The next scene in the public sample of Manifest Agony is here. Happy reading and don’t forget to order the full e-book on Amazon or TeneshaLCurtis.com.
Manifest Agony: 1.1
THERE IS a gas bubble attempting to escape my rectum. But the woman I am married to, Qatar, has stiffened each of the other two times I’ve excused myself already to “use the restroom.” In reality, I simply walked to the entrance hall of St. Nicholas of Louisville Clausian Collective and watched parents escorting children to the toilets as I farted freely in a corner, wondering what part of breakfast caused this mild gastrointestinal distress. I am certain there will be further interpersonal repercussions at our house, and on the way to it, if I get up a third time.
The idea of relaxing my sphincter and finessing the exhaust out amongst our neighbors has crossed my mind more than once. I can imagine the raised eyebrows and grimacing faces. Some coughing may ensue, maybe even a gag, and I would have no choice but to follow suit and feign disgust so Qatar wouldn’t be singled out by her congregation, giving birth to further marital tension. I take a deep breath, focusing on keeping the tepid fumes inside of me.
My fourteen-year-old son, Nick, is succeeding in his attempts to mask his intermittent lack of consciousness. He leans his head of loose, brown curls into my shoulder, his pooling saliva leaking through my suit jacket and dress shirt. His ear is pressed so hard against me that his head still appears to be held upright in rapt attention. My chest is just thick enough that Qatar can’t see his slumbering face. I will only nudge him if he starts snoring.
The woman at the front of the sanctuary is telling us how the power of Santa Claus himself brought her through her recent brush with death during a car accident. When she finally finishes, the two hundred or so members in attendance speak a soft, droning “noel,” in acknowledgement of her blessing and wait patiently for someone else to move to the front of the room to testify.
My phone’s ringtone trills into the silence.
I tense, hold my breath.
Qatar turns her head in my direction by an inch.
“Allon Lee-Page,” she growls, the movement of her lips almost imperceptible. She presses her thigh more tightly against mine, the red fabric of her ankle-length dress hugging my gray pants. She wears no makeup, so the flare of crimson in her russet cheeks is easily visible as her fists clench and her nostrils flare. Nick is undisturbed as I remain as still as possible while sliding my sleeve up to show the band of my phone. I see a missed call and a text, both from one of my colleagues. The text is a skull and crossbones accompanied by “SJC now.”
First Shively, then St. Matthews, now Old Louisville. That’s three bodies in three weeks. For a city with a grand total of 4 murders in the past five years, this was a terrifying turn of events. After the second murder last week, I am struggling to find a pattern in the locations of the killings, or the victims, but there is no obvious one at hand. Maybe if I were heading the case up instead of the chief covering it on her own, I’d have more, maybe even stronger, evidence to guide me. But, for now, St. James Court appears to be just another random location for another installment of homicide. The chief is keeping as much of this case to herself as she can, even though I’m technically the force’s only detective. My natural curiosity makes me want the challenge the case represents. A change from hunting down missing pets and “investigating” the occasional case of park bench vandalism.
I can sense eyes on the back of my head. We always sit in the front row, per Qatar’s insistence.
“Work,” I whisper into her flushed ear before nudging Nick, standing up, and grabbing him by his bicep so that he will lead me out. “We’ll get a driverless, I’ll drop him off at home.”
I know she wants him to stay at the feast, but I have barely spent any time with him since the murders began and I think this is the perfect opportunity to steal a ten-minute car ride. Nick and I nearly sprint away from the mass of worshippers—I finally release the mushroom cloud I’ve been holding in, all the way down the long aisle between the rows of pews— bursting through the collective’s front doors as if they’ve been holding us under water. We both sigh deeply as we exit. I request a car with my phone and slip my wedding ring off and into my jacket pocket.
Nick stretches, yawns, and blinks himself more fully awake as I notice a vehicle with scarlet, diamond-shaped lights on its hood and trunk approaching us, homing in on the phone that ordered it. We jog down the front stairs and enter the car through a rear door.
“Fuck Santa, you’re my savior!” Nick says, yawning again. “You need to tell Qatar you’re allergic to dairy, Dad. Seriously. I could hear your bubble guts in my dreams.”
“It’s fine. I’ll manage.” My stomach gurgles loudly and I see Nick shake his head like a disappointed teacher. I’ve never told him that I have disclosed my lactose intolerance to his mother at least five times over the course of our marriage. Even after I realized that telling her anything that made me vulnerable was arming the enemy.
“Suit yourself. As long as I don’t have to smell the consequences.” We laugh at that. Laughing with my son is something I want more of in my life. I have been working hard and saving up to support us both when I leave Qatar. I haven’t told Nick my plans to divorce her, but I get the feeling he suspects my intentions. Once I have $250,000 in my private savings account, I’ll be ready. She can have the house and everything that’s in the joint accounts and I’ll still be able to live comfortably with Nick. This last paycheck put me at just over $240,000. I’ve already got the divorce forms completed and saved. When I’ve found a place for us to live, I’ll submit the forms to the county, email copies to Qatar, and finally be done with her. Now, I can start looking for a condo for Nick and me. Though I only have a few years left to be his father full-time, I will do what I can to make them the best we have ever shared.
“It’s time to go clothes shopping,” I point at the few inches of his lower abdomen showing from his ill-fitting dress shirt. He smiles and tries to pull the hem down.
“Yeah, she’s asked about that. I told her you said you’d take me,” he responds, looking through the glass door of the small refrigerator tucked under the seat on my side of the car. I scoot over slightly so he can get a better view of what’s available.
“Right. I’ll do that. This case has just been…”
“Bewitching you?” His brown eyes fill with a cheeky light. I grin.
“That’s accurate.”
“You always get this way—pass me a strawberry water—when things don’t make sense. You get…fixated.”
“That’s accurate,” I say again, bending down to open the refrigerator door and retrieve his drink. I grab a can of hemp milk for myself. Nick has downed the bottle and motioned for me to give him another within thirty seconds. The way he takes in nutrients, it’s no wonder he seems to be having a growth spurt on a quarterly basis these days. I hand him another bottle of strawberry water.
“I’m going to Dire’s later, maybe after dinner. Haven’t hung out with her in a while.” “Maybe she’s sick of the neighbor’s kid who’s been following her around since she was five years old.” Nick gives me a flat look.
“Sure, Dad.”
“Hey, ya know, maybe she’s found someone to date and doesn’t want you cramping her style anymore,” I’m smiling, but Nick’s look tells me I’ve gone too far. It’s Qatar’s face after I’ve failed to notice an updated hairdo.
“Sorry, Nick,” I apologize quickly. He shrugs and looks at his shoes.
“I wouldn’t care. If she wants to date some loser, that’s her problem, not mine.”
I push myself not to laugh. Him being so upset at the mere mention of someone else being with her romantically is comical, but it also makes me proud. Unlike his father, Nick steers clear of destructive partners. Dire has a good head on her shoulders and is kind. She would be a perfect fit for him. She could offer the kind of relationship that had eluded me these past fourteen years.
I look out the window, imagining Dire and Nick on their wedding day. Unfortunately, that takes me back to my own wedding. The desire to be rid of Qatar makes my heart feel heavy, even as visions of what life could be like without her give me hope.
“We’ll be arriving at your destination shortly. Please gather your belongings,” a pleasant male voice sounds over the speaker system within the car.
“Who tried to call you?” Nick asks, gathering his empty bottles and pushing them into the recycling bin beneath one of the seats on his side of the car.
“Officer Ortega. There’s another body. He probably just wants me to help with cleanup or the report. Chief Chitara is still in charge of the case. I just want to stay involved.”
“So, you’re writing reports for an asshole you outrank.” Nick states, rolling his eyes.
“It’s fine. I’m just trying to be as helpful as I can.”
“Uh-huh,” Nick dismisses. As we pull up to our single-story, two-bedroom marble and glass fishbowl that Qatar wanted, he slides to the curb-side door. Qatar liked the idea of living in an open space allowing anyone walking down the street to see our living room and dining room in their entirety because it “speaks of purity” and that pleases Jesus, apparently.
“Later,” Nick says, stepping out of the car as it comes to a stop at the end of our driveway. I nod to him as I voice my next destination to the car. I watch Nick strolling up to the house, his black dress socks showing below the hem of his pant legs. It reminds me of when he used to wear my clothes as a toddler, saying he wanted to grow up to be a dad, as if that were some form of lucrative employment.
I use my phone to enter my new destination, read about a tungsten fountain pen sale at Wriot Gear, and check my balance again.
“Freedom” available balance: $240,005.46.
Saving the $200 I can each week, I estimate that I’ll be at my goal by September 27th of next year. Not even a full twelve months away. Just me, Nick, and peace.
I grin, optimistic, as the car chimes confirmation of a new trip, and pulls off.