"There's only one thing worse than an ex-girlfriend coming back into your life, and that's a psychotic ex-girlfriend." This I said to the cracked, concrete ceiling, as I lay on my back on the hard bunk and stared in fascination at the pieces of peeled, gray paint which hung like little bats from the ceiling of my cell in the Potosi State Prison, one of the finer penal establishments in Missouri.
I rolled onto my side and looked at my cellmate. "How long did you say you've been here?"
"Seven years, four months, and thirteen days. But who's counting?"
Oscar, apparently. I looked around the eight by eight enclosure where I had spent the last nine months, eighteen days, seven hours, and thirty-nine minutes. But who's counting? Two beds, if they could be called beds, one toilet with no lid, a sink next to it and a piece of shiny metal that might be mistaken for a mirror. Oh, and Oscar, my wiry, pockmarked cellmate.
"You going to tell me this story, or what? We've only got one hour before exercise. And you know how I hate to miss my exercise," said Oscar, as he sprawled out on his bed, barely making an impression in the hard, thin mattress.
Exercise? Hardly, that's when Oscar purchases his cocaine. He grew impatient, so I started the story.
It started with a phone call, about one year ago, as I ate breakfast. Gina, my wife, answered and a woman on the other end asked for me. Gina hesitated but reluctantly gave me the phone. I took the phone from her and cringed from the nasty look she shot me through her heavily lashed, dark eyes. My wife was a very jealous person. I'll admit, I have a habit of looking at other women. But just looking. She didn't understand. We used to argue endlessly, usually with her accusing me of messing around, me saying I only look and don't touch, and then her accusing me of finding her unattractive. A vicious cycle, but it sustained our marriage for twelve years. Now don't misunderstand, I loved my wife very deeply. She was an emotional, passionate person, normally very bubbly and vibrant. But she had a green streak running through her like a copper vein in the Rockies.
"Hello," I said.
"Bobby, do you know who this is?"
A faint memory stirred in the back of my mind. I thought it was probably an ex-girlfriend, which caused me to blush. My wife, who rarely missed anything, caught the blush. She huffed and stormed out of the room. Surprisingly, she didn't pick up the bedroom extension.
"No, I'm sorry I can't place the voice." Looking back on it there was a very good reason too, but more on that later.
"This is Diana. Diana McCormick. Remember?"
How could I forget? Diana McCormick, a woman I had dated about a year before meeting my wife. The relationship had been stormy, passionate, and brief. It had ended badly. Diana had a habit of sleeping around. Of course, no one bothered telling me until after I found out on my own. We'd been dating about six months when I questioned her about where she'd been the previous night. I'd been stood up. She came right out and said she'd been with another man and did I have a problem with that? Of course I had a problem with that and we argued long and hard. The neighbors complained. The police came and hauled me away with her screaming if she ever saw me again she'd kill me. Real charming girl. I'd lost track of her; the last I'd heard she had moved far away, to the West Coast, shortly after our break up.
"Uh, yes, Diana I remember. I remember you telling me to stay out of your life." To put it mildly.
"That was a long time ago, Bobby. I forgive you. Actually, I forgave you ages ago. I just never had the nerve to call you again."
She forgave me!? Well, she found her nerve all right. But being the soft spoken, considerate person I am, (my wife calls me a wimp) I simply replied, "So, why are you calling me now?"
"I'm in town visiting my sister and wondered if you'd like to get together."
Ah, her sister. The one I always thought would turn out to be the jewel of the family. Dawn was three years younger than Diana, with flaming red hair, (Diana's was darker red), a spattering of freckles on her fair skin, and deep green eyes. I remembered Dawn had a tremendous crush on me when I had dated Diana. So much so, that after Diana gave me the old heave ho, I dated Dawn twice. That didn't last either; she was too young and immature (in other words she wouldn't put out) so I broke it off. I also remembered Dawn had her sister's temper. When I told her I thought we should break it off, she went into a rage, throwing at me everything she could get her hands on. She screamed at me, telling me how much she loved me and how I had used her. Boy, from one extreme to the other with the McCormick girls. The last I had heard, Dawn had moved to New York City, a thousand miles away. It now seemed they'd both returned; be still my aching heart.
"Uh, I don't think that'd be such a great idea. I'm married now, with two kids. It was nice talking to you though." I didn't give her a chance to respond as I hung up the phone. When I turned around my wife had returned. Luckily, she was unarmed or I'd have been dog meat.
"Just who the hell was that?" Her beautiful dark eyes blazed. A cloud hung over her already dark complexion. We were quite the pair, Gina with her jet-black, baby-fine hair, perpetual tan, and dark brown eyes, and me with my blond curly locks, fair skin, and blue eyes.
I wondered if she had caught any of the conversation. If she had at least heard the ending..."That was Diana McCormick." A thousand lies flashed through my head, but being the wimp I am I told her the truth. "She was a woman I dated before I met you. Um, she wanted to see me."
Her arm went back and I put up mine to shield my face. She punched me in the gut. Gina was a very reactive person, as she tended to hit first and demand an explanation later. And for someone only five feet tall and weighing around ninety pounds, she packed quite a wallop. While doubled over, clutching my beer belly, I said, "I turned her down and hung up on her."
"Yeah, right. You bastard. How did she get this number?"
"The phone book?"
She walked away and ignored me for the rest of the day and, of course, that night.
I thought that would be the end of it. Gina would settle down with time. But oh, how wrong I turned out to be. The next morning, at about the same time as the previous morning, the phone rang again. Gina leaped up from the kitchen table. The look she shot me said, "Move, asshole and you die." I stayed put.
"Hello...No I'm sorry he can't come to the phone...I said he can't come to the phone...Look, bitch, he's not interested in you so don't bother calling here again." She slammed the phone down. I chuckled and reminded her the phone had to be switched off. Bad move. Not finding it amusing, she hurled the phone at me. Luckily, the cord came up short and it clattered to the floor a mere foot from where I sat.
"That was your slut ex-girlfriend." As if she needed to tell me. "Why is she still calling if you told her to go away?"
"I guess I'm just irresistible." I ducked as a bowl whizzed over my head and made a nice impression in the white wall behind me. I have a knack for finding women with short tempers. It must be to counter balance my sweet, calm personality.
"Look Gina, the woman's crazy." I told her the story of our break up. She remained unconvinced, but there was nothing I could do but ride it out.
It turned out to be a rough ride. For the next four days, the phone rang at various times during the morning and evening. My wife always answered it, the caller always hung up. We both knew who called. It got to the point where my wife would not leave the house if I was home, so I had to go everywhere with her, even the beauty parlor.
The phone calls stopped after a week, but the ride got rougher. I came home from work on a Monday and my wife flew at me and thrust a piece of paper in my face. The veins in her neck throbbed. Her mouth moved, but emitted only an unpleasant squeak. She stood in front of me fuming while I read the note. Nothing extraordinary about it, just a request to meet with me and a threat if I didn't. I get them all the time. A threat to me, not Gina. Signed by, who else, but Diana McCormick. I found out, though, the note was the least of the problem.
Gina finally found her voice, a gravelly, restrained voice and said, "Nicky gave me that note. That bitch approached our son. He said this strange, red-haired woman walked up to him at school. Handed him this note. I've called the police." Then she started to cry. Actually, cry is too mild, more like a watershed. Her knees buckled and she sank to the floor. I've never seen my wife so shaken and frightened. And actually, to be perfectly honest, so was I. Diana was unpredictable, and it appeared, dangerous.
The police were their usual helpful selves. They could do nothing. They asked for a description of Diana and I told them what I remembered from fifteen years ago; about five-five, not chunky, but solid, dark red hair, shoulder length, small darting brown eyes, small nose. Then they suggested we transport our children to school (they actually used the word "transport") and keep a close eye on them for awhile. The looks they gave us seemed to say they thought we normally let our children run amuck, causing mayhem. They said to let them know if any more incidents should happen.
As shaken up as I felt, I didn't take the threat seriously. I should have. Almost two weeks passed and we heard nothing more from Diana McCormick. But we could feel her presence. It was a gradual realization, one both Gina and I had at the same time. Then, I received a call at work one day, at about four-thirty.
Frantic, Gina said, "There's a car parked on our street. A large four door. A Buick, I think. I've seen it before. Bobby, there's a woman sitting in it. I know it's her. Please come home, Bobby."
"Just calm down, Gina." Always a good thing to say to a panic-stricken woman. Usually they become incensed. My wife was no exception.
"Don't tell me to calm down, Goddammit. Just get your ass home. I'm calling the police."
She hung up on me and I left immediately. I made some excuse to my boss about my child getting sick and my wife needing help. As I pulled into our subdivision a blue, four door Buick passed me. It looked familiar. Suddenly, I realized I had seen that car on our street several times over the past couple of weeks. I racked my brain but could not remember seeing it before Diana had first called. When the car passed, I failed to get a good look at the driver, but it was definitely a woman. The angle of the sun blocked out the details of her face, but I saw a flash of red. A chill did a tap dance down my spine as I floored it and prayed to God no children were playing in the street and nothing had happened to Gina. Not in that order, of course. Three corners and three tire squealings later, I pulled into our driveway.
Gina flew out of our ranch style house screaming, "Did you see her? Did you?"
"Yes, Gina. I saw the car. I don't know if it was her or not." I was lying through my teeth. I had no doubt who the driver had been. The hair on the back of my neck standing straight up told me.
"Oh, God, Bobby. What are we going to do?" She clung to me like wet jeans and started crying again. You have to understand, crying was a concept foreign to my wife. She didn't even cry at her father's funeral. We stood in the partly-green-going-to-brown lawn, wrapped in each other's arms, frightened to the core. Actually, thinking back on it, I'd never felt closer to my wife than at that moment.
The police arrived, late as usual. We gave them the description of the car and to no one's surprise they had not seen it coming in. Our small town police are about as useful as a candle in a hurricane. Again, they said they could do nothing. The driver of the car had every right to be on the street. Call them if she makes anymore threats.
I never found out why Diana left when she did. She had no way of knowing I'd left work early. I always thought my wife kept something from me, like she had approached the car. She never told me that, but I noticed one of my hunting knives, very large, very sharp, had been shifted in the closet. I let it drop.
The blue car disappeared and life returned to almost normal. Gina continued to look over her shoulder, constantly checking her mirrors when driving and becoming agitated when one of the children wandered out of sight. They were nine and eleven, so it annoyed them to no end to be so closely watched. Other than that, the incident slowly faded into the oblivion of bad memories. But not for long.
The phone calls started again. My wife answered the first one and her face blanched, which is difficult for a dark skinned Italian. She said nothing, just hung up the phone. But this call was different. The phone rang again, not more than a minute after the first one. I answered it.
"Please, don't hang up on me. I have to tell your husband something. It's very important."
"Diana, you sick bitch. Leave us alone." I hung up.
One more time, the phone rang. My wife shoved me out of the way, knocking me into the refrigerator.
"Didn't you hear my husband, you psychotic slut? Leave us alone." Then she became very inventive. I had to laugh, despite the gravity of the situation. "The police have a trace on this line. They're going to find you and haul you away." She slammed the phone down, swore loudly, picked it back up, and turned it off. Then she disconnected it. I thought it wise not to point out we had two other phones in the house. But no more phones rang. Apparently, Diana got the message.
I wish I had talked to Diana the last time she called. It turned out to be a fatal mistake not to. Another week passed and Gina and I were returning from a comedy show at the Westport Plaza in St. Louis. We were driving south on highway 270, Gina at the wheel. She drove everywhere we went because she didn't like my driving and I got tired of hearing about it. Anyway, there's a section of 270 where the highway drops off about twenty feet. At the bottom of the hill are houses and trees. There was no guardrail due to the construction on the highway.
Gina and I were discussing the finer comedy points of the show when she looked up at the rear view mirror and uttered a frightened, "Oh my God."
Turning to look out the rear window, I saw a car coming fast, in the same lane as us. It was too dark to tell the make or color. An extra dose of adrenaline shot through my body. At the last second, the car swerved into the other lane and passed us. It was a dark, four-door, Buick.
I had to grab the wheel to keep us on the road.
"That was her. Oh my God that was her," said Gina, on the verge of hysterics.
Still holding the wheel with one hand, I blared the horn with the other to get Gina’s attention. "Calm down. You're going to get us in an accident. It was probably just a car that looked like hers." I hoped Gina had not picked up on how weak my comment sounded.
She shot me a look, that even in the dark I could tell contained a lethal mixture of fear and anger. But the other car kept on going and soon disappeared.
We approached the section of highway that has the severest drop-off. Gina drove in the far right lane, staying within the speed limit, still visibly shaken. I looked to my left, out her window, and my heart stopped. "Oh, shit. Gina!"
"What Bobby? What is it?"
I shrieked. The intensity of my voice startled both of us. "Look out. Hit the brake." But it was too late.
The car which passed us only a few minutes earlier came from three lanes over, parallel to us. It slammed into our side. The impact wrenched Gina toward me. Our car left the road and plummeted down the embankment. Images of riding Space Mountain flashed through my mind. Then a deafening crash and I blacked out.
*****
When I came to, I lay in a hospital bed. I sat up quickly and laid down just as fast, as dizziness overwhelmed me. A starched white nurse leaned over me and said, "Relax. You're going to be just fine."
"Where's my wife?" I asked.
A frown crossed her face. She fidgeted and shifted from one leg to another.
"Where's my wife, dammit? I need to know." But I already knew. The nurse confirmed my worst fear. Gina had died in the car accident from a brain lesion.
For the next three weeks I walked around in a haze. Everywhere I went (which wasn't too many places) every dark haired woman looked like Gina. Utter despondency gripped my heart. Alone, and lonely. My children did their best to cheer me up, but they were devastated as well. Both my mother-in-law and my parents took turns watching the kids. The nightmare had just begun.
One morning, about a month after Gina's death, the phone rang. I knew instantly who slithered on the other end, but I answered anyway.
"Bobby. Hi, it's me, Diana. How are you?"
The lightness of her tone shocked me to the bone. My response came out as a pathetic, "Not good."
"Oh, that's too bad. I know how to cheer you up. Why don't we get together? I'm staying at the Drury Inn, not far from you. I'm in room 257. See you later."
The woman had fallen off her rocker if she thought I'd meet with her. But then an idea took root in a recess of my brain. Maybe I could get her to confess. I ran to the bedroom, threw open the nightstand drawer and rummaged through years of collected garbage. Near the bottom of the drawer, way in the back, I found my mini tape recorder. I clicked it on and it still worked. As I slid the recorder in my back pocket I thought about taking my hunting knife, but then decided if I could get her to talk, I'd best let the police do the rest of the job.
*****
Tentatively, I knocked on the door and instantly, there she stood. A smile traced a path clear across her face. Her heavily greased lips spread wide to reveal sparkling teeth. The red in her hair seemed brighter than I had remembered. Her face had some added freckles and her deep green eyes sparkled like fire works.
"Bobby. I'm so glad to finally see you." She pulled me through the door and wrapped her arms around me. Wasting no time her lips found mine and crushed into my face. I felt her hand go immediately to my rear. I grabbed her hand before it could discover the recorder and broke our embrace. With my other hand I clicked on the device.
"Why did you do it, Diana? Why did you have to kill my wife?"
She just smiled at me and moved to kiss me again. This time I played along and passionately met her mouth with mine. God, it made me sick. Bile welled up in my gut, but I played along.
"Oh, Bobby. I've wanted you for so long. Ever since you left me, I've wanted you. Everyone I dated, I saw you. I've been wandering aimlessly through man after man, searching for someone just like you. Then, when I was offered a job back here, I couldn't stay away. And now that your wife's out of the way, there's nothing to stop us."
Offered a job, wait a minute. Why did that sound wrong, I thought? I narrowed my eyes and looked at her. Something was not right, but I couldn't place it. So I said, "But why kill her?" I pushed away again.
"Well, geez, Bobby. That's obvious. She wouldn't get out of the way. She was the only thing standing between us." Her attitude was so cool, so casual.
"You could have killed me, too."
"Yeah, well. But see, you survived. That's fate saying you're meant for me."
Again, she moved toward me. But this time, something snapped. The flood gates opened. Use whatever cliché you want but I lost it. I pushed her away and screamed at her.
"You murderer. You killed my wife. I'm going to fucking kill you." My blood boiled. I have never felt so angry, so out of control, like taking some type of hallucinogen. Something primal took over and shoved my conscious mind aside. It assumed all control and propelled my body forward, toward her. Fear wrote in script across her face. But she was ready for me. She may have been a crazy bitch, but no one ever accused her of being stupid.
As I closed the gap between us, I found myself face to face with a large kitchen knife. Her intentions were clear, she wanted to carve up this old Butterball. Fortunately, my anger proved to be stronger and quicker than her fear and insanity. She swiped at me with the knife, tracing a line across my stomach. It made only a surface cut, and as her arm passed, I grabbed her wrist with my left hand. Wrenching my hand back toward my left I heard a crack as her thin wrist snapped like dry wood. The knife fell to the floor, point first, where it stuck for an instant and then fell horizontal. I kicked out with my right leg and caught her in the groin. Not quite the same results as kicking a man there, but painful enough to give me time to retrieve the knife. Without thinking I straightened up and swiped high with my right hand. At the same time she lunged at me, hands out in claw-like fashion. The knife found its mark and cut deeply across her throat. She staggered back, gurgled several times and fell to the floor grasping her neck. Blood sprayed between her fingers onto my shirt. I dispassionately watching her life squirt out from under her hands.
"Oh my God. Bobby, what have you done?"
A woman's voice sounded from behind me; a familiar voice. I whirled, knife ready for another attacker. I came face to face with Diana McCormick. Realization washed over me like a tsunami, driving me to the floor; I just killed her sister, Dawn. But then reality struck home and I straightened back up. Maybe this was Diana's ploy. Maybe...
"Oh, God", she said again. She looked past me to her dying sister. Her brown eyes welled up with tears. Of course. I should have noticed that, but in my rage and grief I failed to take in Dawn's green eyes. "I tried to warn you, Bobby. My sister was sick. Very sick. She was obsessed with you. For years she talked about you and then, somehow, she found out where you were. I tried to stop her. I tried to call you, but you and your wife kept hanging up on me." She knelt down by Dawn and cradled her head, blood dripping onto her jeans. "Then yesterday she called me and said you were finally going to be hers. She had killed your wife. Oh, God, Bobby. I'm so sorry."
*****
"Man, that was one sick bitch."
"Thanks Oscar. I wish you could have been at my trial. Fifteen years for second degree murder. Oh well, just think of all the useful things I can learn while I'm here."
"Yeah, that's for sure. But I don't understand, man."
"Don't understand what?"
"Why you're here, dude. Didn't that Diana woman testify in your behalf? And that tape recording you made?"
"That's the rub, Oscar. She lied at the trial. Said I was the one stalking her sister. Killed my own wife and then went after Dawn. And the tape recorder...The batteries went dead. All it recorded was Dawn kissing me at the door of her hotel."
"Ain't that the shits?"
"It sure is."