Made for Murder

by Julie Hyzy

  “Handsome?”

  “Yes. Very.”

  “Tell me about him.”

  Vylette looked at her mother, who’d lowered herself into one of the chairs and now sat, elbows on the table, leaning forward in rapt attention. Biting her lip, Vylette thought, Why not?

  “Well,” she said, taking a deep breath, “he has brown hair, maybe a little darker than mine. I’d guess him to be maybe early thirties…”

  “Those good-looking ones can be trouble. What kind of a job does he have that he can go to the library so much?”

  “He’s studying, Ma. To be a lawyer.”

  “Yeah,” she said, curling up one side of her lip, “that’s what he probably said, trying to impress you.”

  “No.” Vylette said, feeling a prickle of anger, “I saw it myself. He’s got law books all over that he’s reading. On top of one of them was an application to the John Marshall law school. Downtown.”

  “Hmmmm.”

  “He’s going places, Ma. I can tell. He’s just that kind of guy.”

  Mother looked up at the clock. “Go on,” she said. “I want my coffee and I can’t drink it without cream.”

  The following day, as Vylette came through the gangway that led from the street to the back of the house, she heard the banging of screen doors and the giggles of young children. The families were out. The weather had been beautiful, all warm and muggy and comfortable in its delicious summery way, every night for a week. She imagined that they appreciated it, knowing that sooner or later, things would change and they’d be stuck inside.

  “You’re home early,” Mother said, from her rocking chair. The room was quiet-dark, the last rays of the sun hitting the far wall, bathing the rest of the room in the purple glow of twilight. Evening.

  Vylette held her books under her arm as she gingerly placed the brown wrapped package on the table.

  “What’s that?”

  “An African violet.”

  “Ha! From your boyfriend?”

  Vylette unwrapped the brown paper from the pot and carried it to the sink. The horticulture book, the good luck book, had had a beautiful full color picture of a mature African Violet. Violet. Just like her name. And next to the picture was a tiny little blurb. The African Violet, it read, is one of few plants that can be propagated with a leaf cutting. Violets have the reputation of being difficult to grow. This is not true. With the proper care, a single plant can be coaxed into bloom, divided, and shared.

  “No. I bought it.”

  “You get it at Woolworth’s?”

  “Yes.”

  “You get your discount?”

  “Mm-hm.” Vylette watered the plant and put it on the windowsill.

  “I hope you didn’t spend much. You know I killed every plant I ever had.”

  “I’ll take care of this one.”

  “Mark my words; it’ll be dead in a week.”

  Rain beat down in a depressing, mournful patternless way, never quite summoning up the courage to become a storm, never quite tapering off. The clouds were gray, like dirty cotton, and at night the wetness hung over the house like a shroud.

  “So you don’t go to the library to meet your boyfriend on weekends, eh?” Mother asked, pausing a moment from her rocking to talk.

  Vylette looked up from her book, startled. She glanced at the TV. A commercial was on. “No. Too much to do on Saturdays, and it’s closed today.”

  “You miss seeing him?”

  Yes! Vylette thought, but she only shrugged. “Maybe a little.”

  “He’s probably gonna be rich when he gets to be a lawyer.”

  “I suppose.”

  “Was he in the War?”

  “I didn’t ask.”

  “Probably. If you say he’s in his thirties.”

  “Probably.” Vylette watched the commercial and wondered what they meant by tasting good like a cigarette should. How could something like that taste good?

  “He’s looking for a wife.”

  “What?” Vylette turned to look at her mother.

  “Your boyfriend, Gabriel. He’s older, you said? He needs a wife. Probably gonna ask you.”

  “Ma. You’re turning this into something it’s not.” Vylette pointed to the TV. “Look, your program’s back on.”

  “Just wait. You’ll see I’m right. Then I’m gonna be here, all alone when you get married.” She started rocking again. Hard.

  “Ma. I’m not going anywhere.”

  Preparing dinner Monday night, Vylette dropped the spatula for the fourth time. Picking it up, she held it under the running water, again, and blew out a sigh of frustration. Why was it always when you were in a hurry?

  “This is good, Vylette,” Mother said, between mouthfuls of chicken casserole.

  Vylette looked up, surprised, “Thanks.”

  The clock made its trademark click when it hit the hour. Vylette glanced up as she dried her hands on the dishtowel and took off her apron. Five o’ clock.

  “My ankle hurts, Vylette.” Mother said, as she reached over her dinner plate to turn the television knob to “on”.

  “Again?”

  “Maybe, you think you should stay home tonight?”

  “Not tonight, Ma. I’ll set up some Epsom salts for you before I go.”

  “Gonna go see your boyfriend, eh Vylette?”

  “He’s not my boyfriend, Ma. He’s just….special.”

  “You should take him one of your plants.”

  Vylette glanced over at the new African Violets she’d started from cuttings. Despite the book’s advice, they were no more than brown leaves, edges turning crispy. The original plant had even lost all its petals and the leaves drooped over the sides of the plastic pot. “No,” she said, “I don’t think that’s such a good idea.”

  “I wanna meet my future son-in-law. I want to meet the man who will take my only child away and leave me lonely.”

  Vylette looked up. “Ma. I told you. You’re seeing something that isn’t there.”

  Vylette stopped several feet before the library door. She remembered the night she’d stood there, holding the handle. Not that long ago. And now, here she stood, happier, more confident. Gabriel. He would be there tonight, of course; he always came on Mondays. She pulled at the hem of her pink sleeveless shirt, and smoothed her white pedal pushers. She’d worn her favorite outfit because tonight was going to be special. She didn’t know what it was. Maybe he’d walk her home. Something though. She knew it. She could feel it.

  Wonderful library smells of yellowed paper and dust rushed up like old friends, to meet her as she opened the door. Vylette took a deep breath and smiled. Coming to the library was better than going home. When she was here, she was free. Free to take on the lives of the characters who really lived. They lived on battered, coffee-stained pages, maybe, but they lived.

  Vylette returned the horticulture book and looked around.

  He was here.

  Studying his law books.

  He was so immersed in his studies that she didn’t want to disturb him. She picked out a novel, another romance, and eased herself into a chair across the room, where she could watch quietly, and wait for him to take a break.

  He fiddled with his lip as he read, his forehead creased in concentration. Vylette sighed. Such a handsome man, so serious, so intense. And wasn’t Gabriel just the perfect name for someone so beautiful?

  She opened the new book to read, imagining herself as the plucky heroine and Gabe as the dashing knight.

  “Vylette.”

  She looked up with unfocused eyes.

  “Mother?” Vylette said, startled, “What…?”

  She was wearing the black dress she bought for Grandma’s funeral years ago, and hadn’t worn since. Her increased girth over the years made the dress pull tightly across her chest and hips. Vylette couldn’t remember when she’d last seen her mother in a dress and pumps. Wearing makeup. And her silver-streaked hair was brushed and shiny. Vylette blinked. Mother leaned heavi
ly on closed fists over Vylette’s table. “So?” she said between breaths, “where is he?”

  “Who?” Vylette asked.

  She answered, loudly. “I came to see…Gaaabriel.” Mother strung the name out for effect. “I came to see this man who will take my daughter away from her poor mother.” She surveyed the library.

  “Ma!” Vylette said, panicked. “You shouldn’t have come.”

  “Why?” she asked, her eyes snapping back to Vylette’s. “You think I can’t walk? You think I can’t do anything anymore? I’m useless? That’s why you’re going to run away with this man?”

  “Ma!” Vylette stood up, scraping her chair against the floor.

  “Where is he?” Mother looked around the room, her dark eyes flicking every direction, her mouth with grim concentration. Vylette flinched when Mother spotted Gabriel.

  He’d noticed the commotion and was watching them.

  “Ah!” Mother started to cross the room.

  “No.” Vylette said, moving from the table to block her path.

  “Gabriel!” Mother shouted, raising her hand in greeting.

  He looked at her. He glanced over his shoulder.

  “I want to talk to you,” she said.

  Vylette grabbed her mother by the arm, “Ma, please. Let’s go. Now.”

  “Not until I talk to my future son-in-law,” Mother nodded at him, not smiling. “Gabriel.”

  The man cleared his throat. “I’m sorry, you must have me confused with someone else.”

  “No,” Mother said, fixing him with a stare, “Vylette told me. I know who you are.”

  He shook his head. “I’m Tom,” he said, with emphasis. He glanced between them. “I…uh…don’t know your daughter.”

  “Vylette! What is going on? This is the man you described.” Mother flung her pudgy hand in his direction accusingly. “Look! The law books. Isn’t this the man you told me you will marry? Why is he denying it? Trying to fool the old woman?”

  “Ma.” Vylette said between clenched teeth. “We are going. Now.”

  Mother looked between Tom and Vylette, “I don’t understand.”

  “Neither do I,” Tom said, with a funny look.

  “You told me, Vylette. You told me…”

  “Yeah, Ma,” she said as she moved to guide Mother away.

  As they turned to leave, Vylette watched Tom exchange looks with a honey-haired girl at the next table. They smiled at each other and rolled their eyes.

  “Let’s go, Ma.” Vylette said.

  Once back in the kitchen. Vylette eased her mother into the vinyl yellow rocker, and turned on the television for her.

  Mercifully, they hadn’t spoken on the way home.

  Mother reached for the cigarettes from the table and perched one between her lips as she lit it. She shook the pack into her hand. One left. “Vylette?” she asked, holding the empty package aloft.

  “I’ll go in a little bit, Ma. I need some air.”

  Vylette pushed the door hard behind her. It didn’t slam, exactly, but it felt good nonetheless. She stepped out onto the porch and smelled the green of the neighbors’ fresh-cut grass. Under any other circumstances, tonight would be considered a beautiful night. Vylette crossed her arms on the porch rail, and rested her chin on them.

  It wasn’t fair. She should be allowed to daydream, shouldn’t she? Why did Mother have to ruin it all? She ruined everything. Someday Gabriel, no…..Tom, she corrected herself, would have noticed her. Noticed beyond the hello, and the nod. Someday that handsome man would have looked at her, seen her, and thought yes, she’s the one for me.

  She watched the families gather for their nightly ritual, the children’s colorful summer clothes blurring into a moving rainbow. Families. Husbands and wives and children and friends. Together. Laughing. Enjoying each other.

  But here she sat. Alone on her porch again.

  Vylette closed her eyes. She folded her arms on the porch railing and rested her forehead on them.

  Mother was back in the kitchen, watching TV. Back, as if nothing had happened. Clenching her eyes shut even harder, Vylette decided this couldn’t go on any more.

  “Mother!”

  “Shhhh. My show is on.”

  “No,” she said, flicking off the TV, “this can’t wait.”

  Mother stopped rocking, listened.

  “Mother,” Vylette said, her voice cracking, “I can’t live like this. I don’t care what you think anymore, I don’t care what you say. I am going to move into the apartment downstairs and I’m going to meet our neighbors and say hello and become one of them. I am going to live my life however I want.” She swung her arm, gesturing around the apartment, “I’m tired of waiting on you hand and foot. I’m tired of giving up on my dreams.”

  Mother’s eyes widened. “Vylette? How can you talk to me this way?”

  “I need to get away from you,” she said, trying hard to quell the tremor in her rising voice. “I hate what you do to me. I hate who I am with you.”

  “Oh, Vylette, I had no idea,” Mother said, her eyes conveying a fear Vylette had never seen before, “I was wrong.”

  That stopped her. “What?”

  “I am so sorry, Vylette, for what I did. I didn’t know. I was afraid of losing you.” Mother reached her hands out to her daughter, “Please don’t move out. Please stay with your Mama.”

  If Vylette ever wanted to break out of Mother’s hold, this was it. “Ma,” she said, “I want to meet people and have friends. Can you understand?” Vylette didn’t want to let her anger go, “I want to be married and have kids who play outside on warm summer nights. And I want to sit in a lawn chair and watch my children and drink lemonade.”

  Mother nodded. “Go ahead then,” she said, but without the anger she’d shown before. “Go on, meet them. Please. With my blessing. And maybe someday, Mama will join you.”

  Vylette’s eyes filled with tears. She grasped her mother’s hands and squeezed.

  All she had to do was walk down the stairs, push open the screen door, and say hello. Her body strained for it. With their radios playing and children running, the group would be gathered, just ahead, and she knew they would find an extra lawn chair for her. The warm summer evening was filled with crickets and conversation. They would be there, holding a glass of lemonade, waiting for her. Just ahead.

  “Vylette!”

  She lifted her head. She blinked.

  Uncrossing her perched arms as she sat back, Vylette gazed down at the long-empty yards below.

  “I need my cigarettes!”

  Vylette sighed.

  Blue television lights flickered through the window behind her. It would be a long time before Mother was ready for bed.

  Travelogue

  He should have known it wouldn’t last.

  Keith took a large mouthful of beer, and grimaced. Synthetic alcohol. It was all he drank nowadays.

  His attention wavered from the bar’s front window for a moment, to watch two burly guys at the next table suck down their brews. They sprawled, rather than sat, their large bodies blanketing the hard wooden chairs that creaked and groaned with each movement. They wore five o’clock shadows that matched gray T-shirts, emblazoned in blue with some utility’s logo. Real men, he thought, as he leaned his bony elbows on the high table, his feet perched on the footrest beneath the tall stool. Licking the real foam from their lips. No worries. When they were done for the day, they were done. Left their problems at work.

  He returned his gaze to the window. It was starting to get dark.

  Margaret didn’t know he drank the synthetic stuff. Didn’t know he went out every night to a bar near his job to take the sting out of the day with an imaginary buzz. Synthetic alcohol provided some of the sensory delights of drinking, but with none of the physiological changes—a distinct advantage over the real stuff. He could get his kicks and still keep Margaret happy.

  Keep Margaret happy. He gave a short laugh.

  The shifting light outside caus
ed the window to become mirror-like, and Keith regarded his emerging reflection, all the while keeping his eyes fixed on the store across the street. Forty-four years old, he was grateful to have kept his full head of blond hair, desperately believing that if it hadn’t started to go by forty, he’d be safe. His face was thin but it sagged, a lot like his build.

  This wasn’t his regular bar. This one catered to a different clientele than the upscale deal-making establishment near his office. He loosened his tie again and watched as one of the utility guys got up for two more beers. But this bar had a distinct advantage over the silky ambience of his usual place. This one allowed him to watch Margaret.

  She’d lulled him into complacency. Just like a woman. Fifteen years ago she’d made the promises, the ones to love, honor and cherish. She’d repeated them with great sincerity before all their family and friends. Fastened on his, her blue eyes had sparkled as she’d whispered, “…as long as we both shall live.”

  He’d fallen for it, all right. How did that old saying go? Hook, line and sinker. Fifteen years of his life he had one goal in mind: keeping Margaret happy.

  She’d been convincing, no doubt about it. Like that time when he’d lost his job because of a trumped-up insubordination charge…

  “We’ll do okay, hon,” Margaret had said. And then she’d rubbed his back and cooed encouragements.

  Finding a new job, the right job, had taken over two years. He glanced down at his nearly empty glass and shook his head. He’d taken to knocking back a few every night to help swallow the bitterness of rejection, to alleviate the sting he still felt from the backstabbing company he’d worked for. Plus it helped him relax. And then, to his surprise, he found that a few more in the morning helped him get started. He’d leave home each morning carrying his resumes in the tidy burgundy folder with brass edges that Margaret bought for him. “So professional!” she’d said with a smile.

  He’d wanted to slam it against the wall.

  But every day he sat in a bar, not unlike this one, staring for hours at that mocking folder, wishing he were anyone else but himself.

  And every afternoon, he’d take the sheaf of resumes that she’d so carefully tucked inside, and dump them into the rectangular steel garbage can in the bar’s men’s room. He rationalized that he wouldn’t have had any luck anyway. But coming home without them made Margaret happy. Gave her hope. Once, just for fun, he’d wadded them up and then flushed them, two at a time, three at a time, to see how many could go down at once before the bar’s toilet clogged. Seven. Lucky number.