Split Black /#Wattys 2021

Chapter Seven

"I told you I'd apply for a regular job! You said no." Her eyes flashed and her professionally arched brows rushed together over her nose.

"And what was the other half of that discussion?" John reminded her. "Have you actually taken any work in D.C.? Once. Have you casted for any shows in Pennsylvania at all? No!"

"I told you I don't have to waste all that money. All I have to do is send them my book."

"You told me the agency took care of that already." He strode to the kitchen door and waved an arm at the crumb-laden carpet and the dirty clothes strewn about the furniture. "All you do is lie around all day. Jesus!"

"Excuse me, I shot an editorial last week!" she snapped. "And I had four callbacks before that, for commercials. I am not doing nothing!"

"Other models run rings around you, Lizzie. I run rings around you."

The smoke detector started up again in an ear-splitting shriek.

"Oh, God, I hate that thing!" whined Lizzie, and ran past with the spatula again. Whack! Whack! resounded from the hall like someone cutting down a tree.

John escaped to the bathroom. The entire day—no, make that the entire year—all rolled into a pressure-spiking tension that sent the blood hammering in his eardrums. Pain pounded at his temples and the back of his neck in a dull, steady beat. He closed the door and locked it behind him, downed two aspirin, and sat on the toilet lid, eyes squeezed tight shut, fingers in his ears.

After a moment he opened his eyes again. He kept his fingers in his ears.

He hoped this afternoon wouldn't be the end of his and Mike's friendship. Could he have done anything other than force him into medical leave? He didn't think so. Could he have broached the subject differently? Yeah, maybe. Probably. If he saw Mike tomorrow, he'd say so; if he didn't, he'd call him. Yeah.

He unplugged his ears to a blessed silence. Probably Lizzie had knocked the smoke detector off the ceiling by now. He let out a breath and got up. Might as well get a shower. He started pulling off his clothes.

The phone rang and stopped. Lizzie rattled the doorknob. "Johnny? The phone's for you. It's some police captain in Hampton."

John trudged out to the phone in his socks and underwear. "Detective Robin."

"Detective John Robin?"

"That's me."

"This is Lieutenant Steve Davenport, Hampton PD. We've got a bit of a situation with your mother I wanted to let you know about."

John's mother Evelyn had ended years of bored, timid, snippy housewifery by joining a gym and shedding almost a hundred and fifty pounds close to three years ago. After ending up on one of People magazine's "They lost 100 lbs!" covers, she had started teaching fitness classes at her gym and even landed a weekly column on weight loss and healthy living in John's old hometown newspaper. Finally, he had started to think that maybe he could stop worrying about her.

He sat down on the couch, instantly feeling like he'd swallowed a brick. "What's going on?"

"I don't know if you were aware that her column has recently been pulled from the paper here."

"Uh, no," said John, and looked at Lizzie. Surely Ma would have called; why hadn't Lizzie told him about a call like that?

"Well, it was, and your mother has been sending letters to her former editor. Not threatening letters, but numerous phone calls, getting friends of hers to call and write, things like that. Recently he's noticed her turning up at work and outside his house, and he came in to file a stalking charge. She explained that you're a police officer. He's willing to drop the complaint. He just wants the communications and the stalking to stop. If you think you can intervene, we'd like to not pursue the matter."