by Kaye George
That someone is probably Angie, his new secretary. You even told her you were planning something special for him tonight, for his birthday. Their story is usually that he’s working late. Oh well. He’s here now, early, and it’s time for action.
Dinner isn’t quite ready, but the margaritas are. They’re shaken just the way he likes them. The ingredients measured with precision, just the right amount of tequila, triple sec, and lime juice. His rim salted evenly. He can’t complain about clumps tonight. You don’t like your rim salted, so it’s obvious which glass is his.
You hear his car drive up. It's pretty blatant that he leaves it on the driveway so he can get back to his mistress's place after you feed him. The front door bangs open and he slams it shut. He comes up from behind and gives your rump a hard pinch, the bastard, then swaggers to the sink and pours a glass of water. He takes a swig. You sprinkle a little more cheese on the enchiladas and start the oven.
He wipes his mouth on the back of his hand. Has he always been this big a slob? Angie complains about it, too. It might even bother her more than it bothers you.
Angie started three months ago and it took him exactly one month to start with the gifts. You're sure he’s banging her, just like he’s banged every secretary he’s had. After all, you were his first one, before you worked your way up in the company and became his wife.
If he were a more careful person, he might have discovered that, while you’ve been keeping the books for his trucking business, you’ve been skimming quite a bit off into a private account for yourself. He and the IRS know about one set of books. Only you know of the other set.
He pours the margarita into his glass and sniffs it.
"Mm, good. You know how to make these, darlin’."
You turn and give him a smile. You try to make sure it’s not a smirk.
You hold your breath while he licks the salt from the rim.
"Happy birthday, darling," you say.
"The years are adding up, aren’t they?" he says. He hasn’t tasted the drink yet.
You’re almost home free. Tonight he can go into the mulch pile and later, when you've dug up the ground for the new bushes, he'll go there. Then toss the margarita fixings into the lake. And call the cops after the bushes are planted, saying he never came home from his mistress’s place.
He lifts the glass, takes a sip. You half turn away and you’re looking out of the corner of your eye. His glass slips to the floor where the carpet cushions it. But, damn, all that liquor spilling on that nice Oriental rug. Does potassium cyanide stain? Whether it does or not, it’s seeping into the rug, which means you’ll have to dispose of that, too.
His last glance conveys his disbelief. He knows you’ve poisoned him. Now you smile broadly.
You lean over him and whisper, "Bye, bye, lover."
He can’t hear you, he’s already dead. It worked so fast. You wanted to say more. You wanted to tell him everything had added up. The affairs, the neglect. As well as the money into your off-shore account. You double check. There’s no breath, no heart beat. He’s completely gone.
In a stroke of brilliance, you wrap him in the soaked carpet. He’s much easier to transport that way. You just drag the whole thing out the back door, shove it deep into the mulch pile. Then cover him up, nice and tidy. No one will ever know he's beneath the ground after you transfer him and plant over him. You won’t tell the cops that you know Angie is his mistress. You’ll act like you don’t know who he’s been seeing. You’ll have no idea where he could have disappeared to.
The next morning, you wake up with a happy sigh. He’s gone. You’ll have a leisurely breakfast, then start digging for the oleander bushes. Later you can ditch the rest of the poison.
Sipping a second cup of coffee, gazing into the back yard where the bushes will soon be, you’re horrified to see that damn neighbor dog, digging in the mulch pile.
When you rush out with a broom to shoo him away, the dog’s owner is watching from his yard. Does he see the arm the mangy mutt uncovered? He takes his cell phone from his pocket, turns his back, and walks away with his dog.
You’re still shoveling frantically two hours later when two uniformed police officers appear.
You’re shocked to see Angie behind them. In fact, your mouth drops open as the shovel falls to the ground. Angie has a slight smile on her face, not a friendly one.
"Angie killed him," you scream. "She’s been sleeping with him, threatening to tell…" Tell what?
Angie shows you a shiny badge. You squint and see the words 'Department of the Treasury'. You read the big letters aloud, "Special Agent?"
"Yep," says Angie. "I'm an undercover IRS agent. Your husband leaves work early with the receptionist, not with me."
"What are you doing working at his office?"
"Looking into some accounting records that don't add up. Not sleeping with your husband."
She steps back and lets the police take over. Angie's pretty good at math herself, you figure.
Everything would have been fine if only that damn neighbor dog hadn’t dug up the body and the neighbor hadn’t called the cops.
When you receive your prison sentence, you can do the math. You’ll be an old woman by the time you get out.
BRAD AND LISA
Steven Metze
"What’s your name?" she asked the frumpy man with the dark denim shirt and black duffle bag. His skin glowed vomit-green under the lights of the 3a.m. city bus.
Her voice shook him out of his daze. "Brad."
"Lisa." Sure. Good as name as any. "I travel this route a lot, and so, I like to meet the newbies."
He pulled his luggage in close to his side, the leather rubbing the soiled yellow vinyl of the seat. "Good to know."
For a moment they watched each other sway back and forth with the rhythm of the vehicle. The elderly woman two seats to his right kept her eyes straight ahead. The bald, withered bus driver glanced up into the mirror for a quick instant.
"So what do you do, Brad?" Lisa said.
He hesitated just a fraction of a second too long. "Serial killer."
Lisa nodded. "Hm. Is that part time? I mean do you have a day job or…"
"Full time."
She pulled back in surprise. "Really? Is there much money in that? I mean, if you don’t mind me asking…"
"Oh, no problem. Um, enough to get by." A purple neon cowboy hat sign flew by outside the window and caught his eye. "And you?"
She grimaced. "Aaah, I’m a pre-law student."
Brad winced right along with her. "Ouch."
"I know! Right?" She shook her head and lowered it in shame.
"Well, it’s never too late to change."
She made an expression of thoughtful contemplation. "Are there openings in your business? I mean, is there like a guild or try-outs…?"
"Solitary work mostly."
"No boss, right on."
"I guess you could call it entrepreneurial even." He leaned back, giving her a better view of the big black leather bag. Overstuffed, strange bulges trying to push through the fabric and on to freedom.
"You know, one of my favorite things about buses is, no security really." She spoke and kept her eyes on his and not on the duffel. "You know, no metal detectors, no x-rays."
All three passengers jerked to one side as the bus slowed. The bus driver turned to the side, but it didn’t hide his grin reflecting in the mirror.
"This is my stop," Brad said, clutching the bag as he rose.
"Good meeting you, Brad." She waved as he turned and left without acknowledging her comment.
The little old lady’s eyes opened wide and she turned.
"Yeah, you’re right," Lisa said. Just as the doors slammed shut she rose and called to the driver to let her out.
She hopped down the aisle towards the front of the bus and the woman spoke. "Lisa? You went with Lisa?"
"Hey, good a name as any."
"I suppose." The older woman glanced out at the man di
sappearing into the darkness. "Have fun with this one."
"You know I will." She jumped into the exit steps and paused at the stick of a man sitting at the wheel. "You’re new on this gig. Just started today?"
He glanced around to confirm she spoke to him before he responded. "I had a day route last week. This is my first night."
"So what do you think?" She didn’t wait for an answer. "Were we making witty banter about that whole serial killer thing? Am I just naïve and drawn towards potentially dangerous men, or…" her eyebrows rose and she held the pause, "is he really what he says and I don’t care because I’m something worse?"
"I…I’m sure I don’t know, miss."
She winked and leapt down to the sidewalk. The bus driver shook his head and let his body perform the automatic actions he had been trained to do. Down on the edge of the light from the bus, Lisa waved at the old woman and shouted into the closing door. "See you tomorrow!"
The woman waved without turning her head and the bus pulled away, Lisa and Brad left behind, both having vanished into the darkness.
FINGER IN MY SOUP
Mary Ann Loesch
My mother, a housekeeper and part time witch, always told me to keep my fingers out of her food.
"It’s bad manners, Maisy, to touch food while it’s being prepared. It’s disgustin’," she said. "And I know you haven’t washed your hands, either. Look at that grime underneath your nails. Just turns my stomach to look at it! You really need to take a bath every night. And try to keep the pigsty you call a room a little cleaner."
But despite these annoying and frequent pearls of wisdom, I never listened. I liked to sample the food before it was served, often dipping a finger into the gravy or the spaghetti sauce to get a preview of what was to come. Baths were a bother and got in the way of more important things like mud pies and tree climbing. We never could seem to agree on anything, and it only got worse as I grew older. She was always chanting spells or reading Tarot cards for the people whose houses she cleaned. And she loved to embarrass me in front of boyfriends by telling them she hexed the clasp on my bra. No way was that sucker coming loose unless you knew the reversal spell. Can you imagine?
To tell you the truth, I think the first time we saw eye to eye on any subject was when I was adult, and discovered a finger in my own can of soup.
Then I understood what my mother meant by disgusting.
It bobbed in the sauce pan, mixed in with the cream of mushroom and the water I’d added. At first, I thought the darn thing was a weird mushroom the manufacturer hadn’t diced up, but looking a little closer, I could just make out the finger peeking out of the mixture. There was even a little dirt left under the nail which had chipped pink paint and a tiny gold star on it.
That’s just the way Momma use to paint her nails when she was alive.
Now, I’m not normally a fussy eater, but strange things in my soup do bother me. I took out a pair of tongs to examine it closer. Yep, it was a finger, alright, with a tiny little hair on it. Looked like an index finger, too.
It twitched.
With a shout, I dropped it. The finger wriggled on the floor and began to push itself like an inch worm across the linoleum. I suppose a better woman would have scooped it up with the tongs and disposed of it, but I was fascinated as I watched it hide under the stove. It moved around, scratching against the undercarriage like a mutant mouse.
Then there was silence.
What could it be doing? More importantly, how could it be? This wasn’t normal behavior for a chopped off finger, was it? Then again, I’d never found one in my soup before, so how would I know what chopped off fingers with dirt under their nails were supposed to do?
It started moving again and before long, made its way back out from underneath the stove. It inched up to me, and I swear it shook with indignation. I mean, this appeared to be one pissed off finger. About a foot away, it stopped and positioned itself upright, showing me that it was covered in dirt from underneath the stove. It shook itself back and forth, almost like it was saying, "Naughty, naughty."
Oh my god, I thought. You have to be freakin’ kidding me.
"Momma," I said to the finger. "Is that you?"
The index finger wiggled forward and back at the knuckle. I noticed the dirt under the nail again and wondered how it had gotten there. Maybe from digging itself out of her grave? We’d buried her over a week ago. But the soup? How had it gotten in there? Did it really matter? Momma was a witch, and I wouldn’t put anything past her, not even in death.
"Momma, you know you’re dead, right? You should be enjoying yourself, dancing with the Great Spirit or whatever. Are you still trying to tell me that you think I’m living in a pigsty?" I asked with a sigh. "I guess it could be worse. You could have sent your false teeth, and then I would have actually had to hear you drone on and on about it."
The finger wiggled again.
I have to admit with the stacks of pizza boxes piled on the coffee table, the countless cans of Diet Coke strewn on the floor, and the lingering smell of three day old bacon, my apartment wasn’t exactly tidy. But I was in mourning. People in mourning aren’t supposed to be bothered with cleaning. I would have thought Momma would understand that. Yet, even in death she continued to boss me around.
"That’s it, Momma. I’ve had enough. When you start showing up in soup cans just to prove some asinine point, you’ve overstepped your bounds." I stomped on the finger with my foot. Scooping it up in a paper towel, I marched to the open window and tossed it out. To my delight, it landed on top of a pile of garbage. "Ha! That’s what you get."
I closed the window, but couldn’t help taking one more peek down at the finger. It lay there defeated and crushed, and I hoped there were flies buzzing all around it. As I imagined that possibility, my neighbor’s Great Dane bounded up and nudged the finger onto the ground. After a tentative sniff, he hiked up his back leg and let loose a stream of pee.
Now that’s disgustin’, Momma.
BALLS
Kaye George
At this moment, Misty can’t recall not hating Toby. She knows there have been good times. She remembers they did fun stuff together, exciting stuff. But, try as she might, she can't get that feeling back.
He’ll be here soon. Her fingers tighten on the pistol grip.
Misty and Toby: the perfect couple. Since that's what everyone said in the beginning, she’d kept telling herself it must be so. All of their friends, everyone in both families, even strangers they’d meet—they would all say Misty and Toby were made for each other.
Well, Misty might exist for Toby's benefit. After all, she stayed home and catered to his every whim. He should have nothing to complain about. But it's obvious to Misty that Toby doesn't exist for her benefit.
She finds a place to crouch in the bushes where she won't be seen and waits for the sun to descend a little more. It would be better if it weren't broad daylight when she meets him here, and she doesn't want anyone to see her before then.
She searches for a stronger word than hate—despise, abhor, loathe. That's how she feels about him. She tries out all the synonyms she can think of. All the words that made her feel so helpless for so long. The tables are about to turn.
***
Two years ago Misty had been happy, casually dating Roger, a nice, harmless guy. She’d gone through so many losers, guys who gave her no respect, even one who socked her once. Roger was a little boring, but life was easy with him. They signed up for the company coed field hockey team. Sounded like a fun thing to do.
Misty liked her HR job at Kodak, liked the people she worked with. And she jumped at the chance to play field hockey. In college, she'd not only been on a women’s softball team, but had also played soccer all four years. On the beach she would always start up a sand volleyball game as soon as she arrived. Misty loved to play games that involved balls.
One day, no referee showed up for the company field hockey game. Their team was brand new, and the brand ne
w captain hadn’t called early enough to reserve a ref. Toby, there to watch his girlfriend, another Kodak HR employee, volunteered to call the game.
"You sure, buddy?" asked the captain. "It's a little different from ice hockey."
"I'm sure," said Toby, irritation putting an edge on his words. "I played junior varsity on the men's team at Penn State."
Misty eyed the guy—tall, dark, with a good-looking body. But that arrogant sneer ruined his looks.
The captain handed over the vest, the flags, and a whistle. Misty gave Roger a grin and the game started. Misty, a forward, played physical, like always, knocking opponents aside when they blocked her path.
Toby blew the whistle and yelled "Foul!" after her second collision. Misty shrugged and lined up for the free hit by the other team.
When he blew the whistle on her for the third time, though, she protested.
"That's obstruction. He was blocking my path. You blind?"
Toby glared at her, but restarted play.
The last call, dangerous play in the striking circle, got her thrown out of the game.
Misty sputtered out some strong language for the obviously sight-impaired substitute ref and suggested he get a seeing-eye dog, then mate with it.
"Out!" he shouted. "The rest of the game!" He pointed to the bench.
She walked slowly past him, deliberately coming close enough to brush against him.
He whispered as she went by, low, so no one else could hear. "Put your sweet little derriere on the bench, darlin'."
She ignored the comment and refused to sit. The call was bogus. She knew it; he had to know it, too. She paced the sidelines, dragging her stick, fuming, and glaring at him. Class A jerk. Sweet little derriere. What a pompous ass. He glanced at her, running past with a faint smile on his face. Her rage threatened to boil over.