The Basement

By Mark Paxson

Her marriage broken and infidelity losing its luster, Chloe Stenhouse is a high-powered capitol lobbyist drifting through life. That is, until she becomes fed up with it all by ending her affair and leaving her husband Mike, a reclusive workaholic who emerges from the seclusion of his basement office only when he must. Mike, hiding his own dark secrets, reacts unpredictably and violently, reminding Chloe of her wedding day promise that she would never leave him, a promise born of pity and destined to fail.

 

The Basement is a wolf in sheep's clothing, lulling the reader in with a woman's awakening from her rut in life before then pouncing on its prey with male toxicity, domestic abuse, sexual abuse, gun violence, vigilantism, and mutually assured destruction. This story is not for the faint of heart but well worth the payoff.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mark Paxson
• Release date: Aug 5, 2022
• ISBN: 9798986699202

Book preview

DEDICATION

To the Dickhead Squizzers

Bill and Ian, friends from afar who keep me laughing

How It Started

How was your weekend, babe?

I took a breath. Or two. It was okay.

John leaned over and whispered in my ear, Just okay? Because I wasn’t there with you?

I pushed him away and looked out the office door. Stop it. Somebody might see. Don’t forget the first rule!

Oh, come on. Nobody is here yet. You know that. We’ve got a few minutes. It’s not 9:00 yet.

He wasn’t wrong. One of the things that always amazed me about the office. A place where the work hours were supposed to be 8:00 to 5:00, but most of the staff didn’t show up until 9:00. All while still taking their lunch break and smoke breaks and walk breaks and coffee breaks and there ‘oh, I just need a minute’ breaks. And then having to leave early for a kid’s game or a doctor appointment or ... hell, a manicure.

Yeah, but I told you. Never here. We have to be careful. I took a look at him, a couple of feet away with that look in his eyes. The one that told me how eager he was for me. My husband ... I can’t. Not yet. Never forget the first rule.

John sat down in one of the chairs in front of the desk, right as Sylvia, the front desk receptionist walked by the open doorway. I motioned towards her and whispered, See ...

Fine. What happened this weekend, Chloe?

It’s nothing really. I paused wondering whether to really get into it. After all, John had never showed much interest in my kids, and this was all about my daughter. I took the plunge anyway. To see if there was a connection we could make. One that didn’t revolve around sex. It’s just that my daughter’s team was eliminated from the tournament. She’s heartbroken, and I am for her as well.

Soccer?

No, John, I sighed, accepting my mistake. Not soccer. That’s my son. Clarice plays softball. If they had won, her team would have gone to the regional tournament in Reno next week.

She’ll get over it.

Well, she hasn’t yet. She’s been in tears since Saturday when they lost.

It’s just a game. John shrugged. Maybe she shouldn’t take it so seriously.

I sat back in my chair and looked at the man who had appreciated me in a way that hadn’t happened in years. Something I didn’t fully realize I needed until he came along. I’d taken a chance, dipped a toe in the deep end, and then jumped. Here we were, talking about one of my kids like it was nothing. What I really wanted to do was run away from it all. My husband, who never seemed to care about where I was going or what I was feeling. The job, which at one time seemed to be the career I wanted but, more and more, was ... just a job.

And Clarice and Albert. I loved them so, so much. But sometimes I wondered whether I could finish the job of raising them without irreparably harming them. There were moments when I looked at my life and wondered if I had made such a mess of it how I could possibly think I could be a good mom and produce children who were better at life than I was.

The softball tournament and Clarice’s response was a perfect example. If I had been a better mom, would my daughter have reacted as though it was the end of the world. No, correct that ... she was still reacting that way. She had begged me to allow her to stay home from school.

After a firm refusal was met with more tears, I finally relented, with an admonition, Only today. I leaned over Clarice who remained huddled under her blankets and kissed her forehead. Take a break. Relax. But tomorrow, you’re back in school. Right?

Yes, Mom, she said with her traditional eye roll, which told me she just might be okay. Even as I worried about the long run. How all of this would play out in the years ahead.

John wasn’t the answer to my prayers. For almost six months, he’d been a part of the answer. A huge part. But in those months, there was only one connection we had managed to make. It was a damn good connection, but I needed more. More than my husband was apparently willing to give, and more than I had given a chance to John to provide.

John, I leaned forward, you don’t have kids. You can’t possibly ... He held up his hands to stop me. Something Mike did all the time. Something that drove me absolutely crazy. Don’t you dare do that!

What?

Don’t shush me. Don’t interrupt me. Don’t.

What is going on with you today?

I settled back in the chair, looked at my computer screen and saw that there was an email from Mike. I clicked on it. He wanted to know what was going to be for dinner that night. I ... just ... couldn’t. Not anymore.

I turned my attention back to John. I don’t know. I’m just sad for my little girl right now. Even if she isn’t that little anymore. He opened his mouth and this time I was the one to hold up my hand to shush.  I’m sad about a lot of things, John. A lot of things. Can I just be sad? Without having to explain myself? Please?

John stood and looked at me as he turned to walk out of the office. I don’t know what to say. I don’t know what to do. Just know that I love you.

Love. Was that what they had? Sure, I had said those magic three words to John every now and then, but was that really what it was. I wasn’t so sure anymore.

I turned back to my computer screen and Mike’s email. What do you want? I typed and clicked send, and then closed my office door before returning to my chair and leaning back. I thought about where I was. With Mike. With John. With the kids. I turned my chair around and looked out the window. Out on L Street. Watching the world go by and wondering if it was leaving me behind.

But back to Mike. And John. I felt like the whole thing was just ... well, redundant. When Mike entered my life, he lit a fire in me. Sure, the embers had died down as we settled into married life and kids and work and bills and days and weeks and months would go by with barely an intimate thought or touch passing between us. Truth was, it was a lot worse than that. We weren’t even roommates anymore. We barely passed as housemates—just there, passing each other by as we went about our separate lives. And maybe it was even worse than that. Hell, I was having an affair.

John rekindled that fire. But ... did that make it right? All I could conclude was that I was massively fucked up. I turned back to my desk and put my head on my desk and tried to resist the tears, grateful that the door was closed, the blinds were drawn, and nobody would see.

I eventually got myself together, opened the door, and sat back down to get some work done. Emails, phone calls, a brief meeting with the big, big boss, who wanted some answers to some questions a reporter had regarding one of our biggest clients. Besides lobbying, Cuthbert & Palmer, which occupied two floors of prime downtown Sacramento real estate right across from the Capitol, also provided crisis management services to politicians and assorted hacks. Our comms director was there. We spent a few minutes noodling over the questions, trying to massage some answers that would appear harmless. It’s what happens when the client is accused of sexual harassment.

Back in my office, I saw that Mike responded to my email and said he wanted tacos. Tacos. Because tacos every week for years was just one of those things we did. One of those things he always wanted. So ... tacos it would be. Chicken or beef? I asked in reply.

Before I could do anything else, he answered back, Adobada!

Nope. Not gonna happen. Unless you do it. That takes hours to marinade. I won’t get home in time. He knew that, too.

Fine. Beef then.

I let out a big sigh as I walked out of my office and headed towards the kitchen in search of coffee, absent an intravenous feed, it was the best I could do. I poured myself a cup and went back to my desk. My phone, which I had left behind, was vibrating there.

A text from Clarice. Mommy can you come home?

I sat down and looked at the words. She was fourteen. I couldn’t remember the last time she had called me Mommy. I sent a text back. What’s wrong? Can it wait until I get home?

My phone was silent for a moment. I took a sip of coffee. Looked at my computer. There was an email from John. I could see a few words in the window that showed the beginning of the email. It wasn’t work-related. I wished, not for the first time, that he would stop emailing and before I knew what I was doing, I picked up my phone and texted to my sad daughter what I meant to email to John. Stop it!

Seconds later. What!! She even added a crying emoji.

I looked at the text string, saw what I had done. That wasn’t meant for you, honey.

What did Dad do now? Came her rapid response.

Damn, it was amazing how perceptive she was sometimes. I shouldn’t have been shocked, even if the text wasn’t meant for her father. Clarice had started asking questions that hinted at a bit of knowledge about the state of her parents’ marriage, which given the living arrangements in the house also shouldn’t have been shocking.  But I couldn’t tell her who the text was really meant for. I ignored her question. Tell you what. I’ll come home in a little bit. What do you want for lunch?

I got a happy face emoji and a taco emoji. Tacos for dinner tonight. Come up with something else.

I emailed Mike and told him I was headed home because our daughter wasn’t doing well and I’d get the adobada started. Another happy face emoji popped up in response and I wanted to scream. But I didn’t. I suffered in silence, like I’d been doing for years.

On my way out the door, I stopped by John’s office, stopping in the doorway. Hey. Just letting you know I’m headed home. He stood up and took a step towards me. No. Clarice needs me. But ... we need to talk. Lunch tomorrow. I turned and fled before he could say anything. I wasn’t interested in another emoji, or John’s in-person version of same. I just needed to get home.

The drive to our home on 38th Street, where people who hadn’t quite got to the point of living in the Fabulous 40s bought homes and looked fondly to the houses just a few blocks away, gave me more time to keep thinking things through. I made a stop at Trader Joe’s in East Sacramento, struggling to find a space in their tiny parking lot, to get what I needed for dinner. By the time I hit the driveway on our tree-filled street, I knew it was time to facilitate a few things. I took Clarice the meatball sandwich she had requested when tacos were a no. How you doing, Clar-bear? I asked when I went into her room.

She sniffled and took the sandwich. I’m okay.

Yeah?

I guess so. I mean ... it’s just a game, right?

Yes, it is. I sat down on Clarice’s bed next to her and brushed her hair from her face. It’s just a game. I was repeating John’s early dismissal of my daughter’s trauma, but there it was. You’ll have a lot more games to play ... and win ... in the years ahead.

I really wanted to win on Saturday, though.

I know, and that’s okay, too. Just realize you won’t win every game. She took a bite of her sandwich and smiled. You’ll go back to school tomorrow, right?

Clarice sighed dramatically. If I must.

You must.

I rose and went into the kitchen and unpacked the groceries for the tacos. I got everything together, marinated the pork and then went looking for Mike. He was able to work from home, but he took it seriously. He wouldn’t have taken a break to get the adobada going. No, he stayed in his basement office all day long no matter what. Doing who knows what. I knew my husband was a consultant. I knew it had something to do with emergency preparedness and business continuity, but beyond that, what exactly he did all day was beyond me.

Mike was looking at his computer when I walked in. He was squinting at a spreadsheet on the screen. Numbers filled the space as he slowly scrolled. I sat in the recliner he kept there