Suicide Supper Club

by Rhett DeVane

  “Two appetizers?” Sheila’s eyebrows shot up.

  Choo-choo shrugged. “You only live once.”

  Loiscell cackled. The server scribbled on her order pad.

  “I think we should break one of our agreements,” Sheila said after the server left. She tasted her wine, winced, and swallowed.

  “What do you mean?” Loiscell asked.

  “I think we should tell why we want to do . . .” Sheila leaned forward. “. . . this.”

  Choo-choo and Loiscell exchanged glances.

  “Maybe we should wait on Abby,” Choo-choo said.

  “I don’t mind saying. I’ll tell Abby when she gets here. It might make me feel lighter to get it off my chest. Then I can enjoy my bubble bread.” Loiscell fortified herself with a gulp of wine. “My cancer is back.”

  Choo-choo reached over and rested a hand over Loiscell’s. “Oh honey. Why didn’t you tell us earlier?”

  “I don’t know.” Loiscell shook her head. “I really don’t know.”

  Sheila asked, “How long have you known? How—?”

  “Found a lump. Went to the oncologist. Had a biopsy. Malignant.” Loiscell glanced first at Sheila, then at Choo-choo. “I can’t do it again. Feeling nauseated all the time. Being so tired I can barely blink. Losing my hair. Wondering. Hoping and coping. I don’t have the courage to carry me through it again. I just don’t. Plus I know Lisa will come running. I can’t put her through it, either. She has kids, a life of her own.”

  Choo-choo dabbed the corner of her lips. “I certainly understand, Loiscell. I was with Charlie during the . . . final days.” She turned her attention to Sheila. “And you? What could possibly be so wrong with your life? You always seem so busy and organized.”

  Sheila studied the napkin in her lap and bit the edge of her bottom lip. “My husband . . . he . . .” She closed her eyes and took a shaky breath. “Glenn is . . . ”

  Loiscell rested a hand on her friend’s shoulder. “Go ahead, Sheila. Say it.”

  “My husband hurts me.” Sheila looked up. “Over and over. He doesn’t mean to, and sometimes he can be so sweet. Lately, it’s gotten much worse.”

  “That bastard.” Loiscell’s lips drew into an angry thin line.

  “Why didn’t you report him, Sheila?” Choo-choo asked.

  Sheila’s eyes flicked around like nervous prey. “I couldn’t do that.”

  “There are places for women,” Choo-choo said. “You could stay with one of us.”

  “You don’t understand. Glenn would find me. He would either kill me, or us, or bring me back. And then it would only get worse. No, this is my only way.”

  Loiscell glanced at the gathering dusk through the front window. The muffled sound of rush hour traffic was barely discernible over the bistro’s low jazz music. “I don’t think we should try to talk each other out of anything, or judge.”

  Choo-choo nodded. “You are absolutely right.”

  Sheila motioned to Choo-choo. “What about you?”

  “I am old, ladies. Old and tired. I keep praying to fall asleep and drift off, but it hasn’t happened. Given a few more years, or months, I could end up unable to care for myself and get shuffled off to some long-term care home. Either my mind or my body will slip, or both. I miss Charlie every second of every day, and now, believe it or not, I miss that darn little dog, too.” Choo-choo paused. “My daughter hardly ever calls, and rarely visits. Other than yoga, my Hospice work, and you all, I have nothing to look forward to. I feel like I’m taking up space. And the Hospice work . . . it used to fulfill me. I’ve found myself actually a little peeved that everyone else is getting to leave, and here I sit.”

  The server appeared with two platters. Aromatic steam rose from both. The group broke huddle and sat back to allow room for the food and plates.

  “Enough of all of that, now,” Loiscell said. “We need to enjoy this . . . last meal. Abby’s going to miss out. What the heck is keeping her?” She took a bite of bubble bread and moaned. “Oh my gosh. This is to die for.”

  Choo-choo dipped a toast point into the gooey artichoke dip. Strings of melted cheese stretched from the edges. “Good choice of words, dear.”

  Abby McKenzie groaned. For the past twenty minutes, everyone short of dead Elvis had stopped by the curtained emergency room cubicle to ask questions.

  Your insurance cards and picture I.D.? Do you have a living will? A medical health surrogate? Next of kin? Allergies? Past surgeries? Describe your symptoms. When did they start? Are you in pain? She was surprised they didn’t ask for her favorite color or if she preferred lime or orange Jell-O.

  A representative of the admissions department stopped to secure a co-payment, offering the comforting assurance that her insurance company had been contacted and supported her visit. Abby scribbled her signature on consent forms between moans.

  “Believe it or not, I have my living will and the medical power of attorney thingy in my car, if you have someone who would be willing to go out and get them. I don’t think I can walk.” The bizarre, blind synchronicity of life slapped Abby full in the face.

  Now, the latest in the line-up of concerned health care workers—the emergency room physician—breezed in, his lab coat laundry-commercial white and creased. The nurse passed along the vital stats: elevated temperature, elevated blood pressure, severe discomfort in the lower back and abdomen with nausea and vomiting. Abby struggled to remain focused on the doctor’s litany of questions.

  “Any history of colon cancer in your family?”

  A wave of pain caused her to squeeze her eyelids shut. She breathed through her mouth in small puffs until it subsided. “My father had some sort of growths removed, but they weren’t cancerous. He’s deceased. My mom too. But not from that.”

  “Have you had a recent colonoscopy?”

  “I think my doctor wants to do one this year, or is it next year? Seems to come with getting older. They want to do all these tests on you. I’ve done those disgusting little stool sample cards, though. Never had any problems.”

  He pressed on her belly in spots, noting her reaction. “I’m scheduling a contrast CT scan, Miss McKenzie. We need to see what is causing your pain.” He entered information into a computer on a rolling cart, talking to the nurse as he typed. From the list of medical abbreviations, Abby judged she was in for more than one test.

  “Want to translate all that, please?” Abby asked after the doctor left.

  The attending nurse smiled. She appeared to be about Abby’s age, with a calm efficient manner. Abby relaxed a little. “He ordered an ECG—electrocardiogram—to check your heart, full blood panel, and the CAT scan. Each test will tell him what to rule out, since many conditions mirror the same symptoms. You’ll have to drink the contrast liquid before the scan. But don’t worry. They mix it in with a sports drink to make it palatable.”

  Abby moaned. “If I can hold it down. Every time I have one of those pains, I feel like I’m going to heave all over again.”

  “I’m going to start an IV. He has pain meds ordered, and something to help ease the nausea. That should help.”

  Abby’s mind raced. “I need to sign something—a form?—so you will give out information to certain people. I work in a dental office, and I know all about all that HIPPA privacy crap. I need to let you know who to talk to, you know, if I’m out of it.”

  “I’ll put their names into the computer,” the nurse replied.

  “Loiscell Pickering. Sheila Bruner. Choo-choo Ivey.” Abby frowned, trying to bring faces and names to mind. Why list her best friends? They might even not be alive by now. Her spirit tanked. “Might as well add Elvina Houston, oh and Dr. Payne.”

  The nurse tapped keys. “Before I start this IV and give medications, is there anyone you need for me to contact?”

  Abby’s thoughts swam through the muck. “I can do it. My cell is in my purse.” She moved her head from side to side, searching. “Where is my purse? I had it when that lady from your financial office
came by.”

  The nurse pulled a white plastic bag from beneath the gurney. “In here.”

  Who to call? Who to call? Abby selected a number from the address book and punched send. A voicemail picked up after five rings.

  “Loiscell? Abby. Listen, it might be too late to let you guys know. I’m obviously not at the restaurant. I’m at Capital Regional Hospital in the ER.”

  What the heck was she doing? Were they supposed to call the whole dang thing off and come hang out with her? What if it was all over? An intense mix of loss and sadness washed over Abby, as if the Titanic had left port without her on board. “Um . . . anyway. That’s where I’ll be. I don’t know for how long.”

  Feverish sweat iced her skin. Her stomach rolled again. Times like this, she cursed being single with no living relatives. Who would care? Still it seemed important to let someone know. The pain medication made her sluggish and the contact number roster wavered in and out of focus. She squinted and punched one from the list.

  Again, a voicemail answered: “Hello, this is Elvina Houston. If you reached this, then by all means leave me a message. It’s not that I can’t be bothered answering you; I’m a busy woman. I will call you back as soon as I can. And be aware. I have that caller ID thing, so I’ll know if you don’t leave me a message. I could spit nails when folks call and hang up.”

  When he stepped into the Lake Ella Publix in Tallahassee, Glenn Bruner marveled at the way no one paid much attention to him. Nobody stopped to say howdy and shake his hand. Not one person asked inane questions about Sheila or if he was going to attend some church function, or any of the dull life details he couldn’t imagine anyone needed to know.

  In the capital city, Glenn was just another man on his way somewhere, a man who stopped by the grocery store for beer. With half the student population doing the same thing, he was in the majority. Not like Chattahoochee, where someone would see him and report back to the church elders. Most of the time, he drove half-way to Marianna to buy booze just to give the nosey old bags like Elvina Houston less to talk about.

  Maybe after a few of Clay’s jobs, he would move to Tallahassee. Some swanky neighborhood with a yard big enough the neighbors couldn’t look out their windows and track his every move. More bars over this way too. Bars full of college coeds who would overlook his spare tire and age if he dressed fancy and threw enough cash around. If he wanted to keep up the front of upstanding correctional officer, he could transfer to that institution off Capital Circle.

  A Mercedes. He’d buy one for a second vehicle. Pearl black with tinted windows. No, a Hummer. It was macho and money all rolled into one gas-guzzling package.

  He picked up two cases of Budweiser and walked to the front to a cash-only lane. Stupid woman in front of him had more than ten items.

  Glenn’s thoughts ran wild. The fancy car and new house wouldn’t fit in with his plan to remain low-key. A prison guard could never afford such luxuries. What did other career assassins do? Move to some island to escape the IRS stink-eye? The Caribbean might be nice. He could always make trips back into the states to hunt. Hell, with the kind of money he was going to have, he could fly anywhere in the world. And deep sea fishing! He’d buy a huge saltwater boat and go for the big ones.

  “Sir?”

  Glenn snapped back to reality. The Publix cashier waited.

  “Oh, sorry.” Glenn handed over a couple of bills, accepted the change, and grabbed the beer satchels and threw them back into the buggy. “You have a good day, you hear?”

  He forced himself to amble back to the truck. The beer, he deposited behind the seat. The buggy, he shoved into a nearby cart corral. Would be nice if he could use it for one of his props instead of the cheap wire shopping cart Clay had provided, but the grocery store’s version had an anti-theft gizmo to lock up the wheels past a designated area of the parking lot. Boy, nobody trusted nobody these days.

  The side parking lot was empty, except for one woman carrying a loaded plastic hamper. He waited until she disappeared into the Laundromat. Glenn pitched the backpack into the folding wire shopping cart and strolled toward the edge of the pavement with purpose. He slipped behind the dry-cleaners at the end of a small strip of stores and tried to navigate the cart through the underbrush. Briars and low bushes snagged the oversized wheels.

  After several attempts to pull the cart behind him, he gave up and continued with only the backpack until he assured himself no one could see him through the thicket. He peeled off his T-shirt and exchanged it for a hole-pocked men’s cotton shirt several sizes too large. It stank to high heaven, also part of the plan. For several days, he had wiped every disgusting thing he could think of on the shirt. The most odorous: a catfish blood bait that smelled like the north end of a southbound mule. A whiff would send anyone who dared to get too close scurrying away with his or her nostrils pinched.

  Next, a seedy long duster. Might be a trifle too warm for an overcoat, but Glenn thought it a nice touch. He pulled out a nappy black wig and slipped it over his head, then covered the top with a sweat and dirt-ringed ball cap. Clay would be proud of the way he had come up with the idea of the wig all by himself. In the get-up, Glenn looked as if he hadn’t had a haircut in years. A beard would’ve been a nice addition if he’d had time to develop one. Last, he pulled on a pair of stained gloves.

  The whipped topping on the disguise sloshed in a bent flask in the jacket’s side pocket: home-brewed white lightning, compliments of one of his work buddies. Clay hadn’t suggested that either. Glenn patted himself over the additional dramatic touch. He would be just another smelly, homeless drunk. Plus the fortification of a few swigs would help steady his nerves and his aim.

  Glenn tipped his head back and took a long draw of the booze. The fire burned down his throat into his stomach, and he realized he hadn’t eaten since mid-morning. No time to take care of that now. He’d have all the time in the world to drive through a fast food joint after the job was finished.

  Just a guy eating fries and a double cheeseburger, and heading home with his beer. Just a guy who had plugged four women, eating fries and a double cheeseburger and heading home with his beer. How normal and manly could you get?

  Glenn took a second slug of the home brew. He folded his T-shirt into a zippered plastic freezer bag—hey, no way he’d put his good shirt in with all that raunchy smell—then he shoved it into the bottom of the pack for later, when he’d turn into Just Normal Glenn again.

  Time to get this show on the road.

  He retraced his steps, rescued the wire cart, and peered from the edge of the woods until he was sure no one watched. Finding a few extra pieces of trash to put in the cart along with the backpack took a minute. He cut through the alley behind a strip of stores at the shopping center’s south side and stepped onto the sidewalk along North Monroe Street. Exhaust fumes from the tail end of rush hour traffic mingled with scents from the Mexican restaurant across from Lake Ella.

  Glenn warmed to his role. He kept his head down and muttered to himself. A few times, he stopped to pick up some piece of paper or aluminum can to add to the cart. A lone pedestrian passed him as he made his way toward Fifth Avenue, and she made brief eye contact before giving him wide berth. No one else seemed to notice him, or care. He might as well have been invisible.

  He should’a been a freakin’ movie star. Easy gig.

  When he reached the intersection of Fifth and North Monroe, he paused. Best to go one more street down, in case. He picked up his pace. The next side street was deserted and poorly lit. Perfect. Two blocks after he turned, he doubled back to the right and hid the cart in a small parking lot behind a row of offices.

  Glenn looked around. All of the worker bees had flown back to the hive for the night. No security lighting. That Clay knew his business.

  From the backpack, he extracted the handgun with its silencer. He took a long swig of hooch before slipping from the shadows and following the curb to within a few feet of the Italian restaurant. Two cars o
ccupied the parking spots in front of the eatery: a white Lincoln Towncar and one of those electric/gas combo sub-compacts he could have fit into the bed of his pick-up. One streetlight illuminated a small patch of pavement: the site of his debut.

  The side parking lot dipped sharply away from the road. Glenn huddled in the restaurant’s alley, positioning his body for an unobstructed view. While he waited, he sipped from the near-empty flask.

  Three warmed plates arrived: vegetarian lasagna for Sheila, eggplant parmesan for Loiscell, and baked ziti with meat sauce for Choo-choo. “Would you like more bread?” the server asked.

  Choo-choo swept her hand through the air. “Bring it on. And another bottle of vino!”

  “At this rate, we’re going to be stinking drunk.” Sheila giggled and stifled a belch.

  Choo-choo downed the last sip from her glass. “Not like any of us have to worry about being the designated driver.” She laughed so hard, the couple at the next table stopped to stare. “Plus we’ll be half-way to embalmed.”

  Sheila hiccupped. “Goodness, Choo-choo.”

  Loiscell dug into the hot eggplant dish. “I wonder what happened to Abby.”

  “She chickened out. That’s what.” Choo-choo blew on a forkful of ziti and crammed it into her mouth.

  Sheila’s lids blinked over bloodshot eyes. “I think I’m a little tipsy. I keep hearing that one song from The Nutcracker and it’s not even Christmas.”

  Loiscell jumped as if she had been poked with a cattle prod. “My cell! That’s my someone-has-left-a-message ringtone.”

  Choo-choo frowned. “I thought you had that dang thing turned off.”

  “Nope. I turned down the ringer.” Loiscell jabbed buttons. As she listened, her expression morphed into a blend of fear and shock. “It’s Abby. She’s in the hospital!”

  The other two stopped their forks in mid-air.

  “What the—” Choo-choo started.

  “Something bad has happened to Abby.” Loiscell snapped the phone closed. “All she said is that she’s in the ER.”