Page 26 of Sharp Force
Opening the mirrored cabinet door, I scan shelves of amber plastic prescription bottles with printed labels. Rowdy was on medication for high blood pressure and migraine headaches. He had multiple refills of them and the antidepressant Effexor. Most of the bottles appear untouched and were prescribed years ago.
In the wooden cabinet under the sink, I discover a variety of laxatives, and diarrhea and stomach medications. There are bottles of Aleve and Motrin. A box of condoms has an expiration date of six years ago. Reba averts her gaze as I return the Trojans to where I found them.
“Did your husband stop taking his meds, including Effexor?” I ask her. “I notice that many of the bottles are full.”
“He didn’t take anything like he was supposed to and hadn’t been for the past three or four years.”
“Was the Effexor prescribed for depression, I assume?” I jot down the details.
“That and anxiety,” she says. “But he refused to go back to his doctor, and he certainly wouldn’t listen to me. Doesn’t matter that I might know a thing or two as a nurse. I’ve seen up close and personal what happens to people who don’t take their meds. As have you.”
“Where are you a nurse?” I walk out of the bathroom.
“Here in Alexandria. The hospital on Seminary Road. I work four a.m. to four p.m. Thursday through Sunday so I can be home as much as possible with the twins. Mostly I’m in the E.R., but I go wherever’s needed.”
“I hope you’re taking some time off to cope with all this?” I reply as we leave Rowdy’s office.
“Keeping busy while helping others is the best thing,” she says in the hallway. “And we’re shorthanded right now, even more than usual. ’Tis the season.”
We return to the living room, and I retrieve the manila envelope from the sofa. I tear open the flap, sliding out an evidence receipt that lists Rowdy’s personal effects.
“Fortunately, I have a sister in D.C. She’ll be here tomorrow morning bright and early,” Reba is saying. “That’s assuming the roads are okay. But they usually clear them pretty quick.”
Signing the form, I hand it and the pen to her. She reads the inventory carefully, taking a long time, as if she can’t comprehend what she’s looking at, wiping her eyes.
“My sister will keep the boys company and out of trouble until I get home,” Reba explains, her voice fractured. “We’ll open gifts. We’ll have Christmas dinner then.”
She places the form on the coffee table, bending over it with the pen.
“What about his other things?” she asks, signing her name shakily. “I don’t see anything about his clothing.”
“I’ll be holding on to that for now,” I answer.
She slides the form my way, and I tuck it in my briefcase, giving her the evidence envelope. Sitting back down on the sofa, I ask if she knew why her husband night-fished at that location on the Potomac.
“The pier is remote and in poor repair, and there are no facilities. No restrooms, for example,” I explain. “From what I understand, no one really fishes there. Except your husband did. I’m wondering what appealed to him about it.”
“I’ve never been there, and I hate fishing.” Resentment glints in her eyes. “I don’t eat fish, certainly not the ones he caught.”
“When did he start fishing on that pier at night?” I try again.
“He didn’t fish at all until after the accident. I’ve never understood it really except he liked spending time by himself when he could get it,” she explains as I think about Rowdy looking at pornography on his phone while digging into his cooler of beer.
A nervous sigh, and Reba steels herself, reaching for the envelope. She digs out the small jewelry box. Opening it, she doesn’t move, staring at what’s inside. Then she takes a deep silent breath. She’s clumsy working the ring out of its velvet slot.
The baguette-cut emerald flames brilliant green, trembling as she holds it up to the light. Tears flood again, angry ones this time.
“It’s beautiful,” I tell her, but she doesn’t try it on.
Returning the ring to the box, she sets it down hard on the coffee table.
“The receipt is inside the envelope,” I explain. “It will be helpful to have for insurance purposes.”
“How much did he spend?” she asks in a voice that’s dull and heavy.
I tell her the amount, catching a spark of fury in her eyes, a sob caught in her throat.
“Well, he shouldn’t have,” she says in the same dead tone. “Literallyhe damn well shouldn’t have. And you know how many times I’ve told him?”
