My heart sank as I listened to the sounds of what had happened. Flashes of memory caused me to close my eyes in pain as images from the previous evening flooded my brain. It was all there...the argument, the fight, her screams and finally, the sounds of my heavy breathing as I shuffled out of the room, my footsteps echoing on the hardwood floor as I made my way to the bedroom.
It had been only a matter of ten minutes or so, but they were ten minutes of absolute horror that had changed my life forever. I remembered...
She had knocked on the door while I was working, both on material for the blog and on my second pitcher of martinis. It was obvious when listening to the playback that I was more than a little drunk. Our divorce wasn’t final and Jackie was after more money, even though she had bled me dry before I moved here from L.A. She took the beach house and the majority of our savings, while I was left with just enough to buy this broken down bungalow in one of the seedier neighborhoods on Detroit’s east side.
I remember the judge saying at the time that it was ‘fair’.
During my relocation to Motown I had been very careful to cover my tracks. No land line telephone. No forwarding address. I was hoping to never see Jackie again and she shouldn’t have found me so easily. Pat would never have told her where I was, even though he knew, and the folks at the Bomb
had no clue as to where I actually lived.
Then I heard her mention Andy’s name on the tape. He had been in lockup with me the weekend I spent in Oakland County over the dead squirrel picture.
Fucking Andy had ratted me out.
At some point during the argument Jackie had turned up the heat, like she was so good at doing. That bitch always knew just what buttons to push to send me over the edge and she had pushed like there was no tomorrow that night...calling me names, spitting at me and eventually brandishing the aluminum softball bat that I kept near the door because of the shitty neighborhood I lived in.
She was feisty, I had to hand it to her. It was one of the things I used to like about her, but with a bat in her hand and her pissed at me, being feisty was a definite negative. Jackie swung like Barry Bonds and hit me on the arm. When I grabbed my arm, she swung again, lower this time and struck me in the ribs. The pain shot through me and I saw red.
That’s the last I remember, really. Even on the tape, what happened after that is kind of hard to decipher. There’s the sound of glass breaking, some grunts and groans, a scream or two and that’s pretty much it.
I turned off the recorder and looked out the window. It was just starting to get light outside and the clock on the living room wall said it was a quarter to six. Birds were chirping, my deadline was looming and Jackie was dead.
I switched on my laptop and spent a half-hour churning out some lame Beyonce story, found a crotch shot photo of her, pasted the whole mess into an email and pushed ‘send’.
Then I began to formulate a plan.#