Beyond the Veil

by Erin Lee

  “I really appreciate this. I’d just like to take it down a few notches. This isn’t a first wedding. It’s just a vow renewal. Let me talk to Mary and chill her out,” I say, praying that Brown will lay off.

  “Really. I want to do this for you! You’re a great employee and I know how women are. Before you know it, Mary will be too big and tired to want to do this. Do it up and do it now. Trust me. Married man myself. Father too. I know how they are. This will get you brownie points for years.”

  Big and tired? What the fuck? “Yeah. Well, hold off on any announcements. I still need to talk to her.” And Kate.

  “Is there something wrong?” Brown stares at me like I’m holding back some massive secret. My stomach flips, knowing its secrets – plural.

  “Everything’s fine. She’s just being a little over the top. You know how women are. I don’t want a huge fuss but she does. We’ll find a happy medium.”

  “Well, be careful. By the second trimester they get easier. For now, you want to tip toe. Those hormones. I remember when Sara was early in and about kicked me out of the house.”

  “Hormones?”

  “Estrogen. Who knows? Whatever the pregnancy hormones are. Your best bet is to listen to her – take it from one who knows.”

  Why in God’s fuck Mary would tell Brown she is pregnant is beyond me. Why she feels the need to call my boss in the first place, and why he’s even interested, is a whole other thing.

  “Yeah,” I grumble. “Well, thanks. And wish me luck with this.”

  Brown tilts his head and scrunches up his nose as if he wants to ask me something else. Instead, he give me mercy and launches into the status of the monthly reports as I casually glance down at my phone. Kate has been texting for the last hour and appears to be experiencing the pregnancy hormones herself. Fucking epic.

  8 p.m.

  “WHAT THE hell did you say to Brown? And why does he think you’re pregnant?”

  Mary shrugs, smiling. “Well, it’s like the power of the secret. Believe it and it’s done. It might be already. Think positive! ...I got so much done today. And he was so sweet. Said we could use not only the lounge but the conference room. Still, based on the guest list, I’m thinking we should move this whole affair somewhere else. And did he tell you? You’re off this weekend! No work! He agreed that we need the time to plan our second honeymoon. And, of course, dress shopping!”

  “Back up the bus. Has it occurred to you to ask me what I want? I mean, I’m a part of this too.”

  Mary laughs. “You’re the groom. Everyone knows weddings are for the bride.”

  “We already had a wedding.”

  “In a courtroom. That doesn’t count. This is the real deal. You promised this for years and we can finally afford it now. Besides, we’ll want the pictures for our child. I bought a baby name book today.”

  “Where is this coming from? Why the sudden rush? You said you didn’t want kids. Remember all that shit about Ingrid? How she ate hers or something? You said you weren’t maternal and I’d leave you too. What happened to all that?” Keep your crazy consistent. Christ.

  “A woman has a right to change her mind. Time isn’t slowing down. We need to do this now. You always said you wanted kids. Has something changed?” Mary asks, putting down a broom.

  “Nothing’s changed,” I lie. “It might have been nice to be asked is all. Or to do things one step at a time. Have you been taking your meds?”

  “I take my meds just fine, thanks. You’d know that if you were around more. You’re always at work. You’re never around. At least I have you to myself all weekend.”

  I think of Kate, whose last text message demanded I give her a call. I missed another appointment today and she’s not happy. I hate myself. I wanted to be there for the ultrasound but between Mary and Brown the day was relentless.

  “I’m working this weekend.”

  “No you aren’t. I already talked to Brown. He knows we need time to plan the wedding and wished us all the luck in the world.”

  “You need to stop calling my boss. Stop fucking with my job. You want a baby? Well, we need money. I’m working this weekend.”

  “Is that how you talk to the mother of your child?”

  For a second, I want to throw up. Kate is the mother of my child – not my wife. Does she know? She has to. But how? “You aren’t pregnant. Cut it out!”

  An hour later, I sit in a locked bathroom staring at my phone. I hardly have the balls to open Kate’s messages. I can hear it now. She’s probably planning my funeral while my legally-obligated psychopath hits the renewal of vows. I close my eyes, scratching my head and wishing I could fake my own death. Lately, the only time I seem to get for thinking is on the john. But even now, I have to face Kate.

  I don’t bother reading her messages. I’ve seen enough previews with words like ‘where are you?’ and ‘care about us’ to know I’m in hot water with ‘Bob.’ It occurs to me that all Mary would have to do is look at my phone to quickly realize a contact known as ‘Bob Ringly’ was probably only an alibi. Either that, or she’d think I was gay. It would probably be easier.

  Me: Sorry babe. Work was hell and I’m working on telling Mary.

  Kate wastes no time in answering me. Within seconds, I get a new message alert.

  Bob: Did you tell her? Or still thinking about it.

  I can hear her thinking I have no balls. She’s not wrong. But now isn’t the time for honesty. I box myself in – only because from behind a locked door, I’m more afraid of Kate than Mary.

  Me: I told her. It may be a few days. I’m coming. I need to tie up loose ends. Bear with me. I love you.

  Bob: Holy shit! And finally. I’m so proud of you!!! ...How did she take it?

  Me: Not well.

  Bob: Are you okay? You missed the appointment.

  Me: Sorry. Yeah. I will be fine. Don’t worry. Take care of the baby. Just give me a few days.

  Bob: Will do. Thinking about you. Love and miss you.

  Me: Me too.

  Chapter Seven

  The next morning

  Mary

  I take two pills for good measure, reminding myself what Ingrid did to her baby – which probably isn’t the point. The fuck I’m getting pregnant by a philanderer regardless of Ingrid West and what she would or wouldn’t do. I’m not that crazy. The fuck I’m getting pregnant, period. Hopping in the car, I head out to Finley’s Diner. If precious ‘Kat’ had any sense about her, she’d stop checking in on social media. Tracking her is about as easy as accessing Hudson’s messages. They are perfect for each other: complete morons.

  I consider staying in the car and watching her through a window. With no idea whether or not she’ll recognize me, I decide a baseball cap and sunglasses will be enough to throw her off guard. Hell, it’s not like I can’t eat in a public restaurant. It won’t be my fault if she has a guilty conscience. In fact, it will be epic.

  Smiling, I park at the front of the diner. Again, I’m determined not to hide from her. I am, after all, Hudson’s legal wife. Soon, I’ll be his widow. No one will be sending condolences to her. It will be me who rakes in the sympathy cards. Inside, I smile at a fat-faced woman whose eyes are the color of a summer sky. She tells me I can sit anywhere I want. I scan the joint and decide on a booth two up from hers.

  It’s strange, sharing the same space as her. A woman intent on destroying my life, I thought I’d feel more, well, anger. Instead, as I watch her from behind a plastic menu, I a surreal numbness washes over me. Maybe it’s because I know what’s coming for her or that I understand the big picture. My grandmother taught me the difference between winning battles and wars. For now, Kate was on top. But that wouldn’t be forever. In the end, I’d make this right. Whatever it was, watching Kate stuff her face with blueberry pancakes did nothing more for me than satisfy some sort of morbid curiosity.

  To be fair, I can see what he saw in her physically. She is his type: dirty blonde and voluptuous. While I can’t see signs
of the bastard spawn, I’ve seen enough pictures to know what is hidden under the metal diner table. I pull out my notebook, determined to grant Ingrid another kill. What I can’t do on my own for real, she can do. While I don’t want blood now, it’s coming. The only question is whose? Someone will die in order for any of us to have a chance of a happy ending. I’ve read enough to know that for sure. And history does repeat itself.

  Settled on two eggs over easy and a plain bagel with cream cheese, I try not to look at her as I throw myself into Ingrid’s world and wish that I could join her. In another time, this would be easier. Things like life insurance, corporate politics and hell, DNA evidence, wouldn’t be factors. But living in the here and now, I had to move slowly. Like the killers I both read and wrote fan fiction about, my time was coming. Hudson and me would have our final showdown; somehow.

  I laugh out loud at the idea of Hudson’s pain. He told Kate, otherwise known as Bob, that he told me. What he must be going through right now – juggling the partners and trying to set the stage for me. Marriage was a bitch. But I was too. And so was he... Is she?

  Chapter Eight

  Hudson

  A month later

  I can’t look at her. I’ve put her off long enough – lied to her even. Tonight, when I get home, I’m telling Mary. There’s no sense in dragging it out. With assets transferred and Mary unaware of it all, I tell myself I can do this. I can call the shame of a second wedding off, tell her there won’t be a baby, and even get out of it all without alimony. No guilt. It’s not like Mary can’t work. Hell, it might even get her out of her fictional world. I’m doing her a favor.

  Smiling at Kate, I ask her what she’s in the mood for.

  “Chinese.”

  “Again? My God. The kid is going to come out hating pork fried rice. We should call her Eggroll. She’ll be sick of it before she’s four and freak out when we go for takeout.”

  “Ya think? I doubt it. It’s impossible to get sick of Chinese.” Kate laughs, pouting at me. “Come on, take me out. Humor me, at least. We can always pick you up a sub. Please?”

  I salute. “At your service, Ma’am.”

  I don’t know if it’s that she’s glad to see me or that she’s treading lightly. Since the night I told her I told Mary I was leaving, she hasn’t brought it up. Not an ounce of pressure or even a ‘how are you doing?’ But then, my girlfriend has been busy setting up Daisy’s nursery. There are perks to the partners believing Kate and I are working on a baby. One of them is being able to hand Kate the corporate card and send her off to Baby’s R Us.

  Kate and me head out to her favorite Chinese restaurant on the far side of town. I wince when she pulls out her phone. Her check-in’s make me uncomfortable. Not only does she leave her pages set to public, but she has no shame at all about tagging my burner account – Hudson Rivers. While Kate’s under the impression it’s the only account I have and that her being ‘allowed’ to change our relationship status’s means we’re officially out, nothing could be further from the truth. I was named after the Hudson River. It’s as simple as that. My real account, of course, is set to private and unsearchable. My real status—the ones co-workers and family see—is locked down as married. Trapped. Waiting to die, even. At least, that’s how it feels to me.

  “Do you really need that?” I ask as Kate leans in to me for a selfie.

  “Why not? It will be cute for Daisy. We aren’t going to look this good forever,” she says, smiling. “Or you won’t. I’ll get surgery.”

  With a chuckle, she pokes me in the ribs and tells me I take life too serious.

  “You want the divorce to go well. I mean, alimony will mean less for Daisy,” I say, both my tone and expression deadpan.

  “Fine,” she pouts. “I won’t post them. But I’m not being your dirty little secret forever. It’s not fair to Daisy.”

  And then, as if she finally has the courage to spit it out, she asks the dreaded question. “So you told her, but when are you leaving? You never told me how she reacted or what she said. I kind of need to know your plan.”

  I will the color in my face to stay put as I fumble with a sticky menu. “This thing is gross. Maybe we should go somewhere else.”

  “It’s my favorite. See? Too serious. And don’t change the subject. What did she do? Did you tell her about the baby?”

  “No. I only told her about you.”

  “Does she know my name?”

  “Hell no. I’m protecting you. That’s my job. What about pork lo mein? I haven’t had that in years.”

  “Chicken’s better.”

  “Let’s get both.”

  “Deal.”

  In reality, with the topic at hand, there was no way I was holding any sort of food down. Next, I’d have to fake another bout of IBS just to get through the meal. So much for an escape with Kate. I’d be better off at home watching Mary sweep and mock me with stupid wedding plans.

  Chapter Nine

  Mary

  Ingrid knows. She always has:

  Just as we must go back, so too, we must push forward...

  Moving ahead. It will start with cleaning up his remains. I could leave them here, thrown about the dingy room the way he did Mary Jane’s back in November. Bloodied, skinned, and unmasked of his very being, it would be poetic. But it would also be too risky. The best chance I have of getting away with it is hijacking the time machine, throwing him in it, and bringing him to another time and place. That will give history something to think about. I could toss him in a river or at the site of a mass shooting. I could go onto a battlefield and leave his corpse among nameless soldiers. With the portal and what I know of the future, there are so many places I could hide him. A bombing victim. A suicide. The Golden Gate Bridge. Any country or place in time. It has to be special. Ultimately, it will become a thing of my own legacy. We will now be entwined, forever, in stories that generations tell for years about the common woman who unmasked Ripper in the literal sense.

  I lick at the blood on my lips. The taste of him wasn’t what I expected and I can’t say the iron-y copper taste of dirty coins that lingers in my mouth isn’t delicious. It is. It’s the sweet taste of revenge and justice. It’s knowing that history will never be the same and that my sister will have a chance to live again. With hints of the sun coming up over the cobblestone street outside, I peek through the ratty curtain. I don’t have much time.

  I tear at the bloodied bedsheet, pulling corners out from under a saggy mattress. I wish with everything I have that I could leave him here this way for detective inspectors Southerland Swanson, Thick, and the superintendent Thomas Arnold to find. His splayed legs and the bloodied hole where his unimpressive manhood once stood proud are quite the sight to see now. I consider the police logs and photographs that would immortalize him in history as nothing more than a disemboweled, limbless freak unable to steal the soul of the weaker ever again. I laugh, maniacally, as I pull the bed sheet over the bulk of his corpse and begin collecting body parts. I toss them, one by one, onto his slick, motionless core.

  It takes more than an hour to collect the pieces of him. The pub clock tower serves as a warning bell. I need him fully in satchels and in that time machine well before the city streets fill with beggars and those more fortunate on their way to warehouse jobs. I cannot be seen. Of course, with society’s notions that a woman like me would be incapable of such a thing, I’ll likely emerge unnoticed. Even in the light of day it might be easy to get to Dorset Street, where I suspect he’s left the time machine without much other than a wanton man’s nod at my breasts or an older woman shaking her head. But it’s not a chance I can take.

  Finally, when I’m sure I’ve collected most of him, I survey the room. With rent paid for two more weeks, I’ll have plenty of time to remove the stains and leave the place dirtied in the way only a working girl would – nothing more or less. I gather the corners of the sheet into a bag not unlike what St. Nick would use to bring toys to good children on Christmas Eve. In
a way, I feel like him, like I’m offering the world’s most vicious killer’s corpse as a gift to future generations. Using my boots at the edge of the bed to give me leverage, I heave the makeshift bag to the edge of the mattress, finally pulling hard enough to drop him on the floor.

  He lands with a bang. He’s heavier than I expected. Thinking quick, it occurs to me to grab a wagon from the fruit stand by the courtyard. No one would notice, not this early. I could bring it back. I just need to get a few blocks down to the time machine. Upon my return, I can easily return it. I may be a killer now, but I am certainly not a thief. Deciding that is exactly what I will do, I grab the last of the bulky evidence. His clothing, a long trench coat, that hallmark hat, and his perfectly tailored pants will be too much to fit in the bag of limbs. Maybe, if I fold them...

  Sitting on the edge of the bed and looking down at the bag of him, I take the items one by one to try to condense them. Out of habit, I check the pockets. A long blade, then a smaller one, send chills down my back. I run my finger over a cold, clean blade and think for the first time today of the risk this was. He could easily have used this on me. He had planned to. He had to have. Shivering, I reach into the last pocket. I’m delighted to pull out a billfold stuffed with enough cash to buy me another month at the boarding house. While I won’t stay here, it will be enough to set Gretchen and me up in a less unsavory district. Thumbing through bills, I spot it: His identification card. Again, a thrill runs through me.

  It is in this moment I understand the need for souvenirs. This is the one thing that I will keep. I’ll bury it with the portal. It will be my one forever memory of the Ripper; something investigators and reporters will search for forever. Eventually, when Gretchen and I are ready to figure out how to move forward, I’ll sell it. It might fetch enough to bring us the educations women of our time aren’t privy to. It might be the money we’d need to build a faster, better time machine. Or an electric car. The fantasies race the way Ripper’s likely did of women he’d become both God and jury to. Flipping my prize over in my hand, my heart sinks.