Ten-Word Tragedies

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Ten-Word Tragedies Page 13

by Tim Lebbon


  Instead, I ducked my head and apologized and returned the shoes. Carla cried, but he had some choice words for a certain little girl about being ungrateful. And he whupped her, too, telling her it was for her own good. When he asks why she never visits, why she and Ben never bring Benny Junior and Jennifer around to see us, I have hundreds of answers, hundreds of moments like that one that he doesn’t even remember. I miss Carla so much, but I don’t bug her anymore. She just sighs this sigh that suggests she knows better than me. Perhaps she does.

  If she knew what I was planning, I think she might approve.

  We slept in the hotel’s twin beds, I near the door and he near the bathroom. It was one of those set-ups where the room’s wide front window looked out into the parking lot, and if our Falcon’s headlights had turned on, they would’ve shined in through the crack between the curtains. I lay awake, listening to Kenneth’s snores. Outside, children laughed, teenagers screamed, people more in love than I’ve ever been spoke quietly, their voices low and sweet. Cars revved, and some animal dug at a trash can.

  I thought about what I would do when the time came. I practiced, my hand hidden under the pillow.

  It’s afternoon now, and Kenneth looks up from his paper and watches me doing my crossword.

  ‘Get dressed, Barbara. I feel lucky.’

  A long time ago, before I became a mother, it would’ve sounded so dashing, when he was young and handsome with that little black curl oiled on his forehead. I would’ve read a little innuendo into it and put on something cute and frilly under my dress. We might’ve gone bowling or to the fair, and he would throw darts at balloons to try and win me a teddy bear. But now, he means that literally: He thinks that whatever he gambles on will be a win. I don’t know why he thinks that; he’s never won anything, to my knowledge. He didn’t even win the bear on the midway. But I smile at him and nod and stand, old bones creaking and heart pattering in my chest like popcorn.

  It begins.

  I put on the prettiest dress I could make, with a high neck and flowy sleeves and a hemline just below my knees. I’ve done everything I can to please Kenneth, or at least avoid arousing his ire: My stockings are seamed and don’t have runs, my pumps are old but shined, my hair is carefully curled to show the earrings he gave me at our engagement party. Even my purse matches, and when I see his eyes alight on it and his mouth open up to complain, I smoothly say, ‘Isn’t it the prettiest pocketbook? Mae lent it to me. Said it would match just so.’

  His mouth snaps shut, but he frowns. I’ve learned that—well, he likes hollering at me. He needs to do it. It’s like squeezing pus out of an infected scratch, maybe. A man needs something to be mad at. Some men choose the government, or their own fathers, or baseball. But Kenneth has chosen me. I suppose I should be honored, but I’m not. Being chosen means it wasn’t me who got to choose. By the time I realized how things worked between us, it was too late.

  At least, that’s what I used to think. Now I know that it’s never too late. I’m feeling lucky, too.

  ———

  The man at the front desk gives us directions to Pompano Park, assures Kenneth that it’s the place to be. Even gives him a hot tip on a horse named Little Victory and winks to remind us that it’s a secret. We’re quiet as we drive, and Kenneth rolls down the windows, and my curls get blown to bits, despite the fact that I’m trying to hold them down. One lands across my lips, and I feel it drag lipstick across my cheek like a slug leaving a trail, and I just leave it. Normally, I would be walking the tightrope of not ruining the night or forcing Kenneth to ruin the night, but…well, I’m feeling a certain freedom. Let him do what he will. Let him do his worst. I will remain serene and placid and pliant, a gentle smile and shining eyes. He once made me a vessel, and then a servant, and now a discarded object that dogs his days, and I learned to play each part with the precision of an orchestra violinist. But now, no matter how the night goes, I know how it will end.

  The man on the radio is shouting, and Kenneth’s teeth are grinding, and I let my hand play in the wind outside the car window and watch the palm trees and dream about ordering the baked Alaska after dinner. I’ve always dreamed of eating something that was on fire.

  We get lost and have to backtrack, but then we see the big sign and Kenneth turns down the bumpy road. Everything looks just like the postcard Mae sent, all yellow and green against a deep blue sky. Heat wavers off the parking lot, and the air smells of grass and dirt and beasts. The path we take toward the stands is white sand with pretty crushed shells in it, and it crunches pleasantly under my heels. Kenneth is already wiping the sweat off his pink forehead with a handkerchief, for all that it’s November.

  ‘Florida’s too damn hot,’ he mutters. ‘I told you, Barbara. Too hot!’

  ‘Oh, look at the horses!’ I say. ‘I didn’t know they were so shiny. Did you?’

  He doesn’t answer, but his entire demeanor changes as he sees the horses being led around. His eyes dart from one sleek brown horse to another—but why are they mostly brown and black, I wonder? Do white and spotted horses not trot so well? I can almost see the dollar signs in Kenneth’s eyes, as if he’s looking for some secret clue to appear above the right horse, God finally giving a good man his deserved reward for all that hard work.

  ‘You go on to the restaurant,’ he says. ‘Don’t go ordering anything, but you sit inside and wait for me. I won’t be a minute.’

  I know that’s a lie, but I also know that I brought my entire stash of cash on this trip, and most of it is wound up in my underpants in my suitcase, but there’s enough in Mae’s pocketbook so that if I had to pay for dinner twice over, we would be just fine, and that with a good tip.

  ‘You have fun,’ I tell Kenneth, patting his arm in a reassuring way. ‘You deserve it.’

  ‘I do,’ he says, almost angry, as if this, of course, is a given. But then he waddles away to where several men are looking over a bright-eyed horse with a little white star between its eyes, and I turn away and sigh in relief. Whenever I’m with Kenneth in public, I’m tense all over, waiting for a little dig or a big to-do. He can be so embarrassing, when he gets out of hand. But now that I’m temporarily free of him, I let my shoulders relax from around my ears and my mouth curve in an easy smile, and I walk toward the big building with jaunty steps. I am very much looking forward to that restaurant.

  Inside, it’s everything I ever dreamed, just as opulent as a queen’s castle. Mae was right: There are flamingos everywhere. The wallpaper is gilded, the wood and brass gleam, and the bar just glimmers like an oasis. The man at the front counter is even wearing a tuxedo—a tuxedo!—and he smiles like he’s been waiting all day just to set eyes on me. Nobody’s looked at me like that since my daddy passed. I walk over and can tell my dimples are showing.

  ‘Do we have a reservation, miss?’ he asks.

  I let myself giggle girlishly; it’s what we both want, after all.

  ‘I’m not sure if my husband made one, but he’s out with the horses now. Is there someplace I could sit and watch for a while? I’ll buy a Coca Cola.’

  ‘Of course, madam. This way.’

  I note the switch from Miss to Madam with a small amount of sorrow and a bigger portion of hope.

  He seats me in a low, plush chair by the big window. It’s not busy in here, and the outside isn’t mad, either. Some races, Mae said, are very well attended, and the people are all crushed together like bugs. But other races don’t have big stakes, and so the crowds are smaller. More cars are pulling up, and more men mill about the horses, but most of the women, like me, wander into the restaurant, craning their heads about for a gander at luxury.

  My Coca Cola arrives in a tall glass full of ice. Even though I know it’s the same old soda as anyplace else, it tastes new and fresh as it bubbles on my tongue. A small dish of peanuts appears on my side table, and I hunt around for Kenneth down below and find him circling some horse or other with a group of men just like himself. Older, going to pot, but eac
h man assured that he is an absolute expert on the topic at hand. I’m sure Kenneth is rattling off facts about how to pick a winner and boasting about his experience with such things, for all that the closest he’s ever come to a horse before is riding a donkey into the Grand Canyon, which he hated more than just about anything. I learned a long time ago that his confidence was worth more than anyone else’s expertise, especially mine.

  Satisfied that I know where he is, I scout the park as a whole. I pull out Mae’s postcard and compare it to the reality, but things are so much clearer from the air.

  ‘Would madam like a brochure?’

  It’s that nice man in the tuxedo again, and he hands me a pamphlet with the history and layout of the park, plus information on how to place a bet, since surely many a man is too proud to ask about that straight away, and no one would wish to miss out on an arrogant fool’s lost wages. The park boasts three race tracks, stalls for two thousand horses, and living quarters for five hundred workers. There’s even a swimming pool—for the horses, can you believe that? And a driving range. Kenneth will be furious he didn’t bring his clubs. I spot him hurrying toward the restaurant, mopping off his brow and yanking up his trousers, and I put the pamphlet and the postcard back in my pocketbook and focus on sipping my Coca Cola.

  The nice man in the tuxedo starts his fine speech, but Kenneth just waves a hand and hurries past him to where I sit, smiling blandly at the horses.

  ‘I told you not to order anything,’ he splutters as he yanks the sweating glass from my hand and rubs it over his forehead. I put my hand in my lap; I don’t want it anymore.

  ‘Well I had to,’ I say, my voice low and pleading. ‘You can’t just sit around if you don’t order anything. It’s not that kind of place.’

  He glances around, furious, but it’s true. Every lady here has a drink.

  ‘You coulda ordered water.’

  ‘I brought my pin money,’ I shoot back contritely. ‘If you’re feeling miserly.’

  The man in the tuxedo is near enough to hear me—which is why I said just that, just then. Kenneth glares at me in reproach, then looks to the man with some alarm, judging whether he might’ve witnessed my insult.

  ‘I’m no miser!’ Kenneth barks. ‘I didn’t bring you all this way to be called such things. I take good care of you.’

  The man hovers, unsure.

  ‘We want a table,’ Kenneth tells him. ‘Good view of the track. Put the soda on my tab. I’m gonna be a big winner tonight. Got all the straight talk on the fastest ponies.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ the man says, just as smooth as butter.

  When he seats us at a real nice table, he smiles like it’s for me, not for my husband, and I smile back to thank him when Kenneth isn’t looking. We’ve got the perfect view, and the horses are all pulling little carts and lining up. Small men in bright colors dart here and there like swifts, and I don’t know what anyone is doing or why, but it’s pleasant to watch. A waiter puts a heavy leather menu in my hands.

  Usually, by unspoken decree, I order one of the cheapest things on the menu, and it simply must be something Kenneth likes as well. He’ll either eat my leftovers or take them to work the next day, so there’s no good trying to order something wild and strange like Oysters Rockefeller. There was a time when we were younger when I was always supposed to order a salad, but I guess one day Kenneth just realized that I was too far gone, and now I don’t miss salads a bit.

  When the time comes, I order a nice big New York Strip steak. I don’t really know why it’s called that, but it sure sounds fancy. It comes with potatoes and vegetables, and the waiter even brings us a basket of bread, beautiful little rolls glistening like eggs and nestled in a napkin with pats of butter shaped like stars on a plate. Lucky for me Kenneth is too busy watching the races down below to care what I’m doing, so I slather my roll with butter and eat it with a reverence verging on obscene. When the waiter stops by, silent, I tap my Coca Cola and smile, and a new one appears as if by magic. I wish there had been something at home Kenneth liked half as much as he likes watching these horses zip around that big loop. He’s so focused, like a child burning ants with a magnifying glass. When they cross the finish line, he jumps up with a big whoop and turns to embrace me. But I’m sitting down, a new roll in one hand and a butter knife in the other, and he sneers at me in disgust and paws through his pockets, producing a strip of paper.

  ‘I’m going to get my winnings and place some more bets,’ he says. ‘I’m on fire. Don’t you eat without me.’

  ‘Of course not, Kenneth.’

  But when my steak arrives swimming in a pool of red, I dig right in.

  Kenneth is gone a long time. A very long time. When he returns, he finds me sipping a cocktail and in a jolly mood. My food is gone, except for the melted remains of my baked Alaska, which was just as fluffy as heaven. His food is untouched on the table, and I’ve kindly waved away the few flies who bothered. All the ice has melted from his drink, but I wouldn’t let the waiter touch it. For the first time in our life together, I’m purposefully needling my husband. Not that I need to, really. He looks furious, his face just as red as a ham.

  ‘Barbara, what the hell? Are you drinking in public? I thought I told you not to eat.’

  ‘Whatsa matter, Kenny? Bad luck?’ I ask, my voice slurring with the effects of the alcohol.

  He turns a shade redder, and I hiccup a giggle.

  ‘It wasn’t bad luck. I got a bad tip. You put that down right now.’

  Part of me wants to guzzle the drink down right in front of him, but most of me knows that a little tipsy will help, but a lotta drunk will hurt. I can’t be sloppy for what I have to do. I need the liquor’s liquid courage, not its foolishness.

  So I take a dainty sip and put the drink down and stare at him.

  ‘What are you looking at?’

  I smile. ‘My husband.’

  ‘Well stop staring. It’s weird.’

  Instead, I look down at the track. ‘I want to see the horses,’ I say. And I stand and settle my pocketbook under my arm and walk out the door. The nice man in the tuxedo doesn’t stop me, but he does stop Kenneth, who must pay the bill. That’s only going to make him madder. Not only is his food no good, and not only is the kitchen closed, but I ordered ever so much more than I’m allowed to. I made sure to slide a five-dollar bill under my plate because I just know Kenneth won’t tip. He’ll blame that poor waiter. And as soon as the waiter is forgotten, he’ll blame it on me.

  I’m counting on that.

  The night is cooler than the day but still warm and wet and welcoming. My joints ache less, and my pores open up gladly. My postcard shows the park during the day, gold and green and brown, but at night, it’s all shades of indigo and black lit by orange lights. The air smells of sweat and fur, and the gentle voices of men speaking to their charges is a soft susurrus in the background. It’s so lovely here. I hate to leave this. But I will.

  I know where to go, and I don’t waste time getting there. Once Kenneth pays the bill, he’ll be hurrying after me, anxious to return to that awful motel room to lick his wounds. So I need to be as far away as I can but still visible from the restaurant steps. Men trot by me leading their horses, murmuring their pardons and tipping their hats, and I walk as blandly as a young girl in a garden, enjoying how different everything is here. We’ve lived in our home for twenty years. Nothing has changed. I crave change. I will make it happen.

  I’m almost to the stables when I hear my name called from far away.

  ‘Barbara!’

  I don’t turn around.

  He calls me again and again, his anger intensifying. Finally I hear his footsteps crunching in the dirt, his grunts and heavy breathing as he struggles to catch up to me. He’s not a young man anymore, after all. How funny it would be if he had a heart attack right now and saved me all this trouble.

  ‘Barbara!’

  Without acknowledging him, I turn down a dark aisle between two long rows of horse
stalls. Bridles and pennants and bags of hay hang on nails, and sleepy snuffles and soft rustles come from the shadowy windows into the stalls. As I walk down the aisle, I flip up the metal latches of each door I pass using the side of my thumb. An inquisitive nose pops out, startling me, and I laugh and pat it before thinking about what the horse might make of such a thing. He accepts my touch, ears pricked and eyes wet, and roughly licks the palm of my hand.

  ‘Barbara, you idiot! What the hell are you doing? You can’t touch that stuff!’

  I peek over my shoulder but don’t stop touching the horse.

  ‘It’s not stuff, Kenneth. Horses are living animals. The waiter was telling me about how they all have personalities, just like people. Can you imagine?’

  ‘Forget the horses and come on. The park’s shutting down, and I’ve just about had it with you. Do you even know what the bill was in that restaurant of yours? I barely had enough to cover it!’

  Which means he lost a significant amount of money. Not that I care anymore.

  He steps close and wraps his thick fingers around my upper arm. This is how he steers me around when I’m being obstinate. So many times I’ve spent a week rubbing arnica into the bruises. But this time, I don’t fight his tug. I turn to him and jab the little knife right into his neck.

  ‘Glurk!’ he says, which is so much nicer than the way he’s been shouting my name.

  He scrabbles at the knife, and I jerk it across a little so it makes a wider cut before he can stop me. My hand is wrapped in a napkin I stole from the nice restaurant, and I polished all my fingerprints off my steak knife before gently placing it in Mae’s purse. I let go, and he pulls out the knife and drops it in the dust and stumbles to lean against the stable wall. My horse withdraws his velvety nose with a snort and kicks the door as if he doesn’t approve of the nasty noises Kenneth is making. Or perhaps he doesn’t like the smell of blood.

  ‘Barb—!’

  Kenneth slides down the stable wall until he’s sitting on the ground, the shadows completely hiding his bulk. Mae told me about this part. Not the killing Kenneth bit, but about how they turn off almost all the lights at night because the horses are skittish and need their beauty sleep.

 

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