FICTION: ‘Till We Part by Jeffrey Wooten

He had tried not to come here.

He had tried to keep driving, to not even look at the gas station as he got closer, but he’d known all along what would happen.

The parking lot was empty. The soft idle of the car and the buzz of the fluorescent lighting above the gas pumps was the only sound. He took in a deep breath of moist night air and remembered.

Honey buns.

That’s why they’d stopped. Marcy had wanted a honey bun.

The gas station had a different name back then, but a quarter century hadn’t really changed the place all that much. Outside thunder crackled, lightning danced in the clouds above, and the rain started to fall. Peter rolled up his window.

Twenty-five years ago it had been raining too.

He couldn’t have been inside for more than ten minutes. Ten minutes. It was odd how such an inconsequential amount of time could totally screw up your life. Ten minutes, and when he came out Marcy had been gone.

He spent an hour looking for her himself, looking around the building, in the bathrooms and the wooded lot next door. Then he called the police.

In nineteen-eighty-four an adult had to be missing twenty-four hours or more to be considered “officially” missing. Marcy was twenty-one then, a legal adult. The police wouldn’t even make a report.

Peter and a few others stayed up all night looking, driving aimlessly around town, calling friends, looking for some sign. He remembered trying to think if he’d maybe said something to upset her, make her run off, but he’d known then as certainly as he did now, that he had not. They were happy that night, laughing and joking, newly married and in love.

Twenty-four hours after Marcy went missing, the police finally got to work. The first thing they did was interrogate the last person to see Marcy alive. Peter remembered being so thankful that the police were finally off their collective ass and doing something. And then the shock of what happened next.

For twelve hours they harassed him, bullied him. It’s always the husband, Peter. They hadn’t allowed him to go to the bathroom and he pissed himself. It was just one humiliation in night full of them. In the end, he confessed.

He still found it hard to believe he’d said the words. That he’d actually admitted to killing his wife, but he had. He remembered being so exhausted. He remembered the confusion, the sense that he’d somehow left the real world behind.

The interrogators took turns, “Come on Peter, it’s the husband,” they said it over and over, “It’s always the husband, Peter,” eventually, he believed it.

He recanted his confession almost immediately, but by then it was way too late. VHS was fairly new then and once the jury heard, more importantly saw, the taped confession, it was over. His lawyers told him he was a victim of police misconduct and modern technology. Twenty-three years, nine months and seven days Peter spent in jail, convicted of a crime he didn’t commit. And worst of all, he still didn’t know what happened to Marcy. They never even found her body.

The rain picked up and the wind with it. Peter turned the air on to combat the humidity.

No one believed he was innocent, certainly not Marcy’s family. Her parents came to every parole board hearing, asking the board to keep Peter in jail. After Mr. Davis died, Mrs. Davis came alone until she died two years later. Peter never blamed them; they wanted to know where their little girl was. Peter could understand that; not knowing was the worst thing of all.

In the seat next to him Marcy was there, Peter turned a little in his seat to look at her. “I was wondering when I’d see you.”

Marcy didn’t answer, she never did, but she did smile. She wore the same clothes she had that night so long ago, her smile, as always, was sad.

“Can you help me?” Peter asked. Marcy shook her head slowly, regretfully. Then she faded out of existence and Peter was once more alone. It was like that with her, she would come for just a few seconds, often when he was remembering, and then she’d be gone. He sat there for a while more, watching the rain streak down the windshield, and took solace in the fact that unlike Mr. and Mrs. Davis he would go to his grave knowing for sure Marcy was dead.

The living didn’t have ghosts.

He put the car in drive and pulled out of the parking lot. He’d go home and try to sleep.

***

The alarm went off at six. Peter was showered, shaved, dressed and at work by seven. He liked working outside and running a dozer was something he’d never been allowed to do in prison. It was a hot July day and by five, quitting time, Peter was ready to get home and take a shower. He parked the bulldozer and headed to punch his time card.

The late afternoon sun beat down on him as crossed the worksite. He went up the three steps to the contractor’s trailer and opened the door, cool air conditioning buffeted him. A large man sat behind a desk just inside the door. The man looked at Peter, frowned, and looked dramatically at his wristwatch, “Quittin’ time already?”

“Jim,” Peter nodded at the man. He entered the trailer and walked to the far wall. He pulled a yellow card from a slot with his name on it, “Break a sweat today, fat boy?”

The big man laughed, “Course not, I’m the boss.”

Peter snorted as he punched his card. He put the card back in his slot and went back to the door. “See ya tomorrow big guy.”

Jim cleared his throat, “Hey Peter.”

Peter stopped, his hand on the doorknob, “Yeah?”

“How ’bout you come over for dinner tonight?”

Peter didn’t turn. He opened the door a crack and paused, letting the air conditioning out. “I…ahh, well I don’t know.”

Jim’s chair squeaked as he leaned back, “Betty?”

Peter’s hand tightened on the doorknob, “I think…you know…she….”

Jim leaned forward; his chair moaned a protest, “It’s not just her, you know. It’s pretty much everybody.”

Peter shut the door a little harder than he intended and turned to look at his friend.

“Easy,” Jim said. “Everyone but me.” He looked at Peter thoughtfully. “I know you’d never hurt Marcy, hell, I’ve always known that.” He frowned, “Come on, sit down a minute and have a soda.”

Peter sighed. He wanted to go home and take a shower but Jim was a friend and had given him a decent job. He took a seat on a sofa against the wall facing Jim’s desk. Jim smiled, got up, and took two Cokes out of a small refrigerator behind his desk. He walked over and handed one to Peter and went and sat back down. He popped his Coke and took a drink, “Marcy’s parents pretty much ruined your name in town. Not that many folks needed their help.” He took another sip, “If I hadn’t of known you all these years…” he shrugged.

“Yeah?

Jim nodded, “Sure. The only question I got is why haven’t you moved?”

Peter pressed the cool, unopened soda to his forehead; he was getting a head ache. “It’s home, I was born here.”

Jim frowned, “There’s nothing tying you here, you could move on, start a new life, a new life in a town where nobody knows you.”

“I was born here.” Peter said again.

“Is that it?”

Peter hesitated, thinking about Marcy’s ghost. “Basically, yeah.”

“Then come to dinner tonight. If you’re dead set on staying, might as well start to ingratiate yourself with the community.” Jim snorted, “You can start with my wife.”

Peter looked at his friend. He didn’t want to go but he couldn’t help but smile, “She won’t like it. She’ll give you hell.”

Jim shrugged, “What’s new?”

***

Betty Womack studied Peter over a half empty glass of wine, “This was my father’s house. Did you know that Peter?”

Peter forked a piece of dry turkey into his mouth. He nodded, “Mm-huh”

Betty polished off her wine and poured herself another, “So…,” she pursing her lips, “Jim tells me you’re innocent.”

“Betty.” Jim said.

Peter swallowed the dry meat and wiped his mouth with his napkin. He shook his head, “No, it’s alright Jim, Betty’s just curious. It’s not every day you get to meet a real life travesty of justice.”

“Exactly,” Betty slurred.

“He’s being facetious,” Jim said.

Betty stood from the table, glass in hand. “Don’t talk down to me. I know when someone’s being face…facetious.”

The night was not going as well as Peter had hoped, which was saying a lot. Betty had been drunk when he got here and drunker still as the night went on.

Jim’s voice was rising, “He’s our guest, my friend, and you’re being rude.”

“Rude? Rude, is asking him,” Betty pointed a finger at Peter, “to dinner and not asking me first.”

Peter sighed deeply, he never should have come.

Jim pounded his fist on the table and stood, “He’s my friend. Been my friend since we were six.”

“Some friend, stole the love of your life. Stole her and now she’d dead. And…and then you had to settle,” Betty voice cracked, “settle for me.” She sat her wine glass down on the table, turned, nearly fell over her chair and left the room.

An uncomfortable silence followed. Jim sat down with a thump. “Sorry about that,” he took a deep breath, “She’s not normally like that, but when she drinks…,” he shrugged.

“It’s…okay.”

Jim looked down uncomfortably, “No, no it isn’t. And that stuff she said about Marcy…well, that’s ancient history. I was eighteen, hell, you know, you were there.” Jim looked up, “When you guys got married…I was happy for you. Betty’s just drunk.”

“I’ve maybe outworn my welcome.” Peter said, pushing slowly away from the table. “I think I should go.”

Jim smiled uncomfortably, “Not having a good time?”

Peter returned the awkward smile, “Better than prison I guess.” Both men chuckled quietly as Peter got to his feet, “Can I use the restroom before I get out of here?”

“Sure. Just make sure not to disturb my wife, she’s probably passed out somewhere back there.”

Peter nodded, “I’ll do my best.”

The house was big but Peter had been here before. The bathroom was down the hall about halfway to the other side of the first floor. When he got inside he locked himself in and ran the water. He cupped his hands and scooped up some of the cool liquid, took a drink and splashed the rest on his face. He pulled a towel from its holder on the wall and dried himself. In the mirror was an old man, tired and red eyed. When had he become so old? When had he lost so much life? He laughed, an unhappy sound, leaned forward on the vanity, and hung his head. When he looked up Marcy was staring at him in the mirror. Peter blinked, “Hey.”

His wife smiled sadly. Then she did something she had never done before. She pointed.

Peter closed his eyes tight and opened them. Marcy was still there pointing to the bathroom door. Her image began to waver and then it faded altogether.

Peter stood straight feeling a sudden coldness creep through him, chilling him to the bone and numbing his brain. He felt almost nothing, like he was on auto-pilot, as he opened the door.

Marcy was in the hall, at the very end, facing him.

Peter walked the length of the hall. Marcy faded before he got to her but behind her was another door. He opened it. A stairway descended into darkness. The coldness in Peter’s bones hardened as he took the first step down.

The basement was dark and smelled of damp earth. It took him several minutes to find the light switch and for a second the light stung his eyes. When his vision finally returned, Marcy was once again there. She stood in the corner of the basement. As Peter’s eyes met her’s, she looked down to stare at a spot on the cement floor. Peter walked to the spot as his wife faded.

Concrete, it was just concrete — grey, water stained, and hard. There was nothing remarkable about the spot, nothing…a shimmer of light caught Peter’s eye, something in the cement glinted.

Peter knelt as his heart began to thump a steady dirge. Embedded in the cement, just barely visible, where the old concrete had worn down, was something brilliant…it caught the light and flashed in a kaleidoscope of color.

He picked at the cement with his fingernails, slowly at first, removing tiny grains of concrete bit by bit. Slowly the stone revealed itself … as did the gold setting it sat in. Peter excavated around the wedding ring, the wedding ring he’d not seen in over twenty-five years and wondered if he would see Marcy’s finger next. Wondered if her flesh would be intact, mummified by the concrete.

He became lost in his need to see his dead wife, any emaciated piece of her. To see her remains, to see her dried mummified flesh was to know, to know everything. His pace intensified. He dug his nails deep into the hard concrete and tore out a fingernail, then another. His blood wet the cement, and he cursed in frustration. Then he remembered the keys in his pocket and dug them out with numb, clumsy fingers. He used his house key as a pick, chipping away at the concrete, removing small flake by small flake. The diamond was free. A half arch of gold on either side and below it, below it…

“What the hell, Peter?”

For a minute Peter didn’t move. He became aware of his labored breathing and the pain in his hand where the nails had been ripped out. He stared at the wedding ring and the tiny bit of wrinkled grey tissue that had once been living flesh.

Peter?”

Slowly, like a man coming out of a dream, Peter stood. He turned.

Jim was on the stairs, his eyes narrowed in concern, “Your hand’s bleeding.” He came down the last few steps, faced Peter, and stared at his friend for a few seconds, “What’s going on?”

Blood sounds churned in Peter’s ears. He pointed a finger at Jim, “You…you…” he pointed at the concrete where Marcy was buried. He couldn’t say it. He could not make the words come out.

Something like fear crept into Jim’s voice, “Easy, fella. Calm down and talk to me,” he held up his hands, “We can work through this.”

Peter moved quick, covering the distance fast. Jim didn’t move. He seemed frozen in place, a deer in the headlights, “Wait,” he managed just before Peter hit him.

The blow landed squarely on Jim’s nose. The big man stepped back two steps as Peter threw another punch. Jim’s eyes were slits now, he was pissed. Seriously mad. He charged like a bull, slamming into Peter with shocking force. Their feet got tangled and they fell. Jim was on top, his significant weight advantage pinning Peter, “You gone crazy or something?” Jim said.

Peter struck him in the side of the head with a balled fist, “You killed her. You sonofabitch, you killed her.”

Jim readjusted, sliding himself up, pinning Peter’s arms, “What the hell you talking about? Marcy? You gone soft in the head?”

Peter was struggling, but Jim was big. He was fatter now than when they were young but Jim had always been big, so damn big…And Peter suddenly realized that Marcy never had a chance. He spat in Jim’s face, “You killed my wife. You son-of-a-bitch.”

Peter’s mouth opened incredulously, “I –”

“No he didn’t.”

Peter looked up and Jim turned, careful not to release Peter’s arms. On the landing, at the top of the stairs, stood Betty. She was wearing a nightgown. In her hand was a stainless revolver. “He didn’t kill her.” She smiled unhappily, “I did.”

The silence stretch for a few heartbeats.

Jim stood, leaving Peter on the ground. His voice was strained, “What in the hell are you two talking about? Has everybody lost their mind?” He paused as if seeing the gun for the first time, “Is that my gun?”

Betty pointed the revolver at her husband, she cocked it, “Jim, do shut up.” She lowered the gun slightly and fired. The bullet struck her husband in the thigh and he went down hard, hitting the bare concrete with a smack. He groaned on the floor as blood swelled and pulsed out of the neat hole punched through his jeans.

“What the hell, Betty. Ahhh, shit that hurts.” He looked at his wife and his voice quavered, “You shot me.”

Betty screamed, “You deserve more, you bastard!” Her voice was full of venom. “I gave you my life. All my love. My virginity. I was a virgin when you took me in the back of your father’s Buick. Do you even remember? Do you know what that meant?”

Peter got to his feet slowly, too stunned to speak. Betty walked down the stairs, waving the gun wildly. “I was smart, could have went to college. But all I wanted was you. But you were pining over her.” She sucked in a ragged lungful of air. “I should–”

“How’d you do it?” The question was out of Peter’s mouth before he realized it.

Betty pointed the gun at him and eyed him as if he’d materialized out of thin air. She descended the last two steps and shook her head slowly, her demeanor going bizarrely tranquil. “Does it really matter?” she smiled softly, “After all these years?”

“You killed her.” It wasn’t a question, but Peter needed to say it.

Betty frowned and slowly shook her head, “I’m sorry you had to go to jail. I’ve always regretted that. But it wasn’t like I could say anything,” she shrugged. “It was your own fault anyway for marrying that whore.”

“Don’t.” Peter spat. “Don’t you –”

Betty’s voice was high and strained, “It’s true! She was married, married to you, and leading Jim on. She was a whore. A whore! A whore!”

The light in the basement dimmed to almost complete darkness, then flared bright until Peter had to shield his eyes.

The light returned to normal. Betty was blinking, the gun by her side. Peter took a step forward but his eyes were stinging too.

Betty raised the gun, “Step back! Step back! And don’t tell me she wasn’t a whore. She was a whore and she deserved to die. She got what she deserved!”

The light flared again. Betty shaded her eyes, waved the gun around, “What’s going on?” She pointed the gun at Peter as the light faded back to normal. “I killed her and I’d do it again. She deserved it but I did it for him.” She nodded at a very pale, very still Jim. “I killed the whore so we could be together.”

The light flared bright, brighter than the two previous times and the bulb exploded in a shower of sparks. Peter dove to the floor as Betty squeezed off a shot. He scrambled away on hands and knees, his ears ringing from the gunshot.

Another shot ripped the basement apart, a bullet whipped past Peter’s ear. He hit the floor as pain and warmth spread over the right side of his face. The next shot seemed only feet away. The bullet struck him in the side and for an instant he thought he was dead, but as he scrambled to his feet the pain manifested into an angry line across the small of his back and he realized he’d only been grazed.

He ran; his arms outstretched like a blind man.

Another shot rang out followed immediately by another. His groping hands slammed into something solid and his fingers curled around a guardrail…movement close behind him, shuffling feet in the dark…his foot found the first step.

Someone grabbed him and pulled. He twisted and rolled as he fell, striking the wooden staircase hard. Betty was screaming hitting him with the big gun. Peter punched wildly and in the dark he felt his fist connect with something solid. Betty gasped and fell away. Peter pulled himself up the stairs. Nausea washed over him and he felt light headed as he made it all the way to the landing.

He was free; Betty was out of bullets, out of time. He’d call the police, call the police and everyone would finally know. They’d finally know that he wasn’t a killer. He wasn’t a murderer.

His hand was on the doorknob. Betty cackled like some witch out of a Shakespeare play. “It doesn’t matter anymore.” She cackled again. Her words were slurred. “It was the best thing I ever did.” She started to cry. “Christi and Kelly, they wouldn’t be here if I hadn’t killed her. And my grandbaby…” Betty’s words trailed off to silence. Peter turned the knob a quarter turn.

“I’m calling the police Betty.”

The silence stretched. Peter put his head on the door and held the doorknob tightly, unable to move for a while. He felt the warmth of his blood on his face, back and side. He felt the drumming of his heart and the steady rhythm of his breathing.

Light.

A soft glow of white light lit the basement. Peter’s shadow on the door was black as sin, his hand on the doorknob–bloody and missing two nails–the hand of a beast. He turned slowly to see something emerging from the concrete in the far corner of the basement.

Silhouetted in light, Marcy’s ghost slowly slid up from the spot over which her body had been entombed for so many years. From the basement floor, Betty gasped and started moaning, “No, no, no…You’re dead. I killed you.” She was whimpering as Marcy’s ghost fully emerged. Peter watched from atop the stairs. He felt the tears in his eyes but paid them no mind. Marcy, his Marcy was beautiful, beautiful and terrible all at once. She glowed with unnatural light as she drifted across the basement floor. Betty scrambling awkwardly away, slipped in a pool of her husband’s blood, hit the concrete hard, and lay still. She moaned softly.

Marcy hovered over her murderer. Slowly her ghostly face looked up at Peter; her sad smile was firmly in place. Peter’s whole body shuddered; he turned, never glancing back, and left the basement.

Betty’s screams followed him.

***

Jim never regained consciousness and died from his wound. Betty, for her part, never uttered a word again. She was remanded to the State Hospital for a time and eventually ended up in a nursing home. Nearly two years after Marcy’s body was discovered Betty hung herself with a bed sheet late one night. The nursing staff said they never heard a thing.

At Peter’s trial the forensic evidence couldn’t show who fired the shot that killed Jim that night. The enclosed basement had ensured gunpowder residue was on everything and everybody. At the start, Peter tried to tell the truth. Tried to explain things the way they had occurred, omitting only Marcy’s ghost. But people weren’t generally interested in the truth. Not when a convicted murderer was involved and his story didn’t make much sense without Marcy’s part.

He was sentenced to life in prison without parole for the murder of his friend Jim Howard Womack. The judge asked God to have mercy on Peter’s soul before passing down the sentence.

Marcy’s body was exhumed from the concrete and her sister, June, buried her three days later. The official story was that Peter killed her on a rainy July night in nineteen-eighty-four and broke in Betty’s father’s basement that same night and hid Marcy’s body in wet cement that had been poured earlier that evening.

After his release from prison, almost a quarter century later, Peter had murdered his best friend and drove his best friend’s wife insane in the same basement. It was a national story, ran on all the national news stations. The tabloids absolutely loved it.

For Peter, prison wasn’t so bad the second time around. He finally knew the truth, and the knowing had set him free.

In the end Peter confessed. There was no coercion this time, not much anyway. He told his lawyers to switch his plea to guilty the morning following the first night Marcy spent with him.

She comes more often than before and stays hours, days at a time. Her touch is like ice but Peter doesn’t mind. Her smile, once sad, is sad no longer.