by Eve Langlais
“Mom! Language!” Poor Geoff sounded so shocked, and with good reason. Used to be I threatened his bad words with a bar of soap. Now, I could curse up a storm if I wanted.
It felt liberating and ironically cleansing.
“It’s justified. That box almost killed me!” A slight exaggeration. The tree that fell on my car and the wolves hunting me had been slightly more perilous.
“I didn’t hear anyone knock. They must have left it before I came upstairs.”
It still blew my mind that I now had a basement level with a walkout. Before Geoff’s arrival, I lived in a two-bedroom cozy cottage with my suite in the attic and Winnie in a small bedroom on the first floor.
Then my other child arrived, and a basement appeared with another bedroom, a full bathroom, and a rec area with a plaid couch, old fat television in a wooden base that probably needed four men to move, and a sliding glass door to a stone patio with a picnic table.
I didn’t understand how that happened, but it was freaking cool. Made me wonder if I wished for a greenhouse or an arts and crafts room, what would happen?
I carried the box inside, not bothering to shut the door. The house did it for me. As I set it on the kitchen island, my kitty, Grisou, vaulted onto the granite top. It used to be butcher-block wood, but I really didn’t like how the cat hair stuck to it. The house changed it. Just like the simple wooden cabinets, painted over a few times, now had a shaker style to them, and the sink was a deep farmhouse with a faucet pullout.
Ever since I’d bled on the house and started believing, it was as if it thrived and sought to remake itself. I swear if one day I woke up in a castle, I’d probably piddle on the floor. And not because I sneezed too hard.
Geoff tried to shoo my cat from the counter. “Down.”
“Leave him alone. He’s fine.” To me, Grisou was a member of my family who didn’t deserve to live solely on the floor.
“It’s not fine, Mom. It’s gross. We eat here.”
“And? It’s just hair, Geoff.” The words that came out of my mouth were so opposite to what I’d said to my kids growing up. I’d not put plastic on the couches, but it came close.
Grisou nosed the box as I read the label addressed to Mrs. Naomi Rousseaux. It came from some kind of legal office in the United States.
“What is it?” Geoff asked, drying his hands on a towel.
“I’m not sure.” A frown pulled my features as I palmed a knife to slice at the tape.
As I pulled apart the cardboard flaps, Grisou let out a hiss then a low growl.
Even Geoff recoiled. “What’s that smell?”
“Smells like something died.” Looking inside the box, I saw a few things. Paper. Some clothing. Trinkets. A letter on top that started out, Dear Mrs. Dunrobin, as the beneficiary of your late husband’s estate…
I didn’t close the flaps quick enough. Geoff saw, but rather than address it, he left the kitchen and returned to his cave. It didn’t surprise me. He didn’t talk about his father.
My very dead ex-husband.
Martin’s body had been found on the other side of the lake. No one knew how he managed to escape jail then travel undetected from the States to Canada and the small town I now called home. The autopsy noted that he died of exposure caused by living in the woods as winter started.
Utter bullshit. Martin didn’t have a single outdoorsy bone in his body. Not to mention, dying of the cold didn’t explain the terror forever frozen on his face.
There was no sign of foul play. Officer Murphy couldn’t pin it on me. I should have been ecstatic Martin was out of my life. That he could no longer follow through with his threats to kill me.
But something about the situation unsettled me.
With Geoff gone, I eyed the package. What use did I have for an ex-husband’s things? I should toss it into the firepit out back and set it on fire.
Or should I hold on to it for Winnie or Geoff? While they weren’t fond of their late father, they might eventually want something to remember him by.
Given Geoff’s reaction, maybe I’d offer it to Winnie first. She’d hated him the least, and this in spite of how Martin treated her. Only as I held the package did I pause and second-guess my decision. What was inside?
What if it was full of porn magazines? A shiv? Maybe more of Martin’s crazy manifesto that basically amounted to “kill that bitch.” That bitch being me, of course. A smell still lingered around it. Death and something else. I wanted to say evil, but I didn’t think it had a specific aroma.
“Meow.”
My cat twined around my legs, a sinuous gray shape that had grown so much since I’d adopted his orphaned butt months ago.
“What do you think, Grisou?” I asked, shaking the package. “Maybe I should make sure there’s nothing in there that might upset Winnie.”
Better if it upset me. I could handle it.
Setting the box back on the counter, I started with the letter from the lawyer, a generic thing that basically amounted to the fact that Martin was dead and they didn’t know who else to send his shit too. By the way, as his beneficiary in his will and testament, you’ll have to settle his estate. In other words, find some money to pay their bill.
At that I snorted. Figured those vultures would want their piece.
I put the letter aside and pulled out the suit. His trial clothes that his lawyer arranged so he wouldn’t appear in a prison jumpsuit.
In a manila envelope was his wallet with his identification and an invalid bank card. His reading glasses. Under that, evidence bags full of books. Notebooks both glue-spined and spiral bound. On the covers, dates. January 3rd, 2003 to August 14th, 2005.
Journals? Work ledgers? I was kind of curious. As I shifted the first bag, the smell erupted in all its rancid glory.
A glance within showed the culprit. A dead rodent. Barf. I didn’t know how it got inside the box, but I knew it had to go.
I lifted my shirt over my nose and grabbed some tongs to lift the carcass out. Then, gagging and stomach heaving, ran for the back door. I didn’t have shoes, so I did the responsible thing. I flung it. Mouse and tongs. With any luck, the critter would be dissolved by spring and I’d dispose of the tongs when I found them again.
I left the door open to remove the smell and headed back for the box. Curiosity filled me. I’d never known my husband kept any kind of journal. Where had he hidden them? In the garage where I rarely went? How did the lawyer get their hands on it? The evidence bags indicated the cops had confiscated the journals. Odd how I’d never heard of them when we went to court for his attempted murder of me. Then again, did they need more evidence? They had all they needed for a slam-dunk case.
Peering back inside the box, I snared the plastic sleeve that was marked with this year with no end date. He must have begun it in prison.
I pulled out the journal with its hard cover and flipped it open to see penned handwriting. Legible. An account of his life in prison.
Can’t believe they arrested me. Can’t they see what she is? She’s dangerous. One of them. She took over my wife’s body. She has to die.
2
It chilled to realize he spoke about me. Slightly nauseous, I flipped deeper into the notebook and gagged in my shirt, not because the smell got worse but because of what I saw.
Scribbles and scribbles of something that had dried brown. Blood. He’d written in blood. Three words. Over and over. Sometimes only one word per page.
Kill that bitch.
I dropped the vile notebook. Definitely garbage. My kids didn’t need to see their father’s descent into madness. Perhaps he’d gotten some kind of brain parasite that chewed up his common sense.
Opening the cupboard under the sink, I prepared to dump it all, only to worry Winnie might see it and pull it out. Speaking of whom, she hustled through the door in a blast of cold air. Guilt made me shove box to the side, out of sight behind the counter.
“Morning, Winnie.” Not her real name. That was actually Wend
y. But I’d given her that nickname at a young age because she was my cuddly bear. “Late night?” She’d left not long after Darryl’s visit.
“I spent the night with a friend.” She practically glowed.
“Oh. Do I know them?”
“Yes. You do, and I don’t need you getting judgy about it, which is why I’m not telling you who yet. I don’t want to jinx it.”
Would I get judgmental? Depended. Her last semi-boyfriend was much older than her and asked if I wanted to do a threesome with my daughter. The one before that was married and her college professor. She didn’t have a great track record, but I’d learned what would happen if I told her I thought she was fucking up, so I stuck with, “I am so happy for you.”
“Thanks, Mom.” My girl grinned so wide she almost lost half her head. “I gotta go get ready for work. I start at ten and work until close. Don’t wait up, though. I’m spending the night at my friend’s house.”
What should a mother say when confronted with her adult daughter being open about her sex life?
Old me might have spouted off something about giving away the cow, not respecting herself, or something judgmental and holier than thou. Why did I do that?
Why would I try to shame my daughter about being in charge of her body and sexuality?
I found the right reply. “Have fun and stay safe.”
The big wide smile wrapped me in warmth. “I plan to have fun a few times.” She winked.
I gasped. “Wendy Agatha Dunrobin.”
She laughed, and a second later, I joined her.
I shook my head. “You’re incorrigible.”
“I know. One of my finer qualities. See ya tomorrow sometime.” Winnie left, and still inwardly smiling, I started to make a new coffee. As I turned, I remembered the box on the floor.
Good thing Winnie hadn’t seen it. If she’d asked, I don’t know if I could have lied. Best hide it for now. I hefted the box and ran it to my bedroom, where I encountered the dilemma of where to put it. I crouched down and lifted the skirt on my bed mostly because it didn’t have a skirt when I woke up. Look at that, enough space to tuck the box out of sight until I could burn it. At least the bad parts.
But before I could hide it, I needed to remove the Christmas presents under the bed. I pulled out the first box, flat and a large rectangle. The tag on it—in my writing despite me having never seen the present before—said, To Geoff. Happy belated. Mom.
Since I’d not expected his surprise visit for Christmas—and I mean surprise when I opened the door and my kid was standing there—I’d not bought anything. In my defense, I’d mailed a check which somehow ended up under the tree with an old pocket watch I’d never seen. so not entirely nothing, and yet, I felt horrible because his sister had so many gifts to open. My poor magical house, taken off guard, had nothing prepared. I wonder if it suffered anxiety at the thought.
Yes, magical house. I’d finally come to terms with the fact my home took care of me. From shifting subtly to match the house of my dreams to providing the things I needed. Like the smaller wrapped present, which I just knew was going to be some kind of game system.
“Thank you,” I said aloud since I didn’t know if my house could hear my thoughts or needed speech. Was it alive? Did it feel? Think?
I went with the flow and tried not to worry about it, although I did wonder if some of the house’s magic was bound in some way. Perhaps, complicated things like electronics were harder to create or acquire. Which begged the question, did my magical house actually perform replicator-type capabilities, or did it buy or steal what it needed?
My imagination conjured a cloud of minions, short and dressed uniformly with masks and slim-fitting unitards, piling out of some inter-dimensional rip. They’d scurry to take what they needed and pop back through a portal.
It would be cool if true.
Eyeing the large present—apparently the house really wanted to make an impression—I said, “I don’t suppose you could deliver them to the basement?”
I would have sworn I felt an answering hum. The presents went back under the bed, and I grabbed Martin’s box, meaning to do the same.
As I went to shift it, it tilted over, and some bags slid out. The topmost one had neat and tidy writing. The date? The year I met Martin. He’d kept a journal while we were dating? Did I know my husband of more than two decades at all?
On a whim, I grabbed the notebook and sat on the window seat, feet tucked up as I read. Him getting to college. His room. His classes. Then…
Met a cute girl today. Think I’ll ask her out.
Looking at the date, I could only surmise I was the girl.
I kept reading.
There’s something special about Naomi. And tragic too. Horrible that she lost her parents. Makes me wish I had a family to give her.
As I kept reading, nostalgia for the man that once loved me filled me. Nice to know I’d not imagined we were once in love. What I didn’t understand was what happened to change it? How had we gone from a young couple taking on the world as a team to tiptoeing around each other? Then keep moving to the hate Martin exhibited at the end. I eyed the journals, the smell not as bad now that I’d taken them out of the box. Maybe I shouldn’t burn them quite yet.
Could I find out where things went wrong? Did I even want to know?
Honestly? Maybe. But not today.
Piling the stuff back in the box, I slid it out of sight. For a second, I wondered if the house would take care of it for me.
Having gone from being on time to running behind, I barely had time to whip together a bulletproof coffee. As a low-carb convert, I fasted in the morning, drinking a coffee laced with MCT oil and a dash of cream frothed together. It would keep me going until lunch.
As I drove toward town, I passed the gas station and glanced over to see if I could spot Darryl’s truck. He wasn’t in yet, although I’d probably see him at one point. Since Christmas he’d made a point of seeing me, even if briefly, every day. Like Boxing Day when he’d shown up to eat leftovers with me. Apparently, the man loved turkey.
Wendy and Geoff had gone to town looking for deals, so it was just him and me. He’d kissed me after that meal. A simple kiss that ended too soon for me. I was hungry.
An odd word to use but true. I’d wanted to do so much more with Darryl. Wanted to climb between some sheets naked and go to town.
It was embarrassing and hot at the same time. If only his phone hadn’t gone off. Emergency at the gas station.
He’d had to leave.
I’d seen him to the door then practically raced to my room, where I masturbated twice, thinking about him. Shocking and fun. I’d not had that many orgasms in years. Decades even. Had I finally entered my sexual peak? I really shouldn’t waste it.
Maybe on my lunch break I’d pop over to see Darryl. This was, after all, not the eighties and nineties anymore. A woman didn’t have to wait for a man to make the moves.
And I was ready to move. It had been years since I’d had sex. My now-dead husband had lost interest. In me at any rate. Apparently, he had no problem with his girlfriend.
Ugh. It was a kick to the teeth. But I was stronger now. Desired by a handsome man. I needed to carve some alone time for him.
I parked in the alley behind my shop, leaving the on-street spaces for shoppers. Of late, it seemed there were more and more people in town. Signs of life were everywhere. A steady flow of cars rolled up and down the main street. The café where I used to work, Maddy’s Family Diner, busted at the seams. It was so busy that Orville, the owner, had to hire a few more waitresses to help out. Marjorie, who still worked there, said the tips had never been better. What no one seemed to question was where all these strangers came from. They took over the houses and businesses bought up by the huge giant of a company, Airgeadsféar. They’d even tried to buy my grandma’s cottage. I’d refused, and then I’d snatched up a shop from under them. Yay for me.
It appeared to be a sound investment, as the
dusty town found itself revived by the newly repurposed mill. I profited. Before Christmas, a steady stream of people discovered my eclectic wares. Antiques and oddities, some of the goodies I sold I’d found scattered around my cottage, making me wonder how long the house could keep coughing up antiques. Other items I sold on consignment for Darryl. Did he really need to clean out his house, or was it an excuse to see me?
Maybe a bit of both. But I had to keep in mind the steady flow of merchandise wouldn’t last. I needed other sources. On my list was attending estate sales and auctions to widen my offerings and have a legal paper trail in case I got audited.
As I entered from the back, I flipped on switches. The filtered daylight didn’t take away all the gloom. I walked right to the front and unlocked the store, getting a strange satisfaction in flipping the sign from closed to open. A peek onto the street showed the bookstore across from me already had its sign on the sidewalk announcing a BOGO—buy one get one—on all their books. The flower shop adjacent had colorful arrangements in the window and was already serving customers. Those walking the sidewalk seemed undaunted by the chill of winter. It was a like a throwback to the images of the perfect town in the 1950s.
Some of that traffic came to see me. I sold enough that morning to ensure the electricity got paid for the next month. Around lunchtime, I got hungry. I had a sign for that, too. Out for lunch, back by one. The one being chalked in by me.
Just as I was about lock up and track down Darryl, the door opened, and a woman entered. She was older than me, I’d wager, with her paper-thin skin and wrinkles tugging parts of her face. Elegant, with her hair pulled back, makeup perfect from her lightly pink cheeks to subtle eye shadow and mascara. Perfectly dressed, her pencil skirt past her knees and a somber gray. Her jacket tightly tailored and threaded with some mauve. It matched the frothy lace emerging from her neckline.
Guess I’d be delaying my lunch—and possible kisses with Darryl—for a few more minutes. “Hello and welcome to On My Way.”
The icy gaze took me in. Up. Down. Disdain clear as she said, “So you’re the whore dabbling with my son.”