by Cold Blood
He snapped the door shut. “B… better rinse off one more time,” he said. She turned around to face the water. He wrapped his left arm around her body and with his right, brought the razor to her throat.
“Sweet!” she screamed. “Sweet!” Then no more words. Only shrieking and frantic struggling. She locked both her hands around his right arm and tried to pull it down. He feared he would lose his grip on her fat, wet body. He pressed the straight-edge hard and sliced it across her neck, from his left to right. She yelped and then gurgled. Blood sprayed across the shower walls and dripped down her front. He looked at the shower floor and watched the red liquid snake down the drain. She went limp. He backed up and let go of her. She collapsed on her back. A wet heap of blood and water and shave cream. Knees bent. Arms out. Eyes wide open. Mouth partially open. Raw rip across her throat. He stood over her, panting. His legs felt weak. He dropped the razor; it fell to the shower floor with a clatter. He pressed his left palm against the door and his right against the wall for support. He ducked his head under the shower. Let the stream massage the back of his skull. The water had turned ice cold, but he didn’t notice. For several seconds, the only sound he heard was the shower. A gentle rain washing the blood down and around her neck. A red necklace. More blood. Still more. When would the blood stop? Then through the static, he heard a DJ on the shower radio: “Only twelve hours left of our twenty-four-hour Elvis marathon. Phone or fax your requests for songs by The King. Here’s one of my favorites off his . . .”
She hadn’t discovered the purse or the lyrics inside it. She wasn’t playing with his mind. Keri had been singing along with the radio. Trip reached up and pulled the radio off the shower arm and slammed it against the wall. Batteries and plastic pieces scattered on the shower floor around her body. He pounded the wall with his right fist. “Nothing. Killed her for n… nothing.” He looked down. One of the plastic pieces had landed on her right breast. Covered the frog so only the lily pad was showing. Didn’t look right. He bent over and picked up the shard. Now both were visible. The frog and the lily pad. He stood up and studied the plastic shard. Wrapped his right hand around it. Squeezed until it hurt. He let go of the plastic and it fell into her hair. He checked his arms. Blood on his arms. He’d gone from neat kills with his truck to bashing a man’s head in with a shovel to this mess. A woman’s bare body pressed against his while he sliced her throat. Her blood on his skin. Too personal and up close and intimate. On the shower floor, blood was collecting around her body and under his feet. Her body was blocking the drain. He envisioned the shower stall filling with blood and water, drowning him. Imagined the two of them floating together in the chamber of pink water. Dead.
Banging on the bathroom door jarred him from his waking nightmare. “Sweet? Sweet? What the hell is going on in there?”
His pa. What could he tell his pa?
TWENTY-ONE
FOR A FAMILY of six, it would have been roomy. For a family of twelve, it was a sardine can. Now with everyone gone and her parents alone, it seemed cavernous. She worried it was too much for them to maintain, but the place was immaculate whenever she visited. Murphy parked on the street in front of the two-story Victorian and immediately noticed how even in the fall, the lawn was golf course green. All the leaves were raked and bagged and sitting in the driveway, waiting for a trip to the city compost site. Orange and maroon mums lined the sidewalk leading up to the front steps.
Murphy shut off the Jeep and sat behind the wheel for a minute. She pulled the keys out of the ignition and jiggled them in her right hand. Talking to them about it was going to be tough, she thought. Almost as tough as talking to Jack. Her parents loved their son-in-law. Loved the whole idea of him. A big, handsome doctor. Catholic. The son of college professors. No Lebanese blood in him, but a smattering of Irish. Native of St. Paul. Helpless in the kitchen, as was proper for any self-respecting male. What could she tell them about Erik? He was a big, handsome Lutheran from Minneapolis. German and Irish and Norwegian and God knew what else. Sliced open dead people for a living. Drove expensive cars. Spent too much time at the horse track. Too much time at the gym. Could cook circles around the best restaurant chefs. No. They weren’t going to be impressed with the résumé of the guy she’d slept with. The guy who’d helped end her marriage.
She put her keys in her purse and got out of the car with the paper bag. She walked up the front steps, opened the screen door. She scanned the porch, which ran the length of the front of the house. The aluminum lawn chairs were folded and leaning against a corner. The terra-cotta planters were empty and cleaned and stacked in a row against the wall. Her father hadn’t yet taken the hammocks down in preparation for winter. When she was a kid, many hot summer nights were spent sleeping on the porch. Swinging from the three hammocks her father strung from hooks in the walls. She and her brothers did rock, paper, scissors to see who got to use them. The losers slept on the wood floor atop sleeping bags or—if they were crybabies about it—were banished inside. She was usually one of the winners; the rock was her good-luck charm. She walked up to the front door. Her parents hated when she knocked or rang, said the doorbell was for strangers, not family. She turned the knob, pushed it open, walked inside. Inhaled. Garlic and onions and lamb and tomato sauce.
“Hello!” she yelled. She looked around. As usual, wood floors spotless enough to eat off of. Furniture shiny and aromatic with lemon oil polish. Overstuffed front room furniture with crocheted doilies draped over the arms and backs. Starched lace curtains hanging from the windows. She noticed a basket of clean clothes on the floor at the bottom of the stairs. Without complaint, her mother continued to carry clothes baskets from the basement to the second-floor bedrooms. The Murphy sons had offered to turn the pantry into a main floor laundry, but Amira refused to surrender an inch of kitchen storage. She had to have shelves for her home-canned goods. Tomatoes. Green beans. Grape leaves. All grown in the backyard. Murphy pulled off her jacket and set it and her purse and the bag on the front room couch. She picked up the clothes basket and put her right foot on the first step.
Her mother walked out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron. “Put that down, young lady.” Like her daughter, she was large-breasted. Unlike Murphy, her hips were wide after carrying ten children and her skin leathery from years spent tending to her garden. She stood a little over five feet tall to her daughter’s five feet ten inches. Her dark hair, streaked with silver, was in a bun behind her head, but tendrils were loose around her forehead. Her face was red and beaded with perspiration from the kitchen heat.
“I can carry it up for you, Imma.”
“I’m not crippled.” Amira pulled the basket out of her daughter’s hands and started walking upstairs with it. “I’m going to hop in the bathtub,” she said over her shoulder. “Sit down and make your father wait on you for a change.”
“Sure smells good in here,” Murphy said after her.
“Yeah, yeah,” said her mother as she reached the top of the stairs. Amira Murphy wasn’t good at accepting compliments.
Murphy hung her jacket and purse in the front hall closet, picked up the paper bag, walked to the back of the house. She passed through the dining room, noticed the table was set. Not a good omen for the evening. The clan ate their casual meals in the kitchen at a table made of rough-cut oak and surrounded by a dozen mismatched wooden chairs. Formal family meetings—to plan a wedding, announce a pregnancy, settle a sibling spat—were held in the dining room at a long mahogany table surrounded by matching upholstered chairs. The kitchen table was suitable for a backyard picnic; the dining room furniture belonged in a castle. She counted the place settings. Five. Who else had they invited? She was afraid to ask. She pushed open the swinging door into the kitchen. Sean Murphy was sitting at the table drinking coffee and flipping through the Pioneer Press. He looked at her over his reading glasses and smiled. “Daughter.”
“Papa.” Murphy crossed the linoleum floor, set the bag on the table. She threw her arm
s around him, planted a kiss on top of his head. He still had a full head of hair, though it had long ago turned from black to gray. He smelled of Aqua Velva aftershave and cigar smoke. He loved cigars. The cheaper, the better.
He pulled the paper bag toward him. “Hope this ain’t some of that overpriced wine you waste your money on.” He pulled the Arak out and smiled. “Good girl. Get us a couple of glasses.”
Murphy went to the cabinets above the sink, opened a door and took down three juice tumblers—recycled jelly jars with cartoon characters painted on them. She set them in front of her father. He filled each a third of the way. “Should we wait for Ma?” she asked.
A dismissive wave with his right hand. “We’ll be dead before she gets out of the tub. Get the water and ice for ours. She takes hers neat anyway.”
Murphy took a bottle of spring water out of the refrigerator and a bag of ice cubes out of the freezer and set them in front of her father. He poured water into two of the glasses; the transparent liquid turned a cloudy white. He slowly slipped two ice cubes into each milky tumbler. She sat down next to him and each raised a glass.
Sean: “May neighbors respect you, trouble neglect you, the angels protect you and heaven accept you.”
Murphy loved her father’s Irish toasts made with Lebanese liquor. “Thanks, Papa.” While they sipped, Murphy studied her father. Searched for signs of old age beyond his gray hair. As always, he seemed the same to her. Bushy brows jutting over blue eyes. Lantern jaw. Barrel torso. Big arms. Big hands. Big nose broken on three separate occasions when he stepped between fighting patrons at the family bar. Still, with every visit he seemed to move slower and reminisce more. He missed the bar. Talked with increasing frequency about opening another. Murphy knew it would never happen. Not at his age.
He pointed to the refrigerator. “Your mother made some kibbee nayee,” he said, referring to the Lebanese dish of raw ground beef, bulgur, onions and spices. “Let’s have a nibble before dinner.” Murphy got up, put the ice and water back and took a plate out of the refrigerator. The kibbee was patted into a large round like an oversized hamburger. She set the plate on the table and went to a cupboard below the sink for a bottle of olive oil. She set the oil on the table. With the side of her right hand, she pressed a cross into the kibbee and poured olive oil into it. “Daughter. Where’s the garlic?” The dip was a sort of mayonnaise made of lemon juice, garlic and oil.
“I didn’t see it.”
“It’s there.”
She pulled open the refrigerator and dug around. Found the thick, white sauce in a glass bowl covered with plastic wrap. Took it out. Set it on the table. Peeled off the plastic. Immediately got a whiff of garlic.
“Flatbread’s on the counter,” he said. Murphy turned to get the bread and her mother walked into the kitchen.
“Papa,” snapped Amira. “Why is my daughter running around the kitchen like a maid?” Her hair was damp; she didn’t believe in blow-dryers. She worked her long mane in a bun behind her head while she talked. She always chastised Murphy for wearing her hair long, but never wanted to pay for a haircut for herself. So she kept it knotted behind her head. “I told you to wait on her.”
“I am,” he said. “Now I’m waiting on her to get the bread.”
“We’re eating in the dining room,” Amira said.
“This isn’t eating,” he said. “It’s nibbling.”
Murphy put the plastic bag on the table, reached inside, pulled out a round, flat loaf. Ripped off a couple of pieces. She sat down next to her father and each used a hunk of the bread to scoop up some oil-drenched kibbee. Amira tucked a couple of strands of hair behind her ears and took a seat across from them. She was wearing a short-sleeved housedress that zipped up the front. Even while working in the garden, she wore dresses. She believed ladies never wore slacks. In a bow to comfort, however, she always wore knee-high nylons and flat-heeled shoes. Amira tore off a hunk of bread, scraped some kibbee off the plate and dipped it in the pool of oil on top of the meat.
The three of them chewed silently for a couple of minutes. Murphy’s father took another sip of Arak. “That’ll put hair on your chest.” Another sip, then: “What’s this bullshit about a divorce?”
Murphy swallowed her food, took a sip of Arak. “Can’t we save this for after dinner?”
“No,” said her mother. She lifted her glass, emptied it, slammed it down on the table. “I don’t want to ruin the digestion with bad talk. Let’s settle it now.”
“Nothing to settle, Imma. It’s over. Jack and I are finished.”
Her mother dragged her right palm over her left, as if she were dusting flour off her hands. “Finished. Like that. Eight years of marriage. Use it, crumple it, toss it in the toilet.”
Murphy rubbed her forehead with her fingertips. “It’s not like that. We tried, Ma. I tried.”
“Have you talked to a priest?” Amira asked.
“Should have had babies right off the bat,” said her father. “Kids are glue. Stick people together.”
“I’m glad we didn’t have kids,” said Murphy.
Amira: “Bite your tongue, daughter. You should go to confession.”
“If we had kids, then a split would be messy.”
“So that’s how it is?” Her father took off his spectacles, folded them and pointed them at her. “This is gonna be one of those nice, modern divorces? Send each other Christmas cards and birthday cards? What a load of crap. No such thing as a nice divorce.”
“It won’t be nice. Jack is pissed.” She touched her bottom lip.
“Here’s to Jack,” said her father. He set down his spectacles, raised his drinking glass and polished off the Arak. Rattled the ice around. “Balls the size of an elephant.”
Murphy was indignant. “Whose side are you on?”
Amira: “The marriage’s side.”
Murphy stood up. Her father pulled her back down by her arm. “Okay, okay. Tell us about Mr. Wonderful.”
Amira: “The home wrecker.”
Murphy finished her drink and poured herself and her parents another. Going to be a long night, she thought.
The doorbell. Sean ripped off another piece of bread and used it to scrape more kibbee off the plate. “Who the hell is bothering us now?” He shoved the meat and bread into his mouth and chewed.
Amira folded her arms across her bosom. “What’s his name, this guy you work with?” The doorbell rang again. “He Catholic?”
Murphy stood up. “I’ll get it.”
Sean swallowed. Motioned her down with his hand. “Sit. Probably kids selling magazines for school. We could stock a library with the crap we ordered from your brothers’ kids.”
Murphy walked to the front of the house and opened the door. Two men in their early forties were on the porch, each carrying a six-pack. They stood well over six feet tall, had their father’s fair skin and blue eyes. “Why’d you clowns ring?”
Her older brothers looked past her into the house.
“We figured you’d answer the door,” said Ryan.
“Fireworks over yet?” asked Patrick. He was nervous, ran the fingers of his right hand through his hair. Both men had wavy ink-colored hair like their sister.
She stepped onto the porch and shut the door behind her. “Hell no,” she said. “Haven’t even started.” She rubbed her arms; the sun was setting and it was cold outside. The early evening air smelled of burning wood from neighbors’ fireplaces.
Patrick pulled a bottle out of his pack of Beck’s and held it up. “Got an opener, Potato Head?”
“Yeah. Keep one on me at all times.”
He set the six-pack down. “Was that sarcasm?” He took out a second Beck’s, turned it upside down and used the top to pry the cap off the first bottle.
“Our orders were to talk you out of this,” said Ryan. Patrick took a bump off his beer and nodded.
“Can’t believe they called you bozos,” she said.
“They figured we’d stand up for Jacko be
cause we wear the same uniform,” said Ryan. He and Patrick were both orthopedic surgeons and had a practice together.
Patrick raised his bottle. “To the medical brotherhood.” He took another sip.
“I got a news flash for you guys,” said Murphy. “I’m not the one who did the walking.”
“I’m sorry, Potato Head,” said Patrick.
“Imma told us it was your doing,” said Ryan.
“I guess it’s my fault,” she said. “No. There’s no guessing. It is my fault.”
Patrick picked up his six-pack and tucked it under his left arm. “Let’s assign blame inside, where it’s warmer. Besides, I’m starving.”
“Go ahead,” said Ryan. He pulled his sister by the elbow toward the first hammock. “We’re gonna go for a swing. Be inside in a minute. Don’t eat all the kibbee, you sow.” Patrick made an oink noise, went inside, shut the door behind him.
Murphy opened her mouth to protest but then closed it. Ryan was two years older than Patrick and much more serious. He undoubtedly took to heart his parents’ request to intervene. She’d have to hear him out now or he’d hound her later.
They lowered themselves into a hammock. Ryan set the six-pack down between them. “Want one?” he asked. She nodded. He picked up a Rolling Rock, twisted off the cap, handed her the bottle. Picked up another one, opened it. They sat for a few minutes, their feet flat on the porch floor. They moved the hammock back and forth by bending and straightening their legs. She wrapped her arms around herself. He set his beer down, took off his jean jacket and draped it over her shoulders.
“Thanks.”
He picked up the beer, took a bump. Cupped the bottle between his palms. “What’s the deal with you and Jacko?”
All her brothers called him that; Jack hated it. Another thing about her family that aggravated him. She took a sip of beer. Switched the bottle to her left hand and ran her right index finger around the mouth of the bottle. “We’re finished. He found out I saw someone else. Over the summer.”