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Authors: Christopher Ransom
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would have come sooner. It was an accident. A terrible—’
‘You . . .’ I said, short of breath. ‘You were there?’
‘No. My husband was involved. His name was Arthur. He ran into her with his truck.’ She was clutching the hem of her shirt. ‘He took his own life twenty-six days ago.’
‘Good,’ I said. ‘I hope he’s rotting in hell.’
Annette Copeland began to cry.
We were seated in the living room. After she started crying in the kitchen, I needed a beer and offered her one. She held it in front of her unopened as she followed me, shuffling like a frightened child. A hundred questions in my mind fought to get to the front of the line. She was on the couch, cowering at one end. The severity of her crying was the only thing that prevented me from screaming, throwing her out or binding her to a chair with an extension cord.
‘I’m sorry for your loss,’ I said, not really feeling sorry at all but wanting to get on with it.
She wiped her nose with her t-shirt. ‘I’m sorry. That’s disgusting.’
I nodded. Everything about this situation was disgusting.
‘He couldn’t live with it,’ she said. ‘He didn’t tell me what happened. But a year ago he came home early from work. He was drunk, in shock. He told me he was sick and went to bed. Every time I begged him to tell me what was wrong, he just said he was depressed. It was his job, he said. I thought it was a midlife. Our marriage was not the best before it happened, and it fell apart after.’
‘If you’re looking for sympathy—’
‘No, I’m not.’ She looked me in the eye. ‘I’m just trying to tell you. He hid it very well. He started drinking heavily. He was always a drinker, but he quit his job a few months ago. I told him I would leave him if he didn’t get some help. A month ago I went to stay with a girlfriend for the weekend. I was going to make a decision, intervention or separation. When I came back he was dead. The note he left explained what he had been hiding.’
‘He never turned himself in,’ I said, stating the obvious, maybe because I had to. ‘He killed my wife and just left? What kind of people are you?’
‘I’m not going to argue,’ she said. ‘I’m not here to defend him. It was unconscionable. I’ll do whatever you want.’
What did I want? My wife back. That wasn’t going to happen. Her husband’s head on a plate would have been nice, but that wasn’t going to happen either.
‘What do you want?’ I said. ‘Why are you here?’
‘I thought you deserved to know the truth. I kept driving by and when I saw the house for rent, I just thought . . . it was almost like a sign. Fate, as stupid as that sounds now. I needed to go somewhere, and I thought maybe if I was closer to you, I could think things through a little better and figure out the best way to . . .’
‘What?’
‘Approach you. Help in some way. I don’t know. I don’t have anything left, but whatever I have is yours.’
This angered me further. ‘What did this note say?’
Annette nodded. ‘He wrote it on a yellow legal pad and left the news article beside it, the item about Stacey.’
‘Don’t say that. Don’t say her name like you know her.’
‘I’m sorry. Your wife. He said he was sorry he had lied to me and hurt me this way, but there was no other way he could live with himself, even if he went to prison. He said that he was on his way to work that morning and traffic on the freeway was backed up, so he exited at Western Avenue. He sometimes used Western or La Brea to get to his office in Century City. When he got to the light at Western and Washington, there was construction. He was late for an important meeting. I knew he had been under a lot of stress because of his company. They packaged mortgages for commercial and high-end residential real estate and were attached to that whole sub-prime mess, like the other
‘You . . .’ I said, short of breath. ‘You were there?’
‘No. My husband was involved. His name was Arthur. He ran into her with his truck.’ She was clutching the hem of her shirt. ‘He took his own life twenty-six days ago.’
‘Good,’ I said. ‘I hope he’s rotting in hell.’
Annette Copeland began to cry.
We were seated in the living room. After she started crying in the kitchen, I needed a beer and offered her one. She held it in front of her unopened as she followed me, shuffling like a frightened child. A hundred questions in my mind fought to get to the front of the line. She was on the couch, cowering at one end. The severity of her crying was the only thing that prevented me from screaming, throwing her out or binding her to a chair with an extension cord.
‘I’m sorry for your loss,’ I said, not really feeling sorry at all but wanting to get on with it.
She wiped her nose with her t-shirt. ‘I’m sorry. That’s disgusting.’
I nodded. Everything about this situation was disgusting.
‘He couldn’t live with it,’ she said. ‘He didn’t tell me what happened. But a year ago he came home early from work. He was drunk, in shock. He told me he was sick and went to bed. Every time I begged him to tell me what was wrong, he just said he was depressed. It was his job, he said. I thought it was a midlife. Our marriage was not the best before it happened, and it fell apart after.’
‘If you’re looking for sympathy—’
‘No, I’m not.’ She looked me in the eye. ‘I’m just trying to tell you. He hid it very well. He started drinking heavily. He was always a drinker, but he quit his job a few months ago. I told him I would leave him if he didn’t get some help. A month ago I went to stay with a girlfriend for the weekend. I was going to make a decision, intervention or separation. When I came back he was dead. The note he left explained what he had been hiding.’
‘He never turned himself in,’ I said, stating the obvious, maybe because I had to. ‘He killed my wife and just left? What kind of people are you?’
‘I’m not going to argue,’ she said. ‘I’m not here to defend him. It was unconscionable. I’ll do whatever you want.’
What did I want? My wife back. That wasn’t going to happen. Her husband’s head on a plate would have been nice, but that wasn’t going to happen either.
‘What do you want?’ I said. ‘Why are you here?’
‘I thought you deserved to know the truth. I kept driving by and when I saw the house for rent, I just thought . . . it was almost like a sign. Fate, as stupid as that sounds now. I needed to go somewhere, and I thought maybe if I was closer to you, I could think things through a little better and figure out the best way to . . .’
‘What?’
‘Approach you. Help in some way. I don’t know. I don’t have anything left, but whatever I have is yours.’
This angered me further. ‘What did this note say?’
Annette nodded. ‘He wrote it on a yellow legal pad and left the news article beside it, the item about Stacey.’
‘Don’t say that. Don’t say her name like you know her.’
‘I’m sorry. Your wife. He said he was sorry he had lied to me and hurt me this way, but there was no other way he could live with himself, even if he went to prison. He said that he was on his way to work that morning and traffic on the freeway was backed up, so he exited at Western Avenue. He sometimes used Western or La Brea to get to his office in Century City. When he got to the light at Western and Washington, there was construction. He was late for an important meeting. I knew he had been under a lot of stress because of his company. They packaged mortgages for commercial and high-end residential real estate and were attached to that whole sub-prime mess, like the other
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