have what was hers. She was frightened.

But where was Jack?

He was not only her husband, but also her protector. Hadn’t he just been at her side? She looked but he was no longer there… she was alone. The hooded villain barked at her. Should she submit? 

“NO!” 

She stood brave. Her voice echoed past the hood into darkness and aroused Bonnie from the dream in which it came. 

*

Bonnie laid on her back, half alert, with the return of sleep her main desire. The air around the bed had a chilly fall tone that offended her. The numbers “8:57” glowed from her bedside clock radio. The blissful ignorance of morning had faded. There was no way she could squeeze in a snooze before her alarm sounded. Bonnie’s heart picked up speed. The anticipation of the day’s upcoming event—and the long car ride into the city to get there—did not kindle an enthusiasm within her. She was not looking forward to seeing Jack’s first wife or his son (who was two years her senior). And she was not interested in attending that pretentious event or being in the company of people with whom she had nothing in common. She was young; they were old. She was uneducated; they were scholars. She was black; they were white. She was country; they were cosmopolitan. The list goes on… And her only ally was Jack. 

A lazy roll over onto her hip revealed the absence of Jack from his side of the bed. However, the savory and sweet smells of a bounteous breakfast rolled in from the kitchen—exposing his whereabouts. Back to her back. God, her neck was stiff. Surrounding her head, she could feel the haze of hair that was her soft, curly afro (now frizzy and deflated). Her jaw was tight with sore teeth as a result of grinding. What had she even been dreaming about? The more she strained, the more cloudy the memory became.

BEEP beep-BEEP! Her time was up.

*

“Can I see some ID?”

A young man, not much older than Bonnie, watched her skeptically after she nervously pointed at one of the wines on display. She was of age (barely); she just wasn’t a drinker. She only decided to approach this makeshift bar that was set up in a small, naval-themed, blue room because it seemed everyone else at this function was partaking. It was safe to assume none of them had been asked to provide identification. But she was more than willing to oblige if it meant she would soon fit in. The intimate rooms of this venue had become toasty with intoxicated socializing while still retaining a semblance of frigidity. It was as if everyone (including Jack) was on some sort of booze-powered lift that slowly hoisted them higher with each drink consumed. Occasionally the passengers would glance down at Bonnie in pity. 

“How much is this?”

“Oh no, the drinks are free. It’s an open bar. Although, tips are very welcome.”

The bartender slid a large, amply-full jar labeled “TIPS” in front of her. She immediately dug through her small shoulder bag in search of a gratuity as if she had been preconditioned and that was her Pavlovian response. Her search turned up empty. Embarrassment flushed through to her face.

“Ah, it’s okay.”

“No, I just have to get some cash from my husband. I’ll be right back!”

*

The beautiful but odd vintage shop, host to this exclusive party, was filled with many adjoining rooms—all of a different theme and color. There were no hallways or idle spaces; every area was filled with expensive relics that Bonnie was too afraid to touch. It was bizarre to Bonnie how the affluent wasted their money on old, used items with no real purpose and that somehow these items inflated their social status. The event had concluded a little while ago and everyone was high off their gains. The call for the meeting was due to some charity briefly mentioned; and although these people would tell themselves they were here for the better good, Bonnie knew the real motivations for attendance were essentially self-serving.

Returning to an opulent gray room, Bonnie scanned the area for Jack. He was not where she left him. Now alone and vulnerable, she felt eyes on her she could not see. She sensed whispers she could not hear. The new wife, the young wife…. the half-his-age wife. Maybe the pity she imagined earlier had actually been aversion. And how could she blame them? These were her friends, after all—the first wife that is. And although the two women had seldom congregated in the short time of Jack and Bonnie’s relationship, the first wife was a lot nicer than what Bonnie had imagined an ex-wife to be. But still the idea of the exes being so cordial was strange to Bonnie and even sometimes made her jealous. 

“Bonnie, over hear!” 

The first wife was waving a hand to flag Bonnie down. She was standing with a small group that included the son and an older man and woman that Bonnie did not recognize. But where was Jack? 

“This is Jack’s new wife, Bonnie.” 

The first wife gave Bonnie a brief hug that surprised her. The man and woman greeted Bonnie with wide eyes, which she had grown to expect when meeting Jack’s friends. After the courteous hiatus, the man continued where he left off in his discussion with the first wife. The son shifted in his stance uncomfortably before excusing himself from the room. The older woman turned to Bonnie, and she was about to get attacked by the thing she had been avoiding for the past several hours: small talk. Small talk was an art form that Bonnie was not skilled. The dance required technique, being quick on your feet, and anticipation of your partner’s next move. And although she was donned in beautiful garb to resemble harmony with this elite party, Bonnie would ultimately clash. She took her first sip from the glass in her hand, fighting against a shiver down her spine. Where was Jack?

The bathroom! The bathroom was always a wonderful excuse to escape that didn’t imply rudeness or generate objection. She followed a sign into a red, farm-themed room. The son was standing near the lavatory entrance with his back to Bonnie. He was observing a display of hand tools and hadn’t noticed her. There was still chance of escape.

“Bonnie.”

Too late. She had been spotted. Bonnie approached her step-son. She wasn’t sure if he really wanted to interact or was just acknowledging her presence out of obligation.

“I thought you didn’t drink.” 

“Oh, sometimes.” 

She took this as a cue to sip the dark red, bitter liquid. In return, the son drank from the rocks glass that he was holding. They stood momentarily in silence.

“So, did you get any good antiques from the fundraiser,” Bonnie managed to ask.

He rolled his eyes. “I can’t afford that shit.” 

Now what? Had she offended him? She forgot that he had been struggling financially since he graduated college. Why was he even there? Where was Jack? 

*

Hovering over a cold sink, Bonnie scrutinized the image in the mirror. Earlier that morning, after hours of getting ready, Jack praised her for her beauty. Where had her attractiveness gone? Under this dim and severe lighting, her usually warm, dark skin looked sallow and ashen. The shape of her body in her black dress was not enticing. Her normally bouncy hair had drooped in defiance when hit by the humidity of body heat in small spaces. She looked unspectacular. 

The partition of the small, public bathroom jerked open. Her private moment was over.

“Bonnie! There ya are.” 

The first wife bustled through the door, slinging a libation and splashing its contents. Bonnie noticed the first wife’s white face was red and she was slurring her words slightly. Had this just happened?

“You don’ need to look: you’re beautiful. Don’ tworry, honey. How I would kill to be your age-ch again. Boy, did I have a botty!” 

The compliment was a bit uncomfortable for Bonnie. Was the first wife fishing for Bonnie to reciprocate?

“Oh but your gorgeous!” It was true. She was like the antiques: older but in good condition, beautiful, rare, worth a lot of money, and important. She was just currently sloshed. 

“No, no. ‘Tis out wit the old and in with the noo,” the first wife mumbled as she reapplied lipstick with the help of her mirror reflection. 

How could she have felt that way? Jack had already been divorced from the first wife when he met Bonnie so it wasn’t as if Bonnie was her replacement. Where was Jack?

*

Bonnie found herself alone in a dark green room filled with depression glass sparkling under a flickering overhead light. The party had finally died down. Earlier she had kept her phone tucked away in her purse so to not be seen as a stereotypical young person, but now alone she felt safe to do as she pleased. She dialed for Jack. The phone rang. No answer. The phone was put away in a front pocket on her dress. He had to be somewhere in this antiquity labyrinth. She zigzagged through the colorful rooms with intent. The red farm room was now empty. The opulent gray room was scattered with stragglers and a clean-up crew. The blue naval room was empty and the makeshift bar no longer present. The bartender! She had forgotten him. And in this entire time she still had not found Jack. 

By this time it was possible that her husband was outdoors smoking a cigarette. They had been at the antique shop for hours now. Stepping outside revealed a much darker sky and drop in temperature. Bonnie had mistakenly left her coat inside the building, but she would just take a quick look while she was already there. Out front there was no Jack. She scampered around back where his Jaguar sat parked: still no Jack. She even peeked inside the car (just to be safe). Her key had been left in her coat pocket so she couldn’t actually go inside of the vehicle to take shelter from the chilly evening wind.

“Give me your purse,” said a male voice from behind her—the voice of a boy. He was quiet but urgent. She froze in place: she was a statue, hunched over, squinting at a tinted window. Her shivering turned to trembles. Her jaw was clenched. Her neck was stiff.

“You heard me.” He sounded almost as nervous as she was, but not quite. She turned her head towards her shoulder to glance at him. He was a tower standing out of arms reach. A hood covered his head and cast a shadow over his face. His right hand was in his jacket pocket with an object bulging through the fabric. Was it a gun? She didn’t want to take a chance on it. 

“Hey! Now.” He shoved the object forward to emphasize that he was to be taken seriously. His head twitched in different directions on look out. Bonnie stood erect. She felt nauseous. Her arm shook violently and she dropped the small bag to the ground expelling all of its contents: a lipstick, concealer, hair tie, a few bobby pins, and her ID.

“FUCK!”

Not a vestige remained of his pocketed weapon as he rushed to the ground. His body language indicated recognition of the surprisingly meager booty. The tiny handbag was more for show than purpose.

“Th-th-there’s no money,” she said through tears that had just begun.

Without a word he got up and sped off, cloaked by an unlit alleyway. Bonnie had never been in such a situation before, yet she had a strange and strong feeling of déjà vu. She stood there alone in the parking lot, amazed at what had just transpired. A multitude of emotions surged through her but she wasn’t exactly sure how to feel.

RINNNG! Bonnie felt the vibration of the phone in her dress pocket. 

There was Jack.