Bobby Dearest

Dear Bobby...

Robert Sheeling shook his torch once again. The fading beam turned bright immediately, but he knew the batteries were dying anyway – the time he had between shakes was coming down rapidly – and in his estimate, he had, maybe, another ten minutes – give or take a couple – before the light went out for good. And then he would be plunged into darkness. He returned to the letter in his hand.

Do you remember the first time you asked me to marry you, and I asked you if you were sure? I loved you even then, Bobby, perhaps more than you’ve ever realized... but I wouldn’t have married you if you weren’t sure. You told me you were. That you would never look at another woman, never need another woman as long as you had me...

He remembered the proposal vaguely, despite her many attempts over the years to remind him. He was sure that if she could have, she would have videotaped it just so that she could sit him down and make him watch it, over and over and over again.

You lied, Bobby!

‘Did I?’ He wondered... He had been sure – he was sure of that – once. Those heady days so early in the romance, the passion that was so obvious when they made love, the absolute certainty that he needed her, and nothing else, in life. Was it lying if you believed in it at the time? 

Do you know what was worse, Bobby? I knew... I knew every single time. I would know before the words were even out of your mouth. 

A surge of irritation welled up within him. ‘So what?’ he continued the argument in his head, pretending that she was standing before him, ready for his ire. ‘You knew – and you did fuck-all about it. Did you ever ask yourself why I wasn’t happy with you anymore?’

You will probably blame me for not stopping you. What did you expect me to do, come out and ask you about it? Ask you why you were not interested in me anymore? Ask you what a two-bit whore has that I don’t? And even if I had asked, Bobby, would you have told me? Would you have cared enough to?

‘I would have,’ he felt like retorting. ‘At least I cared enough to lie...’

At least, you had the decency to lie. I used to think that it was because you still cared for me, Bobby – that you did not want to hurt me. Until last night.

It had been the last straw for him too. Her accusatory eyes. Those barbed comments. The air between them had hung heavily with contempt and loathing, each trying to outdo hurting the other. Succeeding.

What you called me, Bobby... That hurt. Does that please you, Bobby? Does it now please you to hurt me so deeply? Me, who you once said you’d never ever hurt? Me, whose tears you used to kiss away? What happened to you, my darling?

The torchlight flickered again and he decided to switch if off for a while. Sometimes, and not just for torchlights, switching off for a bit worked. Sometimes, you just had to take a step back.

Lying alone in the dark, he imagined he could hear her footsteps on the floor above. She had a heavy tread, he knew – had even joked about it once upon a time. It seemed like another life now, one that was happier, lighter, more cheerful... more – what was the word he was looking for? – ah, yes, life-affirming. She had punched his arm lightly when he had told her she sounded like a bull searching for a matador, but she had been smiling then, and she had made a conscious effort to walk with lighter steps for a while. 

He wondered what she was doing right now. Packing his suitcase? Hers? He could almost see her ham-handedly shoving piles of clothes into the suitcase, unconcerned about creases or folds or capacities. He had lost count of the number of times he had blindly taken a suitcase from her, hurrying to catch whatever train or plane he had to take, and later be dismayed to discover that he would need to send the entire consignment to the nearest dry-cleaner before he could be presentable in them – a bottle of lotion would have leaked because the lid had not been screwed on tight enough, or maybe the clothes would all be in such disarray he wouldn’t be able to make out one shirt’s sleeve from another’s and would find them all creased with a million lines by the time he finally managed to pull one out.

It had seemed charming – her Jill-from-the-boondocks-ness – but that had quickly faded into disappointment, then irritation. Irritation, at some point, became anger; anger, never uttered, turned rapidly into apathy. Instead of helping her get better at it – she had been willing, but incapable – he had chosen to do the packing himself, even if it meant an even more hurried dash later, even if it meant dumping everything she’d already packed on the bed and choosing fresh, pressed clothes from the wardrobe all over again.

His thoughts returned to the present, or more precisely, to how they would split their belongings. The divorce, it seemed to him, was all but certain now; even if she forgave him one more time, he wasn’t sure he could return the favour. Locking him in like this was the last straw – he didn’t have to put up with shit like this, did he?

She must have brought him here instead of their bedroom, he supposed. He had a vague recollection of being helped to bed after his Friday-night specials, drowsy to the point of actually swaying on his feet. She must have spiked the bottle – it was the only thing that made sense. If he cared to, he could ask her once he got out... but he doubted he wanted to talk to her any more than was absolutely necessary.

He wasn’t too worried about being locked up like this – once, before, she had locked him up in the attic for an entire day, only to apologize to him for her rashness later that night. He knew she just wanted him to stew for a while; he wouldn’t give her that satisfaction. He was neither claustrophobic nor incontinent – he could stay for as long as she took. The air was a little stale, perhaps, but it would surely last him for the time it would take for her to come to her senses. If he was not truly pissed, it was because she had provided him with a cushion for his head and a letter for passing the time.

He returned to the letter and turned the page over. 

It has been a while since we even spoke our hearts out to each other, hasn’t it? For you to know what I am thinking, and for me to know what you are. It is like we are completely different people now, Bobby. I cannot help remembering who you were.

He thought it was exactly the opposite of his problem – he could remember, and it was a painful reminder every day that she had remained the same. Her naiveté was no longer endearing; the laugh he had loved so was now a grating noise, as artificial as the rest of their occasional camaraderie; her inability to comprehend his business and the nuances of his success was no longer refreshing, forcing him to think about something else like books or movies, but a big part of what had driven him towards Rachel.

I looked her up online. Someone told me you could do that these days. That this thing called Internet is something magical. I found you in some of her pictures. You look happy in them, and I know why. You look happier in those pictures than you have at home – at least in recent times.

Rachel was the latest in a string of affairs, and he wasn’t sure if Jill’s exit would necessarily mean an invitation to move in – either with her, or her with him. Rachel was good – passionate, sexy, casual – and he enjoyed the looks of envy when he escorted her into a restaurant or the theatre, but she was not really Mrs. Sheeling material. His next wife needed to be... well, a bit like Jill and a bit like Rachel, but he was damned if it had to be all of one or the other. 

Is it just the sex, Bobby? She’s pretty, prettier than me anyway. She’s younger than me by at least ten years, and she must be at least fifteen younger than you, but she looks half our age, doesn’t she? Is that why you like her? Because she’s younger, can bend her body in a way I can no longer bend mine? Or is it simply because she is a better actress than I am when we make love?

He snorted. Trust Jill to come up with an old-fashioned ‘make love’ instead of calling it what it was. That was Jill – plain, placid, unadventurous Jill. Even her name was old-fashioned, plain, placid. Jill. It wasn’t short for Jillian, or even Juliana – it was Jill. Typical.

The torch flickered again. This time, when he shook, the light remained dim. A few more paragraphs, he saw, were left above the flourish that passed for her signature – a careful, cursive, plain signature. He was surprised, for a moment, that a signature could stand for everything that bored him about her.

I think about all the women you have cheated on me with, Bobby. I think about them daily, and I think what they would have thought of me. They must have pitied me, didn’t they? I was the wife you were sick of, and they were the ones you were interested in. But then you lost interest in them, didn’t you, but remained married to me? So maybe it is my turn to pity them. I had you far longer than all of them put together.

Stella. She had been the first temptation he had given in to. A temp who had joined his office on a Wednesday and invited him into her bedroom on Thursday when he had, out of a hope that he thought was futile, given a lift to the new joinee. It had lasted just long enough to make him bolder about the next conquest.

Brie. Now that was an exciting name, and she had been an exciting affair. Brie was a client’s girlfriend – and the fact that both of them were cheating on their partners had added an extra spice to their hours together. Brie was adventurous, had rarely demurred from anything he wanted. The affair had petered out once they started to get familiar enough to know each other too well, and when they had parted after one last for-old-time’s-sake fuck, there had been no hard feelings. 

He remembered the first two well, but the next few were a blur of overlapping names, faces and episodes. There was a woman he had met at a conference; a blond from the office next door; a friend of a friend he had been banging at the time. Then there were two or three he couldn’t even recall, before he had run into Rachel at a pub where he had sat nursing a beer, dreading the return to an all-too-familiar home.

All of them knew he had been married – he had been upfront about it. He had never pretended that any affair – even the ongoing one with Rachel – was meant to be anything more... romantic. There was an expiry date that came stamped at the time of purchase. He wondered how many of them had thought about his wife in those days more than he had.

Possibly all of them.

I have been afraid these past few days that it is already too late for us, Bobby, and last night proved it. I see no future together for us, and I suspect you certainly no longer want one. I wish I could change your mind one last time, my darling, but I know how you are once you make up your mind. I saw you decide last night. I know.

Despite himself, he smiled a little. ‘Thank God for small mercies!’ he thought. At least he would be spared the trouble of introducing the topic. Once again, he wondered – whose bag was she packing? He didn’t mind moving out of the house. Too much of Jill had seeped into its walls; he would never be free of her if he remained. His mind made a quick decision: he would leave it to her if she wanted, and sell it off if she didn’t. An apartment in the city – now that was something to look forward to. Something with a view of the skyline, or maybe on the Hills overlooking the bay. He hoped she would want it, because he could then adjust it against whatever alimony she wanted. If her bitterness spilled over at the time of the divorce, she could certainly make it a very costly one for him.

I am dead to you, aren’t I? You will not miss me, perhaps even think of me once I am gone, will you? Or perhaps you will, but it will not be with any fondness anymore. Are you still, even the slightest bit, fond of me, Bobby? No, don’t tell me. I am afraid of what your answer will be.

The light flickered again. He shook it forcefully, careful not to crack it against the walls an inch away on his sides or on the roof less than a foot away. The light remained dim. He brought the light and the letter closer. He thought of knocking on the door and making enough noise to force her to let him out but rejected that thought. He wouldn’t give her that satisfaction. She would come to him, but he wouldn’t ask her to.

I leave you everything, Bobby. I want nothing of yours that will remind me of the life we had. This house, your car, the money... even my collection, because I started it with gifts you had bought me when we were engaged. I have nothing in this house that is solely mine, except my father’s Colt 1860. I wish we had a son or a daughter to pass it on to, like it has been down my family for generations, but it is perhaps for the best that I will be the last to hold it.

He was glad there were no kids around. He would have hated being a parent, he knew. Changing the diapers of snotty-nosed brats, hauling them to and from schools, spending his savings on their health and education instead of on himself, vacations and trips planned around their conveniences, not his... It had been one more thing that had driven them apart. Jill had wanted kids. Well, she could try with someone else – although he had a suspicion she was past the stage where she could even if she found someone willing to do his part. Middle-age was approaching rapidly, and apparently faster for her than for him.

The light went out. He thumbed the switch a few times, cursing in the darkness at her typical dimwittedness. Dying batteries in a torch. Only Jill would have forgotten to check...

Somehow, for a few seconds, the torch lit up again. He read the last three paragraphs and had just uttered a cry of disbelief when it went out for the final time.

We have argued so much, haven’t we, Bobby? It seems to me you have always had the last word. I remember coming to you with an apology far more often than you have ever offered me... But this is one argument where I want to have the last word. No one knows where you are. 

He was in their wine-cellar, or rather what she called one. It had been her idea, expressed tentatively a few weeks ago, that he cut a hole in the ground of their basement for their – her – collection of wines and wine-bottles. It wasn’t heavy work, she said she needed just a shallow hole that would be cool and dry, and the ground was mostly packed earth; he had agreed more out of a sense of guilt than any residual fondness – that ship had sailed a long time ago. 

Do you understand what that means, Bobby? No one knows you are in our wine-cellar. No one even knows we have a wine-cellar – well, at least not someone who will care enough to tell the police. And when they come – at some point of time, they will have to – they will not notice the door. I have covered it so well no one will know even if they stood on top of your final resting place. That is what this is, you know – your final resting place. You have been running around so much, chasing when you could have had everything with me. You need to rest.

The darkness around him suddenly had a cloying quality, as if it was closing around him like a blanket of nothingness. He reached out, touched the walls around him for reassurance. The walls were there, less than an inch from his sides and less than a foot above his nose, but whatever reassurance he felt quickly vanished into the darkness like mist against the sun. The air seemed to become heavier, as if there was already someone else in the coffin with him. 

But do not panic, dear love. I leave you in this world in a place where no harm can ever touch you, and I will be the first to greet you in the next, my darling.

He panicked. Kicked out with his hands and feet, unable to do much more than create a dull thump-thump that he knew would be barely audible in the basement, much less anywhere else in the house. Frantic fingers crumpled the letter in his hand as he punched the unyielding wood above; his kicks, weakened by the lack of space in which he could add some force behind them, were painfully useless. He struggled in vain for an entire minute before quietening down, suddenly realizing that he was probably using up more Oxygen than he should.

His only hope was that she had been joking. That she would come down, open the door to the cellar and let him out.

She must have heard him, for those treads stopped. He waited, hoped, prayed for the treads to sound again, to become louder and louder as she realized that she had gone too far, that she couldn’t do this to him. To him!

A dull explosion – sounding like a Colt Army Model 1860 firing a .36-caliber bullet – shook the house. A second later, there was a softer, smaller thump – like the sound of a body hitting the floor.

And then... silence...