by Jo Barrett
Chapter 3
It was my usual Saturday afternoon routine. Have coffee with Heather. Check out the new paperback fiction. Maybe catch a matinee. The only difference—and it was a profound difference—was that I was alone. Carlton was no longer in my life. And I had a burning desire to kill him.
I brought the rat book home. Back to my empty townhouse. Free of Carlton’s clothes, his belongings, our pictures as a couple. Once in a while I could smell his smell. The beautiful smell of the woods lingering on a piece of furniture. And each time I smelled it, my heart would drop. As much as I hated to admit it, part of me longed for the days when Carlton and I snuggled together in our big, comfy chair. The one with the oversized pillows. Drinking ice-cold margaritas with our legs intertwined.
And so, to get rid of his smell, I sprayed lemon freshener everywhere. Kept the windows open. Burned vanilla candles. Boiled cinnamon sticks in a pan on the stove.
Killing Carlton could be a futile exercise, I knew. I didn’t have that kind of brio. But at least I could practice. Who knew?
I was Italian, so my blood ran hot. And I was a Texan to the core. (And everyone knows not to mess with Texas women.) But still. No matter what Carlton had done to me, and he’d done a lot, would I really feel better baking chocolate brownies filled with rat poison? Delivering them in an anonymous gift basket to the office we used to share? In the company we’d built? Together? Would this cheap, dirty trick make me feel better?
You betcha.
I wrestled a cast iron pot out of the kitchen cabinet. A beautiful Le Creuset 12-quart from Williams Sonoma. No black, bubbling witch’s cauldron for me, thank you very much. I’m a gourmet assassin.
I don an apron that says, “Kiss me, I’m Italian,” roll up my sleeves, and go to town. I follow my mother’s old brownie recipe to a tee. Blending in the chocolate, slowly, so it won’t burn. Melting salted butter in the microwave. Stirring the mixture hard and fast (at least fifty beats!) with a whipping spoon.
I imagine myself as a witch. Stirring my brew. Maybe I should join a Wicca group and burn incense and frog legs and chant incantations.
Or better yet, what about those Haitian voodoo witches? Perhaps I could learn the art of sticking pins in a Carlton doll. I’d dress it in a little biking outfit—and stick pins right through its little padded biking shorts.
Would Carlton feel the pain, I wondered?
It was worth a try.
I finish the brownie mixture, and like a good witch, I lick the spatulas. Then I pour the mixture into a baking pan. And for the final touch—
Arsenic, I think.
Chapter 4
The morning after I slept with Carlton Connors for the first time, I rolled over and was more than shocked to see a beautiful man in my bed. His body was perfect. A flat stomach with rolling muscles down his abdomen. Long, lean, muscular legs. Light brown, silky hair. A face like a Michelangelo. Strong nose. Dimple in the chin. And he smelled like a dream. A faint hint of cologne that reminded me of being in the woods. There was nothing offensive about Carlton Connors. Not a single blackhead on his nose. Not even a mole.
He opened a perfect eye. The color of a buttered almond—and he looked straight at me. I remember pulling the sheets up to my chin, hiding my nakedness. My itsy-bitsy flab. My poochy belly. My strong, yet somewhat stubby legs.
“I’ll have you know, Mr. Connors, this is the first time I’ve ever slept with a guy I just met,” I say, right off the bat.
“Sure. That’s what they all say,” he chuckles and strokes my hair. His touch is gentle but firm. And it sends me to the moon and back. I feel giddy as this man—this stranger—brushes my cheek with his finger.
“Good morning, beautiful,” he whispers. He leans forward and kisses me. Not a quick good morning peck, but a long, lingering kiss. The type of kiss you imagine might happen one day because you saw it in a movie once. But when it actually happens, you suck in your lungs because you’re afraid you’ve got morning breath.
I pull back from Carlton, prop my elbow up on the pillow, my head against my hand. I shoot this new guy my most serious look. “I’m serious. I’ve never had a one-night stand,” I protest, because I want him to know I’m not a slut. And because it’s true.
“Who said anything about one night?” he replies.
I try to act cool at this point. No big, cheesy smiles or wild kisses.
I inform Carlton in my most neutral tone, “I don’t know about you, but I’m serious about getting my MBA. I don’t need a messy relationship getting in the way.”
He chuckles, shakes his head, as if he can’t believe my audacity.
“That rhymes,” he says.
And then he surprises the hell out of me by singing in a woman’s falsetto voice: “I’m serious about my MBAAA,” he sings, “I don’t need a guy getting in the Wa-aay.”
“I don’t even know you!” I say, lightly slapping his arm.
Carlton sticks his hand out and says, “Carlton Connors, pleasure to make your acquaintance, ma’am.”
“Funny.”
Carlton runs his hand through his hair, which I notice looks as perfect in the morning as it did last night.
I sit up in bed and prop a pillow behind my back, being careful to keep the sheets tucked up to my neck.
“Look, this was just a fling, okay?” I say in a strong voice. And I don’t know why I say this, but I do. I guess it’s a pride thing. Because I know this guy will never call me.
“Hey, I’m a nice guy, Madeline Piatro. So don’t go breaking my heart,” he says, flashing me his movie star smile.
I stare at this man in my bed. A hard stare. “You and I both know that this was just a one-night fling,” I say, in my most business-like tone.
He presses his finger against my lips. “You’re gonna need an army of bodyguards to keep me away from you, darlin’,” he whispers.
I remember slapping my hand over his mouth, crawling on top of him like a rodeo cowgirl. And throwing caution to the fucking wind.
And so began our romance.
Chapter 5
I bend down and peer at my poison brownies. Poke them with a fork. Steam rises from the glass pan and the smell is mouthwatering. Like warm, molten chocolate. My stomach does a painful little flip-flop. I’m hungry. Famished, really. I haven’t eaten since I had coffee with Heather. A few disappointing bites of a crusty, day-old scone. In fact, I haven’t eaten in weeks. Not a real meal, anyway. Not four squares, whatever a square is. Come to think of it, I don’t remember the last time I actually sat down and ate properly. Screw this “no carbs, Atkins, smoothie wheatgrass thing,”—someone should write a book called “The Break-Up Diet.”
I grab a beautiful knife from the wood block on my counter, and slice into the brownies. The smell is overwhelming, and when I pull the knife out, it’s covered in rich, smooth, moist, chocolate. The kind of warm chocolate that feels good against the tongue. I stare at the knife a moment too long, then race to the sink and plunge it in water.
I couldn’t find arsenic so I had to make do. Apparently, it’s been outlawed for use in rat poison, ant poison, and weed killer. I also didn’t have all the ingredients to make my lavender-scented pesticide brownies, so I’ve experimented with rosemary, sage, and furniture polish.
My brownies probably won’t kill Carlton. But hopefully, he’ll get a bad case of diarrhea. I consider the crime. It will be executed in the most elegant way. The delivery of a beautiful gift basket—anonymous of course—to Carlton’s office with a little note. “Congratulations, you’ve been selected as a finalist for the Worst Man in the World Contest, and guess what—You’ve Won!” it could read. But then Carlton would know it was me. Perhaps just the basket with the brownies. I consider wrapping each one individually with Saran Wrap. Or do I slice them in cute little squares and tuck them neatly on decorative tissue paper?
Hmm—decisions, decisions.
The only kink in my plan, the only problem, and it’s a doozy, is Carlton may end up sha
ring the brownies with his employees. And I know these people, because they used to be my employees, too. However, Carlton isn’t much for sharing and I can see him stashing the basket under his desk. But still, I can’t take the risk. What if someone sneaks into Carlton’s office while he’s away on his lunch break and grabs a brownie? Or worse, what if Carlton is feeling generous that day? What if he says, “Hey guys, someone sent me these brownies. Dig in!” The odds of this were small—Carlton was never one to be so chummy.
“Never get too friendly with the help,” he used to say. The “help” being the employees.
I stare down at the brownies. God, they sure smell good. They even look tasty. This furniture polish thing may work out. I poke the brownies again with a fork. My stomach growls as more chocolate steam rises from the pan.
Hmm. I wonder if he’ll taste the difference?
I cut off a tiny little chocolate edge, a sliver from the side of the pan. I hold it up to my nose and sniff. Smells like warm brownie, nothing more. I pop the sliver in my mouth. And chew.
Wow! Not bad. Not bad at all, actually.
I fork off another tiny bite, a morsel, really. Not even enough for a mouse. I let the warm chocolate melt on my tongue.
Uh-oh. I should’ve made a nonpoisonous batch for myself, I think. But what if I’d gotten the pans mixed up? Don’t put it past me to do something brilliant like get my poison brownies mixed up with my yummy brownies.
“Maddy, what are you doing?” I hear a voice in my head ask.
“I don’t know,” I answer.
“This is nuts!” the voice says.
But this voice apparently doesn’t know the power of warm chocolate brownie fresh out of the oven.
I use my fork to stab into the brownie pan and take a real bite. This time, I don’t hesitate. Look out, Rachel Ray. I’m the anti-chef.
Hmm.
Maybe this furniture polish isn’t as poisonous as I thought. I check the label.
CAUTION! HARMFUL IF INGESTED! DO NOT INDUCE VOMITING. CALL A PHYSICIAN OR POISON CONTROL CENTER IMMEDIATELY!
I grab the pan, walk out the back door, and dump the entire mixture in the trash. I come back inside, turn the sink on full blast so water sprays on my apron, pour liquid soap into the pan, and scrub-a-dub, dub.
And that’s when I feel the nausea coming on.
I drop the pan in the sink, hit the water off, and race to the toilet. That’s the good thing about throwing up. You get a small warning. Just enough time to turn the sink off because who wants to waste water, right?
I flip the lid up on the toilet, collapse to my knees, and begin fighting my body as it heaves and heaves. I try swallowing, but no dice.
The furniture polish and the chocolate are fighting a field battle in my stomach. The front lines have been breached. It’s full-fledged, arm-to-arm combat now. I feel a searing pain in my esophagus. The final, killer blow. And I realize, as I moan over the toilet—I’m done for.
Chapter 6
The next evening, after my one-night stand with Carlton Connors, I got a singing telegram. From Mr. Connors himself.
He surprised me on my doorstep with a bouquet of yellow roses. “For my yellow rose of Texas,” he said, with a cheesy grin on his face. And then he burst into the University of Texas college fight song.
“The eyes of Texas are upon us…” he sang, bent down on one knee, with his arms outstretched.
He brought a bag of groceries with him, and we cooked pasta and then had hot, sweaty sex on the tile floor in the kitchen.
From that day on, our one-night stands became a three-day-per-week event.
Within a month, Carlton moved out of his second-floor walkup, an efficiency that smelled faintly of mothballs, and into my small, but tidy, townhouse. Carlton figured it was cheaper and easier if we lived together in grad school. “We’ll be more efficient if we’re a team,” he said.
He was having big problems in class and even bigger problems paying his tuition.
“I can’t work and study and have any kind of social life,” he complained. Bookwork and tests didn’t come easily for Carlton. We were both trying to hold down jobs while getting our MBAs. I had been working at the same company for fourteen years, if you include the time I’d spent interning in high school. Carlton was trying to hold down a low-level job at one of his father’s warehouses.
Carlton’s father, Forest Connors, was a millionaire several times over, and owned a company that sold medical equipment at high markups. Forest Connors was a well-known patron of the University of Texas McCombs School of Business, and had endowed a chair named after Carlton’s grandfather.
Carlton first introduced me to his dad at an MBA event—a wine and cheese reception hosted by the economics department.
“This is Madeline—the girl I’ve been telling you about, Dad,” Carlton had said, steering me in the direction of a tall, handsome man who vaguely resembled Carlton.
“Nice to meet you, Madeline. I’m Forest Connors,” Mr. Connors announced, in a commanding voice.
I remember standing up straight and shaking Mr. Connors’ broad, outstretched hand. He had a solid grip, just like Carlton. A winner’s handshake.
“So, you’re the woman who’s keeping my son from concentrating on his work,” Mr. Connors had said. And he was sort of joking, and sort of not.
“She’s also responsible for the Gross National Debt, Dad,” Carlton shot back, and we all laughed.
Later, when I asked Carlton why his father didn’t help pay his tuition, Carlton said his father believed in “starting from the ground up.” Forest Connors wasn’t a man to spoil his son, and in fact, Carlton drove a rusty Honda that seemed to love to break down.
Carlton said his Honda had “personality,” and it “loved to buck the trend.” He’d say this on mornings when he had the hood up, his hands covered in grease.
Carlton felt his Honda had single-handedly spoiled the Honda image—of the reliable, low-maintenance car that would run and run forever.
“Goddamn Asian prostitute!” he’d yell, kicking at the tires. When he went to work in one of his father’s warehouses—gotta learn the business from the ground up!—he rode his bike. It got to the point where Carlton began leaving his schoolbooks at home. I was taking notes in class for both of us.
One night, after we’d had particularly good sex—sweaty, uninhibited, pornstar sex—he rolled me over, stroked my matted-down hair, and stared into my eyes. “I can’t impress my dad at work and get good grades in school, and you’re so great with marketing, Maddy—I mean, you’re the number-one student in class.”
“Say no more,” I’d replied, pressing my hand against his lips.
The next thing I knew, I was doing all of Carlton’s assignments. I wrote several knockout papers for him and he got A’s on every single one. I felt like the girlfriend of the head football player. But I didn’t mind. Carlton and I were madly in love. And that was all that mattered.
Chapter 7
I spend the entire night in front of the porcelain throne, as they say. Throwing up like a drunk. Hurling out the small bits of brownie along with all of my acidic stomach juices. This is my punishment. For thinking these murderous, devil thoughts.
In the morning, after a restless, fitful sleep—a sweaty, tossing, turning sleep on my mattress—I use the bathroom and my pee smells like metal. Checking the mirror, I see my forehead is damp and my skin has a slight yellow pallor.
Hello, lemon face. I rinse my mouth with Listerine. I’ve rinsed it so much over the last eight hours the bottle is on its last drop.
I plod into the kitchen, rub my eyes, peer out the kitchen window and see a black, furry thing lying in my driveway.
Terrific.
I’m a murderess after all.
I pad down the driveway in my tatty robe and bare feet. A dead raccoon is next to my garbage can, the trail of brownie crumbs leading directly from its slack-jawed, wide-open mouth.
I stare down at the mess in my driveway, a
t the poor, dead animal, and the first thought that enters my head is: There’s never a man around when you need one. Stepping back inside, I don a pair of yellow rubber dishwashing gloves, my flip-flops, and waltz out to the driveway once again in my outfit du jour—my shaggy purple bathrobe. I pick the raccoon up by the tail, and swing its dead carcass into the garbage. It’s a little heavier than I thought, so at first, I accidentally bang the raccoon into the side of the can, before heaving it up and over.
“Rest in peace, little fellow,” I say, in case there exists some kind of raccoon Karma.
I sweep up the brownie crumbs. Then, I roll the garbage can out to the street, because tomorrow is garbage day, thank God.
Here I am, on the street in a purple bathrobe with throw-up stains on the front. I’ve almost poisoned myself and I’ve killed an innocent raccoon. And hey, it isn’t even 10:00 a.m.
I pull the rubber gloves off my hands, open the lid to the trash, and drop them in. I let the lid fall back down…but then I make a huge mistake.
I open the lid and peek inside.
The raccoon, its dead black eyes wide open, is staring straight up at me.
“It was an unintentional crime, it really was…little guy,” I murmur. Followed by, “I’m sorry.”
I drop the lid back down and use my body weight to slam it tight, like I’m slamming the trunk of my car. The garbage men are coming tomorrow, but still. I don’t want to risk having an entire dead zoo out here.
God help me if Pamela Anderson and her PETA pals saw this, I muse, as I plod back up my driveway.
I think of Pamela Lee Anderson and I start to get pissed off. I mean, sure. I buy lipstick that hasn’t been tested on lab monkeys, and I fully support the whole dolphin thing, but c’mon. Enough is enough. Some of us have to work around here.