by Erin Lee
I stop in the aisle with long-handled tools. Meant for yardwork or splitting wood, I run my hand along the wooden and sometimes fiberglass or steel handles of one ax upon the next. Settling on a medium-sized one, I reach for it and am surprised by its weight. It’s lighter than I’d think it would be and could do the trick. I don’t want anything too heavy. Unlike my husband’s mistress, who appears to have an extreme case of IBS and could lay off the cupcakes she’s always posting on Instagram, I’m not a big woman. While my arms are strong and legs have proven to carry me through marathons, I also know my limits.
Standing in the middle of the aisle with an ax in my hand, I close my eyes and visualize bringing it down three times in swift cuts of air to my husband’s skull. In three whacks—for present, future and past—all of this could be over. But I don’t exactly own a wood chipper and trying to get Hudson to believe I was finally up for a camping trip wouldn’t be easy. It would just be too messy. What would Ingrid do? I don’t exactly have a time machine.
Sighing, I put the ax back and decide to head over to the paint section. From what I’ve read on the internet, epoxies can be quite toxic. God, how I don’t want to settle for a chemical death. But, in the end, I remind myself, I’ll still have the opportunity to dispose of him. That alone will be fulfilling... It was the best part for Ingrid.
Three hours later
‘Kate’ apparently prefers to go by ‘Kat,’ at least to her family and friends. It is not lost on me that Hudson isn’t on her friends list under his real name. Rivers. What an idiot. With every one of her social media pages bookmarked on a browser Hudson would never think to check, it isn’t like this is the first time I’ve checked up on her. Only, in times before, I haven’t allowed myself to look too close. But now, with nothing to lose and a pretty good idea of how I’ll help Mistress Death destroy Hudson, I allow curiosity to get the best of me. Even Ingrid would approve.
She’s younger than me by a lot. This, of course, comes as no shock. What might have dropped my jaw was if my husband had been more original. Instead, he’d gone ahead and picked himself the quintessential blue-eyed blonde. Zooming in, I do my best to see signs of age. Yet, even without filters on, I can’t see much more than a make-up line that tells me Kate’s too into bronzer. She can’t be a day over twenty-five. Shaking my head, I move through her pictures, looking for any trace of him. There’s nothing.
From a reunion with her state college sorority—no date given—to what appears to be a year or two on a roller derby team where her name was ‘Killer Kat,’ the only men on her pages seem to be her brother and father. Sighing, I click out of Facebook and head to Instagram. Christ, the next thing I know, I’ll be building myself a Snapchat account to catch a glimpse of him in the act. But Hudson, for as careless as he is, is not dumb either. It’s not just me he has to worry about. It’s the partners too. They wouldn’t look fondly on their top financial advisor messing around; too straight-laced. Brown would kill him before I got to.
I laugh, remembering the time his company’s owner, Brown, tried to convert Husdon to Mormonism. Hudson had spent three months trying to debate Bible verse against The Book of Mormon before Brown finally let it go; but only after informing my husband his soul was damned to hell. He’d been afraid to ask for a raise for six months after that and had been turned down when he finally got the balls. Now, it was funny – a taste of the karma that was coming his way.
Six photos deep into ‘Kat’s’ Instagram account, everything changes. What began as a routine but general information-seeking quest becomes the final nail in the pine box Hudson might be lucky enough to soon call a coffin if I don’t throw him in the Hudson River myself. There, in a baby blue blouse with her hands pressed against her stomach—fingers in the shape of a heart—she is. She’s pregnant. It’s not IBS. She isn’t even fat. And while the man standing next to her is cropped out, his hand isn’t.
No ring.
I’d recognize it anywhere. I was the one who got the call the day Hudson got in the accident that nearly took his thumb off. It had been me who’d fought with the occupational and physical therapists to extend his rehab to restore full function. I’d know that scar anywhere – I had it committed to memory. Unable to zoom, I take a screen shot of the picture that will now, for sure, be the catapult to what sends my husband to his early grave. From my photos, I am able to zoom in. Sure enough, it’s most definitely the scar I have memorized. She’s pregnant. By my husband.
I throw the phone across the room, watching it skitter along the plush carpet Hudson insisted upon when I preferred hardwood. Any day, he’d come to tell me he wanted a divorce. In under nine months—it might take that long because Hudson was a coward—he’d serve me with paperwork. A baby would be enough to give him temporary balls.
He’d begged for a child for years. Since meeting him, he’d talk here and there about wanting a big family. I’d been honest with him. I’d told him I wasn’t cut out for it. From a broken home with no full blood siblings, I had no interest in the types of inconveniences that came along with children and family events. He knew that when he married me. Yet, he’d nagged anyway – likely hoping to change my mind. The idea that ‘Kat’ would give it to him made my blood hot and, for a second, considering the idea of throwing my pills out. But I’m not that desperate, I tell myself, moving to the kitchen junk drawer for a pad of paper.
While my husband and his apparent past, present and future whore spent the afternoon playing house, I needed to get on with business of my own. I begin taking notes. A list of options will help me figure this out. While I could call a lawyer, it would serve as part of a paper trail that would put suspicion on me. Instead, in big, black letters, I write the words ‘Renew Our Vows.’ That will get him. When he goes missing, instead of being the bitter soon-to-be divorcee, I’ll be the forlorn widow.
Chapter Four
Hudson
“Maybe you should have become a florist,” Kate laughs.
“Why’s that?”
“Every name you’ve suggested is a flower.”
She has a point. But I’m not admitting to it.
“Not William.”
She runs her hand up my chest and brings her hand to the side of my face. Arching her neck up, she kisses my cheek. “Since we knew the gender, dork.”
“Fine. But I don’t see what’s wrong with Daisy. It’s cute.”
“For a dog.”
“For a girl!”
“What about Jenna?”
“Too ordinary.”
“Jenna’s not ordinary!”
“Yeah, but they’d call her Jenn,” I insist, only because I love giving Kate a hard time. In reality, I’d get used to and be okay with any name that made her happy.
“You’re impossible. We can call her Daisy for now, but the jury’s out.”
Now, it’s my turn to kiss her. It’s days like these where we spend full afternoons in bed that I dread returning home to Mary the most. Never, even in the beginnings of our marriage, did we eat pizza in bed and waste entire days drifting off between naps and reruns. In under a year, I’d shared more laughs, tears, and even secrets with Kate than I ever had with my wife. Mary, who even flipped out the time I was deathly sick and ate crackers in bed, would pace if the bed wasn’t made by 7 a.m. with military corners. It is Kate’s playfulness and disinterest in rules that made her and even her place feel like home.
Hours later
“YOU WERE RIGHT ABOUT what you said.”
“Oh?” I look at Mary wondering what she’s up to. Never once, in the last decade anyway, has she admitted I was right.
“We need a refresher. Something new. A way to start over again.”
I gulp. I pray she doesn’t want another vacation. Kate would flip. I pick at my meatloaf, wondering why its color is off and praying my wife hasn’t lost it again. “What do you have in mind?” I ask, only to keep the peace.
“I made some calls today.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Four weeks.”
My heart flips hard and clumsily in my chest. “Okay, when’s that? What’s happening?”
Mary smiles at me and pushes her wire-rimmed glasses up the throat of her nose. “Til we renew our vows. Of course, if you want, we can do it sooner than that, but wedding planning takes time.”
“Wait. What? You want to renew our vows? Do you know how busy I am at work right now?”
“Oh, don’t worry about it, hon. I’ve got it all taken care of. I even sent an email to Brown. I’m sure he’ll be over the moon. You know how he worries about us. I figure we can do it in the corporate lounge. I can let Barbara know too. Nothing too fancy, of course. But it’s something we always talked about and just never got around to.”
I wipe the sweat from my brow, wondering how the hell I’m going to stop her. Brown will put it in the corporate newsletter. He’ll make it a huge thing. Kate will find out...
“Are you feeling okay?”
Mary moves her hand to her mouth, covering her lips and angling her head down. “Yes. I was happy. I thought you’d love this idea. I’m sorry it took me so long to come around. I figured you’d be okay with it. Hell, babe, I even threw my pills out. I’m ready now.”
I wince. Mary cannot get pregnant. Christ, I haven’t touched her since Kate except that one time. I’ve promised Kate that won’t start now and the hell I’m going to jeopardize the baby. ...Tell her. Tell her now. End this. Everything in me wants to spit the words out. Instead, I spit out a bite of meatloaf, wondering where the hell Milo is. Stupid, useless dog.
“What’s wrong? Is it too pink?”
“No. I’m just not feeling well. And yes, that will be great. Let me know what Brown says and how I can help out.” I hate myself. Kate will hate me more. But with no time to think and the scent of my girlfriend all over me, I can’t figure a faster way out. Somehow, I’m going to have to break it to my pregnant girlfriend that my psychotic wife and me are about to renew our vows. And the whole pill part? Get the fuck out.
Tell her. Tell her now.
Chapter Five
Mary
The look on his face. It almost makes everything worth it. I double check the locks on the doors before finally heading upstairs to join him. I hope she’s kept him busy all day. I want him good and tired for the night ahead. We won’t be spending it like normal couples do, of course. Instead, me and my husband will spent until the morning hours talking about our love for each other and the perfect way to renew our vows. It will be hell. I can’t wait. A twisted game we play...
“...What about something bigger? I was thinking maybe we upgrade to a hall. The lounge might be too small. I could ask Brown about the bigger lounge. Or maybe... You know, if we planned it far enough out, we could go huge. They say it takes nine months to make a baby, why not a wedding too?”
“A baby?” His eyes get big like he’s seen a ghost, or better, like Kate’s in our doorway listening to every word.
“It’s time. I mean, we aren’t getting younger. Did you hear me earlier? I threw my pills out months ago. I’m hoping by the time we renew our vows I’ll have a huge baby bump. Won’t that look cute? An early Christmas present and I won’t be able to peek this time; you either. Your mother will be so excited! Brown too. He’s been on us for how long?”
Hudson sits up, his back straight and pressed against the head board.
“You stopped the pill? Don’t you think you should have told me? This is the kind of thing you plan; not something decided by one person.”
“Told you? You’ve been begging for years for a baby. Aren’t you happy?”
He shakes his head, pushing the sheets off of him. “I need water. And yes, I’m happy.”
“You don’t sound happy.”
“Is it hot in here?”
“No. But I could open a window. Are you getting sick? Too many hours at the office? Maybe you should take tomorrow off.”
“No. I have to go in. Deadlines. I’m not sick. Tired.”
“You work so hard. You’re going to be an amazing father. And don’t worry about anything. Ask Brown if he can advance you your quarterlies again and I can plan everything. You won’t even have to think about it.”
“I’ll be right back. I need water,” he says, grabbing his phone off the nightstand like I’m not supposed to notice. I wonder if he’ll call her. For this, he can’t exactly take instructions.
Poor baby. Karma hasn’t come close to biting you in the ass yet. I pull my favorite book out, the character I get fan fiction ideas from, smiling, and wishing I could talk to the protagonist, Ingrid, myself. She’s exactly my type of gal. Hudson could never contend with a woman like Ingrid West. Ingrid is very familiar with Mistress Death:
Death winds through grimy streets paved in icy intent but not regret.
Never regret.
I pull tight at tired strings round my chin as if a bonnet might hope to change this. Yet, the looming, all-too-soon expiration date mocks me. She does not work alone. The clock tower, too, shows no remorse. It marks what death discerns; my time is close.
No!
My heart thumps faster, tempting fate and my own resolve. I hasten my steps, wondering if she’ll chase me. I dare not turn around. I tug at my crinoline, no longer concerned about something as absurd as horsehair meant to highlight my figure. Mistress Death does not see beauty nor does she care of things like social status. She hunts me. She’s crazy. She’s melted candlestick blind to the barefoot boy in a patched sailor’s suit who runs past through dusty lanes. She tugs only at who she’s called to.
Boom!
Boom!
Boom!
The panic bleeds into relentless thumping born in my chest; masking the sound of my rushed footsteps on cobblestone below. I will myself not to trip as I move toward an alleyway to hide from her. She will find me. This, I know. Death is inevitable. Eventually, she’ll take me with her into the grave. But time and torn garments might give me hope to emerge again into streets as an ordinary maiden on her way to a workhouse and buy myself enough space to alter her course; to pull me from her waxy fingers.
Street dust and sweat that’s collected at my brow will serve to cloak the truth (for now). If I can manage a way out, I can reinvent everything; start over, not be tempted to open that gift. Six pence and a hand-sewn, tired handkerchief are all I have to aide me. A night in a boarding house and a chance to begin anew. If I can outrun her, trick her, tell her she’s got me wrong and convince her to torment someone else.
Thump!
Thump! Thump!
My breaths chase the beats of my heart against my corset as I scan the street ahead. Through the kindness of tall, black lampposts I can vaguely make out my options. With death chasing me into uncertain eternity, I’m sure of one thing: there will be a final show down. Like a huntress or rabid squirrel with no sense of right or wrong, I must outrun her and emerge in another form.
I’m not insane. I have no will to harm or hurt; not even myself. Yet the guards have deemed me senseless and marked upon my paperwork that I shall be forever confined to that awful place. The smells of urine and what I can only imagine to be an unkempt grave cling to my skin as I move closer to the alleyway. Has she been here before?
Thump.
Thump.
Thump!
I spin around. The footsteps are not my own. My head snaps up to confront the frosty reality only feet away. In a robe the color of midnight and a creamy, flat mask in place of what should be a face, stands a figure unlike anything I’ve ever seen – even in the future. Regrets.
So many regrets.
Had I not opened the package. Had I left it in the garage and never once mused its oddly tangled tendrils. Had I not pulled apart its gold and red foil ribbons and been too curious. Had I not tried to chase the way death chases me; like the very lunatic they believe me to be. Had I not gone back – through the time machine and only done as I was told: “Do not open until Christmas.”
“Why have you come
for me?”
It doesn’t answer. Instead, it—she—looms over me only breathing. Her long, raspy pulls at life send shivers upon my neck and spine. We stand together in a showdown I’m not prepared for. She’s studied me and knows the turns and twists of my curls, the way I prefer my left side and even how I take my tea – the color of midnight. I know nothing of her. Is she even a she? Now, with the chance to ask her things, she will not answer me.
“Do not take me! I’m not ready!”
Long arms reach for me. Does she mean to pull me into her twisted maze or embrace me? I’m not lingering. What could be a final surrender into destiny is not what calls to me. No. A fight to the end is the only thing I can bring with me into the grave. Regrets.
No.
No regrets. Run!
I spin away from her, setting my eyes on the end of the backstreet. Streetlights flood its open mouth. Hope, it seems, is a very hungry thing. Launching my body in the direction of it and the time machine that will bring me back to the living, I expect the reaper to chase me. Yet, as I run through the dirty alley, I hear nothing. No footsteps behind me. No thumping. Not even her answers. Death has gone silent. Does she not know what they say of me? Has she missed the very reason they threw me in the asylum? It does not matter now. What matters is making it to the end. I’ll emerge into the streets again unafraid – if I can just make it to the light.
I don’t look back. I can only imagine her boney arms still outstretched in the drizzly night. But why? As I push into a street I don’t recognize, I remind myself I’ll see her again. I’ll hear her grizzly, hoarse breaths and know she’s come for me. Mistress Death will chase again, faceless. I recognize this as I know one simple thing: Hatred is a twisted blade. It comes back to jab at the heart that thrusts it. And that, I must admit, is me. Death – forgive me.