The Husband

When Mitch planted an Indian laurel, he always used a root barrier. He didn’t need to make future work for himself. Green growing Nature would keep him busy.

The street lay silent, without traffic. Not the barest breath of a breeze stirred the trees.

From a block away, on the farther side of the street, a man and a dog approached. The dog, a retriever, spent less time walking than it did sniffing messages left by others of its kind.

The stillness pooled so deep that Mitch almost believed he could hear the panting of the distant canine.

Golden: the sun and the dog, the air and the promise of the day, the beautiful houses behind deep lawns.

Mitch Rafferty could not afford a home in this neighborhood. He was satisfied just to be able to work here.

You could love great art but have no desire to live in a museum.

He noticed a damaged sprinkler head where lawn met sidewalk. He got his tools from the truck and knelt on the grass, taking a break from the impatiens.

His cell phone rang. He unclipped it from his belt, flipped it open. The time was displayed—11:43—but no caller’s number showed on the screen. He took the call anyway.

“Big Green,” he said, which was the name he’d given his two-man business nine years ago, though he no longer remembered why.

“Mitch, I love you,” Holly said.

“Hey, sweetie.”

“Whatever happens, I love you.”

She cried out in pain. A clatter and crash suggested a struggle.

Alarmed, Mitch rose to his feet. “Holly?”

Some guy said something, some guy who now had the phone. Mitch didn’t hear the words because he was focused on the background noise.

Holly squealed. He’d never heard such a sound from her, such fear.

“Sonofabitch,” she said, and was silenced by a sharp crack, as though she’d been slapped.

The stranger on the phone said, “You hear me, Rafferty?”

“Holly? Where’s Holly?”

Now the guy was talking away from the phone, not to Mitch: “Don’t be stupid. Stay on the floor.”

Another man spoke in the background, his words unclear.

The one with the phone said, “She gets up, punch her. You want to lose some teeth, honey?” She was with two men. One of them had hit her. Hit her.

Mitch couldn’t get his mind around the situation. Reality suddenly seemed as slippery as the narrative of a nightmare.

A meth-crazed iguana was more real than this.

Near the house, Iggy planted impatiens. Sweating, red from the sun, as solid as ever.

“That’s better, honey. That’s a good girl.”

Mitch couldn’t draw breath. A great weight pressed on his lungs. He tried to speak but couldn’t find his voice, didn’t know what to say. Here in bright sun, he felt casketed, buried alive.

“We have your wife,” said the guy on the phone.

Mitch heard himself ask, “Why?”

“Why do you think, asshole?”

Mitch didn’t know why. He didn’t want to know. He didn’t want to reason through to an answer because every possible answer would be a horror.

“I’m planting flowers.”

“What’s wrong with you, Rafferty?”

“That’s what I do. Plant flowers. Repair sprink lers.”

“Are you buzzed or something?”

“I’m just a gardener.”

“So we have your wife. You get her back for two million cash.”

Mitch knew it wasn’t a joke. If it were a joke, Holly would have to be in on it, but her sense of humor was not cruel.

“You’ve made a mistake.”

“You hear what I said? Two million.”

“Man, you aren’t listening. I’m a gardener.”

“We know.”

“I have like eleven thousand bucks in the bank.”

“We know.”

Brimming with fear and confusion, Mitch had no room for anger. Compelled to clarify, perhaps more for himself than for the caller, he said, “I just run a little two-man operation.”

“You’ve got until midnight Wednesday. Sixty hours. We’ll be in touch about the details.”

Mitch was sweating. “This is nuts. Where would I get two million bucks?”

“You’ll find a way.”

The stranger’s voice was hard, implacable. In a movie, Death might sound like this.