A car. Holy shit.
Details emerge as my eyes adjust. Breen’s big-ass Hummer.
Oh God. Breen. What’s the bastard doing home?
I dive for my binoculars and wriggle farther under the shade. I see ambient light, dim, in his second-floor bedroom. Either a small lamp—or spillage from the master bathroom?
The master bathroom. Hot showers.
Oh crap.
I get only this far. A rear section of his house, where the garage meets the kitchen, erupts like the launch exhaust of a Saturn V rocket. Flames soar upward and outward, giant storm clouds bursting into the night sky, roaring pillars of fire. Seconds later there’s another explosion, then a third, and half of the house—including Breen’s bedroom—explodes into flame.
Chunks of siding and brick, joists and furniture careen through the night like meteors from hell, flaming debris slamming into my house, crashing onto my roof. The glass doors of the study shatter as the twisted remains of a refrigerator door punch through the wall to the left of me. I cover my head with my arms and run screaming for Ellie.
We spill into our front yard, clinging and sputtering. Neighbors scurry around with flashlights and sirens shatter the night. Soon, fierce halogen lights split the darkness and firemen drag Ellie and me farther away from our house, wrap us in blankets, and deposit us across the street on the front steps of our grandmotherly neighbor, Mrs. Jameson. We submit without protest, staring numbly at the nightmare around us. Smoke and madness blur time and space.
Eventually, someone says they’ve cut off the gas lines, that there’s nothing to do now but wait for the fires to burn out. Breen’s house is still aflame. Ours has been mostly quenched, the damaged third of it red-smoldering, including my study and the guest bedroom suite closest to Breen. The remainder looks oddly unscathed, like a computer graphic not yet finished.
Ellie and I sit silently, covered in soot, patches of hair charred from burning debris. As dawn begins feebly to break through the fog of grey smoke, I can tell there will be very little left of Breen’s house. Very little left, I’m sure, of Breen.
I’d never meant to kill. I’d only meant to drive him away. His existence next door had reduced my writing life to ash, as I’ve now reduced his.
My wife turns her face toward me with the dazed slow-motion of shock. Beyond the unfocused incomprehension that accompanies all tragedy I see something else—a pure, fearful certainty that we both understand must never, ever be named.
“I had nothing to do with this, Ellie,” I say, my tone quiet, even. “You simply must believe that.”
The glazed look retreats further into itself. Slowly—ever so slowly—she dips her head. Once. Yes, it says. That’s exactly what I must do—for as long as I possibly can.
Mrs. Jameson appears with mugs of coffee. She asks again if we want to come inside, use her bathroom, lie on her beds. I again say no, but Ellis accepts. She stands and turns to follow our benefactress.
“Mrs. Jameson,” I say. “Do you have a pad and pen?”
Her surprise at the request quickly segues to an understanding nod. She takes Ellie into the house and returns a moment later with a spiral notebook and a pen. She hands them over wordlessly, then backs away, like an acolyte making an offering to a distant god.
I remove my blanket and take in the destruction around me. I can barely fathom the devastation I’ve wrought. Breen. Two houses. Ellie. Me. Our marriage doomed, our privileged enclave in tatters. And yet…
I take a sip of Mrs. Jameson’s bracing coffee and set the coffee mug down beside me.
As the strengthening rays of morning sun cut their first tentative path through the murk, I open the notebook and begin anew.
Back to TOC
Lou’s Diner
Su Kopil
From her station behind the counter at Lou’s Diner, Betty taps the end of an unfiltered cigarette and listens to the young couple in the corner booth.
“What I said back there. I didn’t mean it,” the man says.
“I know,” the woman answers.
It’s half past midnight. The only other customer is a man with a cane, shuffling toward the register. Betty places her unlit cigarette back in the pack and drops it into her apron pocket. She rings up the man’s coffee and hands him his change.
He nods, glances at the young couple, and limps out into the night. His exit brings a draft of cool air. It weaves past the empty tables and chairs until it finds the corner booth.
Betty watches the woman pull her thin jacket tighter.
“What I said, it just came out. You know it didn’t mean anything.” The man tosses aside a half empty sugar packet. “It just came out.”
“I know,” she says.
He stirs his coffee, and watches the woman, but she’s not looking at him. Her finger pushes the few granules of sugar that spilled.
She starts to speak and Betty has to strain to hear. “Do you always take what you need and abandon the rest?”
He swipes the bits of sugar onto the floor. Betty frowns. She’s the one who’ll have to clean up his mess.
“Forget about the sugar.” He begins again, “Look, I don’t know why I said it.”
“We don’t need to talk about it,” the woman says.
He turns away from her and stares out the window.
Her gaze follows his.
From her vantage point, Betty can see the man with the cane leaning against the lamppost, haloed by the circle of light. He’s facing the diner, his hat brim shadowing his eyes. Is he waiting for someone? Or is he watching the couple through the window? She wonders if he saw the evening news—the announcement of another murder not far from here.
Her gaze returns to the couple, their attention back on each other.
“I like you, Mary. I do.” The man is speaking again. “But love…”
Betty catches Mary’s eye. Can’t he see the woman’s mortified? Shut up, Betty wants to yell. Instead, she brings out the pack of cigarettes, her hands unsteady as she shakes one out, smells it. Lou won’t let her smoke up front. She’s not even supposed to have them with her. Teases the customers, he says. Well, if no one likes the rule, why enforce it, she counters. It’s the law, he says. Betty didn’t have to like the law, but she needs the job, so she compromises. She keeps her cigarettes close, but doesn’t light up while on the floor. She looks out the window again. The halo of light is empty.
“I shouldn’t have said it.” The man’s voice is pitched higher now.
“Richard, please.” Mary’s hand hovers in the space between them.
He stares at her across his half empty cup. “I don’t love you.”
Scream, cry, beat him, Betty wills the woman across the diner.
“I know.” Mary’s shoulders slump.
Betty puts the cigarette away, slips the pack back in her apron, and grabs the coffee pot. What is it about the Richards of the world that attract women? She’s known her share of Richards. They’re as addictive as tobacco—taking you higher one minute, killing you the next.
“More coffee?”
Richard’s cup rattles.
Mary’s knees hit the table.
Betty smiles, neither of them heard her approach.
Richard recovers first, points to his cup, and pulls a pack of smokes from his jacket. “May I?”
Betty points to the No Smoking sign on the back wall. The one Lou insisted on hanging.
Richard peers around the empty diner before producing a smile meant to charm. “Who’s to tell?”
“Me,” Betty answers.
Richard slaps the pack on the table making Mary jump.
“Tempers aren’t worth the time you put into them.” Betty refills Mary’s cup, eyeing the abused pack.
“Let’s get out of here, Mary.”
Mary’s face is pale, pinched. She wavers, then suddenly stands. “I need the restroom.”
Betty points to the far corner.
Mary nods and scurries past.
Richa
rd scowls as Betty tops up his coffee, swipes a rag across the table, and returns the pot to its station. When he pulls out his cellphone and makes a point of ignoring her, she follows Mary into the bathroom.
The door on the second stall is shut. She can see Mary’s shoes—brown, flat-heeled, serviceable—shoes for a woman who expects nothing from life, who takes what she’s given.
Betty taps out a cigarette and places it between her lips. The lighter was her grandmother’s, an old Zippo that flips open and snaps shut to extinguish the flame.
The first draw is heady and sweet—a coming home, a sense of peace. She holds the smoke as long as she can, unwilling to let it go, until finally she’s forced to breathe. She opens her eyes, unaware that she closed them, and stares at the stall door.
“I had a Richard once, promised me the moon and back, promised to love me forever, until he promised himself right down the aisle to another woman. When I told him I was pregnant, he denied it was his.” She picks a piece of tobacco off her tongue. “Not that it mattered. I lost the baby, my daughter. Doc blamed the cigarettes. Men stick together. Remember that. You’re not pregnant, are you?”
The stall door swings open. Mary steps out, clutching her bag, and shakes her head.
“Good.” Betty inhales a lungful of smoke, anticipates the shiver of pleasure.
“Why did he say he loves me, if he didn’t mean it?” Mary stares at her serviceable shoes.
“Honey, we’re just dolls to them. In their minds, we’re plastic, without a lick of feelings.”
“May I have one of those?” Mary gestures to the cigarette.
Betty shrinks back against the sink, cradling the half-empty pack against her chest, her eyes narrowed from the smoke. “It’s a bad habit,” she says. “Don’t give him the satisfaction of starting because of heartbreak.” She studies Mary through the smoke. “If I could quit I would have, long ago. It gets under your skin, in your blood, same as guys like your Richard.” She gestures toward the front of the diner where they’d left Richard waiting. “Quit while you still can. I would give my own daughter the same advice, if I could. You can go out the back way, wait in the alley for a cab. Lou’s in the kitchen but he won’t mind. We’re about ready to close up anyway.”
“I thought this was a twenty-four-hour diner.” Mary relaxes her grip on her bag, holding it with one hand at her side.
“Not since the murders. We stay open until the movie theater lets out the last show. We get a few couples, like yourselves, but most hurry on home.”
“I can’t just walk out on Richard.”
“Honey, men like him need to be taught a lesson.” Betty snuffs the end of her cigarette against the sink, then slips the stub back into the pack.
“Mary,” Richard yells. “You fall in? Let’s go.”
Mary pales. “I don’t know. I don’t know what to do.”
Betty puts a hand on the girl’s arm. “Head high, Mary. He can wait on you until the cows come home. Not that he would. And that’s no mark against you. It’s just what he is. Women deserve better. You scoot out the back. I’ll handle Richard.”
Mary hesitates, then leans into Betty and gives her a shy hug.
“Lou might look like a bear,” Betty whispers, “but he’s not one of them. Tell him I said you want a cab.” She opens the restroom door and gently pushes Mary to the left, toward the kitchen, while she turns right, into the dining room.
Richard is standing near the corner booth searching the area.
A thrill of pleasure moves up Betty’s spine. “Lost something?” she asks.
He spins around, relaxes. “My smokes. Where’s Mary? Did she take them to mess with me?”
“Maybe you kicked them under the next booth.”
He grumbles but squats down to look.
“Shall I ring up your bill?”
“Where’s Mary?” His voice floats up from beneath the table.
She ignores the question, rips their check off her pad, and takes it to the register. She scribbles his name on top of the check, sticks it in her apron next to her cigarettes, and rings up the two coffees.
“Find them?” she asks when he approaches the counter.
He shakes his head and looks toward the restroom. “She crying in there?”
“Who, Mary? No, she left. Went out the back.”
“She what?” His brows lift then drop back into a scowl. “Just assumed I’d pay her way, did she? Well, good riddance.” He taps his jacket pockets searching for his smokes.
“Here.” Betty reaches under the counter and carefully pulls out a cigarette from the second pack she keeps in her bag—her own special blend, shared with a select few.
“Thanks.” He takes matches from his pocket.
Betty holds up her hand, points to the sign. “Not in here.”
He snorts. “Right.” He tucks the matches away and tosses her a five-dollar bill. He waits for his change.
She drops two quarters into his outstretched hand.
He gives them a little flip then shoves them into his jeans pocket. With a last scowl toward the restroom, he walks out of Lou’s Diner. He pauses under the halo of light, a match flares, and he moves on.
The next morning, Betty wakes before the sun. She rolls over, feels for her cigarettes and lighter on the nightstand, and brings them into bed with her. The flame from the lighter momentarily brightens the small bedroom. The tip of her cigarette glows a warm red. She inhales, smiles contentedly, and tosses the empty pack onto the floor.
She feels along the bed, finds the remote and turns on the television, switching to the local news. “A body was found late last night on Baker Street. Although it’s still too early to know for sure, police believe this to be yet another victim of the killer, dubbed ‘The Exterminator’ by police.” An image of Richard fills the screen.
Betty swings her feet over the side of the bed, turns on the lamp. She retrieves a thumbtack from the nightstand drawer, finds the slip of paper she left on top, and stands to tack it to the wall above her bed. Richard’s name stares back at her from the diner check, along with the names of three other men scrawled across their own checks.
That thrill of pleasure moves along her spine. She takes the cigarette from her mouth. It’s getting so she can’t tell what she craves more. She looks at the empty pack on the floor and makes a mental shopping list: cigarettes and cyanide.
Back to TOC
Rolla
Jennifer Riley
Dinnertime.
With his sweetheart Viola and courtin’ on his mind, Rolla White studied his face in the clouded mirror. He was a decorated war hero, 22nd Infantry, but would that help when he went to courtin’?
He scraped his hair over his forehead. He surveyed the result, didn’t like it, made a scalpel of the comb, dragged it over his scalp, attempted a side part just so. He stepped back, looked again. “Tck.” Began again.
He tried one final time. At last. He nodded into the mirror, certain the 22nd Infantry would approve. He went to the kitchen in time to see his mother pull a pan of cornbread out of the stove and smile at him. He nodded to his father, brother, baby sister, and grandmother as he wrestled his chair back.
“Dinnertime, Rolla,” Mother said. “Gotta eat before you walk to Viola Symmington’s. I won’t have you eatin’ there.” The cast iron pan clattered on the table.
“Hoo, he and Viola will warm it up,” James said from his place across from Rolla’s seat at the oak table.
“James, leave your brother alone,” Mother said. “Help yourself to the ham, James, then pass it to Grandma. More pork chops? More sliced tomatoes? Collards, take some and pass them. Grandma, pass Rolla the butter and, Rolla, pass the butter around the table. Everbody’s drinkin’ buttermilk tonight.”
“James and I churned this morning,” said Grandma White.
Father nodded, “Good. James is becoming a man. Takin’ Rolla’s place soon.” He piled a small heap of collard greens. “Passa cider vinegar, please.”
Through the open back door, Rolla heard frogs cranking into their own full-throated courting, seeking partners. Courtship drifted from the backyard through the screen door and into the kitchen, where Rolla’s family gathered to sit for dinner.
He pulled back his chair and sat at a forty-five-degree angle, poised to bolt through the front door as soon as the meal was over. As he stroked butter onto his first piece of cornbread, in his imagination he saw the slab of oak he’d make into his own table, his and Viola’s. He caught Grandma looking at him. Grandma White nodded at him and said to his siblings, “James and Susanna White, mind your manners.”
“Passa cornbread again,” Rolla said and added, “please. Butter. Thank you. Cornbread, best in the county.” Rolla lathered another piece of cornbread with butter churned today. Underneath the table, his toes in polished shoes tapped up and down but he kept his feet still, didn’t fidget, as he tried to improve his manners. He was no longer a 22nd Infantry demolition soldier, and needed to up his manners to go courtin’. James pushed him the fried pork chop platter. Rolla tucked his dinner napkin into his collar. He caught his dad looking at him and wondered if his dad would understand improving table manners during courtship. Rolla thought again of the 22nd Infantry. Should be good enough for Viola’s father to approve me courting Viola. Sure it would be. And that wasn’t all. He had that oak slab picked out, planed, polished, and ready to be his table, his and Viola’s. He cleared his throat. “Thanks for fixin’ a good dinner, Ma.” He lifted his glass and drank buttermilk.
“Like?” James said. “You mean ‘love.’” James warbled in delight while hiding his laugh behind his napkin. “Love,” he said again in a trill of half-step notes. To distract James, Grandma pointed to his napkin then made a downward motion James dared not ignore.
“Buttermilk,” said his mother, “fresh this morning. Drink up.”
“You need buttermilk before courtin’,” James said, and smooched the air, smoothing his napkin across his lap.
Carolina Crimes Page 4