The Swap

by Robyn Harding

  They say suicide is a coward’s way out, but I beg to differ. Maybe it depends on the method. Plummeting to the bottom of the canyon, while tragically poetic, was also terrifying. What if I didn’t die instantly? What if I lay at the bottom of the canyon, badly injured, for days? Thirsty and bleeding and alone? Who would find me? And how? I’d told no one where I was going. My parents would think I’d gone back to Freya’s. Freya thought I’d gone home. No one would search for me. No one cared.

  I needed courage to go through with this… liquid courage.

  Thompson Ingleby lived nearby. I had never been to his house, but he’d described the location, its proximity to the canyon. And he’d mentioned the distinctive train car that sat in their front yard, heavily graffitied by his older brother and his friends. Pulling back onto the road, I drove north for less than five minutes before their homestead came into view. Among the broken-down cars, trucks, and tractors was the train car, GRAD 2017 and FUCK OFF prominently tagged on its side. Nice touch.

  As I drove down the rutted drive, I was greeted by two large barking dogs, intent on eating my tires. Hopefully Thompson would emerge and shepherd me inside. Being torn apart by snarling mongrels was not the way I wanted to go out. I stopped my truck but kept it running while I waited for rescue.

  A short, sinewy man in a dirty white undershirt walked onto the porch and glowered at me. He had a pistol in the waistband of his filthy jeans, and his hand rested on it, anticipating trouble. When he saw the tall, pale kid in his driveway, he whistled through two fingers and the dogs obediently galloped to his side. He disappeared back into the house with the animals, and moments later, Thompson came out. I turned off the ignition and opened the car door.

  “Hi.” Thompson couldn’t hide his delight. “This is a nice surprise.”

  “I came for a drink,” I said. “Can you get some of that grain alcohol?”

  “Umm… sure.” He glanced over his shoulder. I could tell he didn’t want me to go inside his house. Neither did I. “I’ll get it and we can go down to the barn.”

  Ten minutes later, we were perched on sawhorses in a dilapidated building cluttered with farming equipment, car parts, and empty beer cans. Thompson handed me a jar half filled with a cloudy liquid. The smell made my eyes water.

  “Cheers,” he said, clinking his jar to mine. We drank then and both shuddered at the taste. The alcohol burned in my throat, chest, and stomach, but I felt myself relaxing, the anxiety seeping out of me. I hadn’t eaten since breakfast, the day’s dramatic events tying my guts in knots. The strong alcohol on an empty stomach hit me hard. After a few more gulps, my loss and sadness became more profound, more painful. I resigned myself to my tragic fate.

  We drank in silence, Thompson matching me sip for sip. I had a reason to be getting wasted at six in the evening, but Thompson was being chivalrous again. I guess he didn’t want me to drink alone. Soon, I felt ready to execute my plan. And if I drank much more, I wouldn’t be able to pilot my truck back to the canyon. Setting my jar down on the concrete floor, I turned to say my goodbyes.

  “I think I know why you came here,” Thompson said, his face pink, very pink. “We’ve been friends for a few months now. The chemistry has always been there, but it’s been building.” He was slurring slightly from the booze. “I don’t think either one us can ignore it anymore.”

  Oh no.

  He was leaning in, his straggly soul-patch whiskers straining toward me. He was going to kiss me! I would have considered it four years and six inches ago, but not now. No. No way. I shoved him in the chest.

  “Back off.”

  He looked genuinely shocked. “But I thought…”

  “No,” I said firmly. “There is nothing between us. I’m in love with someone else.”

  At first, he appeared confused, like I’d spoken the words in Cantonese. But then his expression darkened. “Is it Max? Or is it Freya?”

  I may as well tell him. It would all come out when I was dead. “It’s Freya.”

  He shook his head sadly. “You worship her and adore her and do everything for her. But she doesn’t care about you at all. That’s not love, Low. That’s obsession.”

  “You don’t get it. You don’t know what we have.”

  “You’re her nanny. She pays you.”

  “Fuck you,” I muttered. “What would a short little dweeb like you know about love anyway?” The comment may have been unnecessary, but it hammered the message home.

  Thompson jumped off the sawhorse. “I’m not sure our friendship is such a good idea anymore.”

  “Probably not.”

  He pressed his lips together like he was keeping some cruel, hurtful words inside. And maybe he was. Finally, he mumbled, “Let yourself out.” And he hurried out of the barn.

  Drunk and alone in the filthy chaotic workshop, I felt a lump of anguish crushing my chest. I’d had one person who cared about me, one person who saw something beautiful in me, and now he hated me. But, like everyone else, Thompson would be better off without me. And that made what I was about to do easier… emotionally at least. I was still afraid of dying a slow and painful death. Or surviving with permanent, debilitating injuries. But there was no other way.

  And then, like a sign from above—or maybe below—I saw it. Tossed carelessly on the workbench, barely visible in the clutter of tools and beer cans and carburetor parts, was a handgun.

  It was not unusual for the island’s rural homesteads to have a weapon. There were numerous critters that could get into crops, build dens under houses, eat through sacks of grain. And if Thompson’s family really was smuggling cigarettes/cooking meth/growing illegal weed as was rumored, they’d have even more need for protection. My pacifist family didn’t have one, but I wasn’t daunted by it. I had watched enough TV to know how a pistol worked. I picked up the gun and found it loaded with two bullets.

  I only needed one.

  66 max

  Freya had been making a show of packing since Low stormed out of the house. She was throwing things into the cardboard boxes we’d kept in the garage after we moved in. She was drinking, too: vodka on the rocks. I’d lost count of how many times she’d refilled her glass, but I could tell by her unsteady movements, that she was getting drunk. I’d given Maggie her bottle and her bath and settled her down for the evening. When I returned to the kitchen with the baby monitor in my back pocket, I found my wife on the phone.

  “It’s just until we get set up,” she said, overarticulating each word to hide her inebriation. “A month… two at the most.” There was a pause as she listened, sipping her drink. “The baby won’t be a problem. I’ll hire a nanny.” After a moment she snapped, “Yeah, it’s three adults and a baby. It’s not like you don’t have the fucking room.”

  It had to be Freya’s dad in LA on the line. The conversation wasn’t going well.

  “Your new wife can kiss my ass,” Freya growled. “You know she’s only after your money, you stupid old fart.” She hung up and threw the phone across the room.

  I knew not to engage with Freya when she was in this state. She would be irrational, easily enraged, and cruel. My best strategy would be to slip out of the room, to hide myself away until she passed out. Before Maggie, I used to let Freya take her anger out on me. It became a sick sort of release, a toxic, sexual game. But since the baby had been born, I wasn’t into it. Only once, since we’d brought our daughter home, had I let Freya attack me, had we ended up having sex on the living room floor. That time, with a child slumbering in the next room, it had felt wrong.

  I turned to go, but I was too late. “That was my dad.”

  I turned back. “I figured.”

  “He doesn’t want us to stay with him. Not with the baby.”

  “We’ll figure something out.”

  She sipped her drink. “This is your fault, you know. All of it.”

  “Okay.”

  “Okay?” She laughed and moved toward me. “You destroy my fucking life, and all you can say is o
kay?”

  “Sorry.”

  “Apology not accepted.” She smacked me then, upside the head. “I hate you!”

  I stepped back, my head stinging. “You’re going to wake the baby.”

  “Fuck the baby!” Smack. “I hate the baby!” Smack. “I hate my life!”

  Her blows were harder than usual, her drunken rage improving her strength.

  “Stop,” I said.

  “You love this, you sick fuck.”

  “I don’t,” I said, holding an arm up to fend off her blows. “Not anymore.”

  “You don’t get to end this game,” she growled, reaching into a box filled with tools I had kept in the kitchen pantry for unexpected repairs. She withdrew a claw hammer. “I end it.”

  If I had known what she was going to do, I’d have defended myself. I was twice her size, after all. But the hammer took me by surprise. Freya could be cruel and violent; she’d utilized a weapon before. But it had always been something fairly benign, like a plate or a wine bottle. Once, she had stabbed me in the chest with a fork. A hammer was different. A hammer was potentially lethal. And I didn’t think she was capable of murdering me. Not until I saw her eyes, dark and empty. Not until I saw her swing the hammer at my head with all the force in her body.

  At first, I felt nothing, just a loud, shrill ringing in my ears. The pain came a few seconds later, sharp and pulsing. I’d suffered numerous head injuries, but this was different. This was critical. My vision blurred, and then everything started to go black. It was blood, pouring into my eyes from the wound above my temple. And it was darkness closing in on me, taking me under, snuffing out my life. The last thing I saw was Freya’s beautiful face, contorted by rage, hate, and alcohol.

  It was the last time I would ever see it.

  67 low

  My truck rattled along the winding road that traversed the northern tip of the island. It was a quieter route, with virtually no traffic. I was too drunk to be driving, and despite my suicidal intentions, I didn’t want to take anyone out with me. And I no longer wanted to end it all in a car crash. I had a new plan and it was perfect.

  With Thompson’s dad’s gun, I would shoot myself in front of Freya. Unless she begged me not to. Unless she promised to love me like I needed to be loved. But she wouldn’t. She hated me. No, she didn’t hate me. She was indifferent to me. That was worse.

  Maggie would be asleep, so I didn’t have to worry about traumatizing her. If Max was home, he’d be collateral damage. But he had already effectively killed a man. Watching me die would be no worse than that. Perhaps a little messier. I planned to splatter myself all over Freya’s bright white sofa. It would serve her right.

  I made it to their waterfront home in one piece and parked in the driveway. Ignoring the front door, I stumbled around to the back deck. The sliding glass door would be unlocked, allowing me access. The gun was in my left hand, the hammer cocked, ready to fire. I would draw this out just long enough to see Freya quake and cry, not long enough to change my mind.

  But when I yanked open the glass door, I was met with a horrific sight. Max was lying on the floor, his head in a small pool of blood. Freya stood over him, clutching a bloody hammer, trembling with rage, fear, or shock.

  “Oh my god,” I gasped. “What happened?”

  Freya looked up, and her blue eyes looked cold and blank. “Low…” was all she said.

  “I’ll call an ambulance.” I tucked the pistol into my waistband and pulled my phone from my pocket.

  “It’s too late,” she said, in the same strange monotone. “He’s gone.”

  “Y-you killed him,” I stuttered, looking at the hammer. There was blood on the head, some skin and bits of dark hair.

  Freya looked at it like she was seeing it for the first time. And then her eyes met mine. They were still blank and lifeless, but I saw her knuckles turn white as she gripped the hammer tighter, I saw her elbow draw back. Freya had to get rid of me. I knew what she had done.

  Despite my suicidal mind-set, I didn’t want to be beaten to death with a claw hammer by the object of my thwarted desire. Grabbing the handgun out of my jeans, I pointed it at her.

  “Don’t come any closer.”

  The hammer dropped to her side, and her face softened. “I would never hurt you, Low. You know that.… I love you.”

  “Y-you don’t.”

  “Of course I do.” Her voice was gentle, almost musical. “We have something special, you and me. We always have. And now, it can just be the two of us. Like you’ve always wanted.”

  “Not like this.”

  “Max would have killed me. I had to defend myself.” She set the bloody hammer on the counter. “You knew he was violent and troubled.”

  The gun wavered in my hand. I lowered it an inch.

  “I told him I couldn’t leave you. I told him to go without me. But he got so angry.”

  My head was spinning, the grain alcohol swirling my thoughts. I had wanted to be with Freya, but I couldn’t ignore Max’s dead body on the floor. But if it had been self-defense…

  “I didn’t want it to be like this, hon, but maybe it’s for the best. Now, we can go to LA. We can build an amazing life together, as partners, and best friends. Maybe more…” She still wore the white top she’d donned for our morning photo shoot, but there was a light spray of blood across the chest. And yet, she still looked beautiful despite her husband’s body at her feet. “That is… if you still want me.”

  I did. Of course I did. But Max…

  “Help me carry him to the kiln.” Freya had clearly thought this through. “We’ll say he took the boat out and never came back. No one will miss him. There’ll be no evidence.”

  Could I do this? For a life with Freya, could I incinerate Max’s body?

  “We’ll get a house on the beach,” she said, moving toward me. “Just the two of us. It will be everything you ever wanted.” She was almost on me, her lips slightly parted. She was going to kiss me again. I would be firmly under her spell.

  And then, from under Max’s body, I heard a squawk. It was Maggie’s voice coming through the monitor, reminding us that she was there. That she was a part of this. That it would never be just Freya and me.

  Freya’s eyes bore into mine, and she smiled, a very small, very cold smile. She grabbed the hammer and moved toward the nursery.

  “Stop!” I yelled. At least I think I did; the word may have been screamed in my head only because it had no effect on Freya. She kept stalking toward Maggie, the bloody hammer in her hand.

  And so I shot her. I had no choice.

  68

  If I’d had two dead bodies to deal with, this story would have a very different ending. But Max was still alive… unconscious but alive. It would take more than a hammer to the temple to take out a man who’d already endured so much abuse. His breath was shallow and raspy, but it was regular. He would wake up soon. I had to act fast.

  Freya lay in a crumpled heap at the entry to the hall. The bullet had entered her back and lodged in her heart, killing her instantly. There was almost no blood; she had bled out internally. Even in death, Freya was perfect and pristine.

  First, I had to attend to Maggie. The gunshot had startled her, and she was sobbing uncontrollably. Her wails came in stereo: from the monitor under Max’s body, and directly from the nursery. With the gun in my waistband, I hurried to her, picked her up, and rocked her gently. My presence calmed her, and soon enough, she nuzzled into my neck and fell asleep. I placed her tenderly back in her crib. Then I went to dispose of her mother’s body.

  With an eye on Max, I pocketed the shell casing and wiped up the tiny pool of Freya’s blood with a paper towel. I was entirely sober now, adrenaline coursing through my system, allowing me to do what had to be done. I scooped Freya into my arms and carried her to the studio. She was such a tiny woman, but she felt remarkably heavy. I stumbled inside and went straight to the kiln room with my lifeless cargo, setting her down on the concrete floor. Freya had taug
ht me to fire the gas kiln. It was not as simple as an electric kiln, but she insisted the results were better, especially when doing salt or soda firing. With the shelves removed, the receptacle was the perfect size for my petite victim. Max would have required dismembering; I shuddered at the thought.

  I took the diamond rings from Freya’s fingers, the phone from her pocket, and placed her gently inside. Then I sealed the kiln and cranked the heat to the max, cone 10. Eventually it would reach 2,300 degrees Fahrenheit, significantly hotter than a cremation oven. Within a few hours, all that would be left of the gorgeous woman who had hurt so many people, who’d destroyed so many lives, would be a dusting of ash.

  A wave of nausea hit me then, and I hurried outside to vomit behind a juniper bush. Tears streamed down my cheeks, but there was no time to fall apart. Wiping my mouth on my sleeve, I went back to the studio to turn off the lights and close the door. Freya had always insisted that all firings be monitored; gas kilns could be dangerous. But I couldn’t hang around, for obvious reasons. And the top of the line appliance had a thermocouple safety shut-off valve that would kick in eventually. I crept up to the house and peered through a kitchen window. Max was awake now, sitting on the floor with his head in his hands. He had been out for over fifteen minutes; this could be a serious brain injury. But if anyone knew how to deal with a concussion, it was Max. He’d call paramedics if he needed them. He’d summon me to look after Maggie, if he couldn’t cope. And he would wonder where his wife went.

  But he would never know the truth. No one would.