Colin was twenty-six when he met Nancy Michelle. She was twenty- four and studying for her Ph.D. in mathematics at the University of Chicago. Colin had been on the crime beat for a year. At first, each of them had thought the other was just another date. He had always been attracted to tall, slim blondes, and Nancy was short and dark. But he liked her and asked her out again.
They dated for over a year before they realized that they were in love. Another year passed before they married. By then Nancy was teaching at the university, and their combined salaries made them feel rich. And then Todd was born and Nancy left her job. Money got a little tighter, but they managed. Nancy wanted to be at home with her child and said she would go back to work when Todd went to school. But Alicia was born two years later, and Colin and Nancy could see that it would be another five years before she'd be working again. It was rough, money-wise. Still, they loved each other and the children, had a good life-most of the time.
The fights about money were frequent. It was almost impossible for Nancy to budget. She'd grown up in a wealthy family and worrying about money was new to her. She tried, but if she wanted steak for dinner she'd buy it, or a new sweater, or some trinket for the kids, a book for Colin. She'd forget that these things weren't on the budget and give in to impulse.
It had been one of those impulses that had started the fight that last night.
Colin said, "Jesus Christ, Nan, you just don't get it, do you?"
"I thought you'd like it," she said, hurt.
"Like it or not liking it is beside the point. We can't afford it."
"Well, why don't you ask for a raise, then?"
This pissed him off. He knew asking for a raise was a matter of timing and the time was not right. "I'll ask for a raise when I think it's right."
"Oh, the hell you will."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"Nothing."
"No, come on, what's that mean, the hell I will?"
"I think you're afraid to, that's all."
Colin stared at her, wanting to slap her silly. He'd never touched Nancy in anger, never even felt like it before. But this really made him mad. It was the first time she'd accused him of being cowardly. Usually she'd just hold him up against her father. He wondered when that would come, how long would she take before throwing Alex Michelle in his face. He decided not to wait. "Not like dear old Dad, huh?"
"Leave my father out of this."
"Why? You never do."
"Well, why should I? When he and Mother were our ages they already owned a house and had plenty in the bank."
"Your fucking father was not a newspaperman, Nancy. He was a business man. There's a difference."
"You bet there is," she shot back.
"Oh, that's terrific. Just great. I suppose you think I should give up writing and join the great Square C Company of Philadelphia, huh?"
"You've always acted as if my father offering you a good job in his company was some kind of insult."
"It was. I'm a writer, goddammit. You don't go offering a writer a job selling spark plugs or whatever the fuck he makes."
"A writer, a writer," she mocked. "You'd think you were Hemingway or something."
"Hemingway or someone," he corrected.
"Oh, who cares?"
"I care."
"Well, hell, Colin, maybe you should start caring about other things besides proper English."
"Like what?"
"Like providing for your family."
"Since when haven't I provided for my family?"
"Since always. I haven't been able to buy a new dress for myself without a fight since I quit working. Do you know how damn guilty I feel if I buy the kids a toy or myself a new lipstick?"
"I haven't noticed your guilt stopping you." He picked up the record she'd presented to him minutes ago. "It didn't stop you from buying this."
"You love Judy Collins. I thought you'd be pleased." She started to cry.
"Oh, shit, don't start that."
"I can't help it. I'm stuck home here with two kids and a husband who's a goddamn gutless wonder and can't even ask for a raise."
That did it. He'd snapped, and suddenly his open hand was connecting with her cheek. She screamed, and first Alicia woke crying, then Todd. And the gutless wonder couldn't face it, none of it. He'd grabbed his jacket and slammed out, Nancy yelling behind him not to come back, he shouting don't worry.
Downstairs, in front of the apartment house, shaking with rage, he wondered what to do, where to go. He combed his pockets for a cigarette and found nothing. At the end of the block was Maxie's, a bar he'd never been in. He knew it was a local hangout, seedy, for hard-core drinkers, and when he started toward it the only thing in his mind was to buy a pack of Marlboros.
Once inside, the idea of having a drink suddenly appealed to him. He'd never been much of a drinker, a few beers with the guys on the paper, but it didn't interest him. He liked feeling straight, hated losing control. But tonight, he was eager to try anything that might change the awful feelings he had about having slapped Nancy.
With his open pack of cigarettes he took a stool at the end of the bar. Several men occupied places near him, and they were all joking around, razzing the bartender, yelling things at the baseball game on the fuzzy black-and-white television above them. Something about the atmosphere, the camaraderie of the men, made him feel good, comfortable, and he heard himself ordering a boilermaker, a drink he'd never had but remembered his uncles drinking.
It wasn't long before he was in conversation with the others and then they were all leaving, going to a strip joint on South State Street, Colin among them.
He remembered the place: lots of smoke, girls with tassels, more boilermakers. He remembered going to the men's room. But that was it.
When he awoke in his car he was stunned. It was six-thirty in the morning and the sun was beating in through the windshield. The taste in his mouth was sour, like old socks. He'd been crumpled up under the steering wheel and when he tried to straighten, everything hurt, as if he'd been in a fight. It was then that he saw the blood. The front of his shirt was stained and there was some on his pants. In the rearview mirror he saw that although he looked like hell, there were no cuts or scrapes. So he must have been in a fight, and the blood was from the other guy. But what other guy? He couldn't remember. The last thing he could clearly recall was going into that men's room at the strip joint.
He got out of the car, pulled his jacket closed over the bloodstains and made his way home. Nancy would be up with the kids. He didn't know what he was going to say, hoped she'd forgive him, felt pretty sure she would. When he got to the apartment and put his key in the door he found that it was unlocked. For a moment he was alarmed, then figured Nancy might have been afraid he'd forgotten his keys, left it open for him. It gave him some courage. But when he stepped inside his courage fled, leaving only fear in its stead.
He could see immediately that the place had been ransacked. Lamps were knocked over, drawers pulled out, things strewn about the floor. He yelled for Nancy. There was no answer. Cautiously moving into the room, he called for her again. Then for Todd. No one answered. And then he saw her. Across the room partially under an upended table. He shouted her name and ran to her, pushing the table aside. She was on her stomach, and when he turned her over he almost vomited. Alicia was under her. They were covered in blood, dead. He'd seen enough dead people to know. He shouted for Todd, then raced madly through the rooms, falling, bumping into things, continuing to call for his son. He found him in his bed. Dead. Blood everywhere. Falling on the bed, he picked up the boy and held him, crying, rocking. Time passed, and then he lay Todd down and stumbled back to the living room, to his wife and daughter. He crumpled to the floor and held Nancy in his arms, Alicia too. Over and over he said their names. He didn't know how long he stayed with the bodies, holding them, rocking them, talking to them, but eventually he realized he had to do something. Gently he placed Nancy and Alicia on the rug and slowly got to his feet. When he found the phone under the couch, he saw that it had been pulled from the wall. Something about that pushed him over the edge and he began to scream, baying almost. He left the apartment, went into the street, and shouted for help.
People ran from him. He was covered in blood-face, hands, shirt, jacket, pants, even shoes. No one would help him. And then he was attacked, wrestled to the ground, handcuffed. He tried to tell them, but no one would listen. It was only later, in the police station, that they understood what he'd been attempting to tell them about Nancy and the children.
Colin was arrested for the murders. Unidentified fingerprints were found in the apartment and unidentified blood on Colin's clothes. He couldn't prove where he was after midnight, but the blood helped his story of being in a fight. The murder weapon, a large knife of some sort, was never found. Colin was let go for lack of evidence, and the murders went unsolved.
But in the back of Colin's mind, some days, some nights was the nagging question he would live with forever: Would they have died if he'd been at home?
Most of the time he knew he couldn't have saved them, probably would have been murdered himself. And the year after the murders that he'd spent living with his mother, talking to a therapist, had helped him to lessen his guilt. Still-sometimes when he woke in the night, covered in sweat, having dreamed of his family, mutilated and bloody-he wondered and wept.