Short Story

Choices

    The Toyota Prius was cold and spotless, the gear shift in neutral. The windows were rolled down to move off the beads of water droplets from the day's rain. In the holder below was a Venti Chai Latte from Starbucks. On the passenger seat was a slice of banana bread in brown paper bag.

    Marissa Logan was going home to her husband after a three week vacation in the Maldives. A vacation with a 3-day business convention added on as a pretense. The original plan was to stay for a month, but with a tropical storm expected just north of the island in a couple days, she decided to return a week earlier.

    Dazed a bit from the long flight she flipped through the radio stations and settled on the top 40 radio station, more out of routine than genuine pleasure, purely to satisfy a need to stay alert on the drive from Richmond to North Vancouver on this grey, misty January evening. Though she was tired, she had a new found energy about her, a stride in her step as some might say. She leaned her face in front of the rearview and was quite pleased with how she looked. Her cheeks were a flush red, her lips soft, her eyes, appeared larger, and darker than their usual vivid brown. She was pleased with her tan and how her dark brown hair had grown a little wavier from the ocean water and warm sun. For a 37 year old woman she was genuinely pleased with her overall appearance.

    When she turned out of the Park 'N Fly garage and headed toward the Marine Drive swoop which would lead her onto Granville Street, she looked at the digital clock in the center of the dashboard which read 10:10 and realized she forgot to change the time on her watch. She thought to herself, Stuart would probably have the candles in place, the house would be cleaned, and he would be as excited to see her as she was to see him. She loved it when she came home from being away. The time when she returned from Costa Rica, where the bath was drawn, was still fresh in her mind. The way he placed the three candles on the outset ledge of their modern tub and the way he poured that glass of Penfolds St. Henri Shiraz, made her ache with jubilation.

    This was almost a ritual now how he would surprise her like this. Every time she would come home he would change it up a bit and keep her in suspense. There was the time he had a sapphire blue lingerie dress with black exterior laid out on the bed next to a vase filled with a dozen freshly cut crimson roses on the nightstand. That was a memorable night. Or the time he had blindfolded her and offered her a range of seductive foods, the strawberries, the mango, and chocolate, accompanied with a bottle of champagne. She loved the cleanliness of the place when she walked in after such trips. He would focus on her in such a way as if there was no other person in the world. What would it be like this time? She shifted the stick into fourth gear and came up over the crest by west 41^st avenue.

    For her, this was an enjoyable stretch of road at night. She knew there wouldn't be that many cars at this hour, especially on a Sunday before the workweek. She was content to sit back and flip through the stations, pausing back and forth between her latte and banana bread, for she had done this drive so many times. Her thoughts also drifted to her man. Stuart, such a fitting name for the type of man he was. Stately, intelligent, accommodating was how she might characterize him to a stranger. With her close friends, she would underpin him in an unenthusiastic way: "Oh he might be a bit of a charmer, but he's just a big goof or nerd at heart". This term 'goof' or 'nerd' was quite the opposite of his 6'4 athletic frame and natural good looks. It was as though she spoke of Clark Kent but inside thought of superman. She was aware of her tact here. She never wanted to be too glowing about her own husband. She hated women that did that. Besides it was uncharacteristic of her class.

    Stuart actually did look like he was plucked out of a superman catalogue, someone who could play him in a movie, perhaps, or a Broadway play. He still had his boyish smile, the honest greenish blue eyes, and a full head of dark brown, almost black hair, which curled a bit on the ends. Like his wife, he looked maybe 28 instead of his 37 years.

    She moved easily through the numbered streets that bisected Granville and flipped on the wipers to its lowest setting, for the mist had turned to a more consistent drizzle. This weather was expected during the winters in Vancouver, therefore she felt fortunate to have been in such a hot, sunny part of the earth even for a brief while.

    She pulled into the dark cul de sac and noticed a bright red Honda Civic hatchback parked in her driveway partially shielded from the line of floribunda rose bushes and the steep lawn which sloped adjacent to their neighbors' yard. The car looked vaguely familiar, but its owner escaped her memory. Where had she seen it before? She pulled in front of the neighbor's lawn and turned off the Prius. She sat there a moment and realized whose it was. Her first impulse was not to believe it, to reject what her sense of logic was telling her. Could this really be? She decided to suppress this thought a moment and she sat mesmerized looking at the obscured windshield of water beads.

    When she got out of the car and walked toward her house she couldn't feel her legs anymore. She felt completely numb, nauseated – it was as if she was floating across the wet pavement and into her driveway. The lights were off inside the house, not a sign of movement. Looking inside of the Civic, Marissa felt a sudden surge of hate grip her. In the back seat was the gym bag she remembered the young lady carrying around her shoulders in the grocery parking lot that autumn day just months ago. That day, that bizarre exchange that left her feeling all alone; she and Stuart had gone grocery shopping and there was Stuart's yoga instructor: mid 20's, a Spanish accent, fair haired with a petite frame, captivating brown eyes. She wore her black yoga pants with maroon stripe around the waste and matching tank top. It was the look of the moment. But more than that, it was the look she gave her husband, the attention she drew from him, that was most disconcerting. The exchange between them was playful.

    "Are you ready for tomorrow, Stuart?" said the young woman with the flirty smile.

    "I'm ready," said Stuart, suppressing his smirk while opening the door.

    "You better be!" echoed the young woman in her sing song happiness, which was followed with a high pitched laugh.

    The introduction was made by Stuart after that statement - "You better be!" - Then everything carried on normally. They got in their car and pulled out of the parking lot. She walked on into the Choices Market, this well built cliché of yoga instructor.

    It was astonishing, now, how direct her actions were all of a sudden. It was as if she was guided by a force that had overtaken her body. She simply walked in behind the backyard, crept slowly up the deck stairs and checked the sliding doors (they were locked). She walked around the side and inserted the key to the side door, which entered the garage. Her actions were mechanical now – the hand reaching for the object in the corner, picking it up and looking at it with trepidation. A baseball bat, wooden, with the words Louisville Slugger along the side.

    She opened the door leading into the kitchen, and was careful not to make a sound. She slinked through the kitchen and tiptoed up the spiraling staircase, holding the narrow, knobby end with both hands. Climbing up the top two steps she could hear the dreaded sound of ecstasy, confirming what she already knew.

    Her husband must not have checked the email and phone message she sent the day before yesterday saying she would be home a week early. Well, what would be would be. There is nothing like missteps in time and place.

    For about a half a minute Marissa Logan imagined barging in on both husband and lover - soaking in her pain, devoid of any reluctance or emotion - she wished she could cleanly smash the Louisville Slugger down on each of their skulls. The brutality of it all would be a relief; the sound of the bat striking the head would be unlike anything she had ever experienced before. There would be a gurgle, perhaps, or a grotesque wail with their last attempt to breathe. In her meditative potent state she brought the weapon down one more time on each of them with full force. She could imagine the thick black cherry blood splattered on the Persian rug. There would be no mistaking it. They wouldn't have a chance. If she wanted to she could do it, no question. The opportunity was there. But she didn't have the guts or that beautiful, dangerous instinct she often read about in the Vancouver Sun, perplexed at the murders and assaults that took place so often in the Lower Mainland.

    It was unforgivable what he had done. There she was, weapon in hand, limp, behind the door. She was done. She thought about this twist of fate, of coming home early, finding this out about her husband: a cheating son of a bitch. What would that mean? What now?

    As if in a dreamlike state she went back downstairs and put the wooden bat softly into the spot she found it. The door knob of the side door was turned delicately and she took the same route around that she came in. Looking up at the top room one last time she managed a heavy sigh as the cold mist danced on her face. Like a phantom she floated across the dark street to her Prius.

    She followed the road to the main street and exited down to civilization. The darkness of the redwood trees hovering on both sides of her car dissipated as she descended into the lights pulling her closer to the exit for the Lions Gate Bridge. For a short stretch the darkness returned with Stanley Park to her left. This area at night made her feel uneasy. Checking to make sure the doors were locked as she rolled into a two way stop sign, Marissa looked in the rearview mirror and saw her reflection. There was sadness in her eyes that she got pleasure from. It brought her back to being hurt as an adolescent, when she would stand in her bedroom and soak in the deep pain of something cruel or unkind. Striking up the speed of the wipers, she put her foot down rather purposefully and drove down into the city. Though she could not see English Bay or Vancouver Harbour because of the weather, she always sensed them. Like Cypress and Grousse, they permeated the soul.

    There was a calmness now in Marissa as she walked into the magnificent entrance to the Pan Pacific. She put down her credit card.

    "Hi. I would like a room for the night please." she said.

    "Sure thing. Any preference?" said the young man at the desk.

    "Any room really. A queen bed would be great." She added

    The concierge walked over to the desk, smiled politely and nodded courteously to the bellman that would show Marissa to her room; a deluxe suite with large windows facing North and East overlooking the harbour.

    Pulling the curtains closed she walked over to the bar fridge, pulled out a Heineken bottle and popped off the cap with the opener sitting on the fridge top. Slipping off her heeled oxfords, she laid down on the bed, looked at either side of her; the sofas, the oak desk by the window with laptop, the HD television atop the large wooden cabinet, the bathroom in the corner, marble tile, immaculately clean, with a large showerhead angled straight down from ceiling. Tipping the contents of the beer back in her mouth, she was beginning to awake from her temporary numbness. She took another drink and thought about what she had been through in the last hour. Had this really happened? She turned on the television and flipped through the channels, took another drink, and emptied the contents with ease. She was simply enjoying the luxury of the four star hotel.

    Marissa would phone her husband in two days from that same hotel room. They would have a conversation for twenty minutes. She would tell him that she came home early and was exhausted; too exhausted to drive to their home. She played it cool for now. She would wait for more truth to unravel, to reveal itself before she decided anything substantial.