The Black Widow

by Wendy Corsi Staub

  He presses the sharp edge into his flesh, then hesitates.

  Maybe he should pray first, for real this time. Just in case there’s hope for his soul. Just in case he’ll be borne away from this hell and into heavenly light.

  “Forgive me, merciful Father, for I have sinned,” he whispers, tears squeezing from his closed eyelids as he digs the blade into his wrist, slicing into the vein.

  This time, there is pain. Explosive pain, and blood, so much blood, running over his fingers . . .

  He sinks back onto the filthy mattress and waits for the blackness to give way to the light at last.

  Gaby was glad Ben suggested a new restaurant for tonight—someplace they’d never been together. Someplace she’s never been at all, actually.

  The place is tucked away on a cobblestone street downtown in the meatpacking district, just a block from the southern tip of the Highline, a long, narrow park that runs alongside the Hudson River, built on an abandoned elevated rail line.

  Back when they were married, she and Ben occasionally strolled down the Highline on a weekend afternoon and wound up having a late brunch—or early dinner—in this rambling neighborhood of cobblestones and converted warehouses; wine bars and construction awnings and camped out paparazzi.

  If tonight he’d asked her to meet him at one of those restaurants—their restaurants—she’d have had to say no. Too many memories.

  But apparently he wants to avoid them as well.

  The restaurant occupies the ground floor of one of the industrial buildings that are so plentiful in this part of the city. The enormous open space has the requisite exposed brick, high ceilings, pillars, and windows that extend from the wide-planked floor to the beamed ceiling high overhead.

  The hostess is a skinny, anemic-looking young woman with thick eyeliner, a pierced eyebrow, and long, straight hair parted in the middle. She’s wearing a pair of short shorts with clunky mid-calf snow boots—obviously, the height of fashion.

  “I’m meeting—”

  “Name?”

  “Gabriela Duran—wait, you mean my name, or his?”

  All but sighing, Short-shorts asks, as if addressing a toddler—or an idiot, “Who made the reservation?”

  “He did. Ben Duran.” Ordinarily, Gaby wouldn’t be the least bit intimidated by a hipster hostess with an attitude, but she’s feeling vulnerable tonight on every level.

  “Not here yet. Do you want to be seated or wait for him?”

  “I’ll wait.” Then, on second thought. “No, I’ll sit.”

  “Are you sure, Mrs. Duran?” she asks with exaggerated patience.

  “I’m not Mrs. Duran. And yes. I’ll sit.”

  The expressionless girl shrugs, grabs a couple of menus, and leads her through the crowded room to a cozy table by the window. She tosses the menus down and leaves without a word.

  Gaby settles into one of the empty chairs and self-consciously wishes she’d chosen the other one. That way she’d have her back to the adjacent table for two, where a man is also facing an empty seat.

  He gives a little wave. She waves back before realizing that he’s actually looking at someone behind her. His date must have arrived, and by the look on his face, he’s thrilled to see her.

  Wait—not his date. It must be his wife. The woman is tremendously pregnant. He jumps up to greet her with a kiss and pulls out the empty chair for her. Gold wedding bands glint on both their hands. Their happiness radiates.

  A lump forms in Gaby’s throat. She and Ben were once like that.

  Now Ben is looking for happiness with another woman, and . . .

  Well, to be fair, she’s looking for the same thing with another man, isn’t she?

  She might even have found it. The potential for it, anyway. Ryan texted her again late this afternoon, wanting to make plans for the weekend. She agreed to see a movie with him on Saturday night. By then she’ll have the closure she needs and be back in the right frame of mind, ready again to move on in a new relationship.

  “Hey, sorry I’m late.”

  Ben at last. He’s wearing a suit, straight from the office, carrying the black leather bag she gave him that last Christmas . . .

  Not their last Christmas together, though. How well she remembers the unbearable holiday season that kicked off just days after Josh’s funeral. And then there was another Christmas after that, one more joyless Christmas, before they separated.

  But the last Christmas that really felt like Christmas was when she was pregnant. She merrily braved the hordes of holiday shoppers, unbothered by her enormous belly and bulky winter coat, searching for just the right bag to replace the worn canvas satchel Ben had been carrying to work.

  So he’s still using the leather bag. There’s a part of her that’s surprised to see it.

  Then again, why wouldn’t he use it? It’s not a particularly sentimental gift, hardly on the same level as the ruby earrings he gave her that same Christmas. She wouldn’t dream of wearing them now; they’re tucked away in her jewelry box along with her wedding and engagement rings. She isn’t quite sure what she’s supposed to do with them. Keep them? Sell them? Give them away?

  “I tried to get a cab,” Ben tells her, putting his suit coat over the back of the chair and sitting across from her, “but you know—rush hour. Midtown. So then I took the subway, but . . . of course there was a delay. Stalled train ahead, or something like that. You look good.”

  He tacks that last part on as if it’s part of the metro traffic report, and it takes a moment for her to react.

  Glad she happened to wear one of her new dresses to work this morning—and glad she stopped in the ladies’ room to put on mascara and lipstick—she says, “Oh—thank you. So do you.”

  “You’re saying that because I shaved. Yet another reason I was late.”

  “You shaved for me?”

  He nods. “In the men’s room at the office. I haven’t done that since . . . well, it’s been a long time.”

  “You didn’t have to do it on my account.”

  “Don’t tell me you’ve changed your mind about razor stubble?”

  She shakes her head, smiling faintly. “Still not a fan.”

  The waiter appears to pour water into their glasses and asks if they’d like to order wine.

  Ben orders a bottle of Argentine red without consulting her, then belatedly, as the waiter leaves again, asks Gaby, “That’s okay, right? The Malbec?”

  “It’s fine. I love Malbec.”

  “I know. I remember. Hates stubble, loves Malbec.”

  “That’s me.” She sips her water and notices that he’s not wearing a watch.

  He always used to wear the Movado she gave him for his birthday the year they were married. It was a beautiful watch, and expensive. Not Rolex-expensive, but still . . .

  Did he lose it? Sell it? Put it away, as she did the jewelry he gave her? Why hasn’t he replaced it with a different watch now? She wants to ask him, but of course she doesn’t.

  She looks away from his wrist and notices that the couple at the next table are sharing a bottle of Pellegrino and appetizers. They’re talking, laughing, probably planning for all the things they’ll do when the baby comes.

  Are they speculating about whether it’s a boy or girl, or do they already know the sex?

  When Gaby was pregnant, she and Ben had opted to be surprised. He’d guessed boy, she’d guessed girl. She’d secretly thought she might be disappointed if she was wrong, but she wasn’t. The moment she held their son in her arms, she felt an overwhelming rush of—

  “Gaby?”

  “Hmm?”

  “You’re staring at those people.”

  “Oh, I—sorry.” She shrugs. “I just . . . I thought I knew them, but . . . I don’t. So how’s work?”

  He pauses, but only for a second, then goes with her conversational shifting of gears. He tells her about the building he’s designing and an upcoming conference he’s attending. Then he asks about her job, and whether she�
��s acquired anything interesting for her list.

  “Nothing that you’d—oh, wait, remember that book I took a chance on last year? The one Ellen hated?”

  “The one about the silent film star and the nun?”

  “That’s the one.” She hesitates, surprised he remembers. She only told him about it back then to make conversation during a stilted dinner out one night when they were supposed to be working on their marriage.

  “Did it get published yet?”

  “Not only did it get published, but it hit the New York Times list last week.”

  “That’s fantastic!”

  The waiter shows up with their wine, and Ben lifts a glass to her. “Here’s to you and your best seller.”

  “And to you and your building.”

  Clink.

  Drink.

  Silence.

  Ben clears his throat. “I’m really happy things are going well for you. And you’re so—I mean, you look amazing.”

  “Oh, that’s just the wine talking,” she quips, and he smiles.

  Then, serious again, he clears his throat. “I guess you’re seeing someone?”

  Ryan. Right. She nods.

  “Did you meet him online?”

  She wishes he hadn’t asked that, wishes she didn’t have to answer. Then, realizing she’s free not to, she asks, “Can we talk about something else?”

  “Sure, why not?”

  “Are you seeing someone?”

  “Not that,” he says, without missing a beat, and tilts his head at her, wearing a faint smile. “What else can we talk about? We’ve covered work. And books . . .”

  “Not all books.”

  “Enough books for my taste.”

  “Sports?”

  “No!” He holds up a hand like a traffic cop. “If you know what’s happening in the game, don’t tell me. I’m recording it at home.”

  She laughs and shakes her head. “You still do that?”

  “Yeah, and sometimes I make it all the way home without someone ruining it for me.”

  “Trust me, I have no clue what’s going on in the game.”

  “Trust me—I believe you.”

  “Hey! I follow the Yankees.”

  “Since when?”

  “Since—I always followed them. Just not as rabidly as you.”

  “How about your new boyfriend? Is he—”

  “We’re not talking about him.”

  “Oh, right.” Ben sips some wine.

  “And he’s not my new boyfriend.”

  “Okay.”

  “He’s”—she holds back the word just—“someone I’ve been seeing. I’m sure you’ve been seeing people, too.”

  Ben shrugs.

  Does that mean that he is? Or that he isn’t?

  Of course he is. He’s on InTune, remember?

  But they’re not talking about that, and they’re not talking about Ryan. They chat on about other things. She asks about his brother and sister-in-law and nieces; he asks about Jaz and several other cousins. They order food, discuss movies and music, and then the appetizers arrive and the waiter pours more wine, and Gaby forgets that she was ever uncomfortable; somehow forgets that they’re not still married, until . . .

  The couple at the next table catches her eye again as they stand up to go. The husband is solicitous of his hugely pregnant wife as she uses both hands on the tabletop to hoist herself out of the chair. They laugh together as they walk away, the husband’s arm around her.

  Ben follows Gaby’s gaze, watching them. Then he looks at her, wearing such a wistful expression that she knows what he’s thinking: That was us. We were them.

  She expects him to say something about it, but he doesn’t.

  He just pours more wine into her glass, and then his own, and they sip in thoughtful silence.

  Driving up Cherry Street, Alex is still thinking about Mr. Griffith when it happens.

  Again.

  As she passes number 58, the Queen Anne Victorian where Carmen grew up, and where his mother had still lived—and died—after they were married, she sees him.

  Carmen.

  It isn’t her imagination, and it isn’t the first time she’s spotted him standing on that porch lately. The house was empty for years, but it’s not anymore. There are lights on now, and cars in the driveway, and . . .

  And that’s Carmen, standing right there by the front door.

  Her breath catches in her throat. She turns to watch him, and the car swerves, nearly hitting the curb. She slams on the brakes, shaken.

  But when she glances back again, he’s gone.

  Maybe it was her imagination.

  Maybe it was Carmen’s ghost.

  But it’s not Carmen himself. It can’t be, because he’s been gone for a long time. Years. He’s never coming back.

  Alex takes a deep breath, blows it out slowly, hands clenched on the wheel as she drives the remaining distance to her own house.

  Mrs. Toomey, her across-the-street neighbor, waves from her porch rocker as Alex slows to pull into the driveway. The elderly woman is a fixture there at this time of year, reading the paper, dozing, or just “keeping an eye on things,” as she put it a while back, on a day Alex was forced to venture across the street after the mailman delivered an envelope addressed to Hester Toomey, 45 Cherry Street, to her own mailbox.

  “Keeping an eye on what?” Alex had asked the woman, wearing the same bright smile she reserves for pain-in-the-ass patients who ask too many questions.

  “Oh, you know . . . the birds, the trees, the flowers. Mother Nature in all her glory.”

  Yeah, right. Alex has always been grateful the nosy old lady isn’t spry enough to go snooping around other people’s houses or looking into windows.

  Though she does sometimes wonder whether Hester Toomey may have seen Carmen’s ghost, too. Sometimes she’s tempted to stop and ask, but she never does.

  Today, as always, she waves back at the woman and pulls the car into the garage, quickly turning off the engine and pressing the remote that lowers the door behind her.

  For a moment she allows herself to sit there with her head tilted back and eyes closed, absorbing the silence. It’s been a long day, capped off by waiting until a late afternoon patient suffering from chest pains could be transported to the hospital via ambulance.

  Then her eyes snap open and she leans forward to open the glove compartment. Time to get a move on.

  She removes the orange prescription bottle and carries it into the house, along with groceries she bought on the way home.

  She drops the bags on the kitchen counter, stepping around bowls of cat food and milk she left out earlier for Gato. As usual, he left most of it.

  “Hey, Mr. Finicky,” she calls. “Where are you?”

  No reply from the cat. Probably napping on the sofa. Must be nice, Alex thinks, heading straight upstairs with the bottle of Viagra.

  In the master bedroom, with its low ceilings that follow the slope of the roofline, she opens a bureau drawer still filled with Carmen’s neatly paired socks. Reaching all the way to the back, she tucks the prescription bottle inside, then closes the drawer.

  She won’t be needing it for another few weeks or so—not until she’s ovulating again.

  Even then—maybe she won’t need it. Maybe Carlos will change his mind about her.

  Over my dead body . . .

  Yeah, he probably won’t change his mind.

  Whatever.

  If he still isn’t interested when her time comes, she’ll slip a couple of pills into his supper. That’s sure to take care of any . . . lack of desire on his part. There are certain biological urges even the strongest-willed man cannot deny when enhanced with medication.

  The technique worked well enough with the others who were—like Carlos—all too eager to get physical with her on the first night, but reluctant on subsequent occasions.

  Jerks. They should have been nicer to her. Then maybe she’d have been nicer to them.

 
; Alex sits on the bed and quickly unlaces her rubber-soled shoes, fighting the urge to sink back against the pillows. If she allows herself to do that, she’ll probably fall asleep and snooze right through tomorrow morning.

  But that wouldn’t be a good idea. It’s been almost twenty-four hours since she last visited the basement room to tend to her guest. Carlos needs to keep his strength up.

  She strips off her scrubs, throws on a tank top and shorts, and takes the ponytail holder out of her brown hair, shaking it so that it falls past her bare shoulders. Looking into the mirror on the back of the closet door, she likes what she sees.

  She’s not a conventional beauty. Her nose is a little too wide, her lips a bit too thin, and her eyes, albeit a deep shade of blue, are set too close together. There are wrinkles now, too, new ones every day around her eyes and mouth.

  But Carmen always thought she was attractive. So did other men, before and after he came along. She never had any problem getting dates. That’s not why she turned to InTune.

  Her reasons are purely practical. She needs to find men with specific genetic characteristics. They aren’t Carmen, but they’re as close as she can get. With their help, she can recapture what she lost.

  She’s already created a new persona on InTune and gone back to browsing profiles in search of her next candidate, just in case it doesn’t work out with Carlos.

  On the way back downstairs, she passes the front door and checks, as always, to make sure it’s unlocked.

  Just in case . . .

  Yes. Unlocked. Good.

  In the kitchen, she goes through the grocery bags. She quickly makes a turkey sandwich, heats a bowl of canned soup, pours soda into a tall glass with ice. There. He’ll like this.

  She puts the soda bottle back into the fridge, opening and closing the door a little too carelessly. One of the magnets drops off, releasing a sheaf of crayoned drawings. As Alex picks them all up, the memories seep in as always.

  Carmen.

  Dante.

  She loads the meal onto a tray, grabs a flashlight, and heads down the basement stairs.

  Same old routine: set down the tray, move the books, pull the latch that swings the shelf forward to reveal the door, open the door.

  Another month of this, at least, lies before her.