The Family Man

by Amy Cross

  "I noticed that," I reply, getting into the other side. "You're taller, less tolerant of my foibles, and if I might say so, you're clearly over-compensating for something."

  He turns and glowers are me.

  "Was that insensitive?" I continue. "Sorry, I'm always so bad at working out exactly where to draw the line. Consider me suitably chastised by your menacing expression."

  "Can I ask you a favor?" he replies.

  "Shoot."

  "It's a forty minute drive out to the Wash family home. Do you think you could be completely silent for all the time, and not bother me at all?"

  "If you -"

  "Great," he adds, starting the engine before conspicuously leaning across to turn the radio up.

  Sighing, I turn and look out the window. Pissing this guy off is kind of fun, but it's getting a little repetitive. The thing about Dawson is that I never run out of ways to get a rise out of him, and he always gets annoyed in just the right way. I guess my best bet now is to rile Carver so much that he asks to be reassigned. I give him forty-eight hours, maximum. No-one can handle me at full blast for too long.

  The worst part is, I can tell I'm getting cocky, and when I get cocky, I make mistakes. I need to get Dawson back on my side. He knows how to get the best out of me, and he also knows how to make sure I don't become a total bitch in the process. I don't like myself when I'm in this kind of mood.

  John

  "I thought you weren't coming home until later," I say, shocked to find that Barbara is in the hallway when I get back from dropping Claire at the mall. This was definitely not part of my plan.

  "Yeah, I just..." She pauses, and as she hangs her coat on the hook, I can see a look of concern in her eyes. "It was supposed to be some kind of big meal lasting all afternoon, but I wasn't really feeling up for it so I just showed my face and gave Harriet a gift and decided to come home." She glances at me, and I can tell that she's still annoyed about my accidental use of Sharon's name the other night. "Don't worry, though," she adds. "I'll keep out of your way."

  I watch as she heads through to the kitchen. I'd been hoping to have the whole afternoon to work out how to deal with this situation, but Barbara's sudden return means that I've been presented with an extra opportunity. Following her into the kitchen, I watch as she tries one of Claire's crackers from earlier. I half expect her to exhibit some sign of having been drugged, but she simply goes about her usual business, making a pot of tea while grabbing some things from the cupboard. I guess the crackers were clean after all.

  "Are you going to stand and watch me the whole time?" she asks eventually, still not looking over at me. "It's very creepy, John."

  "I'm sorry," I reply, heading over to the counter and immediately finding myself staring down at a set of carving knives. They were a gift from Barbara's cousin at our wedding. Or maybe that was a different set of knives that Sharon and I were given by her cousin, and they just look similar. I used to be so good at remembering these things, but lately it's getting much harder.

  "You're very antsy today," she continues, sounding distinctly unimpressed. "It's annoying."

  "Sorry."

  "Don't you have anything to do?"

  I stare at the largest knife.

  "John?"

  Turning, I realize that she's staring straight at me.

  "You've been away for weeks," she says, with a harsh tone, almost as if she's admonishing me. "You're probably going to head off again in a few days' time. Do you really not have anything to be doing?"

  "I..." Pausing, I realize that I'm making a terrible job of this whole thing. "I thought I'd grab some lunch," I tell her falteringly, "and then head into town and catch up with some work at the office."

  "That sounds great," she mutters, turning away from me as she makes herself a sandwich. "Will you be home for dinner?"

  I pick up the largest knife and try to work out what I'd do with Barbara's body if I killed her here and now. After a moment, I realize that there are tears in my eyes; Barbara and I have been together for a couple of decades now, and I think I always secretly thought that of my three wives, she'd be the one I'd end up settling down with when this whole mess was over. Taking a deep breath, I figure that the best option would just be to burn her. I always try to come up with ingenious plans, but I usually just end up burning things. Fire cleanses the soul.

  "John?" she asks, sounding distinctly unamused. "I asked you if you'll be home for dinner."

  "Um, sure," I reply, holding the knife behind my back. "I think so. Sure. Sounds good."

  "It'll just be something from the freezer," she replies with a sigh, still focusing on her sandwich. "Don't get your hopes up."

  "Absolutely," I say, grabbing a packet of cookies and walking over to her. The truth is, killing Barbara is going to be a thousand times more difficult than killing Sharon. I always found Sharon to be a little annoying and shrill, whereas Barbara understands me. I wish there was some other way to extract myself from the mess I've created, but over the past couple of weeks I feel as if my grip has been slipping. I need to get things back under control, and even though I know I'll be haunted by Barbara's death, I also know I can get over it. No matter what happens to me, I always manage to reset my emotions eventually.

  "Jesus Christ, John!" she says suddenly, turning to me, "are you really just going to -"

  And that's when I do it, almost without thinking. Dropping the cookie packet, I drive the knife straight into her chest with such force that I feel the six-inch blade grating against her ribs as it goes deep into her body. There's a shocked, horrified look on her face, as if she's frozen in terror and can't believe what's happening. She opens her mouth, and for a moment I'm terrified that she might scream.

  I wait.

  She stares at me, her ice-blue eyes fixed on my face. Slowly, her bottom lip starts to tremble.

  "Barbara?" I say after a moment.

  "W... Wh..."

  I try to twist the knife, hoping to catch her heart and kill her quickly, but the blade is wedged between two of her ribs and I have to wiggle it free. Blood pours from the wound, flowing down her red blouse and staining it a darker shade, and after a moment she grips the counter, as if she's having trouble standing. Her breathing is becoming harsher and more labored, but she's still just staring at me.

  "I'm sorry," I say, before stabbing her again, this time taking more care to go straight for the heart. The blade slips effortlessly between two more ribs, and I might be imagining things, but I swear I feel the tip puncturing her heart and going all the way through.

  She tries to say something, but blood starts to flow from her mouth, dribbling down her chin as she gasps; after a few seconds, she tries again, but all that comes out is a faint gurgle. She reaches up and puts her hands on mine, holding the knife. For a moment, she seems to be trying to pull the blade loose, but she doesn't have the strength.

  "I'm so sorry," I continue, with tears flowing down my cheeks. "I wanted this to be quick. I didn't want you to know, but the truth is, I had no choice. Things have just spiraled out of control, and if I hadn't done this, trust me, everything would have been much worse. At least this way, you won't have to suffer. Forgive me. Please..."

  I wait for her to say something, but she just continues to stare at me.

  "Please," I say, trying not to let my voice crack. "Please. Please. Please."

  Her eyes start to close for a moment, as if she's about to die, but then she opens them again, catching herself at the last second.

  "I promise..." I take a deep breath, feeling as if I'm losing control of my emotions. "I promise I'll make it much quicker with Claire."

  Suddenly she shifts her weight forward, as if she's trying to knock me over, but I simply step out of the way and watch as she crumples down onto the kitchen floor with the knife still sticking out of her chest. I wait for her to move, but she's completely still, and after a few seconds have passed I realize that she might already be dead. Crouching down, I gently roll her o
nto her back and see that her glassy eyes are staring up at the ceiling; when I check her pulse, I find that there's no sign of life.

  It's over.

  Damn it, that took way too long.

  I've killed many people in the past, of course, but I've always been careful to do it quickly and from behind. I never wanted to see their faces, or to let them realize what I was about to do to them. With tears flowing down my cheeks, I sit back and stare at Barbara's dead body. My hands are trembling, and I can't stop thinking about the look in her eyes as she stared at me. At least Sharon died quickly, without knowing that I was the one who killed her; Barbara, in her final moments, saw my true face and must have thought that I was some kind of monster.

  I take a deep breath.

  This isn't how it was supposed to end. Not with Barbara. Not with any of them. I was supposed to bring my business to a nice, neat conclusion and then pick one family to stay with for the rest of my life. That's what I am, at heart: a family man. The problem is, I just can't decide what kind of family I want, so I had to do things like this. I'm sure Barbara would disagree with me, but I swear to God, all I'm really looking for is a quiet life with a wife and child who love me. Sure, I'm going about things in a very unusual way, but that doesn't make me a bad person.

  I pause. All around me, time seems to be standing still.

  I know I should start cleaning up and getting rid of Barbara's body, but it's as if I'm paralyzed by the thought of what I just did. I keep replaying the whole thing over and over in my head, thinking back to the feel of the knife as it slipped between her ribs and the look in her eyes as she stared at me. These images keep spinning through my mind, preventing me from doing anything else, even as a pool of Barbara's blood continues to grow until, finally, it reaches my shoe.

  "I loved you," I say tearfully, staring at the back of her head. "Always know that I loved you. It was just better this way. I saved you from so much more pain."

  Katherine Shaw

  "Middle of fucking nowhere," I mutter, shielding my eyes from the relentless afternoon sun as I turn and look back toward the Wash house.

  It's true: this does feel like the middle of nowhere. The Wash house is basically a rundown old farmhouse, surrounded by acres of land that seems to have gone to ruin. It's hard to believe that anyone ever managed to make this place work as a proper farm, and the only thing that seems to be growing in the area now is a bunch of straggly old weeds. In other words, this is exactly the kind of place where someone might want to hide out from the rest of the world; it's like a patch of land that the rest of the country forgot.

  Looking down at the map in my hands, I stare at the vast nothingness and realize that the chances of something being discovered out here is low. Hell, you could build a small city in this kind of wilderness and I doubt anyone would notice. There are no cameras out here, no roads, no passing traffic; in a world where every human being has their every movement recorded and stored, I can kind of understand the impulse to retreat to an un-surveilled location. Throughout human history, people have always been able to cut loose from civilization and head west to a place where they can start their own rules. These days, there's no more west, so people have to look for these pockets of solitude and freedom in other, darker locations.

  The world is fucked up.

  "Shaw!" a voice shouts from the distance. "What the hell are you doing out there?"

  Turning, I see that Carver is standing by the house, waving at me.

  I wave back.

  "Are you coming?" he shouts, obviously wanting me to join him in the house so we can talk to the couple some more. There's no point, of course, but I guess he wants to feel like he's getting something done.

  I wave again.

  He turns and heads inside.

  Thank God. Peace at last.

  The truth is, spending time with Jordan Carver is bad for my soul. When I'm around him, I become a total asshole; I play dumb games and I spout all this gibberish, and I only think about ways to piss him off. It's fun for a while, but eventually it becomes tiring and I just want to retreat for a while and try to calm down. Dawson was always so good at understanding what I needed, and it's at times like this that I miss hanging out with him. One thing's for sure: I can't keep working with Carver. I don't want to spend my final months as a complete bitch.

  "So," I say out loud, staring out at the wilderness and trying to imagine all those women crawling to safety. "Come on. Give me something."

  I take a deep breath.

  Silence.

  Nothing.

  There's a faint pain in my left shoulder. It's been there for a couple of days now, and I'm fairly sure it's something to do with my cancer. I can't go and get it checked out, though, because then I'd have to face Dr. Gibbs, and he'd undoubtedly be able to tell that I haven't been taking my pills. Then again, since I'm dying anyway, I guess it's no big deal if I don't know the details. For now, I feel strangely calm, although I know that eventually, as my body starts to weaken, I'll become increasingly scared. Either that, or one night I'll go sleep and I simply won't wake up the next morning. Someone'll find my body, and that'll be that.

  I guess that would be the easiest way out.

  Hearing a noise nearby, I look down and spot some kind of mouse running through the bushes. He scurries past my shoe and continues on his way, evidently off to some kind of pressing engagement.

  "Have fun," I mutter.

  And that's when it finally hits me.

  I've got nothing.

  There's no inspiration here, no moment of sudden clarity, and I don't even feel anything stirring in my soul. I'd at least hoped that once I stopped taking the pills, my mind would go back to how it used to work, like Superman when he steps away from the Krypton, but I guess maybe the cancer is starting to affect the way I think. If that's the case, then there's no point in me even working anymore; hell, there's no point in me being alive. I'm just another ordinary person, and if there's one thing that I've always felt, one thing that's always sustained me, it's the belief that I'm a little better than most of the people around me. If I've lost that edge, suddenly life doesn't seem very appealing.

  Reaching into my pocket, I pull out some folded maps that I printed out this morning.

  "Nope," I mutter, checking them one by one. "Nope, nope and... nope."

  Sighing, I put the maps back in my pocket.

  I turn and look back toward the farmhouse, and suddenly I realize that something else is different here. There's no Dawson. It's crazy, but maybe I actually need Dawson in order to work properly, in order to think properly. And with that realization, I finally start to feel really, truly lost.

  John

  "Hey," I say, as I peer out the window for the hundredth time and see that there's still no sign of Claire yet. "I'm just calling to say that I'll be home sooner than planned. Tomorrow, in fact."

  "You will?" Susan replies, sounding genuinely pleased on the other end of the line. "That's great, honey! You want to get the grill out and we can have a little party in the garden on Sunday? I can invite Rob and Sheila!"

  "Sounds like a blast," I reply, still staring out the window. Maybe I'm old-fashioned and a little behind the times, but I fail to understand how a teenage girl can spend so goddamn long at the mall. When I go shopping, I know what I want and I get in and get out as quickly as possible; I swear, sometimes I think Claire and her friends see the mall as some kind of social hub.

  "So what gives?" Susan continues. "You finishing work early or something? Nothing's wrong, is it?"

  "Everything's fine," I tell her. "The truth is, I was just sitting at my desk, doing a spot of paperwork, and I realized that I missed you." I pause for a moment. "In fact, I think I'm going to change my schedule around and start having more time at home from now on. All these weeks away are really grinding me down. I want to spend more time at home with you and the kids. I mean, if you want me to be home -"

  "Are you kidding?" she replies, with obvious excitement
. "Honey, that's the best news I've heard in a long time! You know we love it when you're here, and I can tell that life on the road really stresses you out. Maybe we can even think about taking a vacation together some time. You know, as a family?"

  "That sounds wonderful," I tell her. "It's just the kind of thing we need to do in order to..." I pause, trying to work out how to end that sentence without letting her realize that I'm feeling a little emotional. "We'll talk about it when I get back tomorrow," I add eventually. "Can you get some food in for the grill, and I'll light her up for a spot of Sunday afternoon fun?"

  "Can't wait. But honey, I have to go now! I think someone's at the door."

  "Oh?" I pause, suddenly worried that maybe a link has been established between my different lives, and that perhaps the police have turned up to talk to Susan about me. "Who?" I ask, trying to sound very casual and indifferent.

  "No idea," she replies. Moments later, I hear the sound of the door opening and voices talking. "It's just Sheila," Barbara says after a few seconds. "Honey, we'll talk tomorrow, okay? Can't wait for you to get home!"

  "Me too," I reply.

  "Oh, and honey?" she adds. "Can you pick up a new set of carving knives on the way home? You remember those ones we got from my cousin Shirley as a wedding gift? They're looking kinda shabby."

  I pause for a moment. "Sure," I mutter. "Fine. No problem."

  Once the call is over, I stand for a moment, contemplating the possibility that my life is soon going to be just one long run of backyard grills and dull conversations with Susan. How did it happen this way? How did I end up facing life with my least interesting family? Sighing, I set the phone down on the table and resume my silent vigil at the window, still waiting for Claire to come home so that I can finish the job. After a moment, however, I find myself thinking about those goddamn carving knives. For some reason, it's getting harder and harder to remember the differences between my three families.