Richard DuBois - Last Resort

A surreal sensation washes over me, a feeling both numbing and disconcerting. I close my eyes and have the odd sense that I am no longer Phillip Crane, thirty-seven, self-effacing adjunct professor for the science department of a fourth tier university. Nor am I sitting behind the wheel of a parked car on a shadow-filled street in a sleepy residential neighborhood. No, I am someone else, living somewhere else and Phillip Crane is a character invented by my overactive imagination. I pick up my cell phone and call my wife.

“Hello,” she sounds out of breath.

“Hey, Gwen. Just calling to say hi. Did I interrupt you?”

“No, no.”

“What’re you doing?”

Pause. “Uh, nothing, watching TV.”

“Anything good?”

“No, not really. Just flipping channels. I’m surprised to hear from you. I thought your conference would be going all night.”

I listen closely for background noise. There is none. My tone is nonchalant. “We took a break to rest our brains so I figured I’d check in.”

She chuckles with either genuine amusement or nervousness. I cannot tell which. “You’ll be home around midnight?”

“Hopefully,” I reply.

“I’ll wait up for you.”

“No need to do that. You must be tired after a long day at the office. Listen, everyone is heading back into the conference room.”

“Okay, I won’t hold you up then.”

“Goodbye, baby.”

Before she hangs up I add, “Honey?”

She is back on the line. “Yes?”

“I love you.”

“Oh, I love you, too.”

She seems perplexed. We are not a couple that ends every phone call with sweet endearments.

“Goodbye, honey.”

“Bye.”

From the glove box, I remove a photo from our wedding. It is impossible to gaze upon this photo of Gwen, delicate and beautiful, luminous in white satin and pearls, honey brown hair cascading over her smooth shoulders, and not feel wistful. That is the effect she has on me. The moment she entered my life I became like a gurgling infant staring wide eyed at a spinning crib mobile. Three years of marriage and if anything her loveliness has only increased. At the time of the photo, someone must have said something funny—was it me? I cannot remember—for in the photo she is laughing, her eyes sparkling with joy. In the photo, we are a contrasting pair, Gwen so lovely, and me the proverbial runt of the litter in a boxy suit. I do not deserve her. Even on my wedding day—the happiest day of my life—I seem to know how mismatched we are. My confused, goofy grin is that of the dumbest kid in class mistakenly given another student’s A+ grade.

I put the photo away and step outside the car. It is mid-May. The night is unusually cool—the moon just a pale sliver. I walk towards a well-maintained ranch house. My wife’s car is in the driveway. I dither on the front lawn. Should I ring the doorbell? No. I must get closer to the house to see what is happening inside without anyone knowing I am there. I feel exposed and out of my depth. Up until now, my life has been one of comfortable routine, reliable as a clock. I am not someone you expect to find skulking around in the shadows. I hunker close to the trunk of a maple and envision myself disappearing into the darkness ninja-like, each move stealthy and precise. Would a ninja’s knees quiver as mine are? How badly I wish I could slink back to my car, drive away, and continue living my life as it was before.

A large picture window dominates the front of the house. From within that room soft light filters through gauzy curtains. No figures move within. Perhaps the house is empty. The light may be on only to give the appearance someone is home. A chain link fence encloses the backyard. I sneak across the open lawn towards the fence. A car cruises down the street. Headlights hit me. Instinctively, I freeze. This looks too suspicious. Comically, I fidget around, pretending to look for something in the grass. The car drives on. Scaling the fence is no easy task. Regardless of my scrawny build, it sways beneath me as though I weigh a ton and creates an ungodly rattle that advertises my intrusion to everyone within earshot.

I hit the ground on the other side; the thud seems to vibrate right through the walls of the house. Crouching low, hardly daring to breathe, I stare up at the dark side window of the house, expecting at any moment to see a face and have someone demand to know why I am trespassing. Nothing stirs. The space between the ranch house and the fence separating the adjoining backyard is small—no wider than the length of my body. The side window is open. A faint breeze moves the curtains. Soft music plays within the house. With held breath, I peer inside. There is a hallway leading to what must be the dimly lit living room. Against the far wall, a fire crackles in the fireplace. Half-empty wine glasses rest on a coffee table. Walls obscure the rest of my view. I back away from the window.

Suddenly the air behind me explodes with ferocious barking, the breath, and spittle of a beast hot on my neck. I lunge forward, hands protecting my face and whip around to find a snarling Great Dane, as big as a horse, on the other side of the chain link fence. The massive hound frantically paces back and forth, barking madly. The fence protects me from those snapping jaws, but I cannot remain hidden in this spot. I crawl to the back of the ranch house. My body does not obey me as it should; it is as though my muscles have atrophied. The owner of the dog in the neighboring house—a tall woman of middle age—opens her backdoor.

“Goldie!”

The woman does not see me crouched in the darkness. The Great Dane continues to growl at me.

“Goldie! Hush up! Get in here. I can’t believe you, making all that racket.”

The dog turns in her direction, but refuses to budge, trying with helpless frustration to get the woman to see me.

“Now, Goldie,” the woman insists. Reluctantly, the dog turns away from me and heads inside the house. I huddle in a ball, not daring to move. Did the commotion draw someone to the side window of the ranch house? It is too risky to chance turning my head to find out. I am as motionless as a rock. Only after several minutes of hearing nothing more than the usual night sounds do I venture from my hiding spot. At the back of the house, there is a wooden deck, which has the usual assortment of outdoor furniture. Large sliding glass doors lead from the house to the deck. Curtains hang in the front of the glass doors; they are partly open allowing me to peer into the living room.

A man sits on a sofa, facing me but looking elsewhere. His name is Patrick Farber. He works with my wife. Granite jawed with neatly trimmed rust colored hair he has the beefy but muscled physique of an ex-college jock. Wearing a white athletic shirt, plaid boxers and nothing else, he reclines with arms outstretched on the back of the sofa like a sultan inspecting his harem. I half expect to see two slave women fanning him with palm fronds while a concubine feeds him grapes.

Staying low, I creep to the steps leading to the deck. I need to see more of the room. The closer I get the greater my vantage, and I finally see what Patrick is looking at. Gwen. Her back is to me. She wears one of Patrick’s sweatshirts, the oversized sleeves rolled up to her elbows. Her lower half is naked, the sweatshirt barely covering her backside, the firelight playing on her silky legs. A cocky grin plays on his smug face, beckoning Gwen to him, and she responds. Gwen’s approach is languorous, as though moving through honey. Without seeing her face I know she is enjoying this moment, savoring the anticipation. I have never seen her move in such a seductively feline way. It would not shock me if she curled up on his crotch and purred. She straddles his lap, cupping his grinning face in her hands. His large hands roam over her thighs, over her bare ass towards the small of her back. Those hands take possession of her, claim her and she eagerly yields to him.