Trailer Park Noir

Four

Ice.

It had been Victoria’s perfume. Reznick had bought her a bottle of it one Christmas. It was a cool fragrance, smooth and fresh. It had been in the air whenever he was with her. It quickly had become a part of her.

Reznick had read somewhere once that smell was the strongest trigger of vivid memories. That scent had created a painful explosion of memories in his mind, vivid, clawing memories that dug at the backs of his eyes. When he lowered his eyelids, he could see her. He wished to God that he could see her as she’d been, the Victoria he’d loved and planned to marry. He wished he could see the fair-skinned, freckled face and the wide smile, which had been too rare, the sad green eyes – the sadness never left them, and it was that sadness that killed her – and the long, luxurious red hair, which he’d taken great pleasure in brushing for her. But he never saw that when he thought of Victoria.

No, it was never that Victoria, it was the last he’d seen of her. It was the day he’d come home early to surprise her. No telling how long she’d been sitting on the bed trying to muster the nerve to do it. When she heard him come in, she’d resolved herself to do it at that moment. She’d known he would stop her, talk her out of it, take the gun away from her. Sitting there on the edge of the bed, she’d fired the gun into her temple at point blank range just as he walked into the bedroom. Just in time for Reznick to flinch at the explosive gunshot, and see half of her head disappear, see her brains splash over the wall and headboard. The dark red-black matter hit the wall with a splash and then began to dribble downward in tiny lumps and gobs as blood gushed from Victoria’s nose and she was thrown to the side on the bed. The gun fell from her hand, a.44 magnum – his gun.

He’d screamed then, but his voice sounded far away to him. He rushed to her side, but of course, she was gone. Her suddenly-bulging, bloody eyes stared up at the ceiling. The blood from her nose glistened around her open mouth and on her chin like a black-red goatee.

A sheet of blood-speckled paper was on the bed beside her with some of her handwriting on it. Reznick couldn’t read it for awhile, because he couldn’t stop sobbing and screaming. He’d reached for the phone and called 911. He’d finally gotten all the information out to the operator, but when he was done, he could not get the phone back on its base because his eyes were bleary and his hands were shaking, so he let it drop to the floor.

Finally, he wiped his eyes and picked up the paper. Still sobbing, he read the note:

Dear Marc,

I’m so very sorry. I just can’t take the

pain anymore. I can’t. I know you’ll

understand because you love me. I

love you so much. And I’m sorry.

With all my heart and soul,

Her signature was shaky and unclear, but it was hers. Her last words, written in a wobbly cursive on a page stained with her blood and something else – maybe tears.

He had tried to help her. He’d taken her to his doctor, who had diagnosed her as suffering from severe clinical depression. He’d tried several different medications out on her, but she’d had bad reactions to all of them and couldn’t take them. She refused to see a therapist. There were days when the sadness lifted and she was able to smile a little bigger smile than usual, even laugh a little. But most of the time, that sadness started in her eyes and spread over her whole face.

Reznick had met her in a movie theater, where she’d worked the ticket booth. She’d kept her sadness to herself, even when it showed on her face. She managed to smile in spite of it, but it was a muted smile. It was still a beautiful smile, though. Everything about her had been beautiful – her ears, her nose, her hands, her breasts, her legs, even her feet.

And even her perfume, the perfume he’d given her.

Ice.

Three months after Victoria’s suicide, Reznick’s parents had gone into the Tower Mart off of Highway 273 in Anderson on their way to see Reznick’s sister, her husband, and their children in Anderson Heights. They’d stopped at the convenience store to get some candy for their grandchildren, and a couple cold drinks for themselves. A robbery had taken place while they were standing in line at the register. The robber had panicked and started shooting. He’d shot and killed four people, Reznick’s parents included.

Seeing Victoria kill herself had damaged Reznick. It had driven a spike deep into his brain. The loss of his parents only did more damage. That was when he’d fallen into the bottle and his whole life had fallen apart. His sister didn’t care. She was his foster sister, actually, and they had never gotten along. She’d always resented Reznick for being, unlike her, their parents’ blood. So he’d fallen into the bottle alone.

A bottle. A bottle of vodka, that was what he needed. It was a short drive to the Handi-Spot Market on North Street. They sold liquor there.

He pulled his lips inward and ran his tongue around them. He could taste it. On ice, nice and cold.

Conan hopped into his lap and curled up. Reznick absently stroked the little dog for a while, then he put Conan on the floor and stood. He went to the bathroom and opened the medicine cabinet. He took two Xanax with a drink of water from the glass he kept by the sink. He also saw a bottle of NyQuil in the cabinet. He took it out, took the small cup off the bottle’s top, filled it, and drank it down. He repeated the process, then exhaled hard between puffed cheeks. He replaced the NyQuil and closed the cabinet.

The cough syrup created a spreading warmth in his belly not unlike the warmth created by a swig of vodka. He thought it would help, but it just made him crave the vodka even more.

He looked at his face in the cabinet mirror. He wondered if he’d lost weight lately – his face seemed thinner. He had short, wavy brown hair, a rectangular forehead and a straight patrician nose. His jaw was square, his shoulders broad. There was really nothing special about him. He wasn’t homely, but neither was he especially handsome, he thought. He wondered what Victoria had seen in him. What had attracted her to him at first? He’d never asked her. There were so many things he’d never asked her, never told her. His eyes crinkled on the corners as they narrowed and the corners of his mouth pulled back and his shoulders hitched as more tears spilled down his glistening-wet cheeks. He put his hands on the counter, elbows locked, and let his head fall forward between his shoulders.

“Victoria,” he whispered hoarsely as he sobbed. “Victoria.”

Later, the two Xanax kicked in. Reznick stretched out in his recliner, and turned on the television. With Conan curled up on his belly, he fell asleep as silent tears continued to spill from his eyes.