“Move it, Sadie. You’re blocking the picture.”
Wouldn’t want to miss a moment of Another World, her favorite soap.
If I wrap my hands around her throat I won’t leave any fingerprints, thanks to the rubber gloves. (I’m a big fan of Columbo.) But the gloves stink of oven cleaner and they’re black with grease. Chances are, grease marks on Gloria’s pudgy neck would point to me, since I’m the only one who cleans this dump.
She sucks her Salem, cigarette of choice for witches, and says, “Your dad and I are thinking about having a baby.”
“You’re kidding.”
An unwanted image flashes through my mind, and puke fills my mouth.
Do people their age really do it?
Gloria blows smoke in my direction.
“Wouldn’t you like a baby sister or brother?”
So I can be a babysitter slave. Don’t think so.
“Aren’t you two kind of past all that?”
Gloria’s eyebrows scrunch together forming a fat slug.
She nods at the TV. “Rachel on Another World just gave birth to twins.”
“She’s like fifty, isn’t she?” I scrunch my nose. “Guess there’s hope for you.”
“FYI, I’m thirty-eight.”
“Really?”
Maybe it’s her peroxided hair, the wrinkles on her bloated neck, the fact that she rarely gets off her pudgy derrière, but Gloria looks about a hundred—like she got stuck in 1952 and forgot this is the nineties.
She blows a bluish stream out of her pink lipsticked mouth, polluting the atmosphere. Ash falls onto the no longer beige carpet (now grayish). As usual, she missed the ashtray, lost on the coffee table between stacks of bills, plus-size catalogues, and dog-eared Cosmo magazines. I nudge the overflowing bowl of butts in her direction.
“What time is it, Missy?”
It’s a rhetorical question. Gloria knows the time. She’s memorized the soap opera schedule—12:30, CBS, The Young and the Restless followed by The Bold and the Beautiful; at 2:00 PM switch to NBC for Another World.
“Time for rum and Coke,” I say, sourly.
(Store brand diet cola, really—laced with aspartame to coat your brain with a residue that deadens your synapses. No wonder Gloria and Daddy are morons.)
“With a twist of lime.”
“A twist of your flabby neck.”
Gloria gasps.
Not because of what I said.
Her gaze is fixed on the boob tube where Grant Harrison just killed his brother. Gloria has a hard on for Paul Michael Valley, the actor who plays the now defunct Ryan, and no doubt Gloria is pissed that he’ll no longer jerk her off in the comfort of our living room.
I nod, approvingly, say, “Awesome.”
“Not awesome, awful. I love Ryan. Go fix that cocktail.”
I go back to the kitchen, pour her rum and diet cola, throw in a pinch of rat poison. The same cocktail I make for Daddy.
A symptom of arsenic poisoning is weight loss, so I figure I’m doing them a favor. Given in small doses, arsenic is almost undetectable—no flavor, no taste—and, if taken long enough, it will cause heart disease. I learned that on the Internet. The Internet is awesome, don’t you think? Gloria and Daddy don’t know it exists. They’re afraid of computers, and I’m fine with that. Our school has a computer lab, and I spend a lot of time there researching things. For example, the theater class put on this play, Arsenic and Old Lingerie, or whatever (about senior citizens who poison people), so I got onto the Internet, looked up arsenic, and found out it’s in rat poison. Daddy keeps that down in the basement between lawn fertilizer and Roundup.
I wonder what would happen if I add Roundup to my repertoire and serve it for our next Sunday dinner? (In case you’re wondering, since Mommy died, I skip church on Sundays. The only thing I do religiously is dream up ways to torture Daddy and Gloria.) Sadie’s Roundup Rib Roast with Roundup Rutabagas followed by Raspberry Roundup Surprise.
Yum!
Can’t wait to try that on the family. Won’t be too difficult, since I do all the cooking. I wonder if Roundup affects flavor. Next time I’m in the computer lab, I’ll do a search: How does Roundup taste? Or maybe I’ll call the Beavis and Butthead crisis line. Does that really exist? If it does, I bet it’s a 900 number. Those guys in Hollywood are always out to make a buck. I called a psychic once, and it cost Daddy two hundred thirty-eight dollars. It was worth it. The psychic said I’ve got a killer future.
Gloria shouts from the couch, “What’s taking so long, Missy? Mama’s thirsty.”
Mama … as if.
I stir her drink, glance into the living room at the TV.
A commercial for Dionne Warwick’s psychic line is on the screen. I’d like to know just how long Gloria plans to stick around. Not that I need a Master Psychic to tell me. Gloria will plant her tubby butt on that couch as long as she can get away with slacking off all day, treating me like her slave, and milking my dumb dad for cash. Maybe I should call 1-900-POISON-U.
“Where’s that cocktail, Sadie?”
“Cahhhh-ummmming,” I say, practicing my sex line voice.
I run a lime around the glass, toss in more arsenic, for grins.
All day, it’s just Gloria and me.
Talk about a bummer birthday.
I’d hoped she’d fall asleep, so I could sneak out to the mall and meet Jason (he’s kind of my boyfriend), but caffeine in the diet cola has made her jittery—or maybe that’s the arsenic. At least I don’t have to cook dinner tonight. Gloria says we can eat frozen pizza, because Daddy’s out of town—some job for his contractor business, or whatever.
Donnie has swim team practice after school; he won’t be home till after five. He’s become a Junior Life Guard, so drowning him is no longer an option—not that I want to kill him these days. Since Mommy died, my little brother’s grown on me, kind of like a fungus.
Speaking of fungi, I’m scrubbing the hall bathroom. I doused the toilet bowl with ammonia, and sprayed the tub with scum remover, but the porcelain still looks crusty. I haven’t cleaned it since spring break, two months ago. And, as you’ve probably figured out, Gloria is allergic to housework.
Weekends, Daddy and Gloria are too drunk to notice anything, so I don’t have to clean. Weekdays, Gloria starts guzzling cocktails around noon, and Daddy hits Hooters when he gets off the construction site. By the time Donnie and I get home from school, they’re both wasted and oblivious to dirt. So I only have to clean when it’s school vacation—or when they hold me hostage, like today.
Maybe I can meet up with Jason after we have pizza.
I doubt Gloria will last much past eight.
On top of being a drunk with no memory, Daddy has become a pack rat. He brings home garbage and claims he’s recycling. Like the broken treadmill in the dining room, where we never eat—he picked up that hunk of junk when he installed the heating system for the health club. Then there’s the dryer with no door, sitting in our backyard. (If that’s what you want to call that patch of dirt; thanks to Roundup, Daddy killed the grass.) Mommy used to plant flowers, pull up weeds, but now the so-called yard is treeless, because one Saturday Daddy chain-sawed the maple. He claims he chopped it down for firewood, but we don’t have a fireplace. The door-less dryer, sitting out there on the dirt, provides storage for a hammock (we have no trees to hang it on), stale dog food (the dog disappeared five years ago), antifreeze (weapon of choice for Doggie Muffy?), and doubles as a sideboard for bar-b-ques.
Daddy’s pickup and Gloria’s Buick (the only thing she cares about) are perpetually parked in the driveway. No room in the garage where you’ll find a collection of empty picture frames bought at auction when Handy-Dandy Hobby Shop went out of business, a broken bicycle, a baby crib, suitcases nobody uses. At least the newspapers are gone: New York Times, Daily News, Pennysaver, Newsday, and his fave, National Enquirer. They used to be stacked to the ceiling, and every time you squeezed through the labyrinth you risked an avalanche. The f
ire wiped them out. Now Daddy collects other junk. The garage is stuffed with boxes containing who knows what. My brother claims they’re filled with clothes belonging to bodies buried beneath the cement. I doubt that’s true, because the boxes appeared after Daddy remodeled the garage. He scored big bucks from the insurance company, so he gutted the place. Daddy always says my brother did him a big favor.
The garage is relatively empty now, compared to the basement. There’s a supermarket’s worth of groceries down there: paper bags of store brand tomato soup, dish soap, laundry detergent, mac and cheese, rice, beans, cans of tuna, and economy-sized bottles of lavender bubble bath, Gloria’s favorite—bargains too good to pass up, bought on sale with carefully clipped coupons.
The torture chair doesn’t get much use now, since Daddy took that fall, but it’s still down there, sitting in a sea of grocery bags, waiting for an opportunity.
Mommy hated clutter.
She must be turning in her tub.
I scrub harder, attempting to remove memories.
“Yo, Sadie, happy birthday.”
“After five, already?”
Donnie stands in the bathroom doorway, watching me. I unscrew an economy-sized bottle of bleach and dip in the old toothbrush I’m using to scrub grout.
“How’s it feel to be a teenager?”
“Sucks.”
I push a strand of hair out of my face. Mine is mouse brown and stringy, but my brother’s hair is curly like Mommy’s. Even at age nine (he’ll turn ten, come July), Donnie’s beating off the girls. (Or maybe that’s the other way around.) He’s tall for his age and socially advanced.
I, on the other hand, am short and a social retard. (I know retard’s not PC … socially challenged.)
My only friend is Jason from across the street. He’s fifteen, a ninth grader. I’m not sure why he likes me, but he says I give good head.
Donnie grins.
“How you gonna celebrate, L’il Sadie?”
“I’m not little.”
“You’re shorter than me.”
It’s annoying to have your younger brother call you little.
“I was hoping to meet Jason at the mall, but the dragon’s keeping watch.”
(I’ve been thinking about losing my virginity—since Jason and I watched that porno flick.)
I scrub the toothbrush harder. The grout still looks brownish.
Kitty Muffin appears, meows at Donnie, and ignores me.
My brother scoops the cat into his arms, allowing it to bite his nose, then he bites backs.
“That’s gross, Donnie.”
“What?”
“Sucking a cat’s nose.”
“Not sucking, smooching.”
“Ewwwww. What does cat snot taste like?”
Donnie flips his hair out of his face, shoots me a disgusted look. He won’t allow anyone to insult Kitty Muffin. He’s in love with that cat.
I splash bleach onto the grout. Maybe if I add ammonia … I reach for the container.
“Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Mix ammonia with bleach. It creates chloramine, poisoned gas the Nazis used.”
“Really?” I set the bottle down, raise an eyebrow. “How do you know that, smarty pants?”
Recently, my brother pierced his tongue, and now he sticks it out.
Personally, I’m not into piercings, too permanent—but I don’t mind administering them to others.
“Got a birthday surprise for you, Sadie.”
“What?”
Sitting on my heels, I examine my work. The grout looks slightly brighter.
Donnie extracts a baggie from his pocket, whitish crystals.
I scramble to my feet, nearly knock over the ammonia.
“Crack?”
Donnie tosses me the baggie.
“Where’d you get it?”
“Jason. Time to par-teh.”
Like I said, my bro is socially advanced.
Murder Two
Back then, when Donnie and I got high (before my health attack), our favorite topic was revenge. (Some things never change.) We spent hours plotting how we would avenge Mommy’s murder.
I did, anyway.
Our conversations usually end in an argument, because Donnie insists we need proof that Daddy killed her.
I disagree.
I say: trust your gut.
There’s a difference between proving a killer is a killer, and catching a killer. Proving someone is a killer means collecting enough evidence to secure a guilty verdict in a court of law. In my opinion, attempting to prove someone’s a killer is a colossal waste of time. When you know someone’s a killer, who needs evidence? Just catch the sucker and dole out punishment. Every day you allow that low-life scum to live shows disrespect to the victim—in this case, Mommy.
My gut tells me Daddy murdered her.
But if I kill him without proof, Donnie says he’ll turn me in to the police. So I need to make Daddy’s death appear natural. I stopped lacing his cocktails with arsenic, too risky. Modern forensics can detect it. (I learned that watching Homicide: Life on the Street.)
It’s August, still a whole month of summer vacation. Daddy’s out of town again, upstate somewhere. He’s been going out of town a lot, probably to get away from Gloria. She’s driving me crazy. Or maybe, Daddy’s on a killing spree, like I saw on that TV show, Profiler. Probably not. He’s not smart enough for the FBI to pay him any attention. I doubt he’d even qualify for America’s Most Wanted. If Daddy’s committing crimes, chances are you’ll see him on America’s Dumbest Criminals.
Today, I’m playing slave to Gloria—at least until she passes out, which should be pretty soon, since I’ve added a new twist to her rum and diet cola: Valium. Jason steals the blue wonders from his mom, and I crush the pills into powder. Gloria’s favorite soap is scheduled to begin, and with the help of cocktails, she’ll be in Another World any minute now.
What’s really gross: Gloria claims she’s got one in the oven.
I know that’s a lie, a way to trap Daddy and force him to marry her. I found used Tampax in the garbage. Not mine. The only thing Gloria’s pregnant with is bull.
She says the nesting instinct has set in. That means, she orders me to clean, while she lies on the couch. (Nothing new, but she’s become more persistent.) Today she told me to clean the basement, not because she cares that it’s a disaster (she’s too oblivious to notice), and not because she’s pregnant, but because she’s a sadist.
She knows I want to go out.
So far, I’ve washed and folded three loads of laundry, scrubbed the kitchen floor, and vacuumed the living room.
Once Gloria nods off, I’ll be free to hang out with Jason.
“Before you hit the basement, Missy, hit me with another rum and Coke.”
Gloria waves her glass, like I’m her personal cabana boy.
“You shouldn’t drink if you’re really pregnant.”
“Mind your business.”
Since she’s drinking for two, I add an extra Valium.
Cleaning the basement is a job no one has attempted since Mommy died. It smells of mold and something else … I’m not sure what.
Putrefying bodies?
Rotting groceries?
Cobwebs droop from flickering fluorescent lights, and I’m pretty sure black widow spiders have rented condos in every corner. At one time, the linoleum floor tile was beige, but now it’s as brown as dirt. Really, you can’t see the floor, because it’s covered with supermarket bags. A narrow path leads to Daddy’s work area—although he never works there anymore. The back wall is hung with pegboard and holds his tool collection; a lot of them are rusty now. A workbench runs along the wall, covered with old power tools, filthy rags, jars of nails, screws, washers, nuts, bolts—along with empty beer cans, remnants of sandwiches, and piles of Cosmo magazines (he reads them when Gloria is done). Mommy’s death set Daddy free to follow his heart and be the slob he truly is.
The
air down here is stifling, full of dust motes, and so heavy I can hardly breathe. A broken fan stands by the workbench, its propellers caked with oily dirt. Even though I’m wearing shorts, sweat drips from my forehead, and my Spice Girls tee-shirt clings to my back.
I avoid the torture chair.
The spiked seat is buried beneath a pile of rags, so deep they serve as a cushion for the sleeping cat—Kitty Muffin’s curled up in the nest he’s made, his tail draped over his nose. Ever since he lost his balls, that cat is always napping.
I switch on the vacuum, and Kitty Muffin comes to life.
He leaps from the chair, lands deftly between paper bags, and maneuvers the obstacle course of groceries. Slinking past the workbench, he slips through a gap in the sliding door and enters the back room where Daddy keeps his refrigerator. From there, Kitty Muffin escapes through a broken window.
Using the hose and nozzle, I suck up dirt around the grocery bags. If I attempt to move them, the paper may disintegrate. After vacuuming, I’m supposed to mop the floor.
Not.
Thanks to Valium, Gloria won’t make it much past three.
At 4:00 PM I’m meeting Jason.
A trickle of sweat drips off my chin.
I could use a cold drink.
The sliding door beckons.
Daddy keeps his refrigerator padlocked, and I’ve never opened it, but I know that’s where he has his stash of beer.
The key I swiped from his desk drawer feels heavy in my pocket.
I glance at the stairway, as if Daddy might appear. I remind myself he’s out of town, close to Buffalo, or something. In case he returns unexpectedly, I prepare an explanation for why I have his key. Gloria told me to make a copy … I found it on the floor; you must have dropped it … I need a specimen from your collection for biology class.
Too risky.
I focus on vacuuming.
The nozzle sucks up gray dirt that’s as light as ash—I imagine cremating Daddy and Gloria out in the backyard at the next family bar-b-que. I’d have to cut them up to fit them on the grill. Then I’ll cook them slowly, inhaling the porky scent of roasting flesh. I’ll bite into a rib—succulent and dripping grease.
Six Pack of Sleuths: Comedy Mysteries Page 59