by JT Lawrence
There was also the issue of the rather frightening resident mother-in-law, and the shock to her refinement of the manner in which her new husband paid his ‘attentions'.
A few months into the marriage, Charles began feeling ill. When he died, his family became suspicious and approached the police, who arrested Marie.
The beautiful young widow elicited great sympathy at her trial. Her lawyer was sure to tell the court of her excellent piano-playing skills and delightful voice, her competence in science and languages, and her Italian poetry. She was also a good actress. She fainted and had to be carried out of court on more than one occasion. Then, a year into proceedings, a renowned toxicologist was called in, and the truth was discovered. It appeared that the poison for the rats had made their way into the man’s daily bread. By then, Marie’s hair was grey, and she had to be carried in and out of the courtroom on a chaise. She was found guilty and sentenced to hard labour for life.
There was a gentle knocking on the door, and Linda looked up from her laptop.
“Don’t shoot,” joked Andrew. “I brought grilled cheese sandwiches.”
“Oh!” said Linda. “I completely lost track of time.”
“Sorry to interrupt.”
“You’re not interrupting.”
“It’s going well, then, the manuscript?”
“Ah, you know. Still researching. I’m trying to find my way.”
Andrew nodded and was about to say something when Linda snapped her laptop shut. "I need to tell you something."
Andrew was still standing at the door with the tray. “I don’t like the sound of that.”
"I have to tell you, so that you understand. The reason we always took our own food to Hodgey's house. The reason we never stayed the night."
“Because her cooking was awful. Her beds were lumpy. Her house was haunted. And it smelled funny.”
Andrew’s smiling, but Linda’s face is grey. “Apart from that.”
“You’ve got my attention.”
“When we used to stay there. Peter and I, as kids. The house was kind of haunted … in a way.”
“I knew it!”
“Granny Hodge. She was the one.”
“She was the one who what?”
“The one who … made bad things happen.”
“Sweet, mad old Hodgey? What do you mean?”
“She used to … put things in our food.”
“—in your—? Like what?”
“We never knew. We never spoke about it. We just knew that if we stayed there, we would pass out after lunch and not wake up for hours and hours. She was always begging us to stay the night.”
“You’re saying Hodge would … drug you?
"I don't know. We weren't even sure if it was true. I mean, how could it be true? Wonderful, warm Granny Hodgepodge. Sometimes it would be our stomachs. Maybe she used laxatives or something. We always seemed to come down with something when we were there. And then we'd stay over, just like she wanted us to."
“You weren’t sure then. What about now?”
"I wouldn't be able to prove it if that's what you mean."
"But you agreed with Peter to not eat her food."
“Yes. When we were sixteen. When we lost Mom and Dad.”
“And since then, no passing out? No sickness?”
“Yes.”
“I’d say that’s your proof, right there.”
“But it doesn’t make any sense. It's a difficult thing to wrap your head around. What reason could she have had? God, we loved her! How can you love such a wicked person? Once, when her vision was starting to fail, she made us some French toast. There was this white powder on it."
“It wasn’t icing sugar. Jesus Christ.”
“We didn’t wait to find out. Chucked it out of the window when she wasn’t looking. That’s when we promised each other …”
“And those half-melted heroin spoons?” said Andrew. “And the vial of poison? It wasn’t an accident that we found those in her house. That’s probably the least of it. That house is probably layered with different kinds of poisons. God, those bags of dead animals…”
He slammed the tray onto her desk in disgust, making Linda jump.
“The vial is what started me thinking,” said Linda.
“About the book?”
“About the abuse. Because that’s what it was, wasn’t it?”
Andrew didn’t hesitate to answer. “Yes.”
"So … insidious … that we never even knew we were being abused. That we never knew enough to confront it. And it didn't stop at us, of course. I mean, Peter and I."
“What do you mean?”
“Her husbands died, didn’t they? Both of them. Under her roof.”
“Now, that may be jumping to conclusions.”
“There are no conclusions. That is what makes this infuriating. But two husbands. Who ate her cooking every day of their lives. And what about Uncle Sid? He died there, too. He was so young!”
The blood drained from Andrew’s face and left him looking as white as wax. He slumped down into a chair and put his hand to his temple. “Your … parents,” he said. “It was a car accident.”
“Yes,” said Linda, her jaw tightening. “A car accident. On their way home from Hodge’s house.”
Andrew left the cold sandwiches in Linda’s office and went to pour himself a stiff drink and make a cup of tea. Linda opened her laptop again, created a new document, and started typing.
No one thought it suspicious when Linda Harrison, at seven months pregnant, parked outside her ill grandmother's house, which had been boarded up and plastered with ‘FOR SALE' signs. The neighbour, Edna Ruth, was washing the supper dishes from the night before and lifted her yellow hand in a soapy wave, but Linda did not see her.
The key was in the same place as always, and Linda let herself in through the front door. She made her way through to the kitchen, where she found everything she needed, and the oven, still in working order. The eggs, milk and butter, she had brought herself. For the other ingredients, she helped herself from her grandmother's pantry and then threw all the other food away.
Once the cookies were baked and cooled, Linda slid them carefully into the gift box she had brought and tied it with the black and white ribbon she had found on her last visit. She took the cookies with her and left the house smelling of freshly baked cookies, never to return.
Linda walked down the hospital hallway, gift box in hand, black and white ribbon swaying. She greeted a nurse and asked for her grandmother’s room.
“Ah, dear Mrs Hodge!” The nurse had lipstick on her teeth. “We were wondering when she’d get a visitor, poor dear. She’s desperate for company.”
Linda waited patiently for the room number, but the nurse sniffed the air and looked at the box. “And you’ve brought her some treats! What a darling you are. She’ll love those. She’ll just love those.”
“Which way is it, to her room?”
“You’re Linda, aren’t you? She knew you’d come, you know. She kept telling us. Down that corridor there, through the double door. She’s in 24A, that’s the second on your right.”
Linda thanked the nurse and walked through the double doors.
Linda Harris stood outside her grandmother's door, her fist suspended in the air, as if she was about to knock, but something held her back. In her other hand, the gift box became damp with perspiration. Her thoughts were difficult to grasp. Pictures and sensations flashed in on her mind: Her mother's easy laugh, her father's cigarette smoke. Peter on his bashed-up blue bike.
Linda remembered Granny Hodge gently combing and braiding her hair for her parents’ funeral, tying it carefully with a black and white ribbon.
It was the baby in her belly that brought Linda Harrison back to life. The kick in her ribs woke her up, still standing there with her white knuckles at the hospital room door. She lowered her hand and turned around to leave. With his kicking, the baby was asserting himself; asserting the cycle of life
. Linda dropped the unopened box of cookies into the hospital waste chute. She heard it tumble deep into the building and then drove home, stopping only to buy a baby crib on the way.
8
Comet
When I saw my schnauzer that afternoon, I almost spontaneously combusted. It was a sudden bright fury that overtook my body and made my brain sizzle in my skull.
“What. Have. You. Done?” I demanded, through gritted teeth.
Comet cocked his head and looked at me, wondering what the fuss was about. Maybe he thought he looked stylish with his new haircut; I certainly did not.
Hairdryers blasted hot air in the pet salon; the scent of shampoo got right up my nose.
“Uh,” said the dog groomer, in her ridiculously frilly apron. It was a garish pink, and had an amateur illustration of a happy dog on it, with hearts for eyes. She looked at me nervously, and her eyes darted from me to my dog, and back to me again. It was as if she was deciding which wire to cut to disarm a ticking bomb. I found everything about her ridiculous. It seemed that she had transferred some of her crackpot aesthetics to Comet, for which I would never forgive her. Not until his hair grew back, anyway.
“What exactly were you going for?” I asked. Usually, the schnauzer was so handsome; I received compliments about him wherever I went. Now he'd be ashamed if he knew how he looked. What would I tell people?
“Were you trying to shave the atlas on his coat? Craters on the moon? Or is it some kind of abstract art?”
The groomer looked at me, lips slightly ajar, but silent. Tick tock, went the explosive between us.
My jaw began to ache with the anger that was wiring it shut. These bloody people with their bloody clippers and no bloody idea what they were doing. Comet whined and cocked his head the other way. Did the ridiculous person not have any vocal cords? Or was she just being insolent?
“Well?” I demanded. “Is it art?”
“No?” replied the pink apron, blinking at me.
Some of the other groomers stopped what they were doing to watch the crazy rich woman who seemed as if she was about to detonate.
"Exactly!" I hissed. "All I wanted was a neat trim, and you've made him look like he's suffering from the bloody plague!"
Pink apron was about to say something but changed her mind.
My suspicion kindled. "You young people. You're doing that Bird Box challenge, aren't you?"
She frowned. “Bird Box?”
“When you blindfold yourself and then do something stupid. Tell me the truth,” I said, gesturing at Comet. “Did you do this blindfolded?”
The groomer shook her head, her stubborn silence adding fuel to my fury. She glanced at the dog as if he would back her up in some way, but I could tell he was beginning to get the idea. He was starting to understand that, despite his excellent breeding, he currently looked like a mangey pavement special. I wondered if I should get him a cone for his neck so that he wouldn't have to witness this new, burning humiliation. We'd cancel our plans. We'd stay at home until he felt less ashamed of his awful appearance. Poor boy.
“I don’t think I should pay for this,” I said, shaking my head while I wrenched my wallet from my handbag and violently zipped it open. “In fact, I think YOU should be paying ME.”
The frills on the apron ruffled as the warm air from the hairdryers reached us. It was the only part of her that moved; the rest of the ridiculous woman may as well have been made of wax.
“Damages,” I said. “You should be paying me damages.”
I passed the groomer my credit card, and she took it from me cautiously, as if it were a test. As if it were a pin of a grenade. I held onto it for a moment longer and stared at her, to reiterate my point. When I finally let go, she didn't take her eyes off me as she tapped the card on the machine. It spat out a paper slip. I scooped Comet up and held him under my arm, kissing the uneven fur on top of his head. As I headed for the exit, I heard the woman call after me.
“Thank you for visiting Shampooch,” she said. “Have a nice day!”
I stopped in my tracks, ready to cut her down with a contemptuous comment, but then I remembered myself. I swept out of the door, into the sunbaked parking lot, and despite the BMW’s powerful air conditioning, I simmered all the way home.
A week later, Comet’s appearance had not improved. In fact, he looked worse than ever. I found his hair all around the house, and when I washed him, his hair clogged up the drain.
“I’m going to sue that bloody dog parlour,” I seethed.
Grant cracked a beer open and laughed. “Sue them? For what?”
“For this!” I said, showing my husband the brush I used to groom Comet. It was full of dull dog hair. “He’s embarrassed about how he looks! It’s distressing. His hair is literally falling out.”
Grant threw back his head and laughed, which made me even angrier.
I slammed the brush down on the table. “Don’t act as if you don’t care about him!”
Grant was the one who had wanted to adopt him—and his sister, Nova—in the first place, the one who played fetch with them, the one who took the pair of sibling schnauzers for proper walks, and to chase tennis balls at the park. Grant was the one who bought them matching teddy bears to carry around the house in their jaws, and to cuddle in bed. In some ways, they were closer than we were. I envied their uncomplicated relationship.
“Look,” he said, sprawling on the couch in that infuriatingly relaxed way of his. All smiles and long, muscular limbs. “I don’t think he cares about his coat.”
“How can you say that?” I demanded. “Comet is an extremely intelligent animal.”
Grant put up his hands in surrender. “I know,” he said. “I know. But I’m just saying that maybe you’re projecting your stress onto him. That’s all. He might even like his new look. I saw him eyeing himself in your mirror the other day.”
"What rubbish," I said. I tried to stay cross, but a laugh bubbled up in my throat.
“He was!” said Grant. “He was smiling and had a sparkle in his eye, I swear. I was almost expecting him to wink at his reflection.”
It was so absurd; I had to laugh. Grant was such a useless husband in so many ways, but the number of times he had talked me down from a cliff made up for it. While I was a ball of fury, he was a cool brook. Without his jokes, I'm sure I would be so brittle I would have broken in half by then, or shattered into tiny shards. I looked at Comet and stroked his ears. He had Nova’s teddy in his mouth.
“Who’s a good boy?” I said, and he barked and thumped his tail.
Grant was a wonderful husband and a great provider, but sometimes he wasn’t that good at being a responsible adult. This was a man who had planted a tree upside down once. He thought the roots were the branches. Another time, he told me the vacuum cleaner had stopped working. I showed him how to empty the bag, and he was amazed. Despite being quite smart and quick-witted, I had the suspicion he thought that vacuum cleaners make dust just magically disappear.
One night he went out to buy toothpaste because we had just run out. He came home with ice cream, M&Ms, candy-striped facecloths that had been on sale, a jigsaw puzzle—but no toothpaste.
A couple of years ago we were at the Westcliff Hotel for a high tea with friends. Grant was eyeing the carrot cake.
“What do they put in carrot cake to make it taste like carrots?” he asked, loud enough for the whole table to hear. When they started laughing, he said, “Is it carrot zest?”
Suffice to say; they have never let him live that one down.
When we first moved in together, we had a small housewarming. I wrapped potatoes in tinfoil for the braai. Grant ran out of space on the barbecue coals, so he decided to cook them in the microwave, instead. He sprinted up the stairs asking if it was normal to have “lightning bolts” in the microwave. When I came down to check, I saw he hadn’t removed the foil. We had to buy a new microwave. It’s not the only appliance he’s killed.
One morning I was woken by th
is terrible acrid smell: burning plastic. Before I could jump out of bed to investigate, Grant rushed in. “I’ve done something really stupid,” he said.
The fact he admitted this was alarming, to say the least.
“I promise I’ll fix it.”
“It” was my limited edition designer copper kettle, the one I had paid thousands for, just because it was charming. It sat on our kitchen counter, looking grand, too beautiful to use. To boil water, we used the stove-top kettle on our gas plates. Grant had been half-asleep when he put the kettle on that morning—at least, that's what he told me. He had put my beautiful copper kettle on the gas flames, not realising it had a mostly plastic base.
I like to tell the story at parties, but not to make him feel bad. I forgave him the moment he rushed in with that panicky expression on his face, leaving smoke in his wake. I would forgive him anything, really. After all, I was grieving, and he had been trying to make me a cup of tea.
Two weeks after the incident at Shampooch, Comet looked just awful. He carried Nova’s teddy bear wherever he went.
“I just don’t know what to think,” I told Grant. “I mean, what did they do to him? Did they mix up their bottles of depilatory cream and shampoo? Do you even get depilatory cream for pets?”
Grant narrowed his eyes and rubbed his lips as he thought it over. “Probably,” he decided. “A unibrow would not look good on a chihuahua.”
I stared at Comet, his coat an absolute disaster of bald patches and unattractive fuzz. Islands of dull fur stood out from his exposed pink skin.
“We should just shave him,” said Grant.
“Shave him?” I said. “Are you crazy?”
“It would look better that … that,” he said. “It’s falling out anyway. We can just neaten him up. Front, back and sides.”