Black Mamba (Part Two)

Their sex life was non-existent. Not that Frannie minded. Sex with Jack had never been exactly sizzling; it was lukewarm at best. Frannie knew that all those women who had ogled Jack in California secretly imagined him in bed. They thought that he would make love with the same degree of attention that he gave to his clothes and personal grooming. They were oh-so-wrong. Sex was a tedious chore that she dreaded. Faking an orgasm, telling Jack how wonderful he was. It was exhausting. Thank goodness he had become so involved with work and financial interests that he no longer even suggested sex. 

When he wasn’t at the hospital, Jack spent his time managing his investment portfolio. He increased his life insurance. “If anything happens to me, Harvard tuition for the twins will be covered.” Maybe they won’t want to go to Harvard, Frannie thought. Maybe instead of spending all your time playing with your money, you could spare an hour or two and play with your daughters. But she didn’t say anything. No point starting a fight.

Autumn arrived and the heat finally retreated. The woods were adrift with leaves that crunched underfoot. The twins had pumpkins on the porch, ready to carve on Halloween. With the onset of cooler weather, the mosquitoes died off and Jack perked up. His clothing did not. He dressed acceptably–just barely–for work, but on weekends, his attire was appalling. He padded out to the porch, barefoot, in nasty sweatpants and that same Harvard tee shirt, coffee mug in hand. Why didn’t she ever see that shirt in the laundry? Maybe he hid it. “I’m going to thin out those trees along the creek,” he said.  

Frannie hated how he slurped his coffee, his shuffling walk. She hated the way he dressed. She hated how he had developed the habit of making a daily announcement of his plans. 

“What’s your plan for this beautiful Saturday?” he asked.

She was shocked by the intensity of her hatred. Why did he talk so much? When had that slight paunch appeared? She wanted to slap him. She answered carefully, keeping her voice emotionless. “I’m taking the girls to their riding lesson; afterwards we’re going to the farmers’ market.” She shrugged. “That’s all.”

He leaned over to deliver a perfunctory kiss, and Frannie’s skin crawled as his lips brushed her cheek. He reeked of sour sweat and decay. She glanced down and noticed that his toenails were yellow with fungus. “Enjoy,” he said.

It was a beautiful day, Jack had been right about that. The girls cantered around the arena; the sunlight angled in and gave everything an autumnal cast. It was Frannie’s favorite season, associated with new school shoes, hot apple cider and the smell of wood smoke. She was pleasantly surprised by how much she loved living in the country. The sole problem was the isolation. If only she had a good friend; someone with whom she could share coffee and conversation. She wasn’t sure she remembered how to have a conversation with another adult. Jack didn’t count.

The girls finished their lesson and untacked the ponies in the barn. Kaitlin, the riding instructor, joined Frannie on the bench under a catalpa tree. She smiled, showing small, even white teeth that made Frannie think of something feral. “Those girls are adorable. How are you? All settled in at your farm?” She was attractive, mid thirties, Frannie guessed. She wore black riding boots with spurs, and tight breeches that accentuated her muscular thighs and cute derriere.

“I’m fine, thanks.”  

“That’s good. Sometimes city people have a hard time adjusting to the heat and the bugs.” She waved a hand, vaguely, as if to indicate these things. “Hey–just so you know, your family is always welcome at my church. We’ve got a nice congregation and we’re not stuffy like other churches. We have fun!” She winked at Frannie.

Frannie was about to stand up and tell Kaitlin she needed to get back home. She’d had enough of people trying to get her to join their church–was there no escaping this tiresome proselytizing? But then Kaitlin had winked. Something about that wink. Maybe she would go. Why not? Nobody said she had to actually believe all that churchy business. The girls might make some more friends. They had met a few girls at school, but nobody they had really clicked with. She should have thought of this sooner. “Thanks,” she said. “I’d like that.”

The girls balked. “Oh my god, Mom! You said religious stuff was nonsense.”

“Yes, but they’re not giving lie detector tests at the door to see if we’re true believers. We’ll meet some new people, and start socializing. I think we might like it–who knows?

The girls continued to grumble, but Frannie could tell that they were curious to see what church was going to be like. She couldn’t remember a time they had ever been in one, unless you counted preschool, which had been held at a local church back in California. 

Kaitlin picked them up in her Jeep. Jack had refused to go, which was fine with Frannie. The less she saw of him the better. The church had an industrial vibe with corrugated metal siding and a galvanized roof. A massive rusty cross hung above the front entrance. The twins were deposited in a sunny room full of kids, all objections forgotten as soon as they saw the ice cream sundaes and the rock climbing wall.

In the warehouse-sized sanctuary, enormous wall-mounted screens provided multiple views of the room. An earnest looking, clean-cut young couple sang and played guitars on the stage in front, and people danced in the aisles. 

Frannie immediately felt out of place. “Kaitlin, I’m not sure this is for me.” 

“Don’t worry. I don’t dance, either. I just watch and listen to the music,” Kaitlin said. She was wearing a low cut, sophisticated dress and heels. The church was crowded, and Kaitlin pressed closer as more people squeezed into their row. 

The sermon focused on the Holy Ghost, and how a person accepting Christ will feel the spirit. “It’s a feeling like none other,” Preacher Randy said, his voice rising and falling, a rhythmic tide of words. “A tingling that starts at the base of the spine! A sea of electricity! You know it when you feel it!” He waved his arms around for emphasis.

Frannie felt the electricity, but she didn’t feel it in her spine. Kaitlin’s fingers brushed the back of her hand, and she bent her head toward Frannie. Her perfume smelled like smoke and saddle leather, maybe something by Chanel. “Didn’t I tell you we’d have fun?” she said.    

Winter arrived with a snowstorm. Overnight, the farm became a magical, spun-sugar dreamland. Dormant oakleaf hydrangeas slumbered beneath heavy layers of snow that pulled their branches earthward. The pond froze, and pebbles tossed onto the ice echoed with a reverberating melancholy, like the plucked string of a cello. The woods were a muffled world of white on white. In the pasture, the ponies stamped, shook their icy manes and exhaled clouds of frosty breath. A plume of smoke was visible, rising from the woods where the old witch and her granddaughter lived.

Frannie invited Kaitlin for Christmas dinner. “Only if we cook it together,” Kaitlin insisted, and she arrived with the ingredients for pasta puttanesca and several bottles of red wine. The girls chased each other around the house and stuck olives on their fingertips. 

“Do you think the girls suspect anything? Or Jack?” Kaitlin asked. She and Frannie were sautéing the garlic, side by side. 

Frannie shook her head. “No, why would they? We’ve always been careful.”

“I wish we didn’t have to be so secretive.” Kaitlin slid her free hand over the curve of Frannie’s hip as she reached around her for the bottle of wine.

“Me, too.” Being with Kaitlin was fun. She made Frannie feel happy and carefree, unlike the way she felt around Jack. The words of the old woman in the woods ran through her head. “…iffen you don’t love him, maybe then you stay.” She wasn’t doing anything wrong by staying. Jack was the one who had wanted to move here, not her. And why would she tell Jack what some crazy old woman had said?

Jack joined them briefly to eat, then returned to his study in the basement, where he pored over financial journals and applied Neosporin to an infected spider bite on his ankle. 

Winter melted and dogwoods floated pink and white in the woods. Redbuds, with miniature flowers of rose and fuchsia, stretched shyly in the understory. Then summer settled in, with a heavy, satisfying heat. One day merged into the next, a tranquil simplicity. 

It had been one year. The animals were all well, the girls were thriving, Frannie was happy. Everything would be perfect if Jack weren’t around. The thought jolted Frannie, but it was true. She felt as though she were being driven to the brink of insanity by those annoying habits he’d developed. Worse than annoying– unbearable. That flat-footed walk, his white hairless legs, his dreadful clothes. He’d let himself go. His hair was unkempt, and in addition to receding at the temples, a bald spot had appeared on the back of his head, like a worn area on an old carpet. He was getting jowls and a droopy, turkey skin neck. 

Just this morning he had announced–as if she cared–that he was going to cut the grass on the hillside. The grass wasn’t even long, he used that as an excuse to ride the tractor. He loved that stupid tractor. Revving it up and driving too fast, one hand on the steering wheel, the other clutching a can of bug spray. He was like a little kid on a tricycle. Except the tractor was dangerous. One of these days he was going to run over a pet. Or worse, one of the girls. The thought made her boil with rage. It would serve him right if the tractor flipped over on him. The man at the dealership had told him to be careful driving on hills, but did Jack listen? No. He zigzagged up and down the hill, paying no attention whatsoever. Just last week he had run over two of her blueberry bushes. 

She could hear the thrum of the engine–he was out there now. She pictured him, zooming down the hill. She closed her eyes and imagined the tractor falling sideways, pinning Jack underneath and crushing–all of him? No, that would be too much. Just his foot, to teach him a lesson. She sighed with satisfaction, her anger dissipated. Her shrink was right. Visualization was a great way to deal with emotions.

After the accident, Jack denied that he had been driving carelessly. Or that he hit a gopher hole, as someone in the emergency room had suggested. “It felt like someone pushed the tractor,” he said. “I thought maybe it was an earthquake.”

The tractor had crushed his foot. The doctors said he would eventually be able to walk, but he would have a limp. He was lucky to be alive–not everyone survived a mishap with a tractor. Better not drive so carelessly next time, they warned him. 

“But I wasn’t being careless,” Jack protested.      

“Sure, you weren’t. But the tractor flipped, didn’t it?” they said. 

Frannie told herself that it was just a freak coincidence. To prove it, she decided to conduct an experiment. She waited until a week after Jack came home from the hospital. It was after dinner and the twins were outside, feeding the ponies. Jack rose from the table, carrying his plate, and hobbled toward the kitchen on his walking cast. She took a deep breath. The entire idea was ridiculous–she was only doing this to prove how silly it was to think that she could imagine something into reality. She would put the idea out of her head once and for all.  

She closed her eyes and pictured him slipping, falling to the floor, the dinner plate shattering. As the thought formed in her mind, she heard the crash. She ran to the kitchen where Jack lay sprawled. His eyelids fluttered and his bad leg was twisted at an odd angle. “Holy shit! Jack!” 

“Fuck! Oh, fuck me right now!” the parrot shrieked, flapping in alarm.

She knelt beside him and started to lift his head then stopped. What if he had a neck injury? She shouldn’t move him. God, what had she done? The front door slammed and the twins came in.

“Daddy! What happened?”  

“Don’t touch him. He may have a neck injury.”  Frannie dialed 911. Four minutes, the dispatcher said. Jack was awake now, touching his head, moaning. Blood trickled from a cut just above one ear.

“Jack, don’t move. You slipped and hit your head. An ambulance is on the way.”

He moaned again. “Didn’t slip. Pushed.” Frannie’s heart thudded against her ribs.  She held his hand. It felt like an inanimate object. Her panic vanished, replaced by elation. She had done this! She felt a bit badly that she had caused Jack pain, but he deserved it. He had brought it on himself, always complaining about the bugs and the heat. What kind of man constantly complained? It was enough to make anyone lose their mind. His white legs, his weak chin, his ridiculous, high-pitched giggle. Really, if he weren’t so irritating, none of this would have happened. She let his hand drop and finished clearing the dinner table.  

Frannie and the twins followed the ambulance to the hospital. The emergency room doctor said that Jack had twisted his right knee (that right leg was taking a beating), lacerated his scalp, and suffered a concussion. He stitched the scalp wound and administered an injection of morphine. It would be necessary for Jack to remain in the hospital overnight, the doctor said, because of the concussion. And, Frannie suspected, because the doctor thought Jack’s home environment seemed exceptionally hazardous.

After he was tucked into his hospital bed, his leg elevated and the knee iced, Jack told Frannie to go home. “It’s after midnight, the girls are exhausted.”

“We’re not tired, Daddy,” they said, but there were dark circles under their eyes, and they couldn’t stop yawning.

“Yes, you are. I’m fine. Just a little loopy after that bonk on the head.”

He didn’t look fine. He was paler than he should be, even considering the circumstances. There was a haunted look behind his eyes. Frannie felt a twinge of guilt as he grimaced and tried to readjust his injured leg.  

“Do you need another pillow?” she asked.

“Frannie. Please go home.”

She wrapped the cord to the nurse’s call button around the side rail and forced herself to kiss his forehead. It was covered with a sheen of cold perspiration and she tried not to gag.

After the twins were in bed, Frannie wiped up the blood on the kitchen floor, poured a glass of Chenin Blanc, and sat on the porch. A full moon was tethered above the pond. The second one this month, a blue moon. Clouds scudded through the silver sky, and the water reflected fantastical images. She listened to the night noises: cicadas, the staccato bark of a small dog, the rumble of a distant train. She sat watching the moon shadows, rocking in her favorite wicker chair to the rhythm of cricket song.

They brought Jack home the next day. The girls made him a pimiento cheese sandwich, then left for the woods.

“We’re taking the ponies,” Bella said.  

“You two will never have boyfriends if you spend all your time with those ponies,” Jack said.

“Daddy, don’t be gross. Boys are disgusting,” Sophia said. 

Bella cast a withering glance toward her father. “I’d rather die than have a boyfriend.”

Frannie helped Jack get comfortable on the sofa, sliding a pillow under his leg.

“The hospital is extending my disability leave for a couple more weeks. I hope I can go back to work after that.” He picked up the Wall Street Journal. “How about another cup of coffee?”

Frannie gritted her teeth. She hated waiting on Jack. What did he think she was, some kind of hired help? Not even that, because she didn’t get paid. She was a slave, no different from those black slaves that were worked to death right here on this land. If they weren’t whipped to death first. She poured a cup of coffee, and with her back to Jack, spit in it. “One sugar, or two?” she asked.

“Frannie, I wonder if coming here was a mistake. Nothing is going the way I thought it would.”

“The girls are happy. I’m happy.” It was true. She loved it here. Everything about it–the heat, the starry nights, the green heron that stalked catfish at the edge of the pond. And Kaitlin. Thinking of Kaitlin reminded her that tonight they planned—finally!—to mix up a pitcher of mint juleps.

The only thing not going well, the fly in the ointment so to speak, was her marriage. Had she loved Jack at one time? Surely she must have, but she couldn’t remember how that had felt. Maybe she had only loved the way he looked. That Jack—the good-looking, well-dressed Jack—was long gone.

Jack stared at the paper, refusing to meet her eyes. He was wearing that hideous Harvard tee shirt again, sweat circles under the arms. “I don’t think I’m cut out for farm life. I thought I’d like it, but it isn’t what I thought it would be.”       

Was he saying he wanted to leave the farm? She wouldn’t. “Jack, you’ve had some unfortunate accidents. You can’t give up. And you can’t quit your job–you have a contract.” He still wouldn’t meet her eyes. 

“We could move into town. One of those new subdivisions. The girls could board the ponies.” His eyes slid sideways to check her reaction, then flicked away. Was it fear she saw in that quick glance? Was he worried about that silly curse? She felt triumphant. After years of being dragged along by Jack, now she was in the driver’s seat. Let him see how it felt to have someone else make the decisions, to be a puppet while someone else pulled the strings of your life. She smiled. “I don’t think so, Jack. I think we’ll be staying right here on the farm.” 

She walked to the door and slid her feet into garden clogs. “I’ll be outside, staking the tomatoes.” The hydrangeas were blooming. Was there any shade of blue quite as glorious? And the tomatoes–they loved this heat, and grew to enormous size. Black Zebra, Purple Cherokee, Bloody Butcher–they were gorgeous. Thinking about tomatoes reminded Frannie how Jack had cared not one whit about making her leave her tomatoes and her newly remodeled kitchen in California. 

Of course, she could remodel this kitchen, too, in a few years. Maybe copper countertops, or blue soapstone. Something more avant-garde than granite. And those dreadful oak cabinets would definitely have to go. But first, the pond needed to be cleaned out, and new pasture fencing put up. She thought of Jack’s life insurance. It was a terrible thought–Jesus forgive her– but if Jack died, she could get everything done now. She wouldn’t have to wait. She thought of his plodding footsteps and that revolting tee shirt. The faint odor of urine and moth balls that clung to him. A green anole stopped hunting spiders and watched. Frannie closed her eyes and a black mamba slipped through the front door.