Something Missing_ A Novel - Matthew Dicks [45]
“But not every guy is like your Larry right?” And just like that, the moment had passed. Her voice had suddenly, almost miraculously regained its confident, upbeat tone. A moment later, she pulled a coat from her closet and backed away, the topic having already transitioned to Jeannette’s plans to visit family in Arizona later in the month. The closet door closed, clicking shut this time, and darkness returned to Martin’s hiding space. But the words of Cindy Clayton, and especially her sigh, lingered with Martin as he listened to her conclude her phone conversation. The words had mattered, but it had been her sigh and the pause that followed that had said it all.
Seconds later, he heard Alan Clayton descend the stairs, gather his keys, and ask his wife if she had directions to their intended destination. Cindy Clayton replied in the affirmative and Martin listened as the couple switched off the lights and exited the house through the garage door. Moments later he heard the roar of a car’s engine followed by the mechanical hum of a closing garage door.
The Claytons were at last gone.
Martin waited another twenty minutes before moving from the closet, wanting to be certain that the couple would not return. Despite the discomfort, he remained perfectly still at the bottom of the closet, thinking about Cindy Clayton’s phone conversation, recalling that interminable sigh, and plotting his next move.
Once he felt it was safe, Martin exited the closet and returned the kitchen shears to their proper position in the knife rack. He then made his way out the patio door, collecting his key, but not before stopping in the kitchen to acquire one of Alan Clayton’s business cards from the box beside the calendar. He would need the man’s business address for what he had already planned.
As he made his way through the forest and back to his car, choosing a path at random this time, Martin began to mentally organize the specifics of his plan.
He couldn’t remember the last time he had felt this excited about anything.
It had already started to rain by the time Martin finally turned onto his street. The ride home had been mentally chaotic, a flurry of shocked recollections, potential solutions, and repeated attempts to quell his growing anxiety. He had just done the impossible, the unthinkable, and he found himself careening from elation to disgust to disbelief.
He had heard characters in movies wonder aloud whether a traumatic or surprising incident had really just happened, and had found the sentiment to be trite and ridiculous. But now he knew better. He knew precisely how those fictional characters had felt.
Pulling into the garage and clicking the remote control to close the large, windowless door, Martin turned off his car and stepped out, inhaling the sweet smell of pine that infused the large space.
Finally something familiar. Back to his routine.
More than two dozen pine-scented air fresheners hung from the three beams that crisscrossed the garage’s ceiling, and Martin replaced these monthly in order to ensure a clean, fresh scent. He loved his garage, and without it he believed that his career might never have taken off. He thought of a garage, particularly one attached to a house like his, as an insulating cocoon, a protective shell surrounding activities in which many families must engage in the nakedness of their driveways. Without the garage, Martin would have been forced to unload his groceries and other acquisitions in the driveway for all the neighbors