40. Cora
Cora
Brady surprises me after dinner again by telling me we’re going on a stakeout. I don’t hide my giddiness as I change into my all-blacks.
My excitement rides high for the first half of our drive. We’re in a different inconspicuous sedan tonight, headed north through the city this time. Directly north. The farther we drive, the more difficult it is for me to remain excited. My anticipation turns anxious, then sinks into dread.
We’re crossing into the North Side.
“Where does Seven’s territory begin?” I ask, but if I’ve studied the maps correctly, I already know the answer.
“Four blocks ago.” His eyes don’t leave the road.
A chill seeps through me. I haven’t asked what we’re staking out, or who, but if it’s Seven himself, I would’ve liked some more time to prepare.
Logistically and mentally. As it is, I take a deep breath, and mirror Brady’s steadiness.
He’s outwardly serene, but I can feel the hum of tension running beneath his cool exterior.
When he turns us into a residential neighborhood, the only illumination comes from the yellow streetlamps, their pools of light spaced far apart. As we cruise slowly down the narrow street, my husband’s face goes light, then dark, light, then dark.
Always menacing.
He pulls us to a stop behind an old church, impressively paralleling into the last cramped spot.
Our humdrum car is a zebra among stripes, and we have a clear view of the church’s back door.
It seems like a standard enough building to me, but its pointed towers create a sinister atmosphere at this time of night.
The dash reads 9:38 when Brady shuts off the car.
“Masks in the glovebox,” he says brusquely.
I take out two black ski masks, and we put them on. When we tilt back our seats by a few degrees, we’re just shadows in the dark, and our stakeout begins.
In our silence, I stare at the church’s back entrance for a while, then notice Brady isn’t watching the church, but scanning the surrounding streets.
I realize I’m shaking. I feel an uncustomary urge to force small talk, anything with squeaky cheer.
We didn’t talk much over dinner, but our silence wasn’t tense to the degree it is now.
Brady was brooding over something, and though I could tell it wasn’t directed at me, it resulted in stilted conversation.
“How did it go with Connor today?” I’d asked, sipping my wine. All my brother had told me was that they went to indoor golf, and it was okay I guess.
“We’ll see,” Brady had answered. Then he’d cut into his tenderloin with too much force, an angry sawing motion.
Beside me in the car, my husband’s motions aren’t jerky, but eerily calm. Slowly, almost sensually, he slides his gloved index finger up along the steering wheel’s left side, like he’s guiding a clock on its way to midnight.
I don’t know how long we wait. I don’t know what we’re waiting for.
The answer turns out to be three black Range Rovers with tinted windows. They arrive in a convoy, crawling at the residential speed limit. Even if I couldn’t sense Brady’s reaction, I’d know that this is why we’re here, and that it’s not good.
My body goes cold, and Brady seethes as we watch the SUVs pull off in different directions. They park in front of the fire hydrants on each side street, framing the back entrance of the church. One by one, they turn off their lights and engines, as if they’re waiting just like we are.
Our stakeout has caught another stakeout.
Brady keeps our car turned off, but he grips the steering wheel with both hands.
I imagine that beneath his black leather gloves, his knuckles are bone-white.
It’s like he needs to strangle something.
I want to smooth my hand along his thigh, to bring him back from whatever brink he’s on, but all I do is focus on my breathing. It’s gone shallow.
The SUVs are Seven’s vehicles, I know they are.
And though my violence stirs at our enemy’s proximity, we’re outnumbered and outgunned.
We sit without moving for hours, until every inch of my skin has begun to sweat, turning my mask unbearably itchy.
But I don’t scratch my face or neck. I don’t move my hands from my lap.
My only comfort is that our enemy’s vigil is unsuccessful. Nothing happens at the church. When the three black SUVs give up and pull away, the iron band around my chest loosens. All we physically did was wait, with a gap of two feet between my shoulder and Brady’s.
After our enemies have been gone for several minutes, he starts up the car and drives us in the opposite direction from where they came and left. The clock on the dash says it’s 1:13 in the morning. Everything else about the darkened neighborhood is the same as when we arrived.
But somehow the space between me and Brady has deepened into a chasm.