My stomach starts to churn and I wonder if there’s a bucket somewhere that I could have near me in case I can’t make it to the head. I’m reminded of the line from that silly song, something about my head is hung over the rail and I fear I will dirty the ocean. Hasten, Jason, bring the basin! Oops, stop, bring the mop.
Nullah glances my way. “Sorry, babe,” he says, “this is getting pretty rough. Looks like that southeaster that wasn’t supposed to hit until later tonight is blowin’ in ahead of schedule.”
“I knew we should’ve stayed in bed.”
“You were right.” He fusses with the radio, listens to a few more reports, then asks, “I guess you’re out of Gravol?”
The expression on my face must be telling, because he doesn’t wait for my response.
“You know,” he says, “I think instead of heading back to Nanaimo, we should put in to Silva Bay. We can tie up and wait out the storm there.”
“But what if it doesn’t let up by dinner time? All we’ve got is chips.”
“I can’t believe you’re actually thinking about eating.”
“I was thinking of you.”
“Aww, that’s nice, you’re thinking about eating me. But that’s for later. For dinner, we have a fish, remember?” He doesn’t exactly chuckle but he’s definitely highly amused. “Don’t think the pub’s open but there’s a convenience store next to the marina office. They might have Gravol but if not, we can at least grab some Ding Dongs. So there’s fish, chips, and dessert.”
Fish? Ding Dongs? Is he trying to make me puke? He’s never had a seasick day on the water so maybe it’s impossible for him to empathize, but does he have to actually enjoy my misery? I doubt my glare is convincing but lacking something at hand to throw at him, that’s the best I can do. I clamp my jaw shut and swallow furiously to stem my rising gorge.
“I’m sorry, babe,” Nullah says, “I wish we’d stayed home, too. But Silva Bay is close, and it’s sheltered. Even if the pub and restaurant aren’t open, at least we can go ashore. A walk on solid land should settle your seasickness even if it is in the rain. We could head back to Nanaimo, but it would mean another hour of rough seas and judging by how green you look, I think you’d be a whole bunch happier in Silva Bay even if we end up having to overnight there.”
I note the tension in his shoulders and his hands white-knuckled on the helm. The sea is so high we’re being tossed around like a cork. Nullah heads the boat into a roller that nearly lifts me off my chair. He handles the boat well and would say if there was any danger for us to try and get home, but even though the boat is perfectly capable of navigating in a storm like this and it might be better once we got to Northumberland Channel, what’s the point? Tying up at the nearest sheltered moorage until it blows over is the sensible choice. At least that’s what my stomach thinks.
“Silva Bay, here we come.”
Twenty-six
Carly
HIS CAR TURNS into the driveway and my guts clench. I’ve been obsessing about this all day. Has he forgotten this morning’s threat? If not, I tell myself we might continue the so-called conversation, as one-sided as our conversations always are, but the worst he would do would be the usual. A broken nose or wrist is survivable, while being in the cold water for more than a few minutes would be a death sentence. He wouldn’t really haul me down to the boat and throw me overboard. He just wouldn’t.
But what if this time, he does mean it? At what point will I know for sure? If he tries anything at all I’ll fight back. I have the hammer. I have to decide where the cut-off is. Do I wait until he punches me? What if he punches me so hard I can’t fight back, and then takes me down to the boat? At what point do I get the hammer and use it on him? It would have to be sudden. I can’t just threaten him with it because he’d laugh his head off, overpower me and take it away. Maybe use it on me! If it can’t be sudden… If I can’t get to it… If I can’t actually use it on his head… I’ll fall down and refuse to move so he’ll have to carry me.
I think about how strong he is and how weak I am by comparison. He often tells me I’m too fat but he still outweighs me by twenty kilos. I guess it’s true, muscle weighs more than fat. I think of the times he’s hauled me out on the front deck and easily hoisted me up on the rail and no amount of struggling, planting my feet, or flailing my arms did any good. He holds me so that if he were to let go I’d fall, and it’s a drop of at least three meters. When he lifts me down off the rail, he always laughs and says, you shouldn’t sit up there like that. It’s not safe.
What if he lets go this time? If he’s serious about dumping me in the ocean, after a fall like that I might not be able to do anything about it. He wouldn’t even have to carry me, he could just drag me the rest of the way. It’s rough but it’s downhill, so even I could drag a body down. I imagine being dragged feet first down the trail, my head bouncing off rocks, trying to save myself by grabbing bushes. Trying to protect my head. Or maybe I’m unconscious from falling or from the beating and just bounce along like a sack of potatoes. I clench my teeth and force the image out of my head.
Except for the finishing touches, dinner is ready. He’s never still mad a day later, but if he is, will it be enough to placate him?
He comes in through the back door and I hear keys rattling as he locks the deadbolt for the night. In a moment, he appears in the kitchen. I can’t quite read his expression, so I say, “hi, honey. How was your day? Did the band’s flight get away okay? How was your golf round?”
He doesn’t answer but surprises me by coming to give me a kiss. Then he asks, “what’s for dinner?”
“Umm, well, schnitzel with mushrooms and home-made spaetzle. Cherries Jubilee for dessert. All your favourites.” I risk a smile.
He doesn’t smile but looks happy in a weird sort of way. Relief floods through me. There’s a stain on his shirt as if he spilled something on it. He must’ve gone into the clubhouse after golfing and had a few drinks. Just enough to mellow him out. He says, “great. Is it ready?”
“Yes. Or it will be in ten minutes.”
“Perfect.” He goes upstairs. When he comes back down, he’s in sweats and a clean T-shirt. He gets a beer out of the fridge and takes it to his usual seat at the kitchen table, apparently so he can watch me while he waits.
I heat the frying pan, put the schnitzels in it to warm through and microwave the gravy with its load of sliced mushrooms. When the gravy’s out I put the steamed broccoli spears in the microwave and warm them. Butter is melting in another pan and I toss the cooked spaetzle in that. In under ten minutes, dinner is plated and I bring both dishes to the table. As I slide Derek’s in front of him, he says, “don’t bother sitting down, Carly.”
“You need something?”
“No, but you shouldn’t eat dinner. You know it’s not wise to eat before you swim.” He looks up at me and I realize the expression of a few minutes ago that I thought was weird but happy, is just weird. His eyes. His little grin. He’s drunk, and he looks like a madman. “You don’t want to get a cramp.”
I draw a quick breath. I realize he has lost his mind. “But Derek…”
He slams his fist on the table, making the plates and cutlery rattle.
“No but Derek!”
“But…the water’s too cold and it’s dark out. You don’t mean it. I don’t want to swim.”
“Sure you do. You’re always bragging about all the prizes you won when you were in swim club. Here’s your chance to show off. And you’ve got plenty of blubber to keep you warm.”
“Don’t be crazy!”
He snorts and says, “don’t worry. I’m not crazy. It’s a miserable, stormy night. I won’t take you more than a couple hundred meters out. Payback for blabbing to your little friend. And it doesn’t leave a mark so you’ll have nothing to show her. Not that you’ll ever see her again.” He seems perfectly calm and reasonable as he turns his attention on his dinner.
I stand plate in hand, watching him, wondering what to d
o. I think about smashing my plate on his head and running, but I’d never get out the door before he caught me. In a flash of insight I understand why he locked the deadbolt as soon as he came in, and why he insisted on deadbolts with no thumb turns. It wasn’t to stop thieves from carrying big stuff out the door as he claimed, it was to lock someone in. That someone being me. I’d have to get the key to unlock it and that would take too long.
Maybe the deadbolt on the patio door isn’t locked. But if it isn’t and I get out there, I’ll be corralled in the back yard. He’d easily catch me before I could get the gate open. There’s no escape. Is that the real reason he built the fence? Has he been planning something like this for years?
I need to call for help. I put my plate on the peninsula and go to the foyer, to the console table where I always keep my phone. It’s not there. I move the centerpiece. Nothing. Did I leave it in my purse? It’s hanging on the hallstand. I frantically root through it, checking both compartments twice. It’s just gone. There’s nowhere else I would have put it.
I hear Derek snigger and turn around to see him standing in the short hall leading to the kitchen. “Looking for this?” he asks, and pulls my phone out of his pants pocket. My heart sinks.
I whirl, grab the newel post, and race up the stairs, taking two at a time. I hear him laughing as he follows me, slowly, in no hurry. He must realize I can’t get away because unless I leap from a window, there’s no way out. He can come and get me, or just wait until I come out on my own. But then, he wants to go and get the new boat, so he won’t want to wait too long. I dart into the bathroom, lock the door and lean back against it.
“Carly,” he sings my name. “Carly, baby! Come on out, Carly!”
“Go away!” I yell. I wonder why I bothered, because it won’t do any good.
“Come on out, Carly! I want to finish my dinner, and then I’ll be wanting my dessert.”
He calls my name over and over, then it goes quiet for minutes. I wonder if he’s gone back downstairs. It doesn’t really matter, because it won’t be safe for me to go out again until tomorrow when he’s on his way down to Sidney in his boat. I have a stab of real fear when I think he might postpone that trip. In that event, I’ll have to wait in here until he goes to work on Monday. I check my watch. 6:37. I’ll be imprisoned here for a long time either way.
Suddenly something hits the door with a loud crash, and I can’t help uttering a scream. Does he think he can break the door down? Can he break it down?
Then it sounds like a full body slam against the door. Again. And again. The door springs open and he’s standing there smiling, his fists opening and closing. I back away until I bump up against the vanity. My hand closes around something. A candle in a glass jar. I throw it at him. He ducks. The candle goes sailing past him and I hear it bounce along the carpet in the hall.
With a lunge, he’s on me and has me by the hair. I pummel him with my fists but all that does is make him laugh. I think, not putting that hammer in my pocket was a deadly mistake. But then I have no pockets. I always imagined I’d be in the kitchen and would be able to grab it.
He pulls me away from the wall, lets go of my hair long enough to grab my arm and twist it up behind me, then pushes me to the door and out into the hall. I stumble, painfully wrenching my arm, but he keeps propelling me toward the stairs. I fear he’ll push me down. I manage to grasp the handrail with my free hand. He slows a bit. So he doesn’t want me to fall? A small mercy.
When we get to the kitchen, I see his plate is still on the table, but he’s eaten the food. So that’s what he did when it was quiet. He releases my arm and gives me a shove.
I retreat to the other side of the peninsula. My heart is racing and I break out in a sweat. I’m breathing so quickly I’m nearly panting. I make an effort to slow my breathing, holding my breath in for a count of seven, breathing out and not inhaling again for a count of seven.
The little steel meat tenderizer hammer is in the sink. The big hammer is beside the microwave. Can I sneak up on him? He’d never let me get behind him and if I came at him face to face and took a swing at him with the hammer, he’d just grab it and take it away from me. I have to wait for an opportunity to get behind him.
He stands blocking me in the work area of the kitchen, watching me.
“Derek, please! I didn’t tell Lita anything, not really. Just girl talk. She asked if you ever hurt me. Because you slapped her that time…”
“Slapped her? Lying fucking cunt! I never slapped her.”
“Oh.” I take a deep breath. “I…I…um, she lied about that?”
“What do you think?”
I can’t tell him what I really think. I focus on keeping my voice low and calm. “You know, she said you did. I didn’t believe her. But she cornered me into telling her about that time after Finn… You know. Because she noticed the scar on my cheek. But I told her it was just that one time and I deserved it, really, and that I didn’t want her to do anything.”
“Oh yeah? Well, she did something. She told Nelly. You know those suspicions I had about him? I was right. There’s more to him than you or Lita know about. He’s in bed with some real shady characters. I’ll be lucky if I keep my job after that fiasco last night. Jackson wants me in his office first thing Monday. Do you think I have enough savings to pay for all this,” he waves his hand in a circle, “until I get another job? Thanks so much, you fat, ugly, stupid bitch.”
“I’m sorry, Derek! I’ll talk to Lita, tell her I was making it up! I’ll say I was mad at you because we, er, we had a fight, which was my fault entirely…”
“That ship has sailed, honey. Time for me to cut my losses. One less big fat mouth to feed. Now get busy!”
“What do you mean?”
“My dessert. I want my dessert.”
How can he be so calm? Is thinking about murdering me enjoyable? Is talking about it, telling me what he’s going to do, part of the fun?
I wonder about the woman in the video he was watching. Did she end up dead? I’ve heard of those things—snuff movies—but I never thought there could really be such a thing. Now I’m not so sure.
Visions of being dragged feet first down the trail to the beach flood back into my head. I swallow hard and try to calm my breathing while my heart pounds.
“Dessert?”
“You said there’s dessert.” He goes to take his plate at the table and says, “I’ll have a coffee, too. Make it a decaf. And Carly? Don’t make me chase you again. It won’t go so well a second time.”
A strange calm settles over me. I put a pod of decaf in the Keurig, and with a mug under the spout, hit the on button. While the coffee is brewing, I get the ice cream out of the freezer and put a scoop in one of the fancy cut-glass dessert dishes my grandmother gave me. I readied the cherries and made the two separate batches of sauce earlier; I select the one I need. Now all I have to do is warm everything up. I carefully pour Kirschwasser around the outside of the mound of ice cream, cherries and sauce.
When the coffee’s done I bring the mug and the Cherries Jubilee to the table and set them in front of Derek.
“Just don’t light yourself on fire again,” he says. “And if you try to light me on fire, you’ll be looking forward to that swim. Believe me.”
“I won’t,” I promise.
He picks up his mug and takes a careful sip. “I’m surprised you’re taking this so well.”
I force myself to slow my breathing, take a deep breath, and manage to nod as I reach the lighter from the counter and say, “I realize you’re right. I should never have said anything to Lita. That was wrong of me.”
He looks up at me with a maniacal grin. I’m barely breathing, almost as though I’m holding my breath. My hands are unsteady; it takes three tries before the lighter produces a steady flame. I tip the dessert slightly so the flame licks the Kirschwasser and ignites it. In seconds, the alcohol burns off and the flames die. Derek picks up his spoon and scoops up sauce-covered ice cream.
Suddenly I have second thoughts. If I go through with this, my life is over anyway. Maybe it would be better if I was the one who was murdered. “Derek, wait!” I reach to take the dessert away.
He stabs my hand with the spoon, pinning it to the table.
“Ahhh uhhh!” I cry, and struggle to free my hand, astonished a spoon can hurt so badly.
He presses down harder and says, “look at this mess.” Ice cream and sauce runs off the spoon and over my hand.
“Stop please, Derek!” I wail. “It really hurts!”
He blows out a breath and pulls the spoon away to continue eating.
I take a step back so I’m standing against the peninsula, massaging my wounded hand while watching him eat. Will he notice an off taste? No. He devours it.
When he’s finished, he looks up, pushes the dessert dish toward me and says, “Why’re you standing there? Get busy and clean up the mess in the kitchen. We’ve got a lot to do.”
I don’t move.
A look of puzzlement comes over him, then it changes to concern. He sits bolt upright and tries to get up, but collapses back into the chair.
It’s happening. A sense of unreality washes over me. It’s as if I’m viewing everything through Jell-O. My limbs feel heavy as I go to sit next to him.
“Not feeling well?” I ask.
“Call an ambulance, Carly! I think I’m having a heart attack.”
“It might feel like that,” I tell him. “I ground up the cherry pits and put them in the sauce. From what I’ve read on the internet, ten should be enough to kill you. To be sure, I doubled that.”
“Carly,” he wails, “help me!”
“Sorry, I can’t,” I tell him. “No one can. But just so you know, this doesn’t leave marks, either. It’ll just look like a heart attack.”
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