Philip and Elizabeth

When the doorbell rings, I try to decide if I really need to put on pants. I’m four episodes deep into today’s binge-watch, and until now, I’ve only ventured off couch long enough to attend to necessary bodily functions such as fetching or eliminating beer. I can see through the curtain that a female form is at my door, so I pull on the same pair of gym shorts I’ve been wearing for three days.

“Just a minute.”

The woman doesn’t look like a Jehovah’s Witness, but you never know.

“Are you Robert Fletcher?”

“Maybe. Maybe not. Depends on what you’re selling.”

“Mr. Fletcher, this is rather awkward, but… do you know where your wife is? I mean… at this moment?”

“Um, well, at this moment, I don’t actually have a wife. We’re divorced.”

“Oh. I… I didn’t know that. I…”

“Has something happened? Is she OK?”

“Well, I… I mean yes. I suppose she’s OK, it’s just that… well, never mind. I…”

The woman turns to leave.

“Wait a minute. You can’t just say something like that and walk away. I mean, you’ve got my attention here.”

“Well…”

“Come on in. Sorry about the mess. I didn’t get your name, Miss… ?”

“Julie. Julie Vanderburgh. Um, does that name seem familiar?”

“Tour de France?”

“What?”

“There’s a Tour rider by that name. Dutch, I think. Maybe Belgian.”

“No. I don’t know anything about that.”

“He’s not a major figure. Sort of a domestique.”

“A what?”

“A domestique. He attends to the needs of the GC contenders.”

“OK, whatever. I’m sorry, but I’m afraid I don’t know anything about the Tour de France.”

“Pity. You really should watch. It just ended. I’ve been watching for three weeks, and I’m suffering from withdrawal. Would you like something to drink? As you can see, I have beer.”

She looks around the place. Empty Yuengling bottles rest on horizontal surfaces at one level or another.

“Or,” I say, “I think I may have some wine.”

She shakes her head.

“Water?”

“Nothing, thank you.”

“So,” I say, “what’s this about my ex?”

“Well, to be quite blunt, Mr. Fletcher, I think your wife…”

I raise my eyebrows.

“Sorry, ex-wife. I think she and my husband may be having an affair.”

“So… you think,” I correct her, “that your husband is having an affair.”

Julie Nuremburg, or whatever her name is, nods.

“With someone,” I say, “someone who is—as I have pointed out—not my wife. So, while that may be an unfortunate situation for you, what my former wife does with her time is really none of my business.”

“If I may ask, Mr. Fletcher, how long have you been divorced?”

“About a year and a half. And you can call me Ted.”

“That’s not all that long, and… ‘Ted’? I thought your name was Robert.”

“I don’t like ‘Robert.’ Too formal, and I can’t stand ‘Bob,’ so I call myself ‘Ted.’ You don’t get to pick your name when you’re born, and I decided that’s one of the things adults should be able to do, so I picked Ted. It’s simple and straightforward. Sounds presidential… or at least senatorial, don’t you think? Not that I have any of those ambitions. What about you? Do you like Julie?”

“I… I never really thought about it.”

“What do you think of ‘Natalie’?”

“Natalie is a pretty name.”

“Well, you’re pretty. I’ll call you ‘Natalie.’”

Natalie gives me an odd look.

 “Um… did she… do you… I mean what was the reason for, for…”

“Well, Natalie, I think what you’re asking is why did we divorce. Was she seeing someone? Someone I’m guessing you’re guessing is Mr. Nuremburg?”

“Vanderburgh… Neil Vanderburgh, and yes; that is what I’m asking.”

“Well, not as far as I know. There were no suspicious phone calls or late nights out. Nothing like that. She just asked me one day, she said, ‘Ted,’—or maybe she said ‘Bob.’ Sometimes she called me ‘Bob,’ because she knew I hated ‘Bob,’ which, in this case, she might have chosen in order to further irritate me. So, she said ‘Bob,’ or ‘Ted,’ probably ‘Bob.’ ‘Bob,’ she said, ‘when was the last time you were really happy?’ I told her that I had been really happy about two minutes before she asked me that.”

Natalie nods and gives me a funny look. I know the look. It’s one of those looks where the person is trying to decide if the other person might be crazy, so I say, “I’m not crazy,” hoping to clear that up.

“Well, that’s not my case,” Natalie says. “He, Neil, is out late a lot. There are phone calls and texts—and—I found your wife’s name on a note in his pocket.”

“A, I don’t have a wife, and B, that does not seem very careful on his part. Philip and Elizabeth would never behave that way.”

“Who?”

“Philip and Elizabeth, my binge-watch. They’re spies and they sneak around a lot. They never leave traces. They even wear disguises.”

I show her the boxed set of DVDs from the show.

“Have you seen it?”

“Listen, Mr. Fletcher…”

“Call me ‘Ted,’ Natalie.”

“Listen, Ted. Thank you for your hospitality and—I guess—your help, but I think I’ll be going now.”

“Before you go, Natalie, let me give you some advice.”

“Advice. OK.”

“You should—maybe you already have—come up with some kind of plan of action.”

Natalie gives me a look.

“I’d be happy to help you. I’m working on a novel, but I’m kind of stuck. I could use an adventure. Might fit well into my new book.”

“You’re a writer?”

I nod.

“I’m surprised to hear that, Ted.”

She looks around.

 “I don’t see a lot of books. Or papers, or a typewriter… or a computer. I do see a lot of beer. Do you work here?”

“Ouch. That’s just the kind of thing Natalie used to say.”

“Natalie?”

“That’s right. My ex. I love that name. She used to say, ‘I don’t see you taking notes or typing or…’ She’d say, ‘I don’t see a lot of work taking place of any kind.’”

“I thought your wife’s name was Jocelyn.”

“Ex-wife. Well, yes, technically. I mean, if you had access to her birth certificate, you would find that… you don’t, do you? Have access to her birth certificate, I mean.”

Natalie shakes her head ever so slightly.

 “Too bad. I’d like to get my hands on that. Not that I’d make any changes or anything. But if you did, I suppose Jocelyn is what you would find filled in on the name line. But anyway, I call her—called her—‘Natalie.’”

“Hmm. I see. Listen… Ted… do you have a dog?”

“A dog, no. Not any longer. Natalie took the dog, along with a lot of furniture and other stuff.”

“Let me guess. The dog’s name is… wait for it… Natalie?”

“Heavens, no.” I chuckle at the thought. “Why would anyone name a male dog Natalie? His name is Ted.”

“I see,” Natalie says.

I wave a dismissive hand.

“Natalie, though, she always called him ‘Rudy.’ I suppose because that’s what she actually named him, but anyway, as to your observation about my work methods, that was one of the things that bothered Natalie. She felt that I didn’t really work as such. But she just couldn’t see it. The work I mean, because it’s all right here.”

I tap the side of my cranium.

“I’m not sure,” Natalie says, “that you are—how should I put this, Ted—completely normal.”

“That’s just what Natalie said—Natalie. But I have to ask you, exactly what is it that’s so terrific about normality?”

 “Right. Well, I’ll just let you get back to Philip and… and…”

“Elizabeth. And remember, Natalie. Develop a plan. Elizabeth would never set out without a plan. So, I’ll be here. Ready to chip in when you come up with something. Oh, and let me know if you think we’ll need disguises. I know where I can get my hands on some.”

I see Natalie to the door, return to my couch, and hit resume.

* * * 

After two more episodes, I need to make a beer run. When I roll my cart out of the beer section of the grocery store, I run into Natalie. She has a basket full of sensible items—coffee, paper towels, etc.

“Well, fancy running into you, Natalie,” I say.

“Oh, Ted. Yes, it is. Very fancy.”

She notices my cart full of beer.

“I see you’ve finished your shopping.”

“That’s right. All the necessities.”

“Do you ever eat?” she asks.

“Occasionally. But there’s a lot of nutrition in beer. And I find that it’s best for my work. Helps me think.”

“Right. Well, it’s good to see you again… so soon,” she says.

Natalie actually smiles.

* * *  

The following evening, as I am reviewing episode five from season three, the doorbell rings. I pause it where Elizabeth is thinking—you can tell she’s thinking and what she is thinking—about killing a very nice old lady with her own medicine. The old lady’s medicine, I mean.

“Hey, Natalie. Come on in. Water?”

“No, in fact I think I’ll have something stronger if you’ve got it.”

I’ve finished the last of my Yuengling. Next up is Old Milwaukee Lite, so I hold up a can.

“Um, no thanks, but I think, yesterday, you may have mentioned some wine.”

“Right. I’ll be right back. Have to go down to the wine cellar.”

“You have a wine cellar?”

“Some—perhaps most—would call it a basement. Natalie kept her wine down there. She saw herself as a sort of connoisseur.”

“I’m surprised, in that case,” Natalie says, “that she didn’t take it with her.”

“Oh. She took all the good stuff. What she left here is what she called scheissewein. ‘Shit wine.’ She left me lots of that in case I should want to, as she put it, tailgate the Tour de France.”

“That was very thoughtful.”

I return with a bottle of Yellow Tail Chardonnay.

“So, what’s the plan?” I ask as I pour her a glass of shit wine.

Natalie tells me that she has driven out to the cabin of her husband’s friend to scout the lay of the land. She thinks, from piecing together what messages she has been able to acquire from her husband’s cell phone while he’s in the shower or using the toilet, that tomorrow night he is planning a rendezvous with his lover, whoever she may turn out to be.

Then, she produces from her purse a revolver. The way she does it is movie-elegant. Just like Lauren Bacall would do it, if Lauren Bacall had been short, with close-cropped, dishwater-blonde hair, and wore shorts, a t-shirt, and Nike running shoes, rather than tall, with long, dark, silky hair, a tight dress, and high heels.

“Whoa, Natalie. As I said, I’d love to gain a little experience for my book—if not this one, maybe the next—but I’m not really up for incarceration—or worse—if you get my drift.”

She takes a sip of her Yellow Tail, points the weapon at my chest, and pulls the trigger. The noise reverberates off all the hard surfaces in the room, leaving my ears ringing, and I realize that I have a visible wet stain running down the front of my AND1s.

She laughs.

“Maybe you should change those shorts,” she says. “Look, I’ve already decided to get out of this relationship, but I intend to scare the bejesus out of him before I go.”

“Elizabeth wouldn’t mess around with nonsense like this,” I say. “When she wanted revenge on the husband of her neighbor, a woman she had befriended but who was too frightened to leave her abusive relationship, she waited until evening when she walked her dog—Elizabeth, I mean—and while the abusive husband worked under his classic ’55 Chevy, she casually walked over and kicked the jack out from under the car. Then she allowed her dog to take a dump on his lawn.”

“Well, A, Neil doesn’t own a classic car, and B, you should never work under a vehicle using only a jack. You should always support it on jack stands—and—I would remind you, Ted, that C, this guiding light of your life… is a TV show.”

“I forget that sometimes. Tell me a sad story.”

“What?”

“I need a sad story, some kind of human interest. They say my work is too cerebral. It needs—they tell me—some kind of emotional connection.”

“You, cerebral? And who’s they?”

“Oh, you know. Some.”

“Right. What are you writing anyway?”

She puts writing in air quotes.

 “By the way,” she says, “you really should change those trunks.”

After I return with a fresh pair of AND1s, I tell her about my book-to-be, which is based on a three hundred–day battle between the Russians and the Finns near a little village called Svirstroy, northeast of Leningrad.

“The Finns? The Finns fought against the Russians?” she says. “I didn’t know that. I assume you’re advocating for the Finns. Aren’t the Russians assholes?”

“Every country has assholes. But no. You probably don’t realize—why should you—that Russia is the most invaded country on earth. They’ve been invaded by the Mongols, the Poles (several times), the Finns, of course, and, Jesus, even the fucking French. You know the 1812 Overture? That was about kicking Napoleon’s short ass out of the Motherland back to where he came from.”

“Ted.”

“Yes, Natalie.”

“I’m short.”

“Sorry. Hadn’t noticed. Anyway, the Ottoman Empire had its sights set on the poor Russians, too, and God knows the Germans invaded them twice. First in World War I, then during what they call ‘The Great Patriotic War,’ along a two thousand–mile front—the largest land invasion in human history—killing, burning, and raping anything in their path. Everyone knows the Jews had it bad with those Nazi fuckers, but Russia lost twenty-two million people. Think of that. Our Civil War was our biggest loss of life, and that was six hundred thousand. Nothing to sneeze at. But twenty-two million? Who can blame them for being a bit testy?”

“That is interesting,” Natalie says, “albeit cerebral. So, OK, Ted. You said you wanted a sad story.”

“That’s right. I need to plug something sad into my account to humanize it.”

“OK.” Natalie says. “So my neighbor, Mason ‘Buzz’ Johnson—”

“Hmm, Buzz is good,” I interject.

 “That’s not the point, Ted. Anyway, Buzz is talking to my husband out in front of our house.”

“Neil,” I say.

“Right, Neil.”

“I don’t really like that name,” I say.

“OK, but let’s, for the sake of argument, not change it to Ted—or even Rudy. It gets too confusing.”

“OK, Neil it is.”

“So anyway, I’m planting bulbs and trying not to listen, but my ears have always been more efficient than I would like. Even with Buzz’s ridiculous diesel throbbing away in his driveway, I can make out every word. Buzz is talking about football and hunting, despite the fact that Neil cares about neither. So Buzz says to Neil, ‘Oh, by the way, you know that orange cat y’all had? I was wondering if he ever showed up?’ ‘No,’ Neil says. ‘It was sad. He just disappeared. I guess coyotes got him. We loved that cat.’ ‘Well,’ says Buzz, ‘I forgot to mention it until now, don’t know what reminded me. It was the damnedest thing. I stopped up at the truck stop, you know the Chevron at exit 114 just across the river up in Marion County? ’Cause I was having trouble with one of my gauges, and so I thought I’d get them to check ’er out.’ I stop digging, Ted. I’m listening with real interest now. So, Buzz says, ‘When I opened up the hood, that orange cat of yours jumped out of there like somebody’d shoved a lit firecracker up his ass. Seemed OK, though. Guess he got in there to keep warm, you know how they do sometimes. So anyways, I forgot to tell y’all about it until now, and I was just wonderin’ if he ever made it back. Well, anyhoo… I gotta get a move on. Y’all have a good one.’”

“Jeez,” I say. “That is fucking sad. I like it.”

“Yeah, but I don’t really see how it’s going to fit into a Finnish invasion of Northern Russia.”

“You never know. I bet some of the kids the Soviets sent out into the Svir River had a cat or two back home.”

Natalie gives me a puzzled look.

“Want something to eat?” I ask.

“I’m starving.”

“I just eat simple stuff. Too lazy to cook. I’ve got frozen pizza or frozen potpie we could zap.”

“Zap it,” she says. “No, wait. I’ll do it. Have another beer and tell me about the Finns.”

She brings me a beer.

“My story, see, really begins with these five young guys who are from the same little village of Svirstroy. They’ve been friends their whole lives, but two of them are in love with the same girl.”

“Natalie?”

“No, of course not. Her name is Natasha.”

“Natasha, right. She should have a cat.”

“OK, well, the Russians were guarding the rear flank of Leningrad. You’ve heard of the siege of Leningrad, right?”

“I think so.”

“The Germans had a stranglehold on the city from three sides. Nine hundred days. Thousands of people starved to death. Old women would go down to the river each morning and take turns dipping water out of a hole they kept open in the ice. It was cold as shit.”

“It was Russia, right?” Natalie says.

“Yeah, but it was much colder then. Global warming. Anyway, the people of the city kept fighting. They were mostly old men and women. The young men were all at the front. The Finns were trying to close off the final access to the rear over the river and Lake Ladoga. It was the only access to the city where food and materials could be brought in.”

We eat our pot pies over my account of the battle.

“Anyway, the Russian commandant needs volunteers to take these decoy boats out into the river to draw fire from the enemy. They don’t even have weapons. The boats are rigged with sticks painted to look like guns. They know they’re going to be slaughtered, but the commandant gives a convincing speech. It’s all about the heroic, starving people of Leningrad who are holding out against impossible odds and the sacrifices which must be made for the Motherland and…”

At some point, I can tell Natalie’s enthusiasm for my story is waning, and from time to time, I have to say, “Are you awake?”

“Um. You’d better tell me that last part again.”

I recite some more until she says, “Could I have some more shit wine? This cerebral stuff is wearing me down.”

I descend to the “wine cellar” once again to retrieve another bottle, but when I return, Natalie is snoring on the couch. I drape a blanket over her and ease her into a comfortable position.

When I wake in the morning at around ten (as is my habit), Natalie is gone, but she’s left a note:

I’ll be back this evening before dark. I’m going to the cabin. You can come if you like. I could probably use your help. Oh, and I think your story has potential. I may have missed some of it. Sorry. It definitely needs a cat, maybe even some birds.

 * * * 

When Natalie knocks, Philip and Elizabeth are strangling a botanist whom they think is working for the CIA in an effort to destroy the Russian wheat crop. I pause it as they are killing the poor bastard by mistake. He’s actually trying to make a pest-proof strain that can feed more Russians, but they don’t find that out until two episodes later. (I’m on my second viewing.)

Natalie is nervous and excited.

“Here’s the plan,” she says. “The cabin is about an hour from here up in the foothills. I say we leave now so we get there before it’s completely dark. That way we don’t have to stumble around in the woods. We’ll park about a half mile away. “

“OK. And then?”

Once more, she produces her gun. I hold my hands up in a halt gesture so she doesn’t cause me to piss my AND1’s again.

* * *

Natalie drives, downing a cup of scheissewein along the way, and I down an Old Mil or two. We park the car on a dirt turnout from the gravel road and set out through the woods. I stumble over a fallen branch, and she shushes me.

When we get to the cabin, it’s completely dark. Cicadas and other insects chirp and buzz.

“OK,” she says. “Stay here. I’m going to go peak into the window and see what I can see.”

“Is that his truck?”

“No. But he could have borrowed his friend’s. Who knows?”

She’s gone for about fifteen minutes. I’m being eaten alive by mosquitos, and when she returns, I scold her for not bringing bug spray.

“Don’t be such a pussy,” she says. “Listen. I’m not tall enough to see in the window. I need you to go look.”

“I don’t even know what your husband looks like.”

“You know what your wife looks like.”

“I don’t have…”

 “I know. I know. If it’s her it’s got to be him. Now get out there and…”

“I still wish you had brought some fucking bug spray.”

She punches me on the arm.

“Ow.”

 “Did your boys who volunteered to go out on that river with no weapons complain because the commandant didn’t supply them with bug spray?”

“Well this is hardly…”

“Would Elizabeth bitch about doing her duty to the Motherland?”

“Well… I guess if you’re going to invoke Elizabeth, I have no viable retort.”

“I’ll viable retort your fat ass.” She taps me on the side of my head with her revolver. “Now get out there and do your duty to the Motherland… motherfucker.”

“I’m not sure you know me well enough to…”

She actually kicks me in the ass.

* * * 

I set off, slapping at the mosquito currently dining on the back of my neck. When I get to the window, it’s too tall for me, too. I fumble around in some trash at the rear of the cabin until I come up with an empty five-gallon Home Depot bucket and take it back to the window. When I can finally see in, there’s a man sitting on a couch and a woman at the stove. Both their backs are turned to me. It could be Natalie. The hair is the right color but shorter than I remember. The man sort of fits the description Natalie gave me but so do approximately twenty million other people in this country. I stand on my tiptoes, and the bucket topples over. I let out a grunt when I hit the ground, and the bucket goes skittering against the side of the house. I scramble back into the woods in the general direction of where I think Natalie is waiting. The man bursts through the front door, and I hit the dirt.

“Who’s there?” he shouts.

After a bit, he goes back inside, and I get up, trying to remember which direction will lead me back to Natalie. The man returns to the front porch with a gun and fires it in the air. I can only assume that it is not loaded with blanks.

At that moment, my legs seem to wobble as some sort of tremor overtakes them. I can’t tell if its source is my cowardice or the earth itself. I remind myself of the bravery of the young men in my story, but I am not brave. I probably would not have volunteered for that certain-death mission. I slap myself in the face and tell myself to buck up, but I feel another shudder.

“Natalie!” I whisper.

“Over here.”

When I get to where she is waiting behind a tree, she asks me if that was Natalie.

“Couldn’t tell.”

“Did you see the guy? Was that him?”

“Maybe. I think so, but… did you recognize his voice?”

“Couldn’t really tell. These damned crickets are so loud they drown out everything.”

“Cicadas,” I say.

“OK. Cicadas, for God’s sake. We wouldn’t want to be imprecise about the local flora or fauna. Listen, we’re going back to carry out the mission.”

“Mission? Are you nuts? That guy has a real gun.”

“This is a real gun.”

“Yeah, but his has real bullets.”

“So does this.”

“But I thought…”

“That was just to convince you to come along. Here—have another beer… for courage.”

She pops the tab. The noise causes me to put my finger to my lips, but I down the beer anyway.

“I’m not going to kill anybody. I just want to wound him. Like shoot him in the leg or something. Then we’re out of here.”

“I’m still not on board with this,” I tell her, “but you’re the one with the loaded gun.”

When we get within range, both of them are standing on the porch. They’ve turned the porch light off, so we can only make out their silhouettes, backlit by the flickering light from a TV. The darkness is complete, but our eyes have adjusted so that the TV light is enough to make out shapes. The man is still holding his gun, and the woman is pressing something to her ear, most likely calling the authorities.

“Let’s get out of here,” I say. “She’s calling the police.”

“Shut up. It’ll take the police at least a half hour to get here, if they even come. And who knows if that’s who she’s calling, anyway. I gotta get closer. I need to know for sure that it’s him. Also, I want to make sure I get him in the leg, not somewhere vital.”

“I don’t know about you, Natalie, but I consider my leg pretty vital.”

Natalie gives me some of those military-type signals, as if I’m supposed to know what they mean. Two fingers at her eyes, a fist under a hand, one finger pointing down. How does she know this shit? I decide all of it means “stay here,” so I sit down as she heads off toward the porch. She snaps a twig, and the man fires his gun in her direction. I see Natalie’s shape stand and fire hers, holding it in two hands just like in a cop show.

I don’t really see how her little gun could have this effect, but suddenly the ground begins to tremble. I can tell this time that the tremor is not coming from my own fearfulness. The truck tips forward, and its front end dips into a hole that has just materialized. The two people on the porch stumble and grab onto each other. They reach for the post holding up the porch but tumble together over the edge as the cabin shudders and collapses, along with the truck, into a nascent abyss. There is a whooshing sound followed by a noise like a plane crash, then silence—not a single cicada seems to be able to find its voice in the wake of this event.

I find myself choking on a foul dampness. A musty smell arises from the opening in the earth’s crust.

I find Natalie, and we creep to the edge of the hole. I turn on the light from my phone, expecting the edges of the opening to be jagged, but they are remarkably clean.

“Jesus,” Natalie says.

I drop a pebble into the pit, and it splashes about two seconds later.

“Hello!” Natalie shouts.

Nothing.

In the distance, we see headlights approaching along the road. We run back into the woods.

“Could be the police,” I say.

“I don’t hear any sirens.”

“What do you think? This is a movie? They wouldn’t use sirens to check out a call about intruders.”

We wait and watch from a distance as the police car drives up and two men get out.

“Jesus Christ,” one of them says. He goes to the edge of the hole with a flashlight. “I think I see a bumper. Looks like a truck maybe.”

“Sinkhole,” the other one says. “Better call it in.”

“Do we have a code for that?”

“I don’t know. A 10–20 maybe. Look it up.”

* * * 

On the drive back into town, we’re both quiet. I suppose she is wondering if that guy was really her husband. I’m wondering if the woman was my ex.

“Natalie?” I say.

“Yes.”

“I don’t think I’m going to be able to use this in my book.”

She doesn’t respond.

“Natalie?”

“Yes.”

“The way you acted back there. The way you took charge with such authority. I really admired it. You actually reminded me of Elizabeth.”

“Philip?” Natalie says.

“Yes?”

“Shut up.”

Darryl Halbrooks

Darryl Halbrooks’ visual art has been exhibited widely in the U.S. and abroad and is included in numerous private and public collections. His fiction was recently nominated for a Pushcart Prize and has appeared in the New Delta Review, The Madison Review, and many others. Please visit him at darrylhalbrooks.com.