29. Smacked

When Julian made it back to his home in Stephens City, it was about 11:30 PM. He had stopped at a service station in Winchester and changed back into his hiking gear. Then he stomped out into the woods next to the highway and muddied up his boots. He wanted an airtight alibi. Now he found that such precautions had not been necessary, because Dana Feminita was sound asleep in their bed. He went quietly back down the stairs, padding in his socks and put on some sneakers. He went out to the car and retrieved his ‘professor costume,’ and hung it carefully back up in a closet on the first floor. Now, except for the odometer reading, the whole thing had never happened. He poured himself a drink. He sat down on the couch and stared into space. He thought of Lana and Scott. He thought of Dana. He sighed. When he had drained his glass, he went upstairs and climbed in with her and was soon fast asleep. He slept the sleep of the man who had done what is right.

The next day, he went with Dana shopping up in Winchester. He was full of talk about how to fix his novel. Dana was glad to have him back in fine form. For the first time in a while, Julian seemed eager to seduce her stone cold sober in broad daylight. She let him do it. He took her hand in the mall. He kissed her in the car. He rubbed her neck in the hallway, and her grabbed her ass on the stairs. She was a little pissed off that he came so soon, but she figured, ‘what the hell, at least he’s into me.’

While Julian and Dana slept, having turned in early, Lana, having shut down “Amy Tells All,” was on the phone with Christine.
“Hey, Christine.”
“We’re so worried about you the way you took off. Are you OK?”
“I shut down the blog.”
“Good girl, I guess.”
“It had to be done. Man, I’ve never heard Scott yell like that. I’ve heard him be an SOB, for sure, but that was a new level of nasty. I’m glad he’s in California, you know.”
“How long is he supposed to stay?”
“I don’t know. He was going to try to get back for New Year’s Eve. He doesn’t tell me of his plans as a rule, and when he left he was pissed off that wouldn’t go with him.”
“The last thing you posted on the blog suggested you were through with him, and that you were planning to have an affair.”
“Oh, I was so pissed off when I wrote that.”
“Well, did you?”
“Oh…”
“Spill it.”
“You remember the professor.”
“Yes, I remember the professor.”
“Well, I met him in Salem last night.”
“Christ.”
“No. He was cool. I was so hot for him, I was just…”
“C’mon. Don’t withhold now.”
“I was pretty aggressive. I got us into a shitball motel. We, I mean, I tried my damndest to seduce him.”
“You mean, you failed?”
“I failed. He was turned on, I can tell you that. But he… He’s a good man. He has a sense of ethics. He wouldn’t… couldn’t do it.”
“Wow. A one in a million sort of man.”
“Yes. I am so infatuated with that man.”
“Did you tell him that?”
“I told him that I loved him. I was serious.”
“Jeez, girl. You’re in it deep.”
“Oh, Chrissy! We’ve known each other for ever. You know me well. You know I’m passionate, emotional, that I lead with my heart. You know that I’m not going to make it with Scott. We’re done. And as for the professor, I can’t let myself pine too much. He’s not going to cheat on his wife. So. I’m just a wreck.”
“Baby, you want me to come over?”
“Nah. I’m a wreck. I’ll just draw a bath and try to drink myself to sleep.”
“OK, suit yourself. But if you change your mind, give me a holler. I’m here.”
“Thanks Christine. You are my best.”
“Buh-bye, BFF.”

Scott was at the ticketing window, booking the next flight for PKB from OAK, with connectors at DNV and CLV, one-way. It was expensive. He was in the air by 5:45 in the morning and on the ground in Parkersburg at 9:45. The slightly under 24 hours since he’d been shocked into fury regarding the behavior and words of his wife had done nothing to reduce his boil to a simmer. He had not slept at all while waiting for the flight. En route, next to some outrageously fat woman and her pudgy daughter he had been terse to the point of incivility. He rehearsed in his mind the vitriol he would pour on Lana. That she remained unavailable by phone did not bode well. He assumed that he might have to go searching for her, or maybe break into his own house. 24 hours was plenty of time to change the locks. That might be what he would have done, and this was the way he thought. Not empathically, but sympathetically to his own way of thinking.
In the morning, the morning of the 29th, Julian and Dana sat on the couches with their laptops and coffee. His first stop was to “Amy Tells All.” He got the error message.
‘Shit,’ he thought, ‘she cut me off!’
He didn’t think she was that kind of person.
He went to her Facebook message area.
He typed:

“Lana! I’m cut off from ‘Amy!’ What’s up? Are you pissed at me because I couldn’t go through with it?”

He hit send. He sat and looked over at Dana. She was typing furiously. She laughed occasionally. He got up and got another cup of joe.

In the middle of the afternoon, he saw the little red one pop up in his Facebook message area. He clicked. It was Lana. She had typed:

“Julian! I’m so sorry to have had to do that. May I call you? I need to talk to you!”

He began to type, but in a moment they were messaging in chat:

“Sure, call. I’m here. Anytime.”
“OK. I am running scared. Scott discovered the blog.”
“Shitballs, as you like to say.”
“Holy Mary, mother of god.”
“Maybe blasphemy is not such a good idea just now.”
“Ha. I knew I could count on you to make me laugh.”
“Glad to still be of service.”
“OK, I’m off chat, and dialing voice.”

The dumb phone rang. It was in the other room. He got up and went for it.
“Hello? Lana?”
“Yes, Julian. It’s me. Lana, formerly Amy.”
“Oh don’t say that! You’ll get it back up soon enough.”
“Maybe. That man was one stung hornet.”
“How’d he find out?”
“I have no idea.”
“He’s still away, right?”
“Right.”
“What’s his ETA?”
“Well, he’s in California. It takes him a few days to get back by Cessna.”
“Well, that gives you a chance to think of a good defense.”
“I don’t know if that’s what I want to do.”
“What do you mean?”
“I think I’m going to ask him for a divorce.”
“Ah. You’ve really had enough.”
“Too much of that, and not nearly enough of you.”
“Lana.”
“OK. Sorry.”
“It’s OK. I guess I’m flattered. But I don’t want to keep fighting for that very difficult decision over and over. I’ll be your admirer in chief. That’s as good as I can get it.”
“That’s going to have to do me.”
“Is there any material way I can help you, Lana?”
“Oh, thank you so much. You are such a perfect gentleman. But no, I think I need to work this out all on my ownsome.”
He put the phone down. It was always awkward, saying goodbye to Lana. The words poured out of them, even now that they had stepped back from the brink of carnal knowledge.
He walked back into his living room and sat. He set the phone on the table.
“Who was that,” asked Dana.
“It was that whore in Parkersburg.” He gave his wife a level gaze, suggesting to her that he was telling the truth and that she’d better take it like a man.
“How’s she doing?”
“She got caught by her husband blogging. She had to take the blog down.”
Dana peered at him over her glasses.
“Caught blogging? It’s a free country. She should be able to blog if she wants.”
This was the first time in a while that Dana and Julian had talked about Lana. He was tempted to tell her the truth. She was his wife. He had always told her all. This was, in fact, his finest moment. Still, he had been tempted. Still, he did have a serious and abiding love for Lana. Dana knew her Kinsey. She should understand this as well as anyone on the planet. But for once, discretion stilled his voice, bucked up his super ego, fed his adult, and made him say less than he knew.
“Her husband is possessive.”
“If you have a possessive man, you have a problem.”
“She has a problem.”
“A serious problem?”
“Unknown.”

Once in Parkersburg, Scott called Bruce. This was a tricky but necessary call.
“Bruce.”
“Hey, Scott. How’s Oakland?”
“I’m at KPKB.”
“With the Cessna? What happened?”
“I had to leave the Cessna in Oakland.”
“You what?”
“It’s complicated. Can I ask a huge favor?”
“OK. Shoot.”
“Can you come over here and give me a ride home. I’ll explain it on the way.”

Scott waited at the airport, calculating. He was going to get into the house one way or another. He was going to confront that wife of his and make her see the light somehow. She must not be writing that sort of shit on the Internet. Admirers were not going to be tolerated. Infidelity was out of the question, and she was to get right back to being a good wife. If not, there was going to be serious trouble between them. Then he raced to the fact of the matter: there already was serious trouble between them. If she’d gone out and fucked some guy behind his back, she was in for it. He was not going to be a cuckold. The word made him furious. He also calculated that he had to cool it with Bruce. He had to get his red-faced fury under wraps. He knew Bruce was sympathetic to Lana, and that they’d been friends a long time. Bruce, in all likelihood, knew all about the blog. He had figured it out that they all did, and that he was the only one who had been kept out of the loop. This too was a flash point. In any case, he needed Bruce to drop him off and then leave. So he had to come up with a story.

Bruce Sibley put down the phone. As soon as he put it down, it rang again.
“Hello?”
“Hi, Bruce. Christine Miller here. Is Annie home?”
“Sure. Just a sec.”
“Annie!”
“Yes, dear?”
“It’s Christine.” He handed over the phone.
“What’s up Christine?”
Bruce now waited for his wife to finish so he could tell her where he was going. He listened in.
“No!”
“How’d he find out?”
“I’ll bet he was. He’s a maniac.”
“Is she OK?”
She covered the transmitter.
“It’s Lana. Scott found out about the blog!”
“Shit. He just called from the airport. He flew back commercial. He wants me to take him home.”
“Shit. I’ll tell Christine and we’ll warn Lana.”
“I don’t want to be in the middle of a domestic dispute.”
“Well, Bruce, you’re in the middle of one. I think you should not leave them alone once you get him home.”
“That’s not likely to work. Perhaps, though I can work out something.”
She went back to Christine.
“Chris, he’s at the airport. Bruce is going to take him home…”
Bruce suited up and listened in.
“…we’ve got to warn Lana. She’s taking a bath? That’s not good. She should get dressed. She should arm up for battle.”
On his way to the car, Bruce mused that everyone seemed to get that Scott was dangerous but Lana. Here she was taunting him in public with hints of infidelities planned and other insults and breaches of marital confidence. ‘If Annie did that to me, I’d even be mortified, and I’m not the jealous type like Scott,’ he thought.

It took Bruce Sibley about twenty minutes to get to the airport. Scott was waiting at the curb. He got in.
“Thanks man. You’re getting extra points for this one.”
“No prob, dude. So why’d you leave the Cessna in Oakland?”
“I needed to get back quick.”
“May I ask why? It’s going to cost us mucho hangar fees while it sits out there, and then you have to go get it.”
“I know. Couldn’t be helped. I hit a snag with Lana.”
Bruce said nothing. This was the familiar familial territory that Scott was so testy about. He just waited. In the silence, Scott might realize that this was highly unusual and volunteer an explanation. It was one that he was likely to know was false.
“She got some sort of food poisoning. She sounded awful. I decided I’d better get back and deal.”
The cheap shot lie.
“God. How awful.”
Beyond this, Bruce said nothing. He now understood that he might need to be the lifeline for Lana. He drove calmly in silence. Scott did not volunteer a single other word.
“OK, Scott. Here you go. You call us if you need assistance with this.”
“OK. Thanks again, buddy.”
Bruce did not wait for Scott to get inside, but drove off down the street, when around the block and parked opposite the Andrews’ house. He could see them as shadows behind the curtains in the backlight of their living room.

Lana had gotten a call from Anne Sibley, and got out of her bath to take it. She thought it might be Julian, changing her mind. Her heart beat fast in her chest. She grabbed a robe, and grabbed her phone.
“Lana?”
“Oh hi, Annie.”
“Lana he’s back. Scott. Bruce went to KPKB to pick him up and they’re on their way to you. I suggest you get ready. Christine called and said you were gonna take a bath. Towel off and get dressed. You don’t have much time.”
“Oh. God. Thanks!”
She did as instructed. But then, with a blast of genius instinct taking over, she locked the bathroom door and sat on the covered toilet. She was trembling from top to bottom in fear of her crazy husband. She understood all that his premature arrival implied. She was familiar enough with his Skyhawk that she knew he’d flown back commercial. That meant he was insane. An insane Scott was not going to be a fun Scott. She looked around in the bathroom for anything that might serve as a defensive weapon. She grabbed a bottle of hairspray.

She heard the door open and close.

Scott saw the lights all on and the mud on the carpet. He saw no sign of Lana. He ran up the stairs to check their bedroom. The lights were all on in there, but the bathroom door was open and there was no Lana. That left the downstairs bathroom and the kitchen. From her perch in that first floor bath, she heard Scott not doing any sort of checklist, but just running around in silent search of her. It was just a matter of a few moments now.
“Lana! Where in hell are you!” He yelled.
“I’m in here, Scott. I wasn’t expecting you home so soon sweetie! Just give me a few minutes!”
He saw her phone, and picked it up. He went through menus and found the last call she’d made. He didn’t recognize the number or the area. He hit redial.

Julian’s dumb cellphone vibrated on the table where he’d left it hours ago. His heart leapt, because upon picking it up, he could see that it was Lana’s number. He was being granted audience twice in one day?”
“Hello, babe,” he said.
There was a pause on the other end. Into this pause, he said,
“Hello?”
“Wrong number,” came the gruff male voice on the other end. There was a click and the call was over.
With the sudden impact of a tragic thought, Julian realized he had heard the voice of Agamemnon returned home from the wars. Agamemnon over there was not the equal of Achilles in battle, but surely, as commander-in-chief, he knew his way around the tools of the trade. Julian could suddenly imagine him with his sword, and therefore he could imagine him with his smart phone. Ah, the damage he can do when he finds Clytemnestra in imagined flagrante dilecto with some poet! One wouldn’t want to be there on the other end of that wrong number. But then Julian remembered that Agamemnon was killed in his bath, perhaps musing that it is not, in fact, true that Trojans take the worry out of being close. He assumed that Clytemnestra would take care of herself. Even were that not true, Julian thought, with this stupid phone, I cannot even redial the last number that called me. The idea that he might try to do battle with the Agamemnon in his own mind, this over the top Scott Andrews, he didn’t have the technology to do it with any speed. Away back in the posts, he had Lana’s number on his Facebook message area. It would take time to find it. Could he honestly say I liked his women smart but his phones dumb? When his mistress’ husband was calling his number, he now wished for the ability to instantly check back with him. The dumb phone kept him unknown and unhappy, knowing whom his wife had been calling.

From behind the door, Lana heard Scott say, ‘wrong number.’ She knew what that meant. She was ready now to act. She opened the door, aerosol can in one hand, fully dressed in jeans, sweatshirt and sneakers. Scott immediately brandished her phone at her.
“Just what the fuck do you think you’re doing!” He yelled.
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“This! Who the fuck is this you’re calling! Your goddamn admirer? Have you been fucking around behind my back?”
“It’s over, Scott. Give me my phone.”
“You’re damn straight it’s over!”
“Give me the phone.”
“Maybe when you start acting like my wife again, stop fucking around on me, stop dragging our life out into public on a fucking blog, and stop doing things behind my back in general!”
“It’s over, Scott. I mean the marriage is over. I’m going to sue you for divorce.” She said this quietly but with some lawyerly venom. It sent a tongue of the flames of rage up into his mind and he took a quick step towards her and with the hand that wasn’t holding her phone, that is, with his right hand, he hit her across her left cheek with his full force. The blow knocked her away from him, but like the cat that she was, she did not fall. She crouched into the stinging blow and rebounded. Scott was shocked by what he had done. It was almost as if it were not him. He was angry, yes, and hurt. She’d cut him to the quick and all undeservedly. He had loved her, and always would. He had not meant to hurt her. So when she caught him in the face with the hairspray, and grabbed the phone from his hand, and walked out the front door, snatching her coat with keys in pocket, and got down the walk into her car and slammed and locked the doors, Scott was well behind the beat in this choreography.

From his car across the street, Bruce had seen this drama play out as shadows behind a curtain. He had his phone in hand and was fingering his wife’s speed dial button. He was also thinking of dialing 911. He saw Lana shoot out of the house and get in the car. Now he saw Scott a few moments behind her, pounding on the roof of Lana’s Honda. He saw her behind the wheel crouched over something. ‘Did she even manage to get her car keys?’ Bruce wondered. He decided to dial 911. When the operator picked up, he said,
“I wish to report a domestic disturbance at (and he gave the address).”
“We’ll be right out.”
Lana was also dialing 911. Her lip was bleeding from the blow, and she now tasted her own blood. Her cheek was scalding hot and stinging. A less lawyerly woman might have fled. But Lana wanted to wait until the police arrived and the incident was recorded. She wanted them to deal with her screaming, pounding husband. She started the car, though, because if he went berserk and broke a window with a rock or something, she wanted to be able to peel out. The 911 operator took her call after a moment. The operator said,
“Yes ma’am, we’ve already gotten a report. It seems to be a very popular disturbance.”
“May I ask who called?”
“It was a man named Bruce Sibley.”
“Thanks.” She looked around and between the flashes of Scott’s gyrating and hopping figure she saw the Sibley’s car across the street. She saw Bruce behind the wheel. She gave him the thumbs up. He repeated the gesture. Scott had been yelling obscenities, but now he was pleading.
“Goddamn it, I’m sorry, Lana! I am such an ass! I didn’t mean to hit you! Goddamn it! Open the fucking door! Let’s talk about this!”
Bruce saw the car start and observed the exhaust gas in the cold air. He could plainly hear his partner yelling the most pitiful things at Lana. He could see Scott’s body language, see that he had no coat on, and could see the exhalations of his breath as a counterpoint to the car exhaust in the street light. It was a surreal scene. He had great admiration and respect for Lana. She was handling this like the smart woman that she was. But now the flashing lights of the two patrol cars arrived, and he began to feel a little sorry for Scott. She could see him step away from the car when he saw the lights. He put his hands up in a gesture of surrender. The officers got out of their car, and approached him. One was a woman and the other a man. Their weapons were at the ready. It was a serious moment. Bruce cracked his window so he could catch the dialogue.
“Sir,” said the woman. “We are acting on a report of domestic violence. Is that the victim in the car?”
“That’s my wife in the car!”
“Have you assaulted your wife, sir?”
This is where Lana might have advised Scott not to answer but to ask that his rights be read or that the officers allow him to reenter the house without interrogation. Scott was unsure about how to respond. The term “assault” did not feel very good to him. It undermined somewhat his self-image as a man in control. He was an aircraft pilot. Assault?
“We’re in the middle of an argument. She’s cheating on me.”
“Did you hit her, sir?”
“I hit her once. It was an accident.”
Now the male cop spoke. He was gesturing for Lana to roll her window down. She did it.
“Ma’am, are you ok?”
Peering into the car, he could see the welt on her cheek and her bloodied lip. He nodded to his partner.
“This woman’s been hit, certainly.”
This was very down home police work, very sloppy and haphazard. West Virginia law requires that officers take detailed information and report verbatim the victim’s statement. West Virginia is a state where officers have much discretion in the matter of making an arrest in a domestic violence case. The officers “may” arrest if there is clear evidence of battery. Lana is well aware of the law. Scott may have bruised her face and bloodied her lip, but here is the kickback where she ruins his life. You can’t beat a woman. The male officer leaned back in,
“Is this man your husband?”
Lana nodded.
“I need to ask some questions, but I want to know if you need medical attention first.”
“No, I don’t need medical, and I will answer questions.”
“What is your name and address?”
Lana gave this information.
“Have either of you been drinking or using drugs.”
“No.”
“Are there weapons in the house?”
“My husband may own a gun. I am not sure.”
“Were weapons used in the assault?”
“He hit me in the face. I sprayed him with hairspray to escape.”
“Do you wish to press charges? Shall I book your husband?”
“I do wish to press charges, and I would like you to arrest him.”
Meanwhile, the female officer was preparing to ask the same questions of Scott. On the strength of her partner’s assessment that the woman had been hit, and given the stance of the man upon their arrival at the scene, she had her cuffs at the ready. Scott could see all of this unfolding. He was standing still and shivering. He was beginning now to grasp what Lana had meant when she had said ‘it was over.’ He was defeated. The female officer waited for a nod from her partner. She then cuffed Scott Andrews and ducked him into the patrol car. Once in the car, at the start of her potential interrogation, she read Scott his Miranda rights. The familiar litany from every cop show he’d ever seen was surreal now that it was happening to him. “You have the right to remain silent. Any thing you say may be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. If you can’t afford one, one will be appointed for you. Do you understand your rights?
“I do.”
“Can you tell me your name and address?”
Scott supplied this information.
“Is that woman in the car over there your wife?”
“It is.”
“Are there weapons in the house?”
“I own a gun. I have an FOID if you wish to see it.”
“No thanks, perhaps we’ll look at it later.”
“Have you been using drugs or alcohol?”
“No. I may have had a beer hours ago.”
From his car, Bruce now rolled up his window and called Anne.
“Annie, I’m still over at the Andrews. Scott apparently hit Lana, and she’s having him arrested on domestic violence charges.”
“Whoa. That’s heavy.”
“Yeah.”
“I’m waiting to see what’s going to happen, but I think they’re going to take Scott to the lockup and let Lana go pretty soon.”
“OK. Babe, this is kind of crazy.”
“Yeah. My partner, the jail-bird.”
“Can you have a pilot’s license with an arrest record?”
“Gee, that’s a good question.”
“He’ll lose his gun, that’s for sure.”
“Yeah. Wow. OK, well they’re getting moving. I’m going to go talk to Lana. She’s still sitting in her car.”
The cops pulled out, taking Scott to the slammer. Bruce got out and walked over to Lana’s window.
“Lana, my god. I’m so sorry.”
“Yeah. Well. I gotta go close the front door and lock up. I’d better make sure Mea and Tory haven’t escaped.”
“You need to do something about that lip.”
“I need to photograph it. I’ve got a camera inside. Would you shoot me?”
“Lana, that’s not funny.”
“C’mon Bruce. I’m still me. I need my giggles.”
Lana got out and walked with Bruce to the front door. They went in and closed the door behind them. She went in to look for Mea and Tory. She found them upstairs, asleep on the bed. Cats. What can you do? In the light, her face had turned an ugly shade of purple in the shape of Scott’s hand. She found the camera, and Bruce took photos.
“Bruce thanks for sticking around.”
“Sure, Lana. I had to. I wasn’t sure how this would go.”
“It could have been worse.”
“It could have been better.”
“Well, what’s your pleasure, Lana?”
“I’m going to use some antiseptic, and then I’m going to ring up the Millers and see if I can stop by for a drink. You’re welcome to come.”
“I might. I want to call Annie.”
“Good idea. And let’s see what the Roiters are up to. It’s time for a pre-New Year’s Eve party.”
Bruce went and collected Annie. Lana contacted the Millers and they contacted the Roiters. Lana set off for the Millers, and when Jason opened the door for her, he cried out,
“Holy shit! Lana! You have a perfect purple hand print on the side of your face. And a serious split lip! Scott did this?”
“He did.”
“Well, we’d better take you to emergency.”
“Emergency?”
“You need to get this documented and in medical records. Trust me.”
“I took photos.”
“That’s good, but if you want your case to stick, we’ve got to take a trip to Emergency.”
Lana ducked her head. (‘Oh sacred head, now wounded.’)
“OK. Let’s take this party to Emergency.”
The little crowd of her closest friends sat together in the fluorescent glare of Emergency admissions. They were not very high up in triage. They had time to kill.
“So, Lana. Here’s some news you may have missed. ‘Amy Tells All’ made the Huffington Post.’”
“Say wha? You’re kidding me, Lisa.”
“Nope. Serious. Here, let me conjure it up on my phone. OK…
‘Popular Blog Goes Missing.’ That’s the headline. ‘The many young and old folks addicted to the popular blog Amy Tells All were in for a shock today when they woke up to find the blog reverted to private status. A recap for those under-rock-dwellers who are unaware: this blog has been widely read since its inception several months ago. The posts are often witty, self-revelatory and poetic. The topics include sex, cats, and lately, ‘truth cake.’ What’s not to like? OK. Another source of Amy’s appeal is her refusal to step out from behind her anonymity. She gives us a general location, but no specifics that could allow us to know her identity. Her scenes are careful to allow identifiers, except when she writes up Parkersburg WV landmarks such as the Coyote hang she favors. So went she suddenly went private, there was much dark speculation. Her last post, the one on truth cake, left us with the impression that she was a), married and that b), her marriage was in trouble. Is there trouble in Amy city? Stay tuned.’ That’s what they published.”
“I’m getting a sort of ‘Amy’ headache at this point,” said Lana.
“Well, you just got smacked upside the head for it,” said Jason. “The headache is understandable.”
“I think he smacked me because he thought I was having an affair.”
“Is that not true? I only got one crack at that post before it disappeared, but it seemed to imply affair.”
“No, no, Annie, I am blameless. Nothing happened.”
“Uh huh,” said Christine, who’d heard the details.
“OK, OK. I liked this guy a lot. But he sent me packing, no nookie.”
“I like this guy a lot too,” said Bruce.
“Restraint is so rare.”
“Ms. Andrews, we’ll examine you now.”