The Spitting Post Read online

  I was just about to turn and leave when I heard a voice I recognized behind me. She was telling the waiter that she was waiting for someone. I turned and almost fainted. It was Erika! I panicked. I wanted my secret dinner date to show up but faced with my long-time crush, I was overwhelmed. I wanted to bolt out the door, but by the time my brain sent the signal to my feet, I heard a voice directed at me.

  “Hey, I know you,” Erika said with a smile as I turned, and she gazed directly into my eyes.

  Too late. I’m caught, I whispered in my head. No getting out of it now.

  “You’re Vince Carpenter. We went to high school together. Your band played at my party.”

  She glowed as radiantly as ever in a pink taffeta dress and matching high heels. Her blonde hair was curled, and her smile was exquisite.

  “Hello, Erika.” I nodded as I scanned her green ribbon.

  “So you’re my mystery date,” she said looking rather cheery. “What a pleasant surprise.”

  “It appears so,” I said as I tried to force a smile to cover my nervousness.

  “Let’s grab a table. I believe Frank and Amelia set up a reservation.”

  We sat down to a fine meal, and as the evening wore on, I loosened up and enjoyed our conversation. She was surprised at my career change. I was surprised and glad to hear that she had called it off with Charles and was single. We talked until the restaurant closed and we were forced to leave. After six months of frequent dating, I proposed and she agreeably accepted. We were married in the spring of 2000.

  Erika worked as an accountant and part-time painter. She would sell some of her artwork at local galleries for a fraction of the price they were worth. Erika loved painting and was talented, but she didn’t intend for art to become her day job. I, of course, continued my insurance career, and it seemed that life had finally found a place for me. Or perhaps, it was simply that I preferred to believe that. Recently, it had become clear that something strange was brewing. In the last few days Erika had started acting peculiar or should I say, more peculiar than before.

  I suddenly came to a bizarre realization that I was standing in the middle of the living room drifting into mental oblivion. Now that I was through reminiscing, I should move on to something more productive. I made my way toward the phone, called the restaurant, and canceled the evening’s romantic outing. When Erika exited the shower, I presented her with a silver necklace I had bought for her.

  “That’s nice,” she said as she casually set the necklace on the end table.

  That’s nice? I expected more than that.

  “I’m going to work on my paintings,” she announced with a hostile tone before she disappeared into the bedroom we had converted into her studio.

  I made my way to the couch and thought for a long time. After a while I fell asleep. The next morning, I awoke to an empty house. I recalled that Erika was going to have a showing on Friday at one of the local galleries. She might have gone to make the necessary preparations. I headed into her studio to view her latest work. There before me stood the oddest piece of art I had ever seen. In the painting stood a red human skeleton with dark blue antlers. It was waist deep in a blue pond. The skeleton was cradling a purple swan in its bony arms. The green grass on the banks of the pond brought only slight joy to the piece. This grassy depiction of life was in complete contrast to the rest of the painting. In the background, just beyond the pond, was her father’s strange house with the odd red illumination. I gasped with utter dismay as I tried to digest my wife’s artistic expression. The talent was clear, but the subject matter was completely out of character. I began to wonder if I really knew Erika at all. Look at the family she came from. Look at where she’d lived prior to our marriage. I could take it no longer and escaped the room.

  There needed to be an intervention—and soon. I decided I would confront Erika when she returned, and so I waited, and I waited, and I waited, but no Erika. I called her cell. No answer. I paced for so long and with such force that a pathway was quickly worn into the carpet. I might have paced myself to death had I not heard the front door creak open sometime just before midnight.

  “Erika, we need to talk.”

  “About what?” she said in a mocking tone.

  “You haven’t been yourself in quite some time. I’ve attempted to confront you, but you wouldn’t hear me out. Now you are going to hear me.”

  Erika muttered something incoherent, stomped into the bedroom, and shut the door behind her.

  “Erika!”

  Nothing but silence.

  “Erika!” I shouted as I stomped toward the bedroom. I tried to turn the knob, but it was locked. I knocked, but still there was no reply. I always played the role of the tough guy and kept everything bottled up, but I couldn’t hold back anymore. I wept continuously and finally sank to the floor. Erika never responded though my sobbing was loud enough for her to hear. After I finally regained my composure, I slouched over to the sofa and stared at the photograph hanging just above it. The picture showed Erika and me on our first anniversary. A fellow tourist had taken the photo while we vacationed in Europe. We looked proud and in love, but all that seemed like another lifetime.

  I drifted over to my new bed on the couch and eventually fell asleep. I dreamed many dreams that night—nightmares really—but I could not force myself to wake up. I dreamed that I was lying face down in mud and was frantically trying to hold my head up so I wouldn’t suffocate. My hands and feet were tied to wire cables that were stretched between wooden posts over dry land. I turned and saw Erika laughing hysterically. Mud was spewing from my mouth as I begged for her help. She ignored me, and I couldn’t pull myself onto land or into consciousness.

  At last, I woke the next morning shaking and doused in sweat. I checked the clock. It was only thirty minutes before I was supposed to be at work. I stumbled into the bedroom but no Erika. I looked out the window and noticed her car was gone. I supposed she had gone to work. That was considerate of her to wake me first. I called my boss and told him I was running late before I frantically started the morning ritual of the working man.

  When I finally walked in the office door, I looked as disheveled as if I had been shot from a circus cannon. I spun around the cubicle corner and headed straight toward my small workspace. I noticed the office seemed unusually quiet. Frank sat in the cubicle in front of mine, and no sooner had I sat down than he popped his head up over the wall like a mad gopher.

  “Something’s going on,” he said, looking distraught and more frenzied than even I did.

  “What?”

  “Home office is here.”

  “Do you know why?”

  “No one knows,” Frank answered as he stared at the floor. “They arrived about thirty minutes ago, went into Andrew’s office, and then they all went to the conference room and shut the door.”

  Andrew was our boss and the branch claims manager. He was a pleasant man to work for always eager to help with any questions you might have. Working in claims you often found yourself handling a situation you could never have imagined, and Andrew was always ready and willing to help. After all, that’s why he got the big bucks, wasn’t it? Andrew was about twenty years older than I was, and he had a cheerful wife, unlike mine. I looked to him as a role model and mentor.

  “Any theories?” I asked Frank.

  “Well, the rumor I heard was that the new program the company started isn’t doing so well.”

  The company was trying to sell new lines of coverage and had started a new program to push sales.

  “Interesting.”

  “We’ll see,” Frank said, and he crumpled back into his chair.

  I logged onto my computer and checked my voice mail and email. I tried to work as if the weekend had gone well, but my mind got the best of me. I could barely focus on anything else but Erika. I was in a distant daze such that my fingers were typing, but my brain was disconnected.

  I somehow made it through the rest of the morning and attended
my afternoon appointments. When it came time to go home, it appeared I had dodged a bullet at work. What unfortunate events would the evening bring? I usually arrived first, but I pulled into the driveway to find Erika was already home.

  I pulled out my keys, but before I could insert them into the lock, the door swung open and Erika whooshed passed me.

  “Where are you going?”

  “Out,” she said as she hurried to the car.

  I shut the front door and decided to trail her, hoping I could do so unnoticed. I followed her down well-known streets and tried to stay back far enough to not be seen. When she turned onto a certain road, I then knew her destination—her parent’s house. I slowed down and let her get well ahead of me. Certain she was far enough ahead, I proceeded on to my in-laws. I drove within a good range of vision, then pulled to the opposite side of the street and parked. I could see Erika standing in front of the deranged building speaking with someone but couldn’t tell who it was. I opened the center console and pulled out the digital camera I kept there to take photos for work. At a time like this, I was glad to have it. I zoomed in. It was still light and I could see well enough to distinguish a man’s form. But not just any man. It was Charles.

  I gasped. Anger filled my veins, and I boiled over. I started to exit my vehicle when somehow logic violently forced me back into my seat. If I confronted them like this, it wouldn’t end well for anybody, so I overcame my emotions and drove away.

  On the long drive home, I withdrew from reality and must have driven on autopilot. I was blank. I entered our house and flopped on the couch, staring into emptiness. My life was a black hole. I lay there in the darkness muttering, “Why me? Why me? Why me?”

  Erika didn’t come home that night, and I didn’t call her cell. I was afraid—afraid she might say it was over; afraid Charles might answer; afraid of being afraid. I stayed wide awake that entire night. I was a blank brain attached to an aching body. Why did she break up with Charles in the first place? Why didn’t she stay with him instead of marrying me? Why? Why? Why? I was tired of wondering.

  I slumped into work the next day looking entirely out of my mind. Frank glanced at me, and his jaw dropped.

  “What happened?”

  “Don’t ask. Are the executives back today?”

  “No.” He smiled. “I think they left.”

  “Good,” I said. I was in no mood to deal with anything heavy. Not today. Frank nodded and went back to work.

  I muddled through some files but kept seeing Erika’s face—and his. I walked to the restroom to splash my face with cold water. On the way, every female coworker I passed looked like Erika, and every male looked like Charles. They were everywhere. Was I going insane?

  I made it back to my desk and started to place a call to Erika when my extension lit up. I picked up expecting—and hoping—it was Erika.

  “This is Vince.”

  “Yeah, Vincent; I need to see you in my office,” said Andrew.

  “Okay. I’ll be there in a second.”

  Why was he calling me Vincent? He never called me that. He always called me Vince. I made my way to Andrew’s office and assumed he wanted to discuss a file, which was not unusual. It didn’t mean you were in trouble. It was just that some files needed a thorough discussion.

  As I entered Andrew’s office he was standing near the door rather than being seated at his desk as usual. He shut the door behind me, and then I knew this wasn’t going to be good. Andrew always left the door open when discussing a file. The business of shutting the door was something entirely new. Andrew seated himself across from me, and I saw tears welling in his eyes.

  “Vince,” he murmured in a struggle to get my name out. “Vince, there have been some changes within the company, and it is my sad duty to report that your position has been eliminated.”

  My heart sank, and a large lump formed in the back of my throat. I broke into a cold sweat and shook with anxiety. I was never nervous around Andrew—until today. Andrew stared at his desk, unable to look me in the eye.

  “What?” I asked. I knew what was going on, but I couldn’t believe it was happening to me—especially now with my crisis at home. It was like I was watching a movie in which I played the unfortunate victim.

  “Due to the economic downturn, our program didn’t go as well as expected, and it cost us a bundle.”

  “You’re telling me I’m laid off?”

  “Yes, Vince, I am.”

  “How long do I have?”

  “Your employment terminates at the end of the business day, along with all your benefits,” he said with an unmistakable quiver in his words.

  “Andrew, who made the decision to let me go?”

  “I did.” And then Andrew placed his hands over his eyes. “Your position is the only one we’re eliminating at this time.”

  “Thank you, Andrew,” I said and forced myself to stand and exit the office.

  I returned to my desk and threw my small desk fan, a deck of playing cards, and a few other knick-knacks into a box, including the coffee mug Erika had bought me that was inscribed with the words, Number One Husband. Frank was nowhere in sight, so there was no goodbye handshake. I gathered my stuff and trudged out of that office for the last time. I opened my car door, flung the box into the back seat, and started my drive home in abject defeat.

  On the way, my emotions boiled over at Frank and my other coworkers. I was mad at them because I was laid off and they weren’t. I worked harder than they did. I put in more hours. I worked faster. But none of that seemed to matter in the end. I worked so hard that I worked myself right out the door and into the unemployment line. I shouldn’t feel this way about my coworkers, but I couldn’t help it. Why did Andrew choose me? Just me alone? He always complimented me. He told me I was the best he had. Now I felt humiliated and rejected. Working for that company for that many years made me feel like it was a personal relationship, and the company just divorced me. My self-worth was in question. I had no idea how I made it home. I was spiraling into sheer madness.

  When I got home I immediately went for my electric guitar. I used my notes as my weapon of anger and took out my frustrations and pain in song. My torment created an ugly symphony of ear-splitting torture. I continued this act of insanity until all my physical energy was spent, and I collapsed onto the floor. Finally, I found some paper and a pen and began to write. Pouring out my suffering, I wrote The Maelstrom for Erika.

  Your ghostly image appears in the brightened light

  Darkness led astray, terrors in the night

  It seems that you have moved on into place

  What can I say as I have not

  Did we ever think it would turn out like this, disgrace

  When even water turns to rot

  Stagnant wood becomes my life, protection, fear

  Spiders call my name, the ones you have sent

  Taste the potion of remorse my sweet darling,

  you save a single tear

  Hold the rope so tight as we finish

  our descent of anxiety

  Could it have been mine in the heart

  Or just a memory

  Do you think you want to find out or

  just wait and see, the beginning

  Was it really you in full form of torment, tranquility

  Sewn into the cocoon of our pity

  Yellow pain tempts what once was lost

  Beckoning the taste of a billion spores of mold

  Lay my ambition between the

  oceans padded by the lovely moss

  I smell sweet sunshine blocked by your eclipse

  The sour dew that falls from your lips

  Is this how it will end

  Drifting into the infinite universe,

  my mind with no oxygen ascends

  And I know I must commit to these vines

  Alas, no more cotton in my mouth intertwined

  Your actions careless but oh what

  wonder your most urgent decree
r />   A well-proportioned meal with a side

  of poison sauce is delivered to me

  Savor the intense taste, I think it needs

  a little more salt

  Say farewell to what is undefined

  The person that is you swimming

  frantically through my mind

  Perhaps you shall be caught by a net

  The dark mermaid I never met

  Or did.

  As I wrote that last line, I burst into uncontrollable sobbing. I cried until I believed I might have become dehydrated from expelling all my tears. I stumbled to the kitchen and poured myself a glass of water and drank it as if I were a fish that was just thrown back into a lake. I was savoring each drop when I heard the front door. It was Erika.

  I bolted toward the door and noticed my hideous appearance in the hallway mirror. My hair was frazzled even though I had combed it neatly that morning. The dark circles under my eyes had dark circles of their own. The whites of my eyes were bloodshot from all the crying, and my shirt was untucked and wrinkled.

  “I got laid off,” I blurted out.

  No reply.

  “I know about you and Charles,” I uttered on impulse.

  That caught her attention, and she spun around looking genuinely amazed.

  “How did you?”

  “I followed you,” I said but couldn’t bear to look into her eyes.

  “You followed me?”

  “Yes. What’s wrong with us?”

  “Nothing is wrong with me,” she sneered. “It’s you. You’re just a loser like my parents always said you were.”

  My throat tightened. It appeared that my greatest fears were coming true.

  “Erika,” I said, trying to coax the words from my mouth, “I saw your painting in that room.” I pointed to her studio. “I saw your painting, and that is not the Erika I know.”

  “For your information, that painting is a true illustration of my life,” she said with outrage.

  Yet I couldn’t figure out what it could possibly represent.

  “That purple swan is my life, and you are the red skeleton holding on too tight!”

  “Too tight?”

  “You can’t give me the things I need, the things I want.”