I Love You More

by Jennifer Murphy

  Nelipot: someone who walks without shoes. (That’s what I had just done. I figured sock skiing counted.)

  Accubation: the practice of eating and drinking while lying down. (That was what I was doing right then and there. Finishing up my Coke and Cheetos.)

  Wanweird: unhappy fate. (That was what I was worried might happen between Ryan and me if I didn’t continue to practice manifestation.)

  Vigesimation: the act of putting to death every twentieth man.

  The Wives

  The next time we met, the word murder came up again. We’d planned to meet at Rainy Cove Park but it was closed due to mudslides caused by heavy rain, so we opted for Diana’s house instead. We were sitting at Diana’s dining-room table when the split pea soup she was cooking boiled over.

  “I’ll get it,” Bert said. She hurried to the stove. “Ouch. Damn.”

  “Are you okay?” Diana and Jewels asked in unison.

  “Of course I’m not okay,” Bert said, while shaking her hand in the air. “I burned my fucking palm on the pot handle. What do you think? I just like to scream?” She turned on the faucet.

  “Butter works better than cold water.” Diana opened the refrigerator. “Shoot, I’m out.”

  “How about olive oil?” Jewels asked.

  “Do you want my skin to bubble up?” Bert asked.

  “Oh, stop being so dramatic,” Jewels said. “For God’s sake, just blow on it.”

  “You can be such a bitch, Jewels.”

  “Me, a bitch? Well at least I’m not a cheap bitch.”

  “What does that mean?” Bert asked.

  “Stop it, Jewels,” Diana said.

  “It’s true,” Jewels said. “She never pays her portion of the bill.”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “You don’t. There’s tax and tip too, you know.”

  “That’s enough,” Diana said. “There’s no need to take our frustrations out on one another.”

  “I’m not frustrated,” Jewels said.

  “Well I certainly am,” Diana said. “What are we doing? Here we are, seven months later, and what have we accomplished? Other than a lot of complaining and spending, we’re no better off than we were that day we first met at Rainy Cove Park. I thought the point of all this, the point of us, was to help one another.”

  “You guys have helped me,” Bert said.

  “You know what I mean,” Diana said. “We’re all still married to him.”

  “Diana’s right,” Jewels said. “We’re nothing more than a bunch of whimpering wives.”

  “Worse,” Bert said. “Two of us aren’t legally wives. We’re mistresses.”

  Bert’s comment sobered us. We gathered in the kitchen, ladled the soup into our bowls, and ate, only the clanking of our spoons betraying our presence. During this internal interlude, we reflected on the unlikelihood of our bond.

  There was lovely and sensuous Diana. She was one of those “beauty inside and out” types of women that you wanted to hate, or expose as fakes, but Diana was anything but a fake. She was kind, generous, and talented. She’d majored in fine art in college, was quite a successful local painter for a time, but gave it up when Picasso was born. Diana’s father came from old Southern tobacco money. Her mother was a homemaker and, like her daughter later became, a tireless volunteer. Upon her parents’ death, Diana received a large inheritance. She said that Oliver wasn’t aware of her financial circumstances, but we weren’t convinced. Oliver knew everything.

  Jewels came from a stable, upper-middle-class background. Her father was a Wall Street stockbroker; her mother had danced for the New York City Ballet until a bad fall damaged her ankle. Jewels’s architectural career began in New York, but after her affair with one of the firm’s partners erupted, he suggested she either look for a new job or transfer to the Raleigh office. Attractive, but not necessarily pretty, it was Jewels’s athletic physique, seeming confidence, and disarming charm that caught men’s attention, but something else entirely snared them. While she strove to portray herself as disciplined and dispassionate, there was a heat forever bubbling just beneath the surface of her skin which few could escape.

  Bert was opinionated, outspoken, suspicious of anyone or anything new or unknown, and in general a pain in the ass. Her father was Catholic and a fisherman, her mother Lutheran and a schoolteacher. Bert’s most admirable quality was her passion for human justness and fairness. Whether she was saving whales or marching for gay rights, Bert was relentless and unwavering in her pursuit of righting wrongs. And there was something else, something somewhat frightening but at the same time intriguing about Bert. She dabbled in the occult and, although she continuously denied it, had a sixth sense. There were times we were certain she could read our minds.

  Yet even with all our differences, in that place, at that time, our souls were on the same path.

  Diana gathered our soup bowls, rinsed them in the sink, put them in the dishwasher, returned to the table.

  “We could build an empire,” Bert said.

  “What?” Jewels asked.

  “Our differences,” Bert said. “Together we’re unbeatable. After we kill Oliver, we should start a business.” She paused. “Well, don’t look so surprised. I know we’re all thinking the same thing. Besides, it’s easier to sever yourself from a dead person.”

  “Bert’s right,” Jewels said. “As long as Oliver’s alive, we’re doomed.”

  And there it was: Oliver’s fate. Ineluctable.

  None of us said anything for a while. Words seemed meaningless. The future had inserted itself into our present. As if we’d just bought a new, massive piece of furniture, we’d have to shuffle things around to make room for it.

  Picasso

  My first important spelling competition was a big success except for two things: Ryan couldn’t go because he hurt his ankle playing soccer, which meant that Ashley Adams went in his place, and Daddy didn’t show even though he promised he would. Daddy had never been too good at follow-through, so I knew I should be pretty used to it by then, after all he was really important and busy and he was just who he was and he didn’t mean anything by it. He had criminals to defend. I should understand that his only daughter taking first place at some regional, not even state, spelling bee just wasn’t that big a deal in comparison. Besides, he called later that night to apologize and said “I love you more than life itself,” which was true, that he’d “make it up” to me, which meant he would buy me something, that he was “proud” of me, which made sense since I was the reigning regional spelling champion, that obviously there would be “other spelling bees” that he “wouldn’t miss,” that since I was his “smart and wise Picasso” he knew I wasn’t like other kids who got all “upset about little things,” I could “see the big picture,” and that he was confident I would “take it all in stride, Phasm (an extraordinary appearance, especially of brilliant light in the air; a phantom, an apparition).” And he was right, I would because what else could I do, and also because if a person were all those things that Daddy had said, smart and wise and didn’t get upset and saw the big picture and was able to take things in stride, then that someone would be above such petty emotions as sadness, resentment, and selfishness. In short, that person would be perfect, like an angel or something, or really, really, really “nice” like I used to think Ashley Adams was, which she obviously wasn’t because she didn’t even congratulate me when I won.

  But the thing is, even though I knew I shouldn’t be sad, all I wanted to do was cry, and the harder I tried not to, the more my chest hurt and the more I wished I could just run up to my room, lock my door, lie on my bed, and look up words.

  Daddy and I talked for a pretty long time, Daddy mostly because I was afraid my voice would shake, about how hard everything was for him at work and how some other lawyer he worked with had tried to sabotage him, and I tried really hard to listen and understand because isn’t that what a smart and wise and see-the-big-picture person would do? After a while, I was a
ble to tell him I couldn’t believe someone would do that to him, being that everyone knew how caring and generous he was. I think that made him feel a little better, but I could tell he was still upset, and by the time we said goodbye I felt more sorry for him than for me. And even if secretly I were still sad, which I wasn’t, after what happened the next day, I totally forgot about the stupid spelling bee.

  I had started listening in on Mama’s phone calls the day after I saw Jewels and Bert in the blue convertible. If Mama answered it downstairs, I’d run upstairs. If Mama answered it upstairs, I’d scurry downstairs. There was an art to picking up the phone so Mama, and whoever was on the other end of the line, wouldn’t hear the click of the lifted receiver, an art that I mastered. Mostly what I’d heard to that point were conversations between Mama and Junior League ladies or Mama and Daddy, but that day I hit pay dirt.

  “Did you get the house?” Jewels was asking when I picked up the receiver.

  “Yes,” Mama said. “Luckily they had a cancellation, but it’s not until July, the week of the fourth. I’m not sure how I’m going to explain the departure from our usual time to Oliver. I already mentioned I wanted to go somewhere different this year. Do you think he’ll get suspicious?”

  “Oliver?” Jewels said. “No way. He’s too self-centered to get suspicious.”

  “Hopefully it won’t be too crowded,” Mama said.

  “It’s 20 Beach Drive, right?” Jewels asked.

  “Yes,” Mama said. “I specifically asked for it by address.”

  “No worries,” Jewels said. “Place was desolate when I went there with Jonathan a few years ago. From the pictures, it doesn’t look like it’s changed much. Believe me, it’s perfect for our plan.”

  Plan?

  “What about Oliver’s gun?” Mama asked. “What if he doesn’t bring it?”

  Gun?

  “He’ll bring it,” Jewels said. “He brings that damn thing everywhere. He’s paranoid as shit. Geez, I haven’t shot a gun in years. Maybe I should go to the shooting range.”

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Mama said. “Someone might remember you.”

  “Good point,” Jewels said. “It’s probably like riding a bike anyway. My dad used to take me shooting all the time.”

  “Do you ever wonder whether we’re doing the right thing?” Mama asked. “I mean obviously it’s not the right thing. Murder isn’t right. I mean do you wonder whether we should go through with it?”

  Murder?

  “No,” Jewels said. “I don’t. And you shouldn’t either. We’ve decided to kill Oliver, and that’s what we’re going to do.”

  Kill Daddy?

  I must have been in shock because I couldn’t think right away, at least about anything that made any sense at all, but then I got scared and a bunch of thoughts ran through my mind. Why, for instance. Not only why would they want to kill Daddy but also why would they think they’d get away with it? They were obviously obtuse. I mean, Mama didn’t tell me about Daddy having other wives and I figured it out. Any police officer with half a brain would too, and once they did, it wouldn’t be long before they figured out who killed him. The police weren’t dimwits, and Mama, Jewels, and Bert weren’t career criminals. Not to mention that the three of them had kids, and with Daddy dead, what would happen to us if they got caught? I remember hoping that Mama and Jewels were just joking or bored. Maybe the whole conversation was a new type of woe-are-we story they were telling themselves or acting out, like how the All That Girls were always spinning these elaborate dramas where they liked some people some days and other people other days, and the days they didn’t like certain people (like me), they made up a bunch of stuff about those people that wasn’t true just to make the stories they created more dramatic. In other words, obviously they were bored.

  I must’ve missed part of the conversation while I was thinking all these things, because I heard Mama asking Jewels something about a phone number.

  “So it read out?” Jewels asked. “Damn. The package said it was untraceable.”

  “That doesn’t mean the number won’t pop up,” Mama said. “And besides, if it gets to that point, the police checking the numbers on our phone bills I mean, we can just say Oliver must have made those calls.”

  “You’re right,” Jewels said. “There’s no need to worry, but I suggest we stick to meeting in person as much as possible over the next few months. And I think we should get together more often. There are a lot of details to iron out; we can figure all that out when we get together on April sixteenth.”

  “The Farmer’s Almanac says it’s going to be a beautiful day,” Mama said.

  “Thank God,” Jewels said. “Those mudslides were crazy. Let’s plan on meeting at Rainy Cove Park an hour early.”

  Rainy Cove Park?

  “Sounds good,” Mama said. “Do you want me to call Bert?”

  “No, that’s okay,” Jewels said. “I will. See you at eleven.”

  Before they even hung up the phone, I was back in my room nursing a panic attack and frantically looking up vigesimation again. I was right; it had been a sign. There it was in plain print: “the act of putting to death,” that part made sense, “every twentieth man,” which was confusing, unless maybe men got killed in some universal pattern of twenty. But then I remembered that the address of the house Mama was renting was 20 Beach Drive.

  Now a good sleuth only has to hear the time and location of one designated meeting to follow the bread crumbs to each of the others. For the next two months, my spying took me to Rainy Cove Park (code: RCP). During that time, I learned a lot, and not just about murder. I learned to forge Mama’s signature, and smile sweetly when I gave Mama’s notes to the school secretary. “I’m so sorry about your toothache (or your stomachache, or your dog, or your mother’s car), Picasso,” Mrs. Dumpling (her real name was Rumpling) would say. Or, “Remember I won’t be over this Wednesday, Mrs. Jesswein (she was Mama’s backup babysitter) because I have that spelling practice (or birthday party, or cheerleading try-out, or fort-building engagement, or rocket trip to Mars).” It really didn’t matter what I said since Mrs. Jesswein didn’t hear too well, and I swear she was forever just north of tipsy from all that port-wine sipping she did, which, by the way, she often shared with me since port was so good for my heart, or my circulation, or my hair and nails. With no other way to get to RCP, I had to take the bus. I was a little nervous since I’d never been on a city bus, but I learned that the drivers were nice to kids as long as the kids were nice back. Most of them let me sit on the seats designated for old or handicapped people right in the front of the bus, so I had a really good view out the window. Over time, I learned several routes. The only problem was that it cost money to ride the bus, so I also learned how to steal. I knew stealing was bad, but it was just a few dollars here and there from Daddy’s wallet or Mama’s stash drawer, and it was for a good cause: the Stop Mama from Killing Daddy cause.

  I also learned a lot about lying. I was surprised how many different ways there were to lie, such as words, actions, non-actions, body language, and pretending you didn’t hear or see something when you did. I learned that people lie for many different reasons, like they don’t want to get in trouble, they don’t want to get in an argument, and they can’t admit they’re weak or wrong or even right. Most of all, I learned that lies can be as sticky as spiderwebs, and once you got tangled in one, there was pretty much no way out. That was reason enough not to tell any, but what choice did I have?

  When Daddy wasn’t home, I started dropping Mama hints that I hoped would upset her. I checked out mystery and detective novels from the library and passed them off to her. I told her how I’d been watching CSI and other crime shows and how the murderers always got caught, no matter what they did to cover their tracks. I told her I learned in school that DNA, ballistics, fingerprinting, and phone-tracing technologies were advancing every second. I threw out specifics, like the number of crimes solved per year, the number of co
nvicted murderers that were given the death penalty in North Carolina (forty since 1976), the unhealthy food they served in jail, and the number of manicures, pedicures, and massages prisoners had gotten since the beginning of time (zero). I told her that when a man was murdered, his wife was almost always the prime suspect. I did everything but come right out and tell her I knew what the three of them were planning. But as usual, Mama wasn’t interested in what I had to say. Sometimes she’d nod or say “That’s nice, Picasso,” but mostly she’d just stare off into space.

  The last time the three of them met at RCP, I got there real early because I didn’t want to miss even one thing they said. At that time, I was still certain I could figure out a way to stop them. I wore a T-shirt, shorts, and sneakers, and stuffed my hoodie and an umbrella into my backpack just in case. I crouched out of sight in the same place I always did, behind a fallen tree with a trunk so big I easily could’ve crawled inside it. I mean there was even a hole where a knot must’ve broken off that I could’ve watched from, but like Daddy I’ve never been big on confined spaces.

  Mama showed up first with her picnic basket and blanket. Jewels came next. On top of her regular brown paper bag with wine in it, she carried what looked like a folded-up cardboard house with a black handle. When she turned just right, I saw that it was a Barbie Dream House. I remember wondering what a grown woman was doing with a Barbie Dream House. Not that I’ve ever been much of a Barbie person, or dolls in general for that matter, but the three that Mama did get me—Barbie, Ken, and Skipper (she said she got them because they were “just like our family”)—I’d packed up and donated to Goodwill, along with their clothes, shoes, cases, car, and house, when I was, like, eight. Or maybe nine. The point is, Jewels was old, way too old to be schlepping a Barbie Dream House. Bert was last. She was carrying the same tote bag she always did; it looked like it was made out of a rug. It was strange the way they did everything—came, went, talked—in the same exact order. First Mama, then Jewels, then Bert, the order Daddy had married them in, the order of their looks and ages and heights, Mama prettiest and oldest and tallest on down, the order of their importance in Daddy’s internal pecking system, like he was one of those Mormon husbands or the huffing and puffing big bad wolf. I’d heard Jewels call it the Order of the Wives, which I thought was some sort of club at first, but later I figured out it had a double meaning.