“It’s a slippery slide from hormones to homicide.”

—Debbi Dickerson

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Tuesday, January 3, 2017

Big, fat ugly drops splatted against the thick glass, as if the sky was spitting at Debbi Dickerson and her pathetic life. She couldn’t recall the last time she’d seen sunshine.

Debbi turned from the window that showed her wide residential Tacoma street at low-flood stage, squeezed her eyes shut, and massaged her temples, willing the migraine to seep out of her skull before it cracked her head open. Hard, pounding, relentless rain. A great way to usher in the New Year.

Since when did she get migraines? This was the third onslaught this week, and the two Tylenol she’d popped upon waking had been as useless as M&M’s. Maybe consuming mass quantities of chocolate would work better, she thought as she measured the scoops of ground coffee and dropped them into the paper filter sitting in the coffee maker.

Usually the drugs Dr. Pierce gave her for her bouts with Seasonal Affective Disorder took the edge off her melancholy. But lately they hadn’t made a dent in her mood—other than make her more depressed because they weren’t working. Three weeks of nonstop rain hadn’t helped either. If only the sun would break through the thick blanket of clouds—even for a few minutes. Debbi couldn’t recall a January so dark and gloomy, but maybe the combination of global warming and the impending inauguration of Donald Trump had seeded the clouds with rage and retribution. It sure felt like it.

Through the painful throb clogging her ears, she made out snippets of her kids’ incessant arguing upstairs, which made her wish for the millionth time that Jerry would agree to convert the downstairs half bath into a full. She’d thought only teenage girls spent hours primping in bathrooms—until Brad hit puberty. Did all seventeen-year-old boys stare into mirrors, making sure every stray hair was in place? She should have bought stock in those hair gel companies. Brad went through tubes of the stuff each month, and the brands he insisted on weren’t cheap.

The gurgling of the coffeepot set her on the sharp edge of her nerves, but it was Jerry’s heavy-booted pounding down the squeaky carpeted stairs that pushed her over that edge. Tears leaked out of her eyes as new pain struck behind her eyes. The kitchen suddenly felt stiflingly hot. She leaned across the sink and slid the window open. Chilling rain pelted her in the face, almost sizzling on her hot cheeks. She sucked the cold air into her lungs, then sighed.

“What’s wrong with you?” Jerry asked, striding like a rhino into the kitchen, swiping an arm out and grabbing the glass pot of hot coffee from its black plastic shrine. Coffee continued to dribble out and sizzled on the hot metal warmer, the burnt coffee stench triggering nausea as he narrowed his eyes and scrutinized her. His glare was like a laser beam drilling into her frontal cortex.

“Headache,” she muttered, her eyes downcast, hoping her soft tone would prompt him to lower his voice. She noticed he was wearing his uniform—a rare occurrence. And a glance at his bulging tire over the top of his pants zipper told her that her latest efforts to rein in his calorie intake wasn’t helping. How could it? Who knew how many donuts he gobbled at work?

“Take some aspirin, for God’s sake,” he bellowed. “Is breakfast ready yet? I gotta drive down to Vader this morning—”

“There’s really a town called Vader?” Brad said, tromping into the tiny kitchen and scooping up a piece of bacon from off the counter. He scrunched up his face and said in a deep voice, “Luke, I’m your father.” Then he laughed, and the abrasive timbre made Debbi squint in pain again.

“Of course there is,” Jerry told him. “How else could I be going there if there wasn’t, butt-head?”

Brad merely shrugged off his father’s rebuke—water off a duck’s back—or maybe off the waterproof hair gel—and slid into his chair.

Debbi had noticed that ever since Alabama beat Washington in the Chick-fil-A Peach Bowl on New Year’s Eve day, Jerry’s temper was on a short fuse, and just about any little spark ignited it. He wouldn’t tell her, but she was sure he’d wagered a hefty bet on the game and had lost. How much?—she hated to think. He stashed money somewhere, had to—since their bank account never reflected the obvious windfalls Jerry enjoyed—made evident by spontaneous and extravagant expenditures, such as the new surround-sound speaker system he’d bought himself for Christmas. But if mood was any indicator, Jerry lost more than he made, his pernicious gambling habit still the biggest bone of contention in this boneyard of a marriage.

She’d been cutting a wide swath around him these last two days, hoping his ire would let up. But, as with the persistent rain, there didn’t appear to be any silver linings hovering nearby.

He glanced over at the window, then gave Debbi another irritated look. “You’re letting in the rain! Shut that window.”

Debbi dutifully obeyed.

Jerry huffed and plopped into his chair at the table, Brad joining him. Debbi hurried to put all the platters of food before them—scrambled eggs, bacon, biscuits, fruit cocktail—then poured herself a cup of coffee, knowing she’d never hold down any food.

Brad, unfortunately, was an almost exact replica of his burly, wide-shouldered father, and that included his cocky know-it-all attitude that Debbi couldn’t seem to do a thing about. All of Jerry’s dashed hopes rode on his son to be the famous football star Jerry had failed to aspire to in college.

In the Dickerson family, the men ruled. When she’d first married Jerry, she liked the way Jerry had taken charge, made all the decisions. But his authoritarian manner had gotten old fast, though, at that point, with two babies in arms, what could she have done about it? She’d given up her dream of becoming a famous painter and took on the expected role millions of women throughout history had willingly and many unwillingly embraced—being a submissive wife and mother. Despite her own mother reminding her that women’s lib had done away with all that and replaced it with … what? Debbi had no clue.

She’d hoped in time her artistic dreams would sputter out—God knew Jerry had done all he could to extinguish any sparks that occasionally ignited. He didn’t mind her doing those paintings for Hallmark, since the money they brought in helped—a little. But doing cutesy card art did nothing to satiate her creative juices. Ellen, her best friend, had told her repeatedly: “He’s jealous of your talent—since he has none.” And that’s why he squelched her efforts to make it as an artist. Majoring in art in college was one thing, but a woman’s place was in the kitchen—or in bed. Though she and Jerry hardly did anything in bed these days worth mentioning.

Familiar feelings of depression and failure crashed like a wave over her, and tagging along at their heels were the expected litanies that ran circles in her head. You’re not attractive anymore. Your skin is sagging and wrinkled. Your hair is limp and dead from dyeing it every month to cover the gray. No wonder Jerry doesn’t want to touch you. Which sent her mind spinning into her paranoid fantasies of how Jerry surely had to be cheating on her and even secretly planning on divorcing her. Which then sent panic racing through every muscle, causing her knees to weaken.

She grabbed the kitchen counter with one hand, only dimly aware that Chelsea had come downstairs and was sitting at the table, hunched over her cell phone, texting madly with her thumbs. Debbi had a sudden image of Chelsea’s thumbs heating up from the sheer speed of her texting, dark smoke twisting from her purple-painted nails, then her thumbs melting all over the phone in puddles of pink wax.

A perverse giggle escaped Debbi’s mouth. She looked over at Jerry, who sat at the table gaping at her, his mouth open, a piece of bacon in his hand.

Debbi shut her mouth, and the kitchen fell silent except for the ticking of the silly cuckoo clock on the wall—a tacky wood and plastic souvenir that her mother had bought in Switzerland for her a few years ago, on one of her many whirlwind Elderhostel trips. Every hour that dumb wooden bird popped out the swinging door and tittered “cuckoo” at her. I hate that clock …

“What the hell is this?” he demanded, waving the strip of bacon in the air like a winning lottery ticket.

“Wh-what do you mean?” she asked, feeling a sense of doom swell. “It’s bacon.”

“The hell it is! This tastes like cardboard!” He threw the piece onto the table, and it was quickly snatched up by Brad, who stuffed it in his mouth, never one to miss an opportunity. He’d grown nearly a foot this last year, now an inch taller than Jerry at six feet even.

Chelsea, in her tight angora pink sweater, never even looked up when her brother reached across her plate to retrieve the strip, thumbs still moving at light speed, her streaked blond bangs falling into her eyes.

Debbi shrugged, knowing the gesture would fail to console him, but it was her knee-jerk gesture whenever Jerry got testy. “It’s turkey bacon. It’s healthier than regular bacon—”

Jerry stood suddenly, pushing back his chair, the wooden legs sounding like nails scratching the surface of a blackboard. Debbi cringed, wilting under his fury.

Jerry strode up to her and cupped her chin in his hand, making her look into his eyes.

His voice was a low growl. “Turkey bacon, huh? I don’t want any healthy bacon, understand? I don’t want any healthy anything. I want fattening, greasy, high-cholesterol bacon made from pigs. I want real food. Real food for a real man. Ever since those nerdy, hippie California nincompoops invaded the campus, the market’s been full of this crap. And tofu. Tofu! What the hell do you do with tofu? Use it as a butt plug? It tastes like wet chalk! But you have to add it to the spaghetti sauce because of my cholesterol.”

Debbi’s shoulders jerked up and down again. “The doctor said—”

“I don’t give a damn what the doctor said, you hear me? Just ... just …” He let go of her chin and clamped his lips so hard, they turned nearly white. Debbi rubbed her sore chin.

Sweat trickled down Jerry’s wide forehead, catching in the deep creases. He raked a hand through his thick chestnut hair that had been thinning at a fast rate ever since he got transferred into Homicide last summer.

His dream come true.

All Jerry Beauregard Dickerson wanted was to crack a big case and get on CNN. But he had to get a case first. And lately the only trouble brewing in Tacoma was from the usual gangs fighting over turf. Hence his chronic irritation with work. Though Debbi guessed that had more to do with the newly hired Sergeant Manners than anything else. He positively loathed that woman.

“Come on, Chels—let’s get going.” Brad nudged his sister, rolling his eyes at the predictable “Morning Show,” and she finally extricated her gaze from her pink cell phone, though it looked as if it pained her to do so. Part of his driving privileges stipulated that he drop his sister off at her middle school on his way to his early gym class.

Chelsea stood and looked around as if only now realizing she’d been in the kitchen the last fifteen minutes. She hadn’t eaten a thing, as usual. But Debbi wasn’t in the mood to fight that battle today with her near-anorexic daughter. Exhaustion tugged at her like a lead weight dangling from her neck.

With quick hand waves and mumbled good-byes, her two kids fled the house, Debbi’s eyes fixated on Chelsea’s tight faded jeans riddled with quarter-size holes, some of which revealed bits of hot-pink underwear.

Debbi’s words caught in her throat. She couldn’t let Chelsea—only fourteen—go to school wearing that—

“What are you doing?”

Debbi wrenched her gaze from her daughter’s butt and turned to Jerry.

“What?” she asked, opening the fridge.

Jerry put his hands on his hips—his ever-widening hips. But, she should talk. She’d gained five pounds in the last month and had no clue how that’d happened. Nowadays all she had to do was look at a potato and she gained weight. As if potatoes had some sinister arcane power to send calories across space and plaster onto unsuspecting victims’ bodies.

The thought heaped on the depression. She used to be thin and cute in college. A cheerleader who could do back walkovers and the splits. One day she was twenty, and the next, forty. Where had all those years gone?

A sudden squall lashed more rain against the window, sounding like a dozen birds crashing into the glass. Thunder rumbled so loudly overhead, the house shook.

“Deb, I said, what are you doing?” His condescension dripped off the words like syrup off a flapjack.

Jerry was shaking his head, a look of disgust on his face.

She had no idea what Jerry was so riled about.

“You put the milk in the cupboard and the biscuit box in the fridge,” he said flatly, emphasizing each word as if speaking to a five-year-old.

A shiver of horror ran up her back. She yanked the fridge open. Sure enough, the bright-yellow biscuit box sat on the top shelf, glaring at her. She took it out and set it on the sink counter, telling herself to breathe slowly. For some reason her heart was racing at breakneck speed. Sweat prickled on her forehead. The room grew suffocatingly hot again. She put her hand on her clammy forehead, expecting a fever, but the skin was cool.

As she took the milk carton down from the cupboard, Jerry said behind her, “Maybe that electric shock therapy would help snap you out of your weird moods. You know—like what Ted’s grandmother had.” He laughed and threw her another disgusted look. “Are you even taking your meds?”

Ted. Again with the Ted talk. Debbi’s ire roiled in her stomach. The man was obsessed with Ted Bundy—Tacoma’s eerie claim to fame. The serial killer who had done such disgusting things to his victims, Debbi felt like throwing up every time Jerry mentioned his name. He spoke about the dead man like they’d been best buds. Ted this. Ted that. Ted used to stand at his aunt’s bedside with knives in his hand when he was only three. Ted dumpster-dove looking for pictures of naked women. Ted had the perfect criminal mind. The way Jerry talked, Ted was a god to be worshipped. She was sick to death with hearing about Ted. And ever since Jerry had been transferred to Homicide, the Ted stories had multiplied like cockroaches in an abandoned building.

“I said, are you taking your meds? For that seasonal disorder problem?”

Erg! Maybe I’m not suffering from SAD. Maybe it’s MAD—Man Anger Disorder. How many years had she stuffed down her anger and disappointment, never complaining, believing that love conquered all, that Jerry was just “going through a phase”? Right—how many phases was that in the last two decades?

She sighed. She knew Ellen was right. Debbi Dickerson was weak, a mouse, a wimp. But this was her lot in life, and there was nothing to be done about it. She’d tried to change Jerry for years, but it was like trying to prod a two-ton elephant with a flyswatter.

Jerry had put on his jacket and hat and was standing in front of the door, frowning at her. His expression triggered another stab of pain to her temples. “The meds, Deb? Are you taking them?” His voice was laced with threat.

“They don’t help,” she managed to spurt out, her headache pounding against her scalp.

“Then go see another doctor. With all the drugs out there, something’s bound to work. Honestly, I don’t think I can take much more of this.”

She put the milk back in the fridge and closed the silver door, her drawn, distorted reflection rippling on the surface, glowering back at her, hateful.

Debbi turned, riding on some errant wave of anger that had slipped unnoticed from a crack inside her heart. She’d rarely ever raised her voice to Jerry—only a few times in all these years. But right now she wanted to scream.

“You ... can’t take ...?” The words tasted poisonous on her tongue. She walked up to Jerry and looked him in the eyes.

“You can’t take much more of this?”

The venom in her voice stunned her. As if some creature had taken over her vocal chords. “How do you think I feel?” she screeched.

Apparently it stunned Jerry too. His wide, shocked eyes quickly narrowed.

“Get a grip, Deb. You’re driving us all crazy with your erratic moods.” He grunted, leaning back, and shook his head. “I’m gonna be late.”

The condescending dismissiveness in his voice made Debbi looked down at her hands.

Odd. They were clenched into fists, the knuckles turning white. Her ragged-bitten nails dug into the skin of her palms, but she barely registered the pain. She couldn’t recall a time, any time in her life, when she’d made a fist.

Something in her eyes must have set off alarms because Jerry froze suddenly like the proverbial deer in the headlights and put his hand out to stop her, the way he might stop traffic. But it did no good.

Debbi’s fist slammed into Jerry’s cheek—so fast neither of them had seen it coming. Her hand exploded with pain as bone hit bone.

As Debbi groaned, Jerry yelped and jerked back, and his reaction sent strange frissons of satisfaction tickling over her skin. She pulled her hand back and stared at it as if it were some alien object that had fallen from outer space and glomped onto her wrist. She had never hit anyone in her life—not even spanked her children when they were disobedient.

Her mouth fell open, and though she fumbled for words, nothing came out.

Something was wrong with her. Something very, very wrong. Was she insane? Losing her mind? Fear took a strong hold of her, and every inch of her body shook.

Jerry rubbed his cheek and winced, and Debbi noticed an ugly black bruise already beginning to swell. Huh, she had smacked him pretty hard.

He cursed under his breath and shook his head, looking away, at the wall, out the window—everywhere but at her.

Then, without a word, he grabbed his keys off the wall hook, threw open the door, stormed out, and slammed the door behind him.

The violent sound ricocheted through the room and pinged off Debbi’s head until it petered out and the room fell silent—except for the ticking of the stupid Swiss cuckoo clock in the kitchen and the hard rain battering the house.

Her mind suddenly went blank. All emotion drained from her limbs, leaving her weak and listless. She stumbled over to the nearest kitchen chair and fell into it, then put her face into her hands and wept.