Rex patiently submitted to all the pets and ear scratches he was being given, and seemed to be listening to Peter’s anguished speech.
“C’mon Rexy, let’s go get a drink. I can’t kneel on the floor and cry all night. I’ve gotta call the cops. Hey, baby dog, are you hungry? Did you pee out there? Fuck, there’s nothing left. She killed my babies. How can she be that fucking sick?”
Peter went into the kitchen to make sure Rex’s water bowl was full and get himself a bottle of wine. When he opened the drawer where the corkscrew normally resided, it was empty. No corkscrew, no forks, no knives, no spoons. The dishwasher was open and the dirty cutlery that had been in it was gone, too. Peter imagined eating his cornflakes in the morning without a spoon - on the floor, his bowl next to Rex’s, both of them slurping away. It was the rueful laugh of drowning man in the middle of a dark lake and endless night, who suddenly thinks dying is the funniest thing in the world.
The phone rang and it was the muffled and distorted female voice again. “Cinch. Lynch. Pinch.”
Peter lost it and screamed at the caller: “Fuck off, bitch!” as he slammed down the phone. More than ever, he suspected it was Kathryn on the line, since the call came so soon after he discovered her handiwork in the house.
Peter picked up the wine bottle by its body and smashed the neck in the sink. After making sure any shards had settled safely to the bottom of the bottle, he calmly poured himself a big glass.
“Police, Fire and Ambulance, what is the nature of your emergency?”
“Good evening. I need the police, please. My house has been broken into.”
“Are you inside your house now?”
“Yes.”
“Sir, leave your house immediately. The intruders may still be inside.”
“No, I’m sure they’re not. I know who the intruder was. It’s okay. I just want to make sure there’s a report of the incident.”
“This isn’t an emergency, then?”
“No, it isn’t.”
“Sir, if you’re sure this isn’t an emergency and that you’re safe, you should call the non-emergency number of your local police during normal office hours. It is listed in the telephone book. Please give me your address and name now. Is this a cellphone you’re calling from?”
“No, this is my home telephone. Hardwired. My name is Peter Broviak. B, r, o, v, i, a, k and my address is …”
“Thank you, sir. Now that I know your home telephone, I can see that we have your address on file. Is there anything further I can do for you, sir?”
“Nothing, thanks. I’m fine.” Peter wondered why he said that when it was manifestly not the case. It hit him that he hadn’t had a chance to tell the operator the name of the “intruder.”
“Since we have your information, sir, I’m going to disconnect our call now. Have a good evening.”
It seemed the right time for Peter to continue with his monologue to the attentive Rex. “Hey, boy, the 911 chick wants me to have a good evening. Isn’t that special? I’ll have to undress in the dark tonight, since all the curtains and blinds seem to be missing. Undressing in the dark - right! Reminds me of her. Fuck! Let’s have another drink.” He spoke to Rex in a singsongy, little-kid voice. Peter was getting good and drunk, good and fast.
“Frannie, Frannie, pick up the phone. It’s Peter. I need help.” Peter was dialing drunk to any and all people he could think of.
“Bobby, I know you’re there. Would you just fucking put down that strange cock you’re chewing on and answer the fucking phone? Bobby, I need you. The cunt slashed three of my paintings and three tires on my Cobra and she tried to kill Rex. You asshole. How come you never answer your phone?”
“Lisa, I need to make an emergency appointment, if you will be so kind. Can you get back early or something this week and call me, or … Oh, forget it. I’m sorry. I’ll - we’ll - see each other on Friday. I’m not gonna kill myself, even though I feel like it. No, shit, I didn’t mean to say that. You shrinks have to report us or something when we say things like that. I didn’t say it. Forget it. Okay?”
Chapter 4
A big bland-faced man in uniform showed up on Peter’s doorstep the next morning. His face, although young, showed that he had already heard and seen it all - and was anticipating more of the same at this call.
“Are you Mr. Peter Broviak?”
“Yes.”
“Did you call 911 last night about a break-in and then place a call to our main office this morning?”
“Yes.”
“May I come in, sir?”
“Certainly, Officer.” Peter thought the cop looked like a kid, maybe 25 or 30. But he did not look like a friendly young man.
“I’m not an officer. I’m a constable: Constable Willis. Tell me about your break-in, Mr. Broviak.”
“Well, I came home from town at about 6:45 p.m., and my dog was gone and all my curtains were gone and …”
“Did you say your curtains were gone?”
“Yes, my curtains are gone. Look around; do you see any curtains?”
“No, there don’t appear to be any curtains in your house. Why do you think someone would steal your curtains? And what else is missing?”
“My favorite popcorn salt - white cheddar and chive.”
“Someone stole your popcorn salt. How do you spell cheddar, with an ‘a’ or an ‘e’ at the end?”
“Listen, I know who did it if you’re interested. Can we speed this up? I have an appointment.” This was an outright lie but Peter he wanted this guy out of the house.
“One thing at a time, Mr. Broviak. Slow down. I’ll do this report by the book, the way I always do my reports, or I’ll leave now and I won’t be back. When is your appointment?”
“In an hour, but it’s in town. I can’t be late - I’m paying $180 per hour.” Peter threw that in to underline the importance of the appointment.
“And what kind of appointment is that, Mr. Broviak?”
“It’s really none of your business, but if you must know, it’s with my therapist.” Right away, he knew he’d made a mistake.
“Are you mentally ill, Mr. Broviak? Have you ever been incarcerated for a mental disease?”
“Jesus, no. What kind of a question is that? I’m the victim here.”
“Mr. Broviak, we have computers in our cruisers. I know that you have ten registered firearms here including a handgun. We have to look out for our own safety in every call we make, whatever the alleged reason for the call. There are a lot of nuts out there. I’m not saying you’re one of them, sir, but you understand I have to ask. While we’re on the topic, were any of your firearms stolen? I’d like to verify that they’re being legally stored.”
“Yes, I’m storing them legally, and no, I don’t think any were stolen.”
“Maybe we should both look now, Mr. Broviak, if you please. I require that you walk in front of me about three paces. When you get to the storage area, unlock it and keep both hands where I can see them. Don’t touch any of the firearms, then please step back and stand facing the wall with both hands behind your head while I conduct my search.”
“I’m the victim of a crime here, Officer, not some nut who wants to shoot you.”
“Constable. I’m a constable, not an officer, and what made you even think of shooting me? Do you want me to handcuff you? I could, you know, for a remark like that.”
“I’m a victim.”
“I heard you the first time, Mr. Broviak. ‘I’m a victim.’ Just show me the guns and do it nice and slow.”
“Okay, Constable.”
Peter showed the constable there were no missing guns and that they were safely stored.
“What else was stolen, Mr. Broviak, besides the curtains and the popcorn salt?”
“Three paintings were slashed and spray painted and all my cutlery is gone, even from the dishwasher. Don’t you want to know who did it?”
“What is the estimated value of these items?”
“I don
’t know; under a thousand total. But the wrecked paintings were priceless. I painted them and they were my best work. I had firm offers of $4,000 apiece on two of the three, but I could never part with them. I loved them too much. And you wonder why I’m seeing a shrink. My wife did this to me, and a lot of other stuff too, before she left. She terrorized me day and night for weeks, making threats and screaming curses right in my face, not to mention wrecking my computer three times and stealing my client lists. I think she’s behind these recent weird phone calls I’ve been getting.”
“Hold on now. Your wife did this? Where is she now?”
“I have no idea. But who else would steal curtains and cutlery out of the dishwasher and slash my paintings but a pissed-off wife? She still has the key.”
“So she doesn’t live here?”
“No, she’s been gone about a month, and I don’t know how to contact her.”
“Mr. Broviak, I see now that this is a domestic matter, not police business. Why didn’t you tell me that from the start?”
“You mean she can do this and it’s not a crime? If a guy did this, he’d be in jail in a heartbeat.”
“It isn’t a crime that anyone is interested in. We’ll let family court sort this one out for you. Do you have a lawyer, Mr. Broviak? I suggest that you call him or her and make a list of the items that are missing. And you might consider disposing of your firearms. You have obvious anger-management issues, Mr. Broviak, and you admit you’re undergoing psychiatric treatment. Having firearms on site might mean that the next constable who shows up here will draw his or her sidearm and call for backup.”
“Look, I’m the victim of a crime here and you’re treating me like a criminal!”
“You don’t need to yell, sir; I’ve noted that you think you’re a victim. I have other calls to make and I’ll be leaving now, if there isn’t anything further. I suggest you get the psychiatric treatment you need and call your lawyer as soon as possible after that. Have a nice day.”
“You have a nice day too, Officer Willis.”
Chapter 5
“Hi, Petey sweetie! What prompted that insulting, demeaning, homophobic middle-of-the-night phone call that I wouldn’t even be acknowledging if you weren’t such a cutie?”
“Nothing you would care about, Mr. Light-in-the-Loafers.” Despite his equally coy response, Peter was hopeful that Bobby would understand his predicament. Bobby understood most things Peter told him about his innermost feelings.
“You shit, now you have to tell me. You know I’ll die of curiosity if you don’t,” Bobby said in his best imitation of a British actress, one that Peter didn’t recognize.
“I was just fucking with you. The ex raided my house and ruined my life.”
“After you ruined hers with your wandering dick …”
“Shut up, Bobby, or I won’t tell you about it. She slashed three of my best paintings, spray painted them and the walls with the word “whore,” and she left Rex out on the road to die. And she took my corkscrew and every other eating utensil in the joint.”
“A corkscrew is a drinking utensil, not an eating utensil.”
“Fuck you, Bobby. I cried for hours. You fags aren’t the only men in the world with feelings. You love Rex, don’t you?”
“Everyone loves Rex. He’s the only reason most people visit you.”
“Bobby, can’t you ever be serious?”
“Can you?”
“Look, I need all the friends I can get right now.” Peter really meant that.
“Count me in the ‘friends’ column, Peter. If you want to talk about this some more, we can go on a date and I’ll listen, as long as you keep buying the drinks. I’m forwarded out to my cellphone now and should go since I’m driving. Hang in there. Let me check my schedule and I’ll get back to you. Bye.” Then Bobby hung up.
Another call had come in during his conversation with Bobby, and Peter played the message. It was Frannie.
“Hi, Peter. What’d that bitch do to you now? We’ll talk later. I won’t be around for a while. Business … Gotta go. Hang in there.”
Peter found it annoying that everyone was telling him to “hang in there.” What the heck was that supposed to mean?
Peter phoned Frannie back immediately and got her seductive business voicemail: “Please call back later. I’m willing … if you are.” He was pissed off that she was screening her calls. Peter hung up without leaving a message.
The next call was incoming. And who was it but … Kathryn. “Peter, a little bird told me you might want to talk to me,” she said in a cutesy little voice. Then all the cuteness went out of her voice and it became the voice of command. “Peter, we need to talk about something.”
“No shit, bitch!” Peter lost it immediately. Something about her affected tone, added to the past day’s events, put him over the edge.
“It’s about how we’re going to sell the house.”
“What? Are you from outer space, Kathryn? I live and work here.”
“Peter, since you threw me out, I haven’t had a place to live, and I need the money to buy my own place.”
“Listen, I know what you did here in the house. I know it was you! And for the record, you were the one who left!”
“There you go, being crazy again and yelling at me. I don’t know what you are implying, but your language is terrible. Can’t we just discuss this house-selling business in a calm manner?”
“I’ll be calm if you admit you destroyed my best art and took my cutlery and curtains.”
“I have only ever taken the curtains down to sew them back together after you said you wouldn’t pay for new ones. But let’s get back to selling the house.”
“What about my popcorn salt?”
“Do try to stay on track, Peter; we were talking about the house.”
“You mean my house - the one I paid for. That was our deal. I pay for the house, and you supply the pension to live on.”
“Well, it’s my house too. And this is the first I’ve heard about any deal like that. You have mental health issues that I suggest you deal with. They seem to be affecting your perception of reality.”
“Kathryn, can’t we just back up and find a new strategy for communicating? We’re not going to get anywhere if you keep insulting me.”
“You’re the one who needs to revise his strategy, Peter. You need to find a new way of talking to me without yelling and using bad language.”
Peter wound down his tone of voice. “Okay, okay. Look, I have a new therapist, and I think she could help us sort things out. She’s really level-headed. Would you agree to see her with me this Friday? I’ve only seen her once, so she’s hardly going to take sides. Or we could see anyone you choose; I’m flexible. I just want some structure to our talks so that we can find some common ground.”
“You know I think you’re crazy, possibly dangerous, but I’ll agree to see her if you promise to discuss the house.”
“Kathryn, I’ll discuss anything and everything if we can figure out a way to understand each other and work through our issues.”
“Does that mean you’ll sell the house now and give me half?”
“If that’s what comes up at her office, I’ll discuss it, I promise. I want to hang up now before we start yelling again.” What Peter really wanted was to strangle her, but this time he kept his temper in check.
“You mean before you start yelling.”
“Whatever.” Peter told Kathryn the when and where of the appointment before her blocked number faded from the phone and she was gone.
Peter growled into the dead receiver, “Bitch! If I’d literally bitten my tongue during that conversation as much as I figuratively bit it, I’d be dead from loss of blood. Cunt! Cunt! Cunt! How’s that for inappropriate language, bitch?”
The conversation left him spent. How could it have come to this? He had been lonely for a little human kindness and turned to Frannie. Now he was alone again, this time in a world full of hate.
Ch
apter 6
Peter drove to Lisa’s office on Friday dressed in the same casual pants as the last time, paired with his best pearl-button cowboy shirt - black rayon with fancy stitching. Black seemed to be the most appropriate choice for the occasion.
In the waiting room, Peter greeted Shelly with a big smile, albeit a fake one. She ignored him and continued pecking away at her keyboard. Lisa’s assistant was wearing an old-fashioned cotton dress with a delicate pink floral print. In Peter’s mind, this woman was seriously fashion retarded. He imagined Shelly tearing the dress off her grandmother’s corpse as granny lay in her coffin. Peter was cranky but determined not to show it.
Kathryn was already there, sitting primly and staring at the wall. Peter smiled and looked at Kathryn to greet her, but receiving no acknowledgment, he sat down quietly and began staring at his own section of wall. He could have been naked and these two wouldn’t have noticed. He grinned as he stared at the wall. It was not the thought of being naked that made him grin. Grinning in this situation was an involuntary act that came from the same area of his brain as the neural tick that made Peter laugh at funerals. Peter no longer attended funerals for that reason. It was his tension and imagining Shelly’s grandmother’s corpse that had triggered it.
Kathryn was dressed in a dark business suit, crisp white blouse and sensible low heels. Her hair was perfectly in order, and her makeup was subdued and expertly applied. Her expression was blank; she seemed to be practicing boring holes in the opposite wall with her cold gray eyes behind trendy rimless glasses. She was also practicing what might be called the opposite of grinning. Unlike Peter, Kathryn had no trouble attending funerals. She behaved perfectly at funerals.
Lisa appeared at her office door and ushered them in. “Take any seat but mine,” she said, gesturing at ‘her’ seat. Peter’s grin broadened for a moment at the standard joke. Kathryn, of course, didn’t bat an eyelash.
How to Kill Your Wife Page 3