74 - Running Scared

Jon’s eyes were dry and bloodshot behind his three hundred dollar sunglasses, and alcohol was only partly to blame.  There’d be little or no fault attributed to the booze if he weren’t driving in the damn blazing sunshine at ten o’clock in the morning on New Year’s Day – after not sleeping all night. 

He lifted the nearly empty Starbuck’s cup, relishing the last warm slide down his throat.  Petey Diehl was going to be the death of him.   She kept his adrenaline level so jacked up that it was no wonder their chief activities were sex and fighting.  If they didn’t burn off the extra energy between themselves, there would likely be collateral damage to those around them. 

And who would that be? 

Between wondering what the hell had sent Petey into an anxiety attack and wanting to mark her as his, Jon’s night had been long and unproductive.  That’s why he was en route to Red Bank and the source of his turmoil.

[10:07 AM]JON: On my way over.  Be there in 15.

[10:09 AM]DOTTIE: I’ll be in the kitchen.  Just walk in.

He was dying to ask about Petey, but he’d already pushed the boundaries of text and drive.  Tipping the Starbuck’s cup in desperate search of just one more sip of caffeine, he made himself wait, which was a major concession.

Patience was always just beyond Jon's reach, causing him to invariably rush in and barrel through a situation rather than waiting for its natural – and often calmer – conclusion.  When he was feeling arrogant, he thought of it as making his own destiny.  When it bit him in the ass, he thought of it as his Achilles’ heel.  He somehow knew patience was the key to it all.  If he could develop more than a passing acquaintance, his life would somehow magically, effortlessly fall into place.

Rolling up to the gate, he extended his arm through the Escalade’s window and entered the code that Dorothea hadn’t felt the need to change.    It was the little things in life, he supposed.  This tiny detail made him feel less ostracized from his family.

Your kids.  Not your family.  Dorothea’s nothing but a friend and parenting partner now.

He grunted to himself in disgust as his vehicle coasted to a stop in front of the house.  Getting philosophical with himself would require a hell of a lot more caffeine than the little paper cup in the truck had been holding.

The heavy door swung inward under his hand, and well-worn boots echoed on the foyer’s marble tile.  Navigating his way down the corridor that would take him to the private wing, he glanced up at the family photos from throughout the kids’ childhoods.  He and Dorothea and one or more of their children smiled down at him from each of the silver-edged frames.  Emerging on the other side, he was able to acknowledge that they weren’t necessarily mementos of happier times, just different ones.

Sometimes you’ve gotta complete a journey of mediocrity before you can appreciate what happiness really is.  Dorothea’s happy now.  Maybe my time is coming, too.

There was a lyric in there somewhere, but he didn’t bother tying down the elusive thought right then.  He had more important things on his mind.

“Hey,” he greeted his ex-wife, giving her shoulder an affectionate squeeze as he wandered by on his way to the coffee that sweetly beckoned him with its rich fragrance.

“Hey, yourself.”

She sipped her coffee in silence, watching him over the tops of her reading glasses like a crusty old librarian. For some reason, she radiated disapproval this morning.

He quietly fixed his own morning mojo, moving with an easy familiarity as he opened cabinet doors.  Once he’d had another fortifying dose of caffeine, Jon finally broached, “How is she?”

Dot shrugged.  “Other that the fact that I don’t think she slept at all, she seems fine to the casual observer.  The boys came in earlier asking for a scrap of aluminum foil and some chewing gum.   They said she was pimping their remote control cars to go faster.”

Jon smiled.  He bet they loved that.

“As long as she’s engaged in conversation or a specific activity, I don’t see any noticable difference in her.  When she’s not…  She talks to herself.”

He sighed and let his eyes fall closed.  That’s what he’d been afraid of.  “Reciting things?”

“Yes.  Sort of like she was last night, but she stops if you speak to her.”

A weight settled itself on Jon’s shoulders.  He had to find out what happened last night.  It had scared the hell out of him when she went into that other world and wouldn’t come back, and with Richie hauling his ass away in a snit, he hadn’t even gotten to talk to her about it.  What were the chances that Petey was going to let anyone in? 

"Did she tell you anything about what triggered last night's episode?"

He saw the worry etch itself around his ex-wife's mouth as she shook her head.  "Only that she got hot and went outside for air.  That's all she's giving up.  When I tried to pry any more out of her, she started reciting again.  What's that all about?"

“She has anxiety attacks, some worse than others.  Usually it means she’s got something in her head that she can’t figure out.”

Dottie pinned him to the wall with the dart of disapproval she'd been clutching since he got there.  “I know one thing she can’t figure out.”

“What?’

“Why you’re mean to her.  Jesus, Jon.  Mean?  I’ve known you to scream your views to the rafters, but I’ve never seen you purposefully strike out at someone.  You've said some pretty shitty things to her.  Just because you get your feelings hurt doesn’t mean you have to take her down with you.”

"I'm not intentionally mean to her," he defended himself with a frustrated growl.  "I'm always eaten up with guilt and apologize as soon as it's out of my mouth.  I can't explain it, but Petey makes me lose my mind sometimes.  We end up arguing even when it's the last thing I want to do."

She pursed her lips in that way he hated.  That look always meant he was about to get jumped on with both feet.  “She said you two argued last night.”

“Yeah.  I told you, it's not unusual for us.”

“Is it unusual that you hit her?”  Eyes that were typically a warm brown glittered hard with condemnation behind the lenses of her glasses.

His eyebrows winged into his hairline before they slammed down in anger.  “I didn’t hit her!  You should know me better than that!”  The full implication of what she had accused him of settled over his chest.  “Christ!” he breathed.  “I would never lift my hand to a woman.  Why the hell would you say that?”

Dorothea wasn’t backing down.  “That argument was the last thing that happened before I found her outside, lost in her head with a busted lip.”

“What?”  He pushed back his stool, intent upon getting to Petey.  Now.  “Where is she?”

“You really didn’t lay a hand on her?”  She scrutinized his face for any signs of deceit, but she could look all she wanted.  Jon was telling the truth.

“No!  And when I find out who did, they’re going to have more than a busted lip.”  His threat trailed behind him as his legs ate up the distance to the staircase.  “Where is she Dot?”

“The yellow guest room.”

He took the stairs two at a time, his heart pumping from both the exertion and the rage that someone would put a hand to his… to Petey.  One swift knock was all the courtesy he offered before barging into the guest room at the furthest end of the hall.  “Petey?”

Intent on righting the pale yellow bedspread, she spun in surprise at the abrupt intrusion.  “Jon.  What are you doing here?”

He had barely paused at the room's entrance and three long strides had her within arm’s reach.  Jon tipped her chin up so that he could search for the evidence of what he’d been told. 

“Motherfucker,” he murmured, seeing the slight split in her swollen bottom lip.  Rage made his heart beat like thunder against his ribs and his eyes scoured the rest of her, needing to prove to himself that she was okay.  Damn Richie for playing caveman last night.  He should have gotten to the bottom of this shit already.

Petey recoiled, her fatigue-dulled eyes conveying her irritation.  When she did, the light caught something that he’d missed the first time around.  There was a faint shadowing across her throat.  She was bruised.

“Who did this to you?” He struggled to control the venom behind his terse words.  She wasn’t the one who should bear his anger – well, not all of it.  She should have talked to him at the club, but that indiscretion paled in comparison. “What happened outside last night?”

“Nothing.”  She turned to resume her housekeeping tasks.  “I ran into the stall door in the ladies’ room and busted my mouth.  That’s all.”

He gently pulled at her arm, easing her around to face him.  “That doesn’t account for the bruise across your throat.”

Pink eyes grew wide and Petey’s hand flew to curl around her windpipe.

“If you tell us, we can help you,” Dorothea’s soothing voice came from behind Jon, where she stood quietly just inside the door.  “No judgment.”

“Sugar,” Jon echoed the same soothing tone.  “Tell me.  Let me fix it for you.”

Indecision had her gaze flitting back and forth between Jon and Dorothea.  Jon thought that her uncertainty seemed intensified by her appearance.  A scrubbed clean face, messy ponytail, flannel sleep pants and a t-shirt had Petey looking like a young girl who desperately wanted to say something, but was afraid. 

Come on, Baby.  Talk to me.

“It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity…”

The iron curtain came down over the indecision in her eyes, and steel found its way into her backbone, edging out the ambiguity of her posture.  Petey’s features went from uncertain to an icy coldness in the seconds it took to whisper the famous literary passage.    

“Nothing happened,” was her unwavering declaration.

Dammit!  What is she hiding?

“I appreciate the concern, but it’s completely unfounded.”

”The hell it is!”  He fought to contain his frustration.  Raising his voice wouldn’t do anything but incite an unwanted argument.  He didn’t want to fight with her, he wanted to know who had hurt her.  “Sugar,” he spoke calmly and evenly, reaching for her hand.  “You were nearly catatonic with anxiety.  A bathroom stall didn’t do that to you.  Please talk to me.  For once, let me in.”

Her eyes went glassy and she blinked several times in rapid succession while her tongue danced lightly over the split in her lip.  Indecision visibly clawed its way to the forefront once again and Jon could see the desire to share her burden warring with the unnamed need to keep it hidden away and protect... herself?  Protect them?  Or protect some other unknown person?

“Mom!”  Stephanie poked her head into the room, abruptly breaking the tension.  “There’s a taxi out front.  Did you call for one?”

Petey’s eyes cleared and she whirled to snatch up the clothing and boots lying across the foot of the bed.  For the first time, Jon noticed that she was wearing Jake’s scuffed red Chucks.  Her feet were no bigger than his eight year old son’s. 

“It’s mine,” she announced, adding the small handbag into the crook of her arm and draping the velvet cloak over it all.  “Dorothea, I’ll return the clothes as soon as I can.  Thank you for your hospitality.”

The little imp went by Jon without even looking at him.  A quiet, “I’m sorry,” was all he got. 

“Petey,” he called before she could fully make her escape.  “Where are you going?  At least let me take you home.”  It would give him another opportunity to pick at her protective barriers and dig out the truth.

But the ponytail shook vehemently.  “I’m not going home; I have a plane to catch."

"What do you mean you have a plane to catch?  Where the hell are you going?"

Deceitful eyes fell to the clothing she carried.  "My... mother called... with a family crisis.  I have to go home for a few days."

With that load of crap, she scooted past Stephanie, and out of the room as though wild animals were at her heels.

“Goddamit!”  If he’d had something to throw, it would have been shattered against the wall by now.  He glared at Dorothea.  “Do you see?  Do you fucking see why she makes me crazy?  She won’t give a motherfucking inch!”

And Dorothea, of course, was standing there as calmly as if they were discussing the weather.  “What I see is that she’s scared to death and heartbroken.”  She roughly grabbed onto his arm to keep him from pacing a hole in the floor, and looked into his face with complete candor.  “What I also see is the real reason she drives you crazy.  You love her, Jon.  Stop fighting it already."