Valerian and Venom

I did not want to buy anything for her. She had, after all, stolen the love of my life and left me to stand on the sidelines. Still, when your heart has been broken and there is nothing left to gain or lose, you can pick yourself up, spin yourself around, and set off in a new direction.

So, I decided to buy it for her as a parting gift, though she wouldn’t know that it was. I walk up to the cashier and I ask how much. “Twelve thirteen,” the cashier declares. I pull out a twenty, take my change, and move quickly into the winter air.

Starting my car, the heat of my beloved Toyota, Asmodeus, breathes new life into me and I am full of momentary relief. I drive, cautiously and circuitously, observing any recurring people or vehicles I see until I am embraced by the gnarled and obfuscous wood.

Eventually, I pass through the entrance to Tobins Park. Entering the bathroom, I take my time pretending to use it until the not-so-gentle crunch of a car pulling up breaks my solitude. Exit swiftly and without making eye contact, I remind myself. Then reach into the car for the book. I’m good at sticking to the plan.

I walk to the Ford F-250 and get in. She is, as ever, painfully beautiful. “Happy Birthday,” I manage.

“Thank you. Did you find it?” Her timbre is low and unsettling. She commands fear without production.

I hand her the little black notebook. “I think this is the one he had. He always used to jot down his ideas or doodle. He liked to doodle.” The silence is not threatening, so I push my luck: “How is he doing?”

She smiles, “He is being moved. Tonight, actually, while I make my speech.”

“Can I see him at least? To say goodbye?” I beg. Though I didn’t mean for it to happen, my eyes welled over with tears. I hate myself.

“No,” she responds, without malice or glee. “It’s too big a risk. I wouldn’t have the power to protect you if things go sideways. I won’t even be able to protect myself.”

With that, I collect myself and begin to open the door. “Wait,” she calls. I look into her eyes for the first time.

“I’m sorry,” I breathe. I really was. “For everything.”

She considers this for a moment and then smiles again, “I know. And, I’m sorry too. Here.” She puts an envelope into my hands. Money, green and abundant, heavy, is now sitting in my lap.

She continues, “He withdrew it. He was going to use it to buy you an engagement ring.”

And then I fell to pieces. I look up but that doesn’t stop the tears from coming. “How much?”

“What?” she questions. “How much money is this?” I inquire. “20K,” she responds.

I take the money and exit the car. As arranged, I do not leave until she has left and I let 30 minutes elapse. The winter air beats at my car and I let the weight of the money sink into my lap.

When I start my car, a familiar relief washes over me. So, I take the longest way home and make it a point to stop to get gas before ending my journey. My home is empty, all the light and energy taken away with him. The bowl at the door swallows my keys and wallet but the rest of the house is passive and inert so I glide through unmolested by memories or any other stimulation - a small mercy.

I have made the correct decision.

It is 8 p.m. and the television is already on but, I do not notice when the press conference starts. I pour myself a cup of black coffee, sit down at my table, and only absentmindedly glance over to watch as the circus continues.

“Senator Minerva, how does the discovery of your husband’s journal change the case?”

She is visibly distraught, yet the serene intelligence grounding her persists. “I had no idea how sick my husband was. I knew that he struggled but, I did not realize he was so far gone. My husband’s disappearance troubles me and I just hope the search continues and I want nothing more than for him to return home safely.”

A journalist rises from the crowd, “Excuse me, Senator Minerva, you were appointed to your husband’s seat, yet you’ve already set up an exploratory committee for running for president. Do you think you should prioritise searching for your husband rather than running for higher office?”

“I think the implication that wanting to make meaningful change and searching for my husband are mutually exclusive is laughable. And prejudicial. And insulting. I chose to continue my husband’s service as a way to honor him and the causes we both have been fighting for all of our adult lives. As president, I would have a greater capacity to effect change as well as greater latitude to continue the search. Because, even though I’m a woman, I assure you I can walk and chew gum at the same time.” Her voice sedated and stung, like valerian and venom. As the crowd erupts with new questions, the same journalist, refusing to be ignored, cries out, “Then why did you pay your husband’s mistress $20,000 today? And why does he believe your husband is still alive?”

The room falls silent, and as it does, I turn my attention back to my kitchen table and the two federal agents setting up to begin their interview with me. “Are you sure I can’t get you any coffee?” I ask. Agent Palero looks at me and simply says, “You realise that you have no immunity agreement? Whatever information you give us might be used against you.”

“I know, but if he is alive and because I love him, I have to fight for him harder than I fear her.” I am defiant and uncertain and afraid, all at once.

Agent Palero looks to her partner, who opens her computer to begin to type. “When did you first begin sleeping with Senator Minerva?”

“Two years ago today. It was then-Senator Minerva wife’s, the current Senator Minerva’s, birthday,” I confess.

The End.