Don't Ask. Don't Tell.

(2883 words)

Don’t Ask. Don’t Tell.

By

Ed N. White

The Robin’s Nest had been serving the morning coffee to this community for many years before the upstarts, Dunkin’ and Starbucks intruded with their lattes and fancy pastries.

The early Saturday crowd had left. Jean and Rachel gained some privacy in the corner booth as they continued their whispered conversation. Rachel had stuck her napkin in the empty Styrofoam cup and was mashing it with the small wooden stirrer. Jean had torn her napkin in small pieces and was shaping these into a perfect mound with both hands.

Again, Rachel said, “Why don’t you do something about it? You can’t go on like this.”

“He tells me he’s sorry, Rae. Every time he tells me he’s sorry. I believe him.”

Rachel pushes harder with the stick. It breaks. “This is crazy! Look at me, Jean. Look at me!”

Jean stops fiddling with the paper pieces and raises her head. “He loves me, Rae, I know he does.” A tear drops below each lens of her dark glasses.

“Take off those damn glasses.” Rachel reaches in her bag bringing out a small mirror. “Take them off and look at yourself.” She holds the mirror at mid-table. Jean looks. Rachel says, “A black eye, is that what you call love?”

Jean takes another napkin from the dispenser and dabs her eyes. “That’s a strange question, Rae, I’ve always loved him.”

“Then why do you put up with this abuse?”

Jean begins to cry harder, “I don’t know…I don’t know.”

Rachel slaps the table. “I’ll kill that sonofabitch!”

“No, Rachel, no. Don’t say that.”

“I will. I swear to God, I will.”

The waitress arrives, holding a fresh carafe and two new cups. She pours and leaves without saying anything. She’s seen these moments before.

Jean adds cream to her coffee. Rachel drinks hers black.

Jean sits back, wipes her eyes, and says, “Well, that was pretty intense.”

Rachel lowers her voice and leans closer, “I mean it, Jean. I will kill him.” Rachel stares.

Jean looks away, while her hands tap nervously on the table. She looks back and says, “You can’t really mean that. Do you?”

Rachel reaches across the table, pushes Jean’s cup aside, and takes both of her hands. “I do, Jean, I really do.” She nods as she says that and continues little bobs as she stares into Jean’s eyes.

“That’s murder, Rae.”

“Let’s call it a proposal. He’s hurt you enough. Maybe it’s time for some retribution.” Rachel gives a final squeeze, releases the hands, and raises the cup to her lips. She continues to stare over the top of the cup.

Jean avoids her gaze, “How would you do it?”

“I don’t know, I’ll think of something.”

“Don’t hurt him, Rae. He can’t help it. He loves me.”

Outside the coffee shop, they embrace. Rachel watches her best friend cross the street to her car, hands stuffed in her jacket pockets, shoulders hunched against the wind, then drives off with a half-wave as she passes. Rachel stiffens and thinks about Rodney. How much she gave him when they dated five years ago, and how quickly he dumped her and turned to Jean. That hurt lingered for a long time until she realized what a dangerous man Rodney could become. She avoided him, never going to Jean’s house unless he was not there. She and Jean frequently met at other places when they were not working. Rachel pulls her ski hat further down over her ears and heads to her car.

Jean sells Avon products and uses her skill as a cosmetician to cover the marks of Rodney’s angry abuse. She has a slim frame and a careful choice of clothing—she knows fashion. Her hair is woven in a twisted braid that makes her look younger than her twenty-eight years. Rachel is taller, darker, more severe in her dress, with an ‘in your face’ unpleasant stare. She works as a secretary for a franchise security firm that specializes in providing protection and investigation for contestants in ugly divorce cases. She reads many reports of abuse and the investigations that followed. She knows how things are done.

Rachel gave it a lot of thought. She needed to save Jean from further torment, and not willing to admit it, seek some revenge against Rodney. She would finally take care of him. She took several files home to study what worked, what didn’t, and the consequences she’d face if she failed to cover her tracks.

She entered her apartment with her mind swirling with ideas, dropped her briefcase on the kitchen table, and went straight to the fridge for the wine.  Then went to the front window and raised it in salute. “This is for you, Jean. I will do it. Count on it.” Her strained laughter echoed through the empty room.

After dinner, she spread the files on the table, searching for answers. The pictures of bruises, cuts, and burns turned her stomach. She got up to refill her glass, walked into the living room, and stood there watching the muted TV. Taking a break from the heart-breaking stories lying on the table.

Rachel separated the files according to the events she thought were possible for her purpose. Reading and rereading until she knew where all the bones were buried. Then she called Jean.

“Hey, Rae.”

“I have a plan.”

The phone had no response, but she could hear Jean breathing. Rachel held on, waiting. Finally, “Don’t tell me, Rae, please don’t tell me.”

“I won’t tell you, but I need some information. I’ll meet you on Saturday at Starbucks.”

“Why, Starbucks?”

“Because we know none of his friends would ever pay that much for a coffee. So, I don’t think we’ll be noticed.”

After a pause, Jean agreed and ended the call.

*         *         *

With no work on Saturday, and after his Friday night bowling league finished with much time spent at the bar, Rodney always slept late. Jean slipped out of bed early, dressed quickly in the front room, and left to meet Rachel for an awkward conversation, unsure of this proposal by Rae. She wanted the battering to stop, but she loved Rodney, and when he was sober, he was very good to her. That’s when he always told her he loved her and held her close, smoothing her hair and holding her close.

Rachel was at the table with her coffee, checking messages on her phone.

Jean sat, and Rae put down her phone, “Any problems last night?”

“No, none, he was drunk, but he didn’t bother me. He fell asleep on the couch for a while then came to bed about two.” Jean lifted the cup for a sip. “Maybe he’ll change, Rae. He tells me he will.”

“Forget that, leopards don’t change their spots, and abusers don’t quit just because you hope they will. There’s only one way out, Jean.”

“I’ll get a divorce.”

“For God’s sake, what did he do the last time you simply suggested the possibility. What?”

“I know. Maybe I’ll get a restraining order. The police will keep him away.”

“Dammit, Jean, he’ll never let you go. Get over it. Give it up. He’ll kill you before he lets you go.” Rachel reached across the table and took Jean’s hands and hissed. “He’ll kill you. Don’t you understand?” Jean began to cry.

Rachel got up. “I’m gonna get a scone. You want one?” Jean nodded and cried into her hands. The murmur of the coffee shop closed around her.

Rachel returned with scones on paper plates, placing one in front of Jean, and rubbed her back with the empty hand. She sat, broke a piece off the scone, and dipped it into her coffee before speaking. “All I need is some information. I’ve been studying some case files from the office, and I’m planning. It’ll work. You’ll see.”

Jean pulled her parka hood up and sat with her hands embracing the cup, the scone staring at her from its paper plate. “What do you need to know?”

“Tell me about him. What does he do after work? Where does he go? What time does he start? When does he get home?  That kind of stuff. His habits. That’s all.”

“That’s it?”

“Yeah, that’s it. Tell me.”

Jean chewed on her lip and balled up the napkin. She picked up the scone and put it down again. “He goes to work. Leaves at seven. Gets home at six-thirty most days. Hangs around. He goes out in the garage to do stuff with his truck. I don’t know. Nothing special except for Fridays.”

Rachel picked up on that. “What’s different about Fridays?”

“He gets home earlier, about five-thirty ‘cause he’s got bowling, and he wants to shower and everything. The league starts at seven, and he likes to get there a little early.”

“Do you ever go with him?”

“Oh, God, no. He says I’d be a distraction. He’s a good bowler. He’s serious about it. His team is in first place, and he won a trophy for the high game last year.”

“So, he bowls, and then what?”

“He hangs out there and gets drunk.”

“So, then he comes home and beats the crap out of you.”

“No, Rachel, don’t say that. Not all the time. No, most times he just comes home. I mean, he’s drunk, but he doesn’t always hit me. Sometimes we have sex.” Jean picked at her scone.

“Wonderful.” Rachel looks in her empty cup. “You want another one?”

Jean still has some cold coffee left. “No, I’m good. You want this scone?” She pushes the half-eaten pastry across the table.

Rachel takes it and says, “I need another coffee.”

When she returns, Jean has turned her cup upside down, pushed the plastic stirrer through the bottom, added a folded triangle of a napkin, and says, “Look, I made a sailboat.”

“Wonderful.” Rachel’s plan is percolating, but she wants to give no hint to Jean. She dips the scone in her coffee.

The conversation drifts in many directions, none of which speaks of murder. Rachel finishes the coffee, puts two bucks on the table, and they leave.

Outside in the sun, Jean takes Rachel’s arm and says, “What are you planning?”

“I’m not gonna tell you what I’ll do, or when I’ll do it. You need to be surprised and shocked and grieving.”

“What will I say when the police come?”

“You’ll say what any wife would say. You’ll be in shock, you’ll be crying your eyes out, wringing your hands, tearing your hair. Listen, Jean, you’ll be a mess count on it. You won’t have to act. It’ll come naturally because it will be unexpected. Don’t worry. Let me do the worrying.” Rachel said that with conviction. Jean wasn’t so sure.

Rachel found two more files of interest and brought those home for further study. This wouldn’t be easy, and it had to be perfect. If the police suspected foul play, she’d be in serious trouble. She couldn’t count on Jean not to crack like a twig when questioned by the police. It would happen one night, and Jean would be shocked. That’s if it worked at all.

*         *         *

Rachel wrapped it up early today, locked her desk, told Bill she had something she needed to do, and left the office. He didn’t care, he had his own problems. She stopped at a 7-11 and bought a pack of Newport Menthol Lights and a blue Bic lighter. She quit smoking two years ago and would quit again when this was over. Now, she needed a little boost.

She drove to JBE Carriers in the industrial park and wedged out of sight between two box trucks waiting for Rodney to show. It was 5:15 p.m. Clouds were rolling in from the north, bringing colder air and a hint of snow.

The office door at the side of the large overhead door opened, and the scumbag himself came out, zipping his coat and pulling up the hood. A woman came out behind him in the same uniform, another driver. She said something, Rodney stopped on the stairs and turned. She came up close and said more. He laughed and let her pass, patting her ass as she went by.

“Sonofabitch.” Rachel watched Rodney exit the parking lot in his pickup, then followed. He stopped at a liquor store. She waited in the lot next door. He came out with a bag wrapped bottle and drove away. Four blocks from his house, Rachel peeled off. Rodney wasn’t going anywhere but home.

She surveilled him several more times over the next week, and he wasn’t doing anything unusual. He worked and he went home. He didn’t leave the house at night until Friday when he came out duded up with a new Carhartt parka, and his hair slicked back then headed to the Westside Bowl-a-Rama. Rachel parked in the shadows and entered through the far doors to watch Rodney go to lane 14 and be greeted by his buds. They were standing behind the half-circle padded bench with beers in their hands, wearing yellow and black shiny shirts with JBE CARRIERS embroidered on the back. There were three young women with them, one wearing a team shirt, and Rodney put an arm around her waist. “Sonofabitch.”

Rachel stayed for an hour, sucking on one beer and going outside to smoke three Newports. Then she’d seen enough and knew what could follow. She drove home, angry, and planning.

*         *         *

“C’mon, Gary, give me a break, this is my bowling night. C’mon man, I need to get home.”

“Can’t help it, Rod, Bobby went home sick. One more delivery won’t kill you. Here’s the slip.”

“Shit!” Rodney sulked his way to the truck bay and climbed into the cab. He checked the time, “Oh, shit!” He sped to the drop, backed up to the loading dock, and leaned on the horn.

The door raised, and a guy came out with a pallet lifter, unhappy. “Chill out, man, what’s the rush?”

“Bowling night. I’m late. Hurry up, will ya.”

Pallet man shrugged and said, “Yeah, big deal.” He took his time.

Rodney hurried back to the terminal, dumped the truck, ran in the office, dropped the keys and the paperwork on the dispatcher’s desk, raced out to his pickup, and sped home for a quick shower and change. “Oh, no!” His gas gauge was showing red. Take a chance to get it later. He sped to the alleys.

It was cold out, but Rachel stepped into a short skirt and a scoop-necked pullover without a bra. She let her hair down and added a little make-up. She took off her glasses and inserted contacts, dabbed a slight scent, and checked herself in the mirror. This was Rodney's bait. This was how he’d remember the things she did five years ago and expect her to do it again. She huddled her parka around her and waited in front of her building for the Uber. When he dropped her off, she shivered in the shadows for one more cigarette, then popped a breath mint and walked into the sights and sounds of the bowling league.

“Sonofabitch.” He was there in all his shiny shirt glory, carrying on like some big deal bowling kingpin. Rachel got a beer and watched from the bar, gaining strength. When Rodney finished his frame, she removed her parka and approached him behind the bench. “Hey, Rodney.”

“What? Oh…Rachel. Damn, it’s been a long time…you look great. How are you?”

“Five years, Rodney, I’ve thought about you a lot.”

“Hey, yeah, we had some good times.”

“We did. How're things with Jean?”

“Going good. Yeah. Great. Let me buy you a drink.”

“Sounds good.”

Rodney signaled a waitress for two beers and stood close, talking with Rachel, his eyes wandering to her chest. “Stay awhile, watch me bowl, then I’ll buy you some real drinks at the bar.”

“Great, I’m in no hurry.” Rachel watched Rodney bowl. A little off his game.

They sat at the bar. Rachel sat on her coat, keeping her scoop neck breasts visible. They drank shooters. Rodney worked his hand on her thigh, heading under the skirt. Rachel switched glasses several times when Rodney was distracted, placing her full one in front of him. At 11:45, she helped him outside and into the passenger side of his truck. She pulled a half pint of Tequila from her pocket. He got some in his mouth and some down the front of the Carhartt. She drove to his house, pushed the remote, and drove into the garage.

 Rachel shut the overhead and dragged Rodney across the seat, placing his legs under the steering wheel with his head flopping against the seatback. She rolled down the truck window, left the motor running, slipped out the garage side door, and walked home with the parka huddled around her.

*         *         *

Rachel didn’t sleep. She paced, watched a movie, drank coffee, read a book, and waited for the news.

Jean called her at 6:15. She was fighting back her tears. “Rae…Rae…he almost died. He was drunk in his truck, and they said if it hadn’t run out of gas, he would have died. He could be dead, Rae…dead!”

This is not what Rachel expected. “Will he be alright?” She reached for another cigarette, stowing the phone against her ear with her shoulder as she flicked the Bic.

“The doctor said he’ll live…but the amount of carbon monoxide has damaged his brain…he’ll be a vegetable…a damn vegetable.” Jean’s voice was cracking.

“That’s too bad.” Rachel sucked the smoke deep into her lungs.

“Rae, you sound like you don’t mean that. Oh, God, did you do that…did you?”

“What a strange question.” Rachel snuffed out her smoke and threw the rest of the pack in the trash.

END