Countdown to Killing Kurtis

by Lauren Rowe

  Damn.

  I creep into the bathroom and quietly find the large Tylenol bottle in the crowded medicine cabinet. It’s behind Kurtis’ countless bottles of pills—pain pills, sleeping pills, hypertension pills, thyroid pills, antibiotics from a sinus infection. Jesus God, I’m married to a crusty old man.

  I pad back into the guest bedroom and lie gingerly down on the bed, positioning my injuries so as to avoid pressing them painfully into the mattress.

  I feel calm. I always feel a certain kind of peace when I’m gonna do the right thing. I don’t need a husband telling me my boobs are too small or asking me where I’ve been or with whom. I don’t need a husband who’s screwing a stripper with boobs the size of melons, and I most certainly don’t need a husband who spends his time doodling about some “Bettie Page True Story” when he should be spending every waking moment thinking about our Marilyn movie.

  Even if my big plan for any given day is to lie around on a rubber raft in my big, fancy pool reading a Danielle Steele novel and sipping cherry Kool-Aid, or strolling down Rodeo Drive to buy myself a new dress, that’s my own gosh-dang business, and nobody else’s. Nobody’s gonna tell me what I can and can’t do, or where I can and can’t go, or with whom. Nobody. Least of all Mr. Porno King Kurtis Jackman.

  Because I am Charlie Wilber’s Daughter, goddammit.

  Despite my various aches and pains, sleep begins to overtake me. As I drift off, one recurring thought scrolls through my mind on an endless loop. I am Charlie Wilber’s Daughter. Yes, sir. And one day very soon, Mr. Porno-King-Lying-Cheating-Bastard-Motherfucker-Sack-of-Shit-Husband-of-Mine-Kurtis-Asshole-Jackman is gonna find out exactly what that means in regards to him.

  I reckon my husband better start thinking about giving his heart to Jesus, ’cause his ass is mine.

  Chapter 30

  19 Years 1 Week 1 Day Old

  372 Days Before Killing Kurtis

  The light peeking through the blinds in the guest bedroom wakes me up. It’s already close to noon. Oh lord, my head hurts. My neck hurts. My arms hurt. My jaw hurts. My right eye is throbbing and swollen like a banana fish.

  I creep gingerly down the hall to the master bedroom. The house is quiet as the grave. I slowly peek my head into the room. Kurtis is passed out like a hobo.

  I pad down to the kitchen and grab an ice pack from the freezer and sit myself down at the kitchen table, holding the ice pack over my right eye. It’s throbbing like a son of a bitch.

  I flip through the yellow pages and pick up the phone.

  “Hollywood Flowers.”

  “Yes, hello,” I say into the phone. “I’m calling from Mr. Jackman’s office?”

  “Oh yes, we’ll have Mr. Jackman’s usual roses-and-buttercups bouquet ready for pick-up this afternoon.”

  I’m calling to try to weasel some information out of the woman, of course, but she quickly gives up the ghost without me having to do a dang thing.

  “And Mr. Jackman’s other bouquet is just about to go out the door for delivery, too.”

  All at once, my heart squeezes in my chest and my stomach lurches into my mouth. I’ve been such a fool to believe all of Kurtis’ tin-can promises. Kurtis is a liar, through and through.

  “Hello? Are you still there?” the woman asks.

  “Uh, yes, ma’am. Sorry. That’s wonderful. Um... I’m a temp here today. So Mr. Jackman just wanted me to double-check you’ve got the right spelling on the name for that delivery? For some reason, he’s worried you’ll get it wrong this time.”

  “Yes, don’t worry, same as always—we’ve got ‘Bettie’ with an ‘i-e’ instead of a ‘y’ for the usual roses and tiger lilies.”

  Hearing the flower-lady say Bettie’s name, knowing Kurtis orders the “usual” flowers for her the same way he orders the “usual” roses and buttercups for me every week, I’m feeling madder than a wet hen in a tote sack. There’s no denying it now—Kurtis has been screwing Bettie our whole marriage, right under my nose. In my bed. In my shower. And he had the nerve to bash my face in because he thinks I’m cheating on him? Well, don’t that just beat the band. Leave it to a cheater to think everyone else cheats.

  “Thank you,” I manage to the flower lady on the phone. “Oh, and let’s just confirm the address for that delivery, too, just so I can tell Mr. Jackman I did?” My blood is boiling inside my veins.

  “Sure.” The florist confirms the address and I scribble it down.

  It’s not the address for the club. It must be Bettie’s home address—a handy thing to know. “Yes, ma’am, that’s it.” I say brightly. “I don’t know why he got all flustered about y’all getting that address right all of a sudden. I’ll tell him it’s the same as always.” The florist chuckles and I join her. We two are sharing a laugh that says, Oh, silly men! “Well all right, then. Thank you.”

  Tears threaten to pool in my eyes, but I tilt my head back and take a deep breath. I’m a frog’s hair away from a duck fit right now. But what did I expect? It serves me right—I lay down with a dog and got up with fleas. I should have known. The man told me he’s bad, for cryin’ out loud. I should have listened.

  Well, under the circumstances, I reckon there’s no doubt Kurtis deserves to die. I think any reasonable person would reach the same conclusion. But damn, damn, damn. If I’m gonna fly off the handle and stab Kurtis in our house, then I might as well just forget about the killing part and drive myself right over to the police station and turn myself in. Because that’s just about how long it’ll take for the police to come arrest me.

  I dig my fingernails into the wood of the kitchen table. I want Kurtis dead. Dead and drained of all his blood. Dead and relieved of his vital organs, especially his favorite and most-used organ. But I’ll be damned if I’m gonna go to prison for doing what’s got to be done. Unlike Daddy, I’m not gonna get caught. I take a deep, steadying breath. What I need is a Jeb-Mother-type solution here, a neat and tidy two-for-one. This ain’t my first rodeo, after all.

  I reckon I’ll just have to ignite a little slow-burning trouble in paradise for my dear husband and his trashy little prairie dog. I flip through the yellow pages and pick up the phone.

  “Flowers by Judy.”

  “Why, hello, I’d like to order a big bouquet of flowers to be delivered tomorrow, first thing, if possible?” I’m doing my best to talk with a nondescript California accent.

  “Is it a special occasion?”

  “Yes, ma’am, my boss wants to make a special lady feel like a million bucks.”

  “Ah, well, then.” Judy the flower-lady gives me her idea for a big bouquet of roses and peonies. “That’s perfect,” I say, “as long as y’all make it something that’ll make her eyes pop out of her head.” Shoot. I think I just said y’all. They don’t say that out here. “Please make the card out to Bettie—that’s Bettie with an ‘i-e,’ not a ‘y’—and let’s have the note say, ‘Your heart is even more beautiful than the rest of you.’ Sign it from ‘Your Admirer.’” The florist makes a clucking sound that confirms her approval.

  I give Judy the address of the Casanova Club, just to be sure the whole world witnesses the generosity of Bettie’s secret admirer.

  “We’ll get that off tomorrow,” the florist assures me.

  “Thank you kindly,” I say. “Hey, and while we’re at it, let’s do another bouquet—a gigantic one to another address. Just put together a whole mess of happy flowers.” Dang it. That didn’t sound very Californian, either. I give the woman my own address at the house. “And on the billing, my boss has a very important request. Don’t divide up the charges for each bouquet—he doesn’t want the charges to show he sent flowers over to the Casanova Club. Just mark both bouquets as one giant bouquet, delivered only to the second address—the residence.” If Kurtis ever looks at the bills for the credit card he gave me and sees a charge from a flower shop, let him remember how I bought a whole bunch of pretty flowers to make our house smell good and pretty.

  The florist chuckles. “W
e get asked to do that kind of thing a lot, actually. No problem.”

  “Thank you so much. Bye now.”

  I inhale deeply and close my eyes. Tears are threatening.

  The ice in my ice pack has melted completely, but I’m too worn out to get up and refresh it. I put my cheek down on the cool kitchen table. I feel like I’ve got one wheel down and the axle dragging. I truly thought I’d found a happily ever after in this big house with Kurtis, against all odds.

  A noise in the doorway makes me look up.

  Good lord, Kurtis looks like he’s been rode hard and hung up wet.

  “Oh my God,” he gasps. He lurches toward me like I’m a man overboard on the high seas. “Did I do that to you? Oh, baby. I’m so sorry.”

  I haven’t looked in the mirror yet this morning. If I look half as bad as I feel, then I must look like road kill. Kurtis puts his finger under my chin and surveys my face. I jerk away from his touch. “Oh, Buttercup, I’m sorry.”

  Yeah, he’s sorry. He was born sorry. “Sit down,” I say, my tone as cold as my frozen heart.

  “Baby, I—”

  “Sit. Down.” My voice leaves no room for disobedience.

  Kurtis sits.

  “I didn’t know you had a monster inside of you, Kurtis Jackman, but now I know. And, believe me, I’ll never forget it.”

  Kurtis looks ashamed.

  I pause to let my words sink in for a moment. “But I reckon everybody’s got a monster inside of them, hidden somewhere.”

  A small flash of hope flickers across Kurtis’ face.

  “Believe it or not, I’m not fixin’ to ask you to be anyone other than Kurtis Jackman, monster and all. But I’ve got one rule, and it’s non-negotiable: you can’t let your monster out on me ever again.”

  Kurtis makes to speak, but I continue.

  “If booze unlocks your monster, then you’ll stay dry as dirt around me. If you’re not coming home to me on a particular night, then go ahead and get drunker than who shot John and beat up whoever else you please into the middle of next week looking both ways for Sunday—just as long as you don’t lay a hand on me. Oh, gosh, that reminds me, I got you a little something yesterday when I was out... “ I retrieve something from a nearby drawer and sit back down. “Here.” I toss a calendar onto the table in front of him. “I thought you might like to look at the gen-u-ine article for a change, instead of your two-bit knock-off.”

  Kurtis’ face drains of color. If I were to blow on him, he’d tump over.

  “As I was saying, I don’t care what you wanna do and with whom. I don’t have a dog in the hunt if you wanna let your monster out on someone besides me—just as long as it’s always on someone besides me.” I motion to the smiling picture of Bettie Page on the table to give him an idea of who that “someone besides me” might be. “But with me, you’ll behave every bit the good and devoted husband, you got that?”

  “Baby, I—”

  “Hush, please. I’m not quite finished yet and I’d appreciate you not interrupting me. This is an important bit of business I’m conducting and I don’t want to lose my train of thought.”

  Kurtis nods. I’m sure it’s killing him not to talk. That man thinks the sun comes up just to hear him crow.

  “I reckon it makes you madder than a bishop kicking in a stained glass window to see how other men fall all over themselves when they lay their eyes on me. But what you’ve got to keep in mind is that I’m yours, baby, just like you always say. Every man’s fantasy is your reality, spread-eagle and begging for it in your bed.”

  Kurtis’ eyes light up.

  “But if you ever, ever raise your hand to me again, I will leave you faster than a sneeze through a screen door. You can beg and plead and make promises and buy me flowers and diamonds, but I won’t come back to you. And I’ll never, ever change my mind.”

  “I’m sorry—” Kurtis begins again.

  “Now, if you can’t control your monster, if you don’t think you can keep yourself from whacking me upside the head now and again, then I’ll just go now. No hard feelings. And I don’t want your money, neither. All I’ve ever wanted is you, Kurtis Jackman, right from day one... and our movie together. Good lord, how I want our movie! Because that movie’s our shared dream, the thing that brought us together in the first place, the one thing that’s gonna prove to me once and for all that you love me like you say you do.” I stare at Kurtis, unblinking. “In fact, without you making our movie like you’ve promised to do, I’m not sure I can believe a goddamned word you say about anything at all.”

  There’s silence as Kurtis processes what I’m saying.

  “And God forbid you make a mainstream feature starring another girl... Wooh!” I glance down at the calendar on the table again. “I can’t even imagine what I’d do.” I shake off the alarming thought.

  Kurtis suddenly looks like he was sent for and couldn’t go.

  I prompt him, “Well, then? What do you want to do here, husband?”

  “I want to do whatever I have to do to keep you.”

  I knew he’d say that, of course, but I also know Kurtis Jackman won’t be able to control his monster forever, any more than King Henry could control his. Luckily, though, I don’t need forever. I just need to buy me some time to figure out my best strategy for killing him without getting my own head chopped off. Lord willing and the creek don’t rise, after this little speech of mine, he’ll think twice before hauling off and punching me for a good long while—long enough for me to get a good killing plan in place and, heck, maybe even long enough to get the man working extra hard on our movie. “I know you want me to stay, baby, but are you in agreement with the terms and conditions I’ve set forth?”

  Kurtis grins, seemingly tickled by the formality of my language. I can tell he thinks I’m a silly little girl trying to act like a grownup, but I don’t care. He needs to understand the seriousness of the agreement we’re striking here.

  “I want you on any terms and conditions.” His grin broadens to a wide smile. I reckon he thinks I’m laugh-out-loud funny.

  “Well, okay then.” I try to grin back, but the effort hurts my face. I wince.

  “Oh, honey, let me get you some ice.”

  “Thank you, darling. Aren’t you just as sweet as pie.”

  And a lying, cheating, lower-than-a-gopher-hole, whacking-me-upside-the-head, mother-fucking piece-of-shit dead man, too.

  Chapter 31

  19 Years 2 Weeks Old

  365 Days Before Killing Kurtis

  For the past several days, even though all I’ve wanted to do is go straight to Daddy, I haven’t stepped foot outside of my house. I can’t let anyone see me bruised and battered. Whenever I finally send Kurtis to the Great Beyond, I don’t want there to be a single witness who could ever say anything but that Kurtis and I were like two peas in a pod. I don’t want a single witness to even whisper, “Maybe she killed him because he beat the shit out of her.” Nope. From this day forward until Killing Kurtis Day, whenever that’s gonna be—I still haven’t come up with my foolproof plan yet—I’m gonna make damned sure the whole world, including Kurtis himself, thinks I worship the ground that sack of shit walks on. And when Mr. Kurtis Jackman finally meets his maker, I want everyone and anyone to say, “Good lord, she loved that man more than life itself.”

  Finally, today, after five long days of sitting around daydreaming about slitting Kurtis’ throat and hacking off his private parts, my bruises have healed well enough to cover them up with clever makeup so I can go outside into the world again—specifically, to the Visitor’s Center to see Daddy.

  I look around, making sure there’s no guard within earshot of Daddy and me. “There’s something I’ve got to tell you, Daddy,” I whisper urgently.

  Daddy furrows his brow. “What’s got your goose today, Buttercup?”

  I glance over at the guards. “Do you think they record conversations here?” My voice is almost inaudible.

  Daddy looks around the room slowly.
When his eyes land on a ceiling-mounted video camera to our left, he nods his head at me and shrugs at the same time, as if to say, I’m not sure, but I reckon so.

  “Daddy, listen to me close.”

  Daddy leans in.

  I smile big and laugh so it looks to the guards like we’re having a happy family reunion. “My husband? It turns out that man has no manners whatsoever—none at all. If I didn’t have a boatload of makeup on my face right now, you’d be able to see all over my face just how bad my husband’s manners really are.”

  Daddy clenches his jaw. He understands perfectly.

  I nod slowly and match his clenched jaw with my own, the memory of Kurtis shaking me and whacking me across my face five days ago flitting across my mind. I touch my fingertips to my still-tender right eye in remembrance.

  “It sounds like your husband needs to be acquainted with the idea he’s married to Charlie Wilber’s Daughter, huh?”

  I nod. I knew my daddy would understand. “Remember how Jessica Santos bullied me? Remember what happened to her kitty?”

  Daddy nods back at me. His jaw muscles are pulsing.

  “I think my husband should wind up just like that kitty. Anything short of that, my husband just wouldn’t fully understand who he’s married to. Excuse me—to whom he’s married.” I glance at the guard across the room again, smiling and pretending to laugh at something Daddy’s said to me.

  “Yeah, it sure sounds like your husband needs to learn a thing or two.”

  I nod and glance around furtively. “How much longer ’til you get out of here, Daddy?”

  “Eleven months and twenty-seven days.”

  “Well okay, then. What’s today’s date, Daddy?”