Bad Stacks Story Collection Box Set

by Scott Nicholson

  The least you can do is take your name back. I’ll make it clean, one through the heart, the head, whatever you want. But you ought to do things right and go out under the name you was born with. What about it?

  I mean, you don’t want to meet old St. Pete and tell him your name and he runs his finger down the list and no Vincent there, all them good deeds for nothing, just ‘cause you ain’t really Vincent no more. So he shakes his head and you got to slink away from the Pearly Gates and all because you got no spine.

  So that’s the only thing personal about what I gotta do. This name business. It’s a lie, and I hate lies.

  Whaddaya say?

  Vincent. Don’t go with the crying. It ain’t in character. Not like you at all.

  Sorry, Vincent.

  Open your eyes.

  See, I lied.

  This is personal.

  And my name’s not really Mikey.

  It’s Vincent now. Yeah, your name. I may as well take it, since you won’t be needin’ it no more, and Joey got a thing for me, too.

  You kind of look a little like me, too, and by the time your bones float up in the harbor, you’ll be wax and cottage cheese. With my I.D. in your wallet.

  So you don’t like Vincent, you can be Mikey, and Mikey’s dead, and I skip out as Vincent, and Joey’s none the wiser.

  Everybody lives happy ever after.

  Oh.

  Except you.

  Like I said, it’s nothing personal.

  Tell St. Pete Vincent says hello.

  THE END

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  ###

  WATERMELON

  By Scott Nicholson

  Ricky bought the watermelon on a warm Saturday afternoon in September.

  The early crop had arrived at the local grocer’s in late June, fresh from California, but the available specimens were hard and heartless. Ricky had decided to wait for a Deep South watermelon, and those traditionally arrived many weeks after the annual Fourth of July slaughter. Besides, that was early summer. He had yet to read about the murder and his home life with Maybelle was in a state of uneasy truce.

  But now it was the last day of summer, a definite end of something and the beginning of something else. The watermelon was beautiful. It was perfectly symmetrical, robust, its green stripes running in tigerlike rhythms along the curving sides. A little bit of vine curled from one end like the cute tail of a pig. He tapped it and elicited a meaty, liquid thump.

  It was heavy, maybe ten pounds, and Ricky brought it from the bin as carefully as if it were an infant. His wife had given him a neatly penned list of thirteen items, most of them for her personal use. But his arms were full, and he didn’t care to trudge through the health-and-beauty section, and he had no appetite for Hostess cupcakes and frozen waffles. Sheryl Crowe was singing a bright ditty of sun and optimism over the loudspeakers, music designed to lobotomize potential consumers. Ricky made a straight path to the checkout counter and placed the watermelon gently on the conveyor belt.

  Now that his hands were free, he could pick up one of the regional dailies. The front page confined the woman’s picture to a small square on the left. Her killer, the man who had sworn to love and honor until death did them part, merited a feature photograph three columns wide, obviously the star of the show and the most interesting part of the story.

  “That’s sickening, isn’t it?” came a voice behind him.

  Ricky laid the newspaper on the belt so the cashier could ring it up. He turned to the person who had spoken, a short man with sad eyes and a sparse mustache, a man who had never considered violence of any kind toward his own wife.

  “They say he was perfectly normal,” Ricky said. He wasn’t the kind for small talk with strangers, but the topic interested him. “The kind of man who coached Little League and attended church regularly. The kind the neighbors said they never would have suspected.”

  “A creep is what he is. I hope they fry him and send him to hell to fry some more.”

  “North Carolina uses lethal injection.”

  “Fry him anyway.”

  “I wonder what she was like.” Since the murder last week, Ricky had been studying the woman’s photograph, trying to divine the character traits that had driven a man to murder. Had she been unfailingly kind and considerate, and had thus driven her husband into a blinding red madness?

  “A saint,” the short man said. “She volunteered at the animal shelter.”

  “That’s what I heard,” Ricky said. The cashier told him the total and he thumbed a credit card from his wallet. People always took kindness toward animals as a sign of divine benevolence. Let children starve in Africa but don’t kick a dog in the ribs. For all this man knew, she volunteered because she liked to help with the euthanizing.

  “At least they caught the bastard,” the man said.

  “He turned himself in.” Obviously the man had been settling for the six-o’clock-news sound bites instead of digging into the real story. Murder was rare here, and a sordid case drew a lot of attention. But most of the people Ricky talked with about the murder had only a passing knowledge of the facts and seemed quite content in their ignorance and casual condemnation.

  Ricky took the watermelon to the car, rolled it into the passenger seat, and sat behind the wheel reading the paper. The first days of coverage had focused on quotes from neighbors and relatives and terse statements by the detectives, but now the shock had worn off. In true small-town fashion, the police had not allowed any crime scene photos, and the early art had consisted of somber police officers standing around strips of yellow tape. A mug shot of the husband had been taken from public record files, showing mussed hair, stubble, and the eyes of a trapped animal. The District Attorney had no doubt kept him up all night for a long round of questioning, to ensure that the arrest photo would show the perpetrator in the worst possible light. No matter how carefully the jurors were selected, that first impression often lingered in the minds of those who would pass judgment.

  A week later, the coverage had made the easy shift into back story, digging into the couple’s history, finding cracks in the marriage. The only way to keep the story on the front page was for reporters to turn up personal tidbits, make suggestions about affairs and insurance, and build a psychological profile for a man who was so perfectly average that only hindsight revealed the slightest flaw.

  Ricky drove home with the images playing in his mind, a reel of fantasy film he’d painted from the police reports. The husband comes home, finds dinner on the table as always, green peas and potatoes, thinly sliced roast beef with gravy, a cheesecake that the wife must have spent hours making. They eat, watch an episode of “Law & Order,” then she takes a shower and goes to bed. Somewhere between the hours on either side of midnight, the husband makes his nightly trek to share the warmth and comfort of the marital bed. Only, this time, he carries with him a seven-inch companion of sharp, stainless steel.

  Seventeen times, according to the medical examiner. One of the rookie reporters had tried to develop a numerology angle and assign a mystical significance to the number of stab wounds, but police suspected the man had simply lost count during the frenzy of blood lust. The first blow must have done the trick, and if the man had only meant to solve a problem, that surely would have sufficed. But he was in search of something, an experience that could only be found amid the silver thrusts, the squeaking of bedsprings, the soft moans, and the wet dripping of a final passion.

  By the time Ricky pulled into his driveway, he was moist with sweat. He found himself comparing his and Maybelle’s house with that of the murderer’s, as shown in the Day Two coverage. The murderer’s house was in the next county, but it would have been right at home in Ricky’s neighborhood. Two stories, white Colonial style, a stable line of shrubbery surrounding the porch. Shutters framing windows framing curtains that hid the lives inside. Both houses were ordinary, upper middle class, with
no discernible differences except that one had harbored an extraordinary secret that festered and then exploded.

  Ricky fanned his face dry with the newspaper, then slipped it under the seat. He wrestled the watermelon out and carried it up the front steps. He could have driven into the garage, but his car had leaked a few drops of oil and Maybelle had complained. He nearly dropped the watermelon as he reached to open the door. He pictured it lying burst open on the porch, its shattered skin and pink meat glistening in the afternoon sun.

  But he managed to prop it against his knee and turn the handle, then push his way inside.

  Her voice came from the living room. “Ricky?”

  “Who else?” he said in a whisper. As if a random attacker would walk through the door, as if her ordered life was capable of attracting an invader. As if she deserved any type of victimhood.

  “What’s that, honey?”

  He raised his voice. “Yes, dear. It’s me.”

  “Did you get everything? You know how forgetful you are.”

  Which is why she gave him the lists. But even with a list, he had a habit of always forgetting at least one item. She said it was a deliberate act of passive aggression, that nobody could be that forgetful. But he was convinced it was an unconscious lapse, because he did it even when he wrote out the list himself.

  “I had to—” He didn’t know what to tell her. A lie came to mind, some elaborate story of helping someone change a flat tire beside the road, and how the person had given him a watermelon in gratitude, and Ricky wanted to put the watermelon in the refrigerator before shopping. But Maybelle would see through the story. He wondered if the murdering husband had told such white lies.

  “I had to come back and take my medicine,” he said, heading down the hall to the kitchen. “You know how I get.”

  Maybelle must have been sitting in her chair, the one that dominated the living room and was within reach of the bookcase, the telephone, and the remote control. Her perfect world. White walls. Knickknacks neatly dusted, potted plants that never dared shed so much as a leaf. Photographs of her relatives lining the walls, but not a single member of Ricky’s family.

  “You and your medicine,” she said. “You were gone an hour.”

  He pretended he hadn’t heard her. He put the watermelon on the counter and opened the refrigerator. He thought of hiding it in one of the large bottom bins but he wasn’t sure it would fit. Besides, this was his refrigerator, too. He’d paid for it, even though Maybelle’s snack foods took up the top two shelves. In a moment of rebellion, he shoved some of his odd condiments aside, the horseradish, brown mustard, and marinade sauces that occupied the bottom shelf. He slid the watermelon into place, though its girth caused the wire rack above it to tilt slightly and tumble a few Tupperware containers. He slammed the refrigerator closed with an air of satisfaction.

  He turned and there was Maybelle, filling the entryway that divided the kitchen and dining room. Her arms were folded across her chest, wearing the serene smile of one who held an even temper in the face of endless trials. Ricky found himself wondering if the murdered wife had possessed such stolid and insufferable equanimity.

  “What was that?” Maybelle asked.

  Ricky backed against the refrigerator. There was really no reason to lie, and, besides, it’s not like she wouldn’t notice the first time she went rummaging for a yogurt. But, for one hot and blind moment, he resented her ownership of the refrigerator. Why couldn’t he have a watermelon if he wanted?

  “A watermelon,” he said.

  “A watermelon? Why didn’t you get one back in the middle of summer, like everybody else?”

  He couldn’t explain. If she had been in the grocery store with him, she’d have been impressed by the watermelon’s vibrancy and vitality. Even though the melon was no longer connected to its roots, it was earthy and ripe, a perfectly natural symbol for the last day of summer. But he was afraid if he opened the door, it would just be an ovate mass of dying fruit.

  “I liked this one,” he said.

  “Where are my things?”

  “I—” He looked at the floor, at the beige ceramic tiles whose seams of grout were spotless.

  “You forgot. On purpose. Just like always.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said, and suddenly his throat was dry and tight, and he thought of the husband and how he must have slid open the cutlery drawer and selected something that could speak for him when words were worthless.

  “Of course, you’re sorry. You’ve always been sorry. But that never changes anything, does it?”

  “My medicine—”

  “Have a seat in the living room, and I’ll bring it to you.”

  He went and sat on the sofa, afraid to muss the throw pillows. The early local news came on the television. A fire on the other side of the county had left a family homeless. Then came the obligatory follow-up on the murder.

  “Investigators say they may have uncovered a motive in last week’s brutal slaying—”

  Click. He looked away from the screen and Maybelle stood there, the remote raised. “Evil, evil, evil,” she said. “That nasty man. I just don’t know what goes through people’s minds, do you?”

  Ricky wondered. Maybe the husband had a wife who controlled the television, the radio, the refrigerator, the garage, and wrote large charity checks to the animal shelter. Maybelle gave him his pills and a glass of water. He swallowed, grateful.

  “I read that he was an accountant,” Ricky said. “Just like me.”

  “Takes all kinds. The poor woman, you’ve got to feel sorry for her. Closes her eyes to go to sleep and the next thing you know, the man she trusted and loved with all her heart—”

  “—is standing over her, the lights are off but the knife flashes just the same, he’s holding the handle so tight that his hand is aching, except he can’t feel it, it’s like he’s got electricity running through his body, he’s on fire and he’s never felt so powerful, and—”

  Maybelle’s laughter interrupted him. “It’s not a movie, Ricky. A wife-killing slasher isn’t any more special than a thief who shoots a stranger for ten bucks. When it comes down to it, they’re all low-down dirty dogs who ought to be locked up before they hurt somebody else.”

  “Everybody feels sorry for her,” Ricky said. “But what about the husband? Don’t you think he probably feels sick inside? She’s gone, but he’s left to live with the knowledge of what he’s done.”

  “Not for long. I hear the D.A. is going after the death penalty. She’s up for re-election next year and has been real strong on domestic violence.”

  “He’ll probably plead temporary insanity.”

  “Big surprise,” Maybelle said. “Only a crazy man would kill his wife.”

  “I don’t know. With a good lawyer—”

  “They’re always making excuses. He’ll say his wife made him wear a dress when no one was looking. That he had to lick her high heels. That she was carrying on with the pet store supplier. It’s always the woman’s fault. It makes me sick.”

  Ricky looked at the carpet. The stains must have been tremendous, geysers of blood spraying in different directions, painting the walls, seeping into the sheets and shag, soiling the delicate undergarments that the wife no doubt wore to entice her husband into chronic frustration.

  “Ricky?”

  Her voice brought him back from the last reel of his fantasy film and into the living room.

  “How are you feeling?”

  “Better,” he said, lying only a little.

  “Ready to go back to the grocery store?”

  “Yes.”

  “And not forget anything this time?”

  He nodded.

  After shopping, getting all the items on the list, he sat in the grocery store parking lot and re-read all the newspapers hidden beneath the seat. He looked at the mug shot and visualized his own face against the grayish background with the black lines. He pored over the details he already knew by heart, then imagined the parts
not fleshed out in the news accounts: the trip up the stairs in the silent house, a man with a mission, no thought of the act itself or the aftermath. One step, one stroke at a time. The man had chosen a knife from the kitchen drawer instead of buying one especially for the job. It had clearly been a crime of passion, and passion had been missing from Ricky’s life for many years.

  He looked at the paper that held the wife’s picture. He tried to juxtapose the picture with Maybelle’s. He failed. He realized he couldn’t summon his own wife’s face.

  He drove home and was in the kitchen putting the things away when Maybelle entered the room.

  “You’ve stacked my cottage cheese three high,” she said. “You know I only like it with two. I can’t check the date otherwise.”

  “There’s no room,” he said.

  “Take out that stupid watermelon.”

  “But I like them when they’re cold.”

  “Put it in the bathtub or something.”

  He squeezed the can of mushroom soup he was holding, wishing he were strong enough to make the metal seams rip and the cream spurt across the room.

  “I put dinner on the table,” she said. “Roast beef and potatoes.”

  “Green peas?”

  “No, broccoli.”

  “I wanted green peas.”

  “How was I to know? You’ll eat what I served or you can cook your own food.”

  “I guess you didn’t make a cheesecake.”

  “There’s ice cream in the freezer.” She laughed. “Or you can eat your watermelon.”

  He went to the dinner table. Maybelle had already eaten, put away her place mat, and polished her end of the table. Ricky sat and worked the potatoes, then held the steak knife and studied its serrated edge. He sawed it across the beef and watched the gray grains writhe beneath the metal.

  Maybelle entered the dining room. “How’s your food?”

  “Yummy.”

  “Am I not a good wife?”

  He made an appreciative mumble around a mouthful of food.