Клео Коул - Through The Grinder

“You’re saying Maxine had this syndrome?”

“I’d say it looks that way from everything we’ve learned. She was the Right Woman — a goddess of her world, dominant in the marriage, likely spoiled as a child, always right, used to having her way, yet, ironically, at the heart of it she harbored deep insecurities. That was clear from the writings in her laptop’s journal, as well.”

“Where did Bruce fit in then?”

“From what you’ve told us, Bruce looked up to her for years. And Right Men and Right Women often look for mates who are submissive and admiring because it fills them with a sense of self-worth. Deep down, Maxine thought she was a failure. There were ramblings about her father and hurtful things he’d said to her and about the people at the law firms who fired her. But Right Men and Women don’t necessarily have to be failures. They can be worldly successes, too. What’s critical is whether or not they’re harboring a deep-seated sense of inferiority. And, it’s fairly clear that Maxine did.”

“Insecurity is one thing…but all those murders?”

“Yeah…I know…but you have to understand that remaining in control to the rest of the world is a hallmark of this syndrome. To function in the world, everyone learns self-control. The Right Man or Right Woman does, too, and he or she will maintain this self-control with every other person in his or her life, but one. Around this one person, the Right Man or Woman will decide that self-control is not necessary — be it a lover, wife, child, or parent. For Maxine Bowman, it was her husband, Bruce. With him, she made the decision to be out of control, to explode at will, venting rage, even violence, if she wished. It’s a decision, Clare, a conscious decision to be out of control.”

“So you’re telling me when Bruce left, Maxine’s escape valve left, too?”

“Yes. No more man around to look up to her no matter how she treated him. No more reassurance that her father was wrong…that she wasn’t an aging princess who’d failed to make anything of herself. No more special place to release her inner demons, to be out of control. Worse than that, in her mind, the guy was now betraying her with other women and these women were going to benefit from what she perceived as her property — a piece of real estate she felt was hers by virtue of the effort she put in to making it valuable.”

“Sweat equity,” I murmured, remembering the way Bruce had talked about his own efforts in turning the Westchester house he and Maxine had shared into a property worth twice its purchase price. “It must have been a shock to Maxine to find Bruce stubbornly fighting back in the divorce for his fair share of everything.”

“Yet another tangible example that she’d lost control of him, that he had finally become his own man, a man who was now tossing her away. And when he began to see other women — ”

“She killed them.”

“Yes. She obviously didn’t want to destroy what she’d put so much effort into building, so instead she killed any woman who dared to attempt ownership of it.”

“But what was her end game? What did she think she’d gain from it? Did she really think Bruce would go back to her once all these women were dead?”

Quinn shook his head. “Crimes of passion are a base transfer of rage. There’s no logic to it, Clare. Only violence and pain…”

“And tears.”

Quinn was frowning. I was crying.

“I’m sorry,” I said softly, wiping away the wet.

“I went to see Valerie Lathem’s mother and grandmother,” he said softly.

I closed my eyes, shuddering with the memory of those front page photos, thanking god I hadn’t seen Joy’s name in the headlines.

“They’re a religious family…so knowing that Valerie didn’t take her own life…it meant something to them.”

I nodded.

“Listen, I’m worried about you. Are you going to be okay?”

“Yes…” I swallowed, sniffled, and nodded again. With a deep breath, I looked up, into my friend’s wind-burned face, so full of concern, his blue eyes intense, waiting. For his benefit, I managed a small smile. “Thanks, Mike.”

He let out a fairly substantial exhale. “Kid, I’m just glad you’re still here.”

So was Joy. So was Matt.

“So am I.”

For a long time, I avoided routes through St. Luke’s Place and its curving extension just beyond the historic district’s boundary. I tried my best to forget the snowy night I’d gone to that house on Leroy, the night I’d crossed the line. One chilly spring day, however, I wasn’t paying attention to the direction of a stroll, and Joy led me back to that site.

Unexpectedly, I found myself standing once more in front of that simple yet refined house of Bruce Bowman’s. The house that had never become a home.

“Mom? Is anything wrong?” Joy had asked.

“No, honey…just memories.”

In the end, I tried not to become bitter over the tragedy of what happened, the horrible waste of it. I wanted to find a better way of remembering Bruce…so I tried to remember the early snowfall in the Village that Friday evening. Beautiful but transitory, disappearing by Sunday’s sunrise.

Bruce was like that to me, I decided. My lovely afternoon, my gorgeous evening. Not lasting, but remembered, and with something more than fondness. If only Maxine could have learned how to let go, I often found myself thinking, she would still be alive herself…

Thomas Paine, that fiery soul who’d died two centuries ago in Greenwich Village, once said, “We have it in our power to begin the world over again.”

Maybe some of us do. But some of us don’t.

For Bruce it was too late. For Maxine, too.

It wasn’t too late for me, though. I had started over more than once in my life and I would do it again. The pain, I knew, would eventually recede…melting in time as inevitably as an early snow.

Pour a generous helping of chocolate syrup into the bottom of the cup. Add a shot of espresso. Add steamed milk. Stir the liquid, lifting from the bottom to bring up the syrup. Top with sweetened whipped cream and ground cocoa.

Cover the bottom of a cup with hazelnut syrup. Add a shot of espresso. Add steamed milk. Stir the liquid, lifting from the bottom to bring up the syrup. Top with foamed milk.

Pour a shot of Frengelico (a hazelnut liqueur) into a cup, add a shot of espresso. Add steamed milk. Stir the liquid, lifting from the bottom to bring up the syrup. Top with foamed milk or whipped cream.

¾ ounce Kahlúa (a coffee-flavored liqueur)

2-½ teaspoons Frangelico (a hazelnut-flavored liqueur)

¾ ounce vodka

3 ounces crushed ice

Combine Kahlúa, Frangelico, and vodka. Stir well. Pour over ice and serve in old-fashioned glass.

Place two to four of your favorite steaks (T-bone, Rib Eye, Sirloin, etc.) in a large flat pan and add enough strongly brewed coffee to cover. (A slightly acidic bean is recommended, but any Latin American blend will do. It’s the acidity that does the tenderizing.)