Zariah
How do I breathe without any air? It feels like quicksand is consuming me and the devil has ahold of my ankle, speeding up the process, as I awake on day two without my husband. I’m torn between praying for God to keep him safe or hardening my heart to the only man I’ve ever fallen madly in love with. I called and called him last night, each ring took the air right from my lungs.
This morning, I open the facial foundation that I only use to make my face look super flawless for professional photos or those special date nights, and now I’m using it to hide the puff under my eyes. I shower and slip into a summer dress, the bright yellow brings my façade back to life, and for Natasha’s sake, I step into the nursery with a smile. She’s in the changing station, my mother has another new item from Mrs. Takahashi laid beside her.
Our beautiful baby’s brown eyes sparkle as she looks me over. “Daddy?”
I clutch my chest and can’t straighten my face when my mom turns around from Natasha, scooping her up onto a welcoming hip.
“Oh, honey.”
“I’m okay, Mom.” My voice tremors.
“You should stay home from work today.”
An imaginary knife tears across my chest. Vassili suggested that I stay home so many times. He doesn’t seem to believe in us. That I’d like to be there to help him work things out. But I know somewhere deep down, he believes in us. My husband just never had a chance to learn how to grieve as a child. Heck, I had trying times to learn, yet nowhere near as trying as his.
“No, I can’t stay home. I have to work.”
Zamora offers a faint smile. “I’m going to compare you to your dad now.”
I scoff. “Don’t—”
“No, he has his qualities. Resilience is one of them. Yet, balance? Not so much. Work can help get certain things off your mind, but there comes a time when you still must address said things.”
“Humph, save this conversation for Vassili.” I place up a hand, begging her not to continue with my gaze. “I’m so sorry, Mom. We ruined your birthday week.”
“Why? I don’t know how you or Vassili masterminded any of the travesties that occurred two nights ago. And if you ask me to watch my grandbaby, I’ll find a belt.”
I sniffle at her joke, with no energy to offer a comeback.
***
My eyes land on a side profile of the balcony of my old bedroom and tears flood down my cheeks. I can still see Vassili climbing the tree effortlessly almost ten years ago to sneak into my room as I showered. Jesus, please, please, please, I silently beg. Let him be okay. You are part of my marriage, we can’t do this without You. Don’t let us …
A hard sniffle rattles through me, and I flap my hands near my eyes to cool down the achy, hot feel of my skin. I scoff at myself, I’m sitting in my car, across the way from my father’s home. My home. And I’m crying. Why didn’t I just force him to give me attention at the end of July? He blew me off after returning from Temecula with Berenice. The asshole was too busy to see his only daughter. Now, I look like shit.
I clutch my keys and get out of the car, and head up the steps to the glossy black door. My fingers are crossed that he is home, and then I let myself into the house.
“Dad,” I call out. “Dad?”
If memory serves me correctly, twice a week he stays home, to prepare for a golf match. Regardless of how ‘busy’ he’s been in the past and unable to include me in the schedule, I’m sure golf is of the utmost importance. “Dad?” I call out again, ears perked, heading to the kitchen.
“Zariah?” There’s shuffling upstairs.
I start up the staircase, and head to my parents’—well, my father’s bedroom. The door is open, so I hesitantly step inside hoping he’s decent.
He is.
My father is in checkered shorts and a polo. The fucker does have time for golf! But on the other hand, Berenice isn’t decent. I see a flash of her milky white breast as she covers herself.
“I hope you’re comfortable in my mom’s bed. Dad, did you at least have the decency to change the mattress?”
“Good morning, Zariah.” He grabs my arm, and pulls me from the room while his mistress’-turned-whatever the fuck she is, face pales in color.
“What prompted this impromptu visit? Igor Resnov, eh?” he asks, hustling down the stairs on my heels.
“No. Wait, what do you know?” Suspicion has me eyeing him with an imaginary fine-tooth comb for any signs that he’s had his hands in this.
“For your sake, Zariah, I have not inserted myself in the mistakes you’ve so chosen to make! What’s with—” his hard tone cuts. Dad glances me over. “You’ve been crying?”
“I’m here about,” I gulp, “About Juan Noriega.”
He chuckles. “Russian money not good enough for you? That wetback is even worse. I’m telling you, stick with the white boy, and not further slumming in the gutter. At least you’ll secure the throne when Anatoly dies. Hell, they have the president in their pocket. No need screwing a roach and breeding a bunch of those babies too.”
My eyebrows rise. Racist? I never pegged my father for a racist. Sexist, yes. Socialist, you betcha. But as Chief of Police, he must have some morals, right? I place my hand on my hip and utter one single word, “Sullivan.”
My father’s eyebrow cocks, he moves toward the marble mantle and readjusts a crystal figurine, as if he isn’t all that concerned. “Why are you bringing him up?’
“The cop turned serial killer. You and Sammy weren’t really good friends after the entire LAPD didn’t do their fucking job and built a case for him to try. He had to use his own resources for the trial!”
“Zariah, check your tone with me.”
“I remember, you and Lieutenant Sullivan were just as friendly as you and Sammy in the past. Heck, he should be golfing with you right now. Why did Sammy work so hard to put him away?” I spit sarcastically. “There are a lot of questions swimming through my mind, father. I can wake up, start being a bitch, if you’d like. Or would you prefer I keep my eyes closed and just allow you to tell me about Igor?”
“Allow! Cute, I’m being blackmailed by my daughter.” My father grabs a silver case of cigars, moves away from the fireplace and sits on an antique chair, with his leg crossed. “Jesus! What has that fucking Resnov done to you?”
“Talk or I start digging,” I tell him, as he opens up the silver case and grabs out a Cuban. “Sammy got his brakes tampered with during the Sullivan trial. Don’t worry, I’m intelligent enough to know it wasn’t you. But my IQ also keys me into the fact that you either sanctioned the request or turned the other way. Probably had your face in Berenice’s bosoms, instead of at home with your wife, who was a little leery about you then. And I don’t mean due to the hits. You were jealous about mom’s concern for Sammy…”
“Zariah.” He points the cigar at me, voice contrite. “Shut your fucking mouth, before—”
“I wish you would hit me.” I stand before him, as he sits there. My dad takes his first puff of the cigar. I glare down at him, arguing, “I swear, before I sic my husband on you, I’m going to jump on your back, and try to take you down myself. Now, back to Sullivan. It isn’t necessary for me to know about that skeleton. And here’s how you can keep me from pulling even more skeletons out of your closet. Two things. First of them, tell me about Noriega; and second, you’ll tell me what the hell you know about Igor Resnov’s death!”
Maxwell rubs his knuckles along his lips. “Look at me, child, I don’t know anything about Igor’s death. That is assigned to a lower detective, not the Chef of police.”
“Oh, I’m positive you insured the assignment went to one of the less seasoned detective.”
He puffs more smoke. “Or maybe a burnt-out detective that doesn’t give a damn.”
“Humph, yeah, that scenario works, too. But you know more than you’re letting on, father. Talk.”
“Talk? Alright, let me gossip with my daughter, eh? There’s talk about the Bertolucci family having done something, but none of my guys give a damn. It’ll be a cold case soon.”
“Thank you for the name.” I shuffle Bertolucci to the back of my mind, aware when my father is telling the truth. It’s a shame, he is. Family? What is that, some sort of an Italian mafia? I huff. What’s next, the black mafia? “Now, Noriega.”
“He has a few friends on the force.”
“You allow that?”
“Me? Nope, bad for business. We have a guy who sends them to Internal Affairs when necessary, you know how I feel about IA, so it wouldn’t be kosher for me to—”
“Snitch? Ha! What happened to handling it in the department or is it just the people who look like Noriega that you toss over to Internal Affairs?”
“Princess, I don’t condone drug dealing.”
“You condone everything else.” I shake my head, ready to change the subject again. “I’m having Noriega subpoenaed today.”
“Why? You had better luck being one of his famous baby mamas. He doesn’t slap them all around.”
“His wife, I’m her divorce attorney.”
My dad takes a long drag of his Cuban and contemplates for a moment. “Zariah, you come in my house making inferences that I do not appreciate. In some regard, you’ve been spot on. We keep our own safe.”
The glint in my eye tells me that sick fuck Lieutenant Sullivan would’ve received a slap on the wrists and been sent away with his pension had my father been Chief of Police at the time.
“However, I am rigid in my ways, unpersuaded by some fucking Russians or no good Mexicans,” he spits the words, and I take a step back.
“Well, damn, dad, tell me what you really think. Some of your friends would be appalled by your tone. Even your Latino political figures.”
“I know how to put on a mask, and I don’t hate all Mexicans just illegals and drug dealers.”
I roll my eyes, my father has friends on the force who dip into evidence, especially when it involves cocaine.
“Since you’ve wiped your hands of me, Zariah, and now have chosen to come around,” he glances down at me, “I see the ring still on your finger. For now, I’ll have a police detail on you by the time you make it to the freeway. Because I love you, but that’s all the love I can give, Princess. At least, while you’re married.”
“I don’t want it. And I have no intentions of divorcing anytime in this lifetime. So, keep your detail.” I argue.
“You’re gonna need it.”