Big Cherry Holler - Adriana Trigiani [95]
There’s a square of loose-leaf paper folded many times. It reminds me of a note passed in high school study hall. The edges of the paper are ripped fringe. I unfold the paper and read:
My dear Jack: This has been the best summer of my life. Remember that I ♥ you. I’ll wait. Karen.
I fold the note carefully back into a small square, just as I found it. (Why am I doing this?) I’m numb. This note makes it real, right down to the heart she put in the word “love” where the “o” goes. I met Karen Bell. She was no rival! What would my husband see in her when he had me? My ego makes a valiant effort, but it’s not long before it gives way to despair and self-loathing. I feel the numbness leave me and the anger set in. I am so furious I could destroy this house, burn it to the ground and not look back. It’s dangerous for me to be inside. I have to get out of here.
I look around for my keys to the Jeep. I usually leave them on the front table. When I can’t find them, I begin to tear the house apart. I find myself ripping the cushions off of the sofa, then turning over the straight-backed chairs, then opening the cabinets in the kitchen, shoving out their contents—glass smashes, jars of jelly and cans of spices and boxes of rice shower the floor like rain. I go into my bedroom and rip off the coverlet, the sheets, and I tear the feather pillows apart; I’m sweating, soaked to the skin, and so angry that I cry out. I lift the mattress off the bed and shove it to the floor. What am I looking for? I am losing my mind. Where are those keys? I hear a deafening screech inside my ears, one so loud, I would stab myself to stop the noise.
“What are you doing?” A voice cuts through the pounding in my head. Jack stands in the doorway of our bedroom.
“You, you … I hate you!”
“What’s going on?” he says, his voice breaking. I’ve caught him, and he knows it.
“Why don’t you tell me the truth!”
“What are you talking about?” Now he has the look of a gentle person, a look that tells me he doesn’t want to hurt me with the truth or anything else.
“You … you.” I fish around my pockets—where did I put that letter? I find it and take it out and carefully, like a judge, unfold the clue. “Look. Look right here. You love this woman!”
“Ave. Listen to me.”
“Why? You’re a liar. You’re just going to lie to me. I want these mattresses out of here. You fucked her all summer right here in this room. In our bed. Where my children were. How could you do that? I will hate you until the day I die.”
I shove past him, out of the bedroom and to the front door. Suddenly, in the first moment of clarity I’ve had since I found that note, I remember where my keys are. I left them in the Jeep.
“Where are you going?”
“Don’t talk to me,” I tell him. I run to the Jeep. I feel him behind me. I get into the driver’s seat. He reaches in and tries to pull me out of the Jeep. He has me by the waist. I swing my legs out and begin kicking him, and I’m grateful for my strong legs as I fend him off. He tries to control my kicks, but he cannot.
“You made your choice. Now go to her. Go on. Go!” He steps back. I turn the key and throw the Jeep in reverse. Before he can make another move, I am down the mountain. I don’t look back.
It’s a long drive to Knoxville, Tennessee. Even longer when you don’t have any money. I left my purse in Cracker’s Neck Holler. Thank God I have an emergency gas card taped to the bottom of the driver’s seat. As I pay the man for the gas, I ask him if I can charge some food on the card. He shrugs. So I go through the Quik Mart and buy pretzels and Diet Coke, two apples, a cup of coffee, and a bottle of Tylenol for my throbbing head.
The road to Knoxville is a straightaway into the hills of Tennessee. I am glad I don’t have to think too much as I drive. I go about eighty miles an hour. I hope a cop stops me. Have I got a story for him.
I feel oddly