Undo by Joe Hutsko (first ebook reader .txt) 📕

“Matthew, relax,” William said. “I said you have my word. Now, go home. We’ll talk in the morning.” William handed the flight attendant his boarding pass, and she removed the ticket and handed him the receipt stub.

“Good-bye, Matthew,” William said, then turned and proceeded down the jetway.

It was done.

*

Peter picked up the phone to call Kate at her studio, but then he remembered the message Grace had given him. He dialed the number.

“Good afternoon, Phillips and Phillips,” a receptionist announced.

“Arnold Phillips, please,” Peter said.

The man came on the line a moment later.

“This is Peter Jones. You called me?”

“Mr. Jones, thank you for returning my call so promptly. I’m representing Ms. Ivy Green. She has hired our firm to reclaim her rights to Isle, which I believe is currently in your possession.”

The room spun. Peter dropped down onto the sofa. “Wait a minute. I thought she was still in detox? She’s not fit to be a mother. Not yet.”

“Oh, Mr. Jones, no, no. There seems to be a misunderstanding. I apologize for not making the purpose of my call clear from the start. My client has not retained me to reclaim her child. It’s the hardware and software I’m referring to. However, I believe my partner does in fact need to talk to you also, about another case.”

Peter listened to what Mr. Phillips had to say, then, a half hour later, he was transferred to another Mr. Phillips, who, for forty-five minutes, discussed the child-custody case he had been hired by Ivy to handle. A hell of a one-two punch.

By the time he hung up the phone he was numb all over. In just over an hour, his whole life, which he had managed to somehow get back on track, however shakily, had once again come undone. He felt like he was at the end of his rope, like he was cracking up. And the only person who could ever help him through the really tough times was Kate. That was who he needed to talk to right now.

But how? How could he call her, when the reason he needed her was the very reason she had left him?

So instead of calling her he sat there alone, wondering if this was it, if this was the last of his punishment for his mistakes, or was there still more to undo?

*

“What are you doing?” Matthew said, finding Greta in the den, crouched among a scattering of cardboard boxes.

“What does it look like I’m doing?”

“Packing.”

“Bingo.”

“Why?”

“Why?” she repeated, taking in his goofy expression. “Why do people usually pack, Matthew? Because I’m moving.” She returned to her task of carefully settling a vase into a box.

He placed his hands on the box flaps, holding them down as she stretched a length of tape from a spool. “When?”

“Soon. And I can do this, thank you,” she said curtly, holding the strip of tape over the box. He let go and dropped his hands to his sides.

“Greta, I’m sorry about today,” he said, watching her work. “It’s not what you think, though.”

She stopped what she was doing for a moment and shot him a warning look. He had come to understand that look very well in the last few months. She went back to her business, placing the box atop a few others.

He shifted on his feet and then all at once his face brightened. “Hey, guess what! We’re back to our original plan!”

She settled an antique serving dish inside a new box. “Good for you.”

“Didn’t you hear me?”

She poured foam puffs into the box.

“Greta?” he said, gripping her wrists.

“Get your hands off me,” she said calmly, wriggling from his grasp. The box between them trembled dangerously. She quickly righted it.

“Greta, please,” he said. “What you saw today was just lunch.”

“Horseshit,” she said, getting worked up. Then she checked herself. She had no intention of getting into an argument with him after the shit she had been through today. “Matthew, listen to me. I’m only going to spell this out once. I gave you the time you asked for. Now you’ve pushed me too far. Besides, it doesn’t matter.”

“It does,” he insisted. “What I’m saying is, it’s all over. ICP’s going to buy Wallaby after all. And I’ll become president of the subsidiary, just like we planned. And we can go back to New York if that’s what you want. Or we can stay here. Or whatever. Whatever you want.”

“Ah, of course. You’ll need a wife if you’re going to be a big shot at ICP. Might as well stick with the one you’ve got, save yourself some money that way, and keep the young thing in an apartment.” She offered a scornful chuckle. “Christ, Matthew. You still don’t want to face it?” She shook her head sadly. “It’s too late. We’re through. Broken.”

“But it’s going to be easy from here on in,” he pleaded, trailing her to a black lacquer display pedestal. “My job at ICP will be a cake walk.”

“Cake? Darling, the only cake walk I see is the one between you and your little girlfriend.” Enough of this nonsense. She had work to do. She wanted to have her most prized possessions safely packed, to give her a sense of assurance that she was getting closer to her future with her lover.

Gingerly, she raised her crystal salmon bowl off its pedestal.

“Greta,” Matthew cried, gripping the bowl.

She gasped in surprise, then shrieked, “What’s gotten into you - let go!” The quartz ceiling lamp accentuated the bowl’s precarious plight.

“Wait. Oh, Greta. Don’t you remember the day you brought this home?” he said.

Her eyes fixed on his thumbs squashed white, firm and unyielding. The piece was too valuable to risk losing. She gave in, and he carefully settled it back onto the pedestal. She stared at him with a resigned frown, catching her breath. He had nearly ruined it.

Matthew bent over, set his hands on his knees. “Look at it,” he said, mesmerized by the engraved salmon fish swimming their final, predestined course.

“All right, Matthew, you’ve your look. Enough now. Please” She reached for the bowl.

He gripped too. “It’s over,” he said, his voice cracking. “Don’t you understand? The struggle’s over, Greta. Do you remember when you came home with this bowl, to celebrate our plans coming together? That was when it started. And now it’s over. So you see? It all worked out. Everything is fine now. Fine.”

She glared at him. “Let go of my bowl.”

“Greta, please. It means so much to me. To us,” he urged, tugging forcefully.

“No, damn you. It’s mine and I’m taking it with me.”

“Where?” he shouted at the top of his lungs. “Just where the hell do you think you’re going?” His neck was straining, and his knuckles were white around the bowl’s rim.

“To France!” she cried. Her eyes glistened in the bright white light. “With Jean-Pierre.”

He burst with laughter, and shot his face closer to hers, over the bowl. “The horse trainer? Oh, that’s good, Greta. That’s real good! The horse trainer! So I’m not the only one sleeping with the staff, am I?”

Her fingers hurt, and she could barely hold on any longer.

“Matthew, please,” she begged, afraid. She was painfully close to letting go, and with this awareness came another, deeper understanding. That were it not for her missing finger, she would have possessed the strength to hold on tighter and harder and longer - No, that was not it, she realized with a cry, her understanding now complete. The truth was, was were it not for her missing finger, none of this would have ever happened. Tears streamed down her face and she begged him to please let her have her bowl.

“Oh Greta,” Matthew said with disgust, “you’re so pathetic.”

He released his grip on the bowl…and the misfortune that directly followed his letting go lasted only seconds.

With great force the bowl crashed into Greta’s chest and propelled her backward.

Instantly seeing what his letting go would cause, Matthew dove forward with outstretched hands. His fingers grazed the bowl’s surface.

Flying backward, Greta let go of the bowl and thrust her hands behind her to try and break her fall. However, it was her not her bottom that crashed first, but her head, into the wall behind her.

Her body dropped to the floor in a lifeless heap, legs splayed at an awkward angle.

Matthew, in midair, felt the bowl’s cool underside brush his fingertips and he squeezed his hands together. But it was too late.

The base of the object struck the hardwood floor. It shattered with a resonant ring, and shards of glass blasted in every direction.

He closed his eyes as he sailed to the ground and landed in a pile of glass between his wife’s unmoving legs.

Then, perfect silence.

He lay there for a moment before opening his eyes, grateful at once that his vision had escaped the shrapnel. The first thing he saw was blood. He panicked, and glass crunched beneath his arms as he raised himself up on his elbows. He was aware of many stabs along the undersides of his arms and blood started gushing from his palms.

Then he saw her. He quickly brushed the largest broken pieces away with a folded box. He leaned close to her face, squeezed her cheeks between his bloody fingers. “Greta,” he shouted. “Wake up!” He looked from her face to her chest for evidence of life, pressed her stomach, tried to make her breathe. He squeezed her lips between her fingers and put his lips on hers and blew, felt nothing in return. Had he killed her? He let out an agonized groan, how could this be happening when everything was back to the way they had planned?

He crawled up between her legs. He pulled her head to his chest, and with his other hand he searched for her pulse.

“Oh Greta,” he moaned, gazing with disbelief at the fragments.

Where was her pulse?

“I’ll fix it,” he whispered, probing for her heartbeat with his bloody fingertips, all the while staring with bedazzled eyes at the brilliant shards twinkling in the light, searching in vain for one that might contain the etchings of the salmon fish.

But he found none, for their arduous journey had come to its fated end, lost forever in the frozen crystal bits.

*

Once the plane reached cruising altitude, William reclined his seat and closed his eyes, musing over an idea that had flashed in his mind the instant Matthew had asked for his promise.

Now, after dozing on and off through half the flight, half-consciously dreaming up the specifics of his new plan, he was ready to put down the particulars. He opened his notebook on the tray table and went to work. He drew various boxes and connected them together. He penciled his name in the uppermost box, and filled in the others.

A flight attendant appeared at his seat. “Sir, you slept through the meal. Can I bring you a snack or a beverage?”

He looked up from the chart. This was cause for celebration.

“How about a Sassy Screw?” he said, a little embarrassed saying the cocktail’s name, but in want of one just the same. He continued drawing, completely filling the page with little squares and lines.

The flight attendant returned and placed the drink on