The Uncut Grass

By Mark Butler

Jenny Davis discovers her husband is cheating on her, and she decides to leave him indefinitely. Taking up residence with a friend in Dallas, Jenny soon meets a man who is mysterious, dangerous and kind. Her infatuation with him soon begins to change her character, helping her to become who she always wanted to be.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Oct 27, 2014
• ISBN: 9781483542140

Book preview

9:11

Chapter One

Long, drooping tendrils of yellow grass crowded the edges of Jenny and John’s driveway. Empty bags of chips, Styrofoam cups, paper bags…the uncut grass snagged it all. Jenny sighed as she stepped out of her car. The errant vegetation gently brushed her ankles, like the passing caress of a cat’s tail. John, her husband, was supposed to cut the grass today. He was home, his car was there. Jenny waited for a moment, anticipating the familiar roar of the lawn mower in the backyard that would mean John had grown bored of watching re-runs, or doing yoga, or whatever the hell he was doing. But there was only silence.

They lived in a quiet neighborhood in north Texas. An elementary school was at the end of their block, and it was Jenny’s favorite aspect of their residence. Radiant, smiling kids bounced past their house twice a day, five days a week, lugging oversized backpacks and wearing bright colors. Sometimes their parents were with them, but they usually made their kids carry their own backpacks, which Jenny approved of. Kids should be responsible.

She and John didn’t know their neighbors. They were always in their houses, likely glued to their TV’s and phones and computers. Jenny had always imagined her adult neighborhood would be like her childhood one, where you knew everyone’s name and help with a home project was just a house or two away. She imagined the women chatting on the block while the men drank beers and tossed a football around. Maybe their kids would all be friends, too, and Jenny could bake them chocolate chip cookies. It was a nice image, she thought, but their neighborhood was actually just a random collection of people who happened to live in the same area. It was more like a stranger-hood, and it was always quiet, except for twice a day, five days a week.

It was Tuesday, and Jenny couldn’t abide that her husband would let the elementary kids walk past their house with overgrown grass. The kids would shirk away, thinking that the residence was eerie, unkempt.

She went inside. Clothes, dirty and clean, were all over their hardwood floor. Empty soda and beer cans were on the little, decorative tables situated at the ends of the couches. The TV was on and some angry-looking white woman was blathering about the injustices of poverty, as though there hadn’t always been poor people. Jenny turned off the TV and cleared her throat, John! she shouted.

No answer.

She set her shopping bags down and went to the kitchen. She had loaded the dishwasher the day before and hand-washed the rest of the dishes, but there were already more dirty ones. John had made spaghetti, it seemed, and the rich flavors of tomato and basil were still in the air. A bottle of wine was uncorked and half-empty on their oak dinner table.

John! Jenny yelled again.

He was not in the master bedroom, either, and Jenny bit back another shout. John must’ve been napping in the spare bedroom, likely sprawled naked on the satin sheets and drooling on the fresh pillow cases. She silently padded down the dark, interior hallway that led to the spare bedroom. Before she touched the handle, urgent whispers carried through the door.

Be quiet! that was John’s voice. A noise came next, a noise that Jenny couldn’t identify. It was high pitched, feminine and not words. Jenny’s heart stopped and her breath caught in her chest. She tried to take a deep breath and found herself unable. The next moment, her hand was moving towards the handle, turning the brass lever.

The room was dimly lit by half-open blinds. Sex, sweat and cheap perfume clouded the air like a physical, translucent wall. Her first thought was that the bed would need to be remade, the sheets washed, the room aired out. John was sitting upright, bare chested and wide-eyed. Red lipstick speckled the brown scruff of his cheeks. Someone was next to him, completely covered by Jenny’s precious satin sheets.

I can explain… John said, holding his hand up like a police officer managing a busy intersection. Jenny felt tears at the corners of her eyes. She slammed the door shut, turned, and walked sharply to the kitchen. The spaghetti, the wine, the uncut grass…she sat down and cried, unable to think clearly.

*****

Jenny never saw the woman’s face. John ushered her out and Jenny vaguely remembered seeing a blue car three houses down, a car she had never seen before. It had to be hers. John came back inside and sat opposite Jenny at the oak dinner table. He folded his hands in front of him and laid his head down.

Who was she? she asked, trying to keep her voice steady.

We met at the… John began.

Four years of marriage, John! Four years! You miserable bastard! Jenny was on her feet, contemplating what she could hit him with. The fine china was too good for him. She settled on a cheap cutting board they had purchased at WalMart. She snatched it off the counter and swung it at his head as hard as she could. John didn’t move and the cutting board skipped off the side of his temple. He stood quickly like he had been electrocuted. Her strike had been too hard.

Don’t hit me again, you bitch! he said, his face contorting in rage. John was prepared to be cussed out, maybe hit, but that damn cutting board could kill someone. If she tried to hit him again, he might have to hurt her to protect himself.

Who was she? Jenny demanded, still holding the cutting board with a knuckle-whitening grip.

Her name is Leslie. We’ve only done this once, I swear.

Where did you meet her?

Coffee shop, he said.

Jenny’s knees felt weak. She didn’t care about the woman’s name or where they met. Everything was wrong. Why hadn’t John cut the grass? The yard was his responsibility, the inside was hers. You were supposed to mow the lawn.

What? What does that have to do with anything? Who cares about the stupid fucking lawn? John asked.

JUST DO IT! she shouted, jumping up from the table. Jenny ran to her bedroom and closed the door. She wasn’t thinking, just packing: Underwear, bras, pants, shirts, hairspray, combs, lipstick…she ran out of space in her overnight bag. Her purse was soon filled with more than just car keys and money: treasured pictures, unused jewelry, writing materials, and colored markers. Jenny stopped and looked at the Crayolas, blue and red, and put them back on the dresser. Why had she grabbed them?

She crept out of the bedroom with her bags, like a burglar in her own home. The living room was too quiet and Jenny turned the TV on. The news reporter was now a black man, detailing the damage a tornado had caused a city in Oklahoma. Jenny took a deep breath; she could relate to that town, but her storm had just landed and was still swirling, shrieking.

The lawnmower coughed and sputtered in the backyard, and then it came to life. It was a full-throttle roar of oil and gas, and Jenny wished she had heard that sound just twenty minutes earlier, when it was the familiar noise of a faithful husband. But now it was like John’s lust for another woman, powerful and healthy. Tears formed at the corners of Jenny’s eyes, and she rushed out to her car. Minutes later, she was speeding down the highway, feeling a slight twinge of freedom. A part of her mind was numb, but she kept driving, emotional yet strangely calm as she got further and further from John.

*****

Jenny’s closest friend was a nurse named Rebekah. She lived alone in an apartment outside Dallas, and Jenny swerved her car from the far left lane of Interstate 20 to the off-ramp that would take her to the condominiums on the north side of the city. Her small, blue vehicle frightened at least four other drivers when she had cut across the highway, and a siren began wailing behind her. Blue and red lights, like the Crayolas she almost packed, filled her rearview mirror.

She eased her car onto the shoulder. How had life come to this? Jenny Davis was twenty-nine, fit and had a degree in education from the University of Miami. Originally from Florida, she had met John when the Miami Heat had played the Mavericks. He was six years older and she could still see his warm face when they first met at the game, five years prior. She had been so young! So stupid. John had treated her like a queen, showering her mind with outrageous compliments and her body with expensive clothes, exclusive jewelry. She had only been twenty-four at that time, and he respected her more than any man she had ever known. Deep conversations, quiet dinners, unexpected bouquets of roses…she had been so young.

Jenny wondered how old that woman, what was her name? Leslie. Jenny would curse that name until the day she died. She was wondering how old Leslie was when the police officer gently tapped on her window with his flashlight.

Ma’am, could you roll your window down, please? he asked. Jenny thought, what if I don’t want to roll down my window? The traffic is loud - I can pretend I don’t hear him. The next second, she rolled it down.

Yes, officer?

Do you know why I pulled you over? his voice was clear now, and it reminded Jenny of John’s deep, easy timbre. He was handsome, but his beard was salt and pepper gray and he was no less than fifty. Jenny wanted to ask the cop if he ever cheated on his wife, but she couldn’t tell if he was wearing a ring under his black gloves.

No.

You illegally changed lanes without using your signal. You were doing seventy-five in a fifty-five zone. License and insurance, please.

Jenny handed him her license and fished her insurance out of the glove compartment. The officer took them and went back to his car. She wasn’t worried about the cost of a traffic ticket - she had access to John’s money, and his real estate business was having a tremendous year. She had her own money, too, from substitute teaching jobs and tutoring. The traffic ticket was not a problem, no, but Jenny put her car into D and slammed on the accelerator, anyway.

The cop was very, very fast. She hadn’t moved more than forty feet when his lights came on and he was directly behind her, his Crown Victoria’s fender brushing the side of her bumper. Jenny floored it and the speedometer exceeded fifty, then sixty five. She swerved onto the shoulder at eighty miles per hour and sped past a traffic jam. Was this the solution to her husband’s infidelity? A high-speed chase through Dallas between a jilted housewife and a trained man of the law?

Tears flowed freely down Jenny’s face as she merged her car onto another highway, and the traffic thinned. The cop was still behind her and Jenny lessened the pressure on her accelerator. Grey storm clouds were moving in the distance and Jenny slowed down even more. She loved rain. It calmed her and she looked out of her driver’s side window, almost expecting to see a SWAT helicopter bearing down on her small, blue vehicle.

Her tires splashed water onto the stained concrete of an underpass. Her window was still rolled down and she could smell the foulness of unwashed bodies. Crude graffiti decorated the superstructure of the small bridge, and a tattered hammock hung up there, too, suspended by white strings tied to reinforcing bar. A rocking bed, how nice.

It was not yet full dark, but she could see no homeless people so close to the highway, though they obviously came there, sometimes.

Her uniformed pursuer swung his car in front of hers and he was out immediately, holding a walkie-talkie to his mouth. Jenny tried to make out his words over the blare of his siren, Cancel backup, cancel backup, he was saying. She put her left hand up and kept her right hand on her lap, surrendering.

Both hands, the officer boomed from behind his vehicle.

Jenny looked up at her left hand, all by itself, and she thought it was absurdly funny. She waved at the cop and stifled a laugh with her right hand, and then put that one up, too.

Don’t move, he said, his voice a fraction less violent. He moved quickly around the front of his car, one of his hands positioned low, on his gun. The wind blew gently and birds cooed in the distance, as though discussing the impending rain. The officer got to Jenny’s window and looked at her strangely. She smiled back.

What were you thinking? he asked. "You gave me your license and insurance, and then sped away? You’re no criminal, you’re a part-time schoolteacher."

Yes, Jenny said, impressed at the speed of his research. And then, How did you find that out so quickly?

You file your taxes and have a city job. Technology is better than you know, and I can multi-task.

What now? she asked.

"Attempted vehicular manslaughter is rare for someone like you. Well, someone sober. If you had crashed, or kept going, things could have gone very badly. Evading a police officer is also something I was not expecting tonight."

I’m sorry… Jenny began. She was going to tell him about John, and the words started tumbling out, incomprehensible. He did it in my bed! With her! Leslie!…She was crying now, He cheated with some girl! And… She wiped her face with her sleeve and tried to form a clear sentence.

My husband cheated on me tonight, she finally said.

The officer was silent, looking at such a sad, pretty young woman. Her youth made the scene more tragic; a child unfairly broken by the harsh world. In his twenty-six year career, he had seen many, many damaged people. It was sad, but his police officers’ instincts kicked in after a moment and he reached into her car and pulled her keys from the ignition, smoother than Jenny could react to.

Wait here, he said, jingling her car keys as he walked back to his car. He returned ten minutes later with her license, insurance, and a traffic citation for speeding. One hundred and fifty dollars. Where are you staying tonight? he asked.

I have a friend in the condos outside Highland Park.

If I give you your keys, will you drive there, safely?

Yes.

I’m going to follow you until your car is parked and you are inside. If you commit a single violation on the way there, you’ll be spending tonight in jail. Understood?

Yes.

The officer gave her the keys and stared at her for a moment, his eyes hard but thoughtful. He walked back to his car and Jenny drove to Rebekah’s. She was in the lot twenty minutes later and called her friend from her cellular. Can I stay with you tonight? There’s a cop out here and I can’t go home. Please, she said.

Of course girl, Rebekah answered.

Jenny stepped out of her car and felt slightly better. Light rain drizzled from the heavens and thunder rumbled in the distance. She was tired of driving tonight - that was for sure. The nameless officer circled the parking lot in his big Crown Victoria, and then stopped. Jenny started walking through the lot. She passed juniper hedges and parked cars as she angled towards Rebekah’s apartment, and her friend met her at the door, opening it immediately.

Chapter Two

Across town, the world of drugs and crime was mirroring the legitimate world. A man had cheated, but his affair was with drugs and his penalty was eight thousand dollars. He only had two hundred, which Marco Harrison had already taken from him. Marco’s fist connected with the man’s ribs for the third time, and his victim moaned in agony.

I’ll have the money in a week, I swear on my mother’s grave, the man said, his eyes closed against the pain. He was strung up: hands and feet bound, dangling from a steel rafter in an abandoned warehouse. Half a dozen men were watching the torture, smoking cigarettes and chatting calmly, wondering what Marco would do with the delinquent junkie.

Kill him already, one man said.

Let’s get his family - that will get the prick busy finding our money, another chimed in.

If concerns for his family made this dirt bag produce money, he wouldn’t be a drug addict. Junkies only care about one thing, Marco said, punching the the man in the jaw, their next fix.

Marco took a break. He worked out every day of his life, not from vanity, but necessity. His abdomen was chiseled and taut, his arms veiny and muscular. Sweat stained his white t-shirt, and he accepted a bottle of water from one of his men. His thirty-six violent years of life had taught him that the strong survive longer than the weak. And isn’t that life in a nutshell? Who can survive the best, the longest?

One of Marco’s men had brought a blowtorch, and he turned it on with a grin. Flames, blue at the base and orange atop, spouted from the industrial-strength tool. The flames momentarily illuminated the entire room, sending rats scurrying back into the shadows. Pitiful moans came from the lips of the captive, and Marco held up his hand, Turn it off, he said. With an exaggerated expression of disappointment, the man flipped a switch and doused the flame.

Marco had no taste for theatrics. When there was work to be done, he did it fast and effective, like his dad always taught him. Marco was not inherently sadistic, either, though he understood the value of fear. If he had to be cruel, he would, but it did not satisfy him like others in his profession. He liked to be fair - it brought his business a good name and a steady cash flow. Junkies were not afraid to approach Marco’s dealers, and they respected his consistent prices. Fools often mistake kindness for weakness, however, and Marco stared at the junkie dangling from the rafter.

Get him down, he said. His men did it fast because they were eager to leave, to bed their wives, sell drugs, and make money. The disciplined aspects of conducting business: punishments, payments, diplomacy, and turf disputes – those were Marco’s specialties. That’s why he was the boss. He stood up and loomed over the injured drug addict.

You have nowhere to go. I know where you live. I know where you get dope, where you hang out and who you talk to. Get my money in a week, or I will kill you. Now, leave.

Renewed light showed in the junkie’s dark orbs. The gleam in his eyes could have been the hunger for another fix, or it could be relief that he was going to live. Either way, he hobbled out of the warehouse, limping and clutching his ribs in pain.

It’s Danny, right? Marco asked, watching the junkie depart.

Yea boss, his name’s Danny, one of his men answered.

*****

Beams of golden light, the signs of false dawn, were in the sky when Marco and his crew left the warehouse. Darkness still clung to the low places of the city: gutters, alleys, blighted neighborhoods and abandoned buildings, but the light was coming. It was turning the sky pink, like the ruddiness of