“I don’t feel well.”
“Probably just thirsty,” I stuck my water bottle out to him. “Here, have a sip.”
He slurped from it and water dribbled down his chins. We finished the hill, and at the top came the sign I’d been waiting months for: Michael rubbing and shaking his arm. I let him go home to rest.
After a few minutes of lying on the couch he bolted upright clutching his chest.
“Call 911,” he grunted.
I tried to act worried. I’d gotten good at acting over the past months. Acting like I cared for him, like I didn’t want him dead, like I wasn’t counting the minutes to my freedom from the cheating bastard.
“Are you sure? It’s not just indigestion, is it?”
His face contorted, “I’m sure. Call.”
I pulled out my cell phone and dialed a nine, a one, and then a two. I placed the phone to my ear and waited a few seconds.
“Ambulance,” I paused. “My husband’s having a heart attack.” Pause. I gave our address. Pause. “Okay.” Longer pause as I nodded my head at the non-existent words on the other end of the line. “Please hurry.” I closed the phone.
“It’ll be ten minutes. You going to be okay until then?”
He breathed in as deep as he could, “I think so, just scary, you know?”
Minutes ticked by. Michael grew paler. He grunted, groaned and squealed in worried pain, but said he’d be okay if the ambulance got there soon. I played my part by pacing the front room, checking out the window, opening the door to look and listen for help that wasn’t coming, all the while mentally chanting: “Why won’t he die?”
Fifteen minutes later, Michael started drifting, his breathing gurgled, and his face paled to gray. It would be over soon. I held back my grin.
“I’m not going to make it,” he whispered. “How long has it been?”
“Only seven minutes - just hold out a little longer.”
“No, it’s too late. I want to tell you something before I go.”
So, he needed to clear his conscience before the big goodbye. Fine. Whatever. It didn’t absolve him.
“Go on.”
“In my closet, you know that box I keep the postcards in?”
I nodded. He saved postcards in an old shoebox from all our trips together, even weekend getaways to the beach. The memory made my throat tighten and I hated myself for the emotion.
“There’s another box inside. I bought it for you last Christmas. Saved up,” he gasped as new pain coursed through him. “I wanted to give you something you’d never get yourself. I chickened out. Worried you’d be mad I spent so much. Silly, huh? Bust my butt all those extra hours and then not give it to you. You deserve so much. You're so good to me. I love you.”
He stopped breathing. Just like that, no theatrics, just gone.
I went to the closet. What had he meant about giving me something? He couldn’t mean—
I slid the postcard box out from under a photo album. My hands shook as I lifted off the lid.
Oh no. No—
The box of postcards fell from my grasp spilling our memories onto the carpet.
Lying among them was a long black case.
Oh, Michael. Tears dripped off my face as I bent to pick it up.
I opened the case.
My heart stopped then pounded back into rhythm.
There it was.
The nine-inch diamond bracelet.
My body, no longer able to hold its own weight, crumpled to the floor.
What had I done?
CHAPTER EIGHT
Desmond, Casey, and the Stonemason
ANOTHER CONTEST-INSPIRED story during my Everything-Italian phase. For anyone curious, in ancient Rome it was illegal to put a Vestal Virgin to death because spilling their blood might offend the gods. Instead, Vestal Virgins who committed crimes such as losing their virginity or letting the city's eternal flame go out were punished by being buried alive with a hunk of bread and a little water. This way, their "fate" was in the hands of the gods. I doubt whether there were actual Vestal Locks, but I do feel Desmond's pain of walking miles and miles through Roman museums and just wanting to find the bar.
***
The $500,000 invoice sent his stomach fluttering, but only for a moment. Regardless of his wealth, Desmond never could rid himself of this poor-boy reaction to the cost of his whims. But within seconds, a Seven Deadly Sins brand of pride replaced the plummeting can-I-afford-this sensation. The money could have sent thousands of kids to college, it could have fed the poor, it could have purchased land for the Nature Conservancy. Desmond smirked while swiping his card through the reader, then stifled a giggle as he entered his PIN and accepted the transaction. All those noble causes screwed over for this thing that would be buried six feet under.
It was no ordinary casket. No, what stood before him was a work of art he'd wanted since last year's annual trip to Italy.
In Rome, all he cared to do was sip wine at the enoteca and watch the cameriera swish between tables, but Casey dragged him off to the Capitoline Museum - two buildings, underground passages, innumerable busts of old men and a wife who had to see everything. And, since Casey was too absorbed to translate the visitors' guide, Desmond couldn't make heads or tails of where the museum's bar was. So he followed her from one dark room to the next, rolling his eyes at every coin and wondering how anyone could find this stuff interesting.
Then he saw one. Once he noticed it, he realized they lined the entire room.
"What are those?"
"Sarcophagi. Didn't you see the others?"
"Others?"
"Well, these are nice, but we need to go back towards the entrance to see the best."
"More walking?"
"I'll walk a hundred miles if you're actually interested in something here."
The walk was worth every step. Carved into an eight-foot marble box raged a battle scene as detailed as a photo taken the moment of the action.
"I've got to get one of those."
"Let's go grab a bite at the bar."
"I’ll meet you there," Desmond said, taking in every grimace, every spear jab, every terrified enemy. Yes, he had to have one.
Upon returning from Italy, Desmond ordered Casey to get him in touch with the best stonemason in New York.
"I'd prefer if you asked me nicely." Casey tapped on her phone's screen. Her position as curator at MOMA kept her in contact with the nation's top restoration artists.
"Are you going to get me my artist, or what?"
"What's this about? You hate art. Sometimes I think you hate me because I enjoy art." She smiled at something on the screen.
"Is this tirade going to take long? I'm sure my secretary could do this without the attitude."
"Don't bother her." Desmond's phone pinged. "I just sent you the information."
***
The stonemason could only stare as Desmond described the scene he dreamt up on the flight home.
"The marble alone will cost tens of thousands," said the stonemason. "And I don't work cheap."
"Do you think I can't pay?" Desmond swung his arm in a game show host's flourish, inviting him to observe the handmade Italian furniture, the artwork the Louvre borrowed on occasion, the crystal chandelier handcrafted at Waterford. All contained within the entire top floor of the Manhattan skyscraper Desmond owned.
"I've no doubt you have the money, but you realize this thing's going into the ground, don't you?"
"Are you saying you don't want the job?"
"You haven't mentioned my salary."
"How long will it take you?"
"For this size and detail, about a year."
"Well, what's twelve months of your life worth? Double that number and cancel any plans because you're mine for the next year."
"What's the rush? Think you're dying or something?"
"Do you think I got where I am without planning for the future? You could learn a thing or two from me."
***
"Killing puppies?"
"I wouldn't put it past him."
"Leave him. Be with me."
"You know I would, but the damn pre-nup. Why did I ever trust him? If I leave I'm required to pay him back for every unwanted gift he's given me - and I'm sure he kept the receipts – plus I'm obligated to buy out half of that gaudy condo. I'd go bankrupt."
"But if he met with an accident?"
"What are you saying?"
"How well do you know Desmond?"
"Too well, why?"
"Will he want to try out his new toy?"
"He goes on nonstop, imagining what it'll be like to be inside, how stately he'll look, how impressed people will be. But couldn't he just kick off the lid?"
"Remember when you requested I study the Vestal Locks?"
"You figured them out?"
The stonemason nodded.
***
Designed by the Romans from a Greek idea, the trip latches known in archeological circles as Vestal Locks were used to imprison Vestal Virgins who broke their vows of chastity. By Roman law, no one could kill the priestesses of Vesta so the condemned were placed, while still alive, in sarcophagi. The victim entered on her own accord and, once she guided the lid into place, locks sprung shut. Her blood would therefore be on no one's hands if the gods happened to starve her to death. Only the person who created the box knew the location of the release mechanism to retrieve the body.
***
A year later, an invoice rested on top of Desmond's sarcophagus. He examined the carving before touching the paper. If he didn't like the work he could walk away. A loophole in the contract demanded complete satisfaction or the stonemason received nothing. Casey screeched her head off when she learned about that clause.
But the work was good. The scenes were exactly as he imagined: the glorious Desmond dressed as Zeus with his business rivals begging for mercy, another panel with him dressed as a commander of legions driving a chariot that crushed adversaries resembling the bleeding hearts who taxed the hell out of his profits, and another scene filled with naked women clamoring over one another to get to the Desmond Apollo who brandished a lightning bolt to symbolize his potency.
Desmond stepped onto the stool to examine his effigy. The lid of the sarcophagus bore a wrinkle- and jowl-free image of his face appearing more benevolent than it ever had in real life. The body was carved to resemble a lightweight silk tunic draped over a muscular body Desmond had never attained.
"I love it," he said as flipped over the invoice. The flutter, then the arrogant pride swept over him. This was barely a month's salary.
"Those poles though," he indicated two poles extending from either end of the lid, "none of the ones I saw had poles."
"They make it easier to slide the lid aside. Marble plugs hide the holes once the poles are removed."
"Fine, you get paid." Desmond swiped his card, entered his PIN and accepted the charge.
"Try it out," Casey suggested.
"Always putting me one step closer to the grave, right Casey? Do you think she'll be able to move it if we do most of the work? Weaker sex and all," Desmond elbowed the stonemason and gave a knowing wink.
"Only one way to find out," the stonemason said. "On the count of three you and I will move the lid to the side. Casey, you watch your end stays balanced. One. Two. Three."
Desmond strained to heave the marble lid. With the lid angled aside, the stonemason said, "Okay, Desmond, don't release before I say so or your effigy will shatter." He reached to Desmond's pole. "Alright."
"Are you sure you can handle the weight?" Desmond strained.
"Quite sure."
Desmond let go and the stonemason grunted with the extra weight, but soon settled into the effort.
"Kind of creepy, eh?" Desmond joked as he climbed into the cool interior. "Slide the lid shut. I want the full effect."
"Are you sure?" Casey asked.
"Don't question me, woman. Let me enjoy a minute of peace and quiet."
Casey looked to the stonemason. He gave a slight grin and a nod, then pushed the lid into position.
After a click he thought came from the lid fitting into place, Desmond lay in silence. The marble interior sucked the heat from him.
"Hope you guys are warm. I'm freezing in here," he laughed. "The icy hand of death and all that, eh?"
On the outside of the coffin they couldn't hear the joke.
"What do you think he's thinking?" the stonemason asked.
"Does it matter?"
The stonemason checked something on his phone.
"Not really, the transaction went through."
The marble muted sound from within and without. Casey and the stonemason couldn't hear Desmond screams to be let out. Nor could Desmond hear the poles being removed, the holes plugged and the studio being locked as Casey and the stonemason walked out hand in hand.
PART THREE
Evening
CHAPTER NINE
The Weaver
"THE WEAVER" IS a strange tale. I don't really believe there are little workers weaving our strands of fate, but I like the idea of it and how it might work – especially with cocky new hires trying to show up their superiors. This is probably one of the quickest stories I've written - the entire thing popped into my head and got put down on paper in an hour while waiting for my car's oil to be changed. For reference, I imagined the mentor the Rookie is constantly thinking of as the Vincent Price character from the movie Edward Scissorhands.
***
"Got it?"
"I think so."
"There's no 'I think so.' Either yes or no. People's lives are at stake. So, once again, got it?"
"Yes," I say making no attempt to hide my irritation.
"I'm giving you an easy one to start. This is the first you've woven on your own, right?"
"Yes sir."
"You remember how to do a simple braid?"
"Three strands over-under-over-under." I pictured my mentor's hands whirring away on a simple braid to demonstrate mastery at the skill. His students, including myself, eventually wove the braid smoothly under his tutelage, but never with such speed. Still, there were limits to how fast you could braid a life.
"Brilliant, Rookie," the Head Knower says with a roll of his eyes. "This is straight-forward, no strange twists or additions. A dullard's life even you can handle. Here’re the strands."
"Thank you, sir." I take the silvery filaments from his hand and he's right, this one will be simple. I hear my mentor reciting The Fate Weaver's Tome of Instruction:
"You can judge the complexity of what you'll be weaving from the initial contact with the strands. Their weight is in direct correlation to the life's twists and turns."
The demo strand we'd passed around class carried so much weight that, when looped over my finger, the digit began to turn white before I handed the piece on to the next apprentice. The strands my Knower assigned me weigh next to nothing. It will be boring work, but I still need to be mindful of tearing, stretching, or breaking the strands. The Tome tells us not to let the weight of the strands fool us. Even though the person's life may be dull in the Weaver's opinion, it is still someone's life and not to be taken lightly. This dullard's Fate Strands will be woven as carefully as those making up a world leader or inventor. I mentally recite the First Rule of Weaving from my mentor's initial lesson.
"Rule One," he would say in his trilling voice, "says Weavers must not judge. We must simply bring the Strands of Fate together so the lives go on as the Knowers have seen."
These words play over and over in my mind as I work on my first strands. I didn't expect to be handed anything exciting for my first true weaving, but this is beyond dull. I struggle with the question of how someone could let his life be so plain. As my fingers move down the
strand I see his life going by and him not taking advantage of the gift. He does the least possible in school, he takes the easiest job that comes his way, never marries or forms any influential friendships and I'm certain his death will be of old age and natural causes.
I sigh as I braid in the filaments of a few acquaintances and mesh his work strand in for a good portion of his life, but I contain my boredom. The temptation is to snip off a bit of a tsunami strand and throw a challenge in for the guy, but the Knower didn't see that for him. I braid the filaments I've been given and tell myself over and over to treat it with care, to weave the glinting strands of life events together as if this person matters, which I know he doesn't. I could snap this person's strand in the middle, ending his life at forty instead of seventy-five and no one would care. But then I would be falling into the George Bailey Fallacy (renamed from the Dullard's Fallacy after the release of It's a Wonderful Life - required viewing for Weavers as it is the closest humans have gotten to understanding our work).
The Tome describes the Fallacy in this way: We tend to think because a person is dull, his or her life doesn't matter, but it does. They all do.
My mentor put it this way, "In essence, everyone's life affects someone else's at some point either greatly or minutely, for good or for evil, and that affect guides the affected from then on. It is not up to the Weaver to determine. That is the realm of the Knower."
So, the dullard I'm forcing myself to take care with might help a pregnant lady across the street who will give birth to someone important. The woman may or may not have been in danger, but the kindness of his act will somehow influence her and her child. You can't know what other Weavers are working on for this very reason. This is Rule Two (at least this person's dull life is giving me plenty of time to remember my training even if I'm not making the best use of it).
"Rule Two of The Tome," my mentor would say with haughty authority, "tells us one Weaver may not know another Weaver’s work."
The rule is a check system to keep Weavers from making judgments about a life and "accidentally" snipping off a strand to prevent a chain of events (say Hitler's mom and dad meeting) or to "force weave" two lives together that never fully join (such as two friends a Weaver may want to see become lovers).
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