The Housewife Assassin's Greatest Hits

by Josie Brown

  I stiffen in his arms. “You mean the Donna Craig Show, don’t you?”

  “Slip of the tongue.” His grudging admission is not at all sincere.

  “I already have a plan for eternity,” I retort stiffly. “I’ll be at Jack’s side.”

  “Wrong choice,” he mutters.

  “Thank you, but no thank you,” I say in my politest and firmest Mommy-has-made-up-her-mind voice.

  “WRONG CHOICE! WRONG CHOICE! WRONG CHOICE!” His words thunder through the ballroom, ripping through the paintings, cracking the mirrors, setting the musician’s instruments on fire—

  And slamming me to the marble floor. Satan is no longer the charming, debonair man in a bespoke tuxedo. He is a forty-story high blood-red horned demon.

  When he picks me up, he shreds my gown with his claws. He holds me close enough to stare me in the eye for one last warning:

  “Hell is filled with regrets.”

  When he drops me, everything goes dark.

  I awaken to the pungent odor of frying skin.

  Thank goodness, it isn’t mine. Still, I leap up onto my feet because the floor around me is hot from the ashes falling from the dark sky above. Every few feet, the ground is pocked with gurgling pits of steaming magma.

  The air is heavy with smoke. Flames shoot across the sky; as they fall, anguished screams fill the air.

  A flame zips by me, singeing my arm.

  My muffled cry brings a laugh from somewhere deep in the steam. A woman’s taunts, “This is what it’s like. Get used to it.”

  Tatyana Zakharov.

  Once a breathtakingly beautiful woman, this dead and once deadly assassin now wears her pain on the outside. I’m not just talking about the ones earned during spy games, like the broken fingers and the deep scar Jack carved into her face during her stay in Acme’s torture chamber, Club Dread; or even the many broken bones she suffered as she and I fell into an open elevator shaft from the nineteenth floor.

  I saved myself by grabbing hold of a broken cable. Tatyana wasn’t so lucky. The fact that half of her skull is now smashed in is proof of that.

  She deserved it. She took Jeff as a captive to be beheaded by terrorists on television.

  Tatyana strides my way and she’s packing heavy metal. Her flamethrower resembles a bigger badder HK33. “Do you know how long I’ve waited for this moment?” she crows. “Run, Donna Craig—and don’t stop! We both have a lot on the line!”

  I shout back, “Tell me, what’s in it for you?”

  “I get what you turned down—Queen of Hell!” To prove that she’s in a take-no-prisoners mode, she fires at me again.

  Why, that fickle Devil!

  I drop onto hot brimstone and roll away, deep into the sultry mist. When I leap to my feet, I shout, “Yo, Satan! Where is my weapon? I’m supposed to have one too, remember?”

  Hell quakes from his ear-splitting laughter, causing me to fall to my knees—a blessing in disguise since another of Tatyana’s flames soars only two inches from my head.

  “Think of what you want and you’ll have it—but choose wisely,” Satan warns me.

  Tatyana appears from the mist. Her surprise at finding me so easily makes her squeal with delight. She raises her flamethrower, cocks it, and aims right at my heart.

  This time, though, I won’t turn and run.

  “I choose Life,” I whisper.

  It is, after all, the ultimate weapon against Death.

  For some reason, at that very moment, I think of one person who made the ultimate sacrifice: Mara Portnoy.

  When Jeff was held captive, my bullet took his executioner’s life. But Tatyana was determined that, one way or another, the world would witness the terror of a child’s execution. Her bullet was meant for Jeff, but Mara, the Acme operative who was to replace me during my self-imposed retirement, jumped in front of my son, trading her life for his.

  As if I’ve conjured a ghost, Mara appears behind Tatyana.

  Before Tatyana knows what she’s doing, Mara is hugging her—

  But not really. At first, Mara’s front arm goes high in order to grab one side of Tatyana’s face—

  But then she lowers her hand to Tatyana’s chin. At the same time, her back arm takes hold of what’s left of Tatyana’s head. With one quick jerk, Mara twists Tatyana’s head back as she shoves the heel of her palm up through her captor’s chin.

  The snap of Tatyana’s neck reverberates through Hell.

  Her limp body drops to the ground.

  “You killed her for me,” I murmur.

  Mara shakes her head. “No. I killed her for me. When you thought of me, I finally had my opportunity for payback.” Smiling sadly, she whispers, “Goodbye, Purgatory.”

  I shake my head. “I don’t think you’ll be thanking me after you see what it’s like here.”

  Mara laughs. “Who knows? Maybe I’ll convince Satan that I should be his queen.” She winks. “Don’t worry. If he takes me up on my offer, I’ll look after you.”

  “I won’t be coming back,” I swear fervently—more for myself than for her. “Mara, you shouldn’t be here either.”

  She shrugs. “You’re right. In hindsight, Purgatory wasn’t so bad.” She points upward. “If you get a chance, put in a good word for me.”

  I nod—

  But already she’s dissolved into nothingness.

  Oh, no! Now I’ll never have the answer to my final question: Where will we find Eric?

  The Devil appears in the exact spot where Mara was standing He’s holding a clipboard.

  “Where’s Mara?” I ask warily.

  “Initiation,” he informs me. “All plebes have to go through it.” He sticks out a clipboard. “Just a formality: we like to know your likes and dislikes”—he giggles—“and you can guess which one you end up with.”

  I don’t take it. “Not necessary. I’m out of here. I won. Remember?”

  Satan frowns. “I beg to differ. You didn’t kill Tatyana. Mara did. Ergo, you lost.”

  I lost?

  No, no, no—

  “Whoa! Wait a minute! I can’t help it if she stepped in before I—”

  But he’s no longer here.

  Not good.

  I shout into the fog, “Re-do! Okay?”

  Nothing.

  I need an intermediary. “Death—I know you’re here, too—and you saw what happened! You know I didn’t ask Mara to do that! It was all her doing! Please!”

  Not a groan, not a whisper, nothing.

  Deathly silence.

  And then, just like that, I’m back in my hospital room.

  I’ve heard nothing from Death all day. Frankly, I’m worried.

  To settle my nerves, I go over all the clues I've gotten thus far:

  First off, Varick has confirmed that Eric is, in fact, involved somehow.

  For that matter, what did the Gilbert and Sullivan ditty mean? Let’s see, how did it go again? Oh yes:

  Three little maids in attendance come

  To one NOT a maid BUT a bride, Yum-Yum

  Nobody's safe, for ONE cares for none

  Three little maids from...

  Not only that, but he got some of the lyrics wrong. It’s supposed to be only two little maids in attendance as opposed to three. Also, he said that one of the maids is not a bride like she is in the song. And it’s “Nobody’s safe for we care for none…” as opposed to the way he sang it: “Nobody’s safe for ONE cares for none…”

  He’s made a muddle of it.

  Edwina Doyle’s riddle is just as crazy—something about a football, of all things! Did she mean that Eric is planning an attack during a pro football game? Oh, my God–is he going to release a bomb during a pro game?

  The third clue—when it happens—is thanks to Robert, who tricked Salem into giving it away: The clock struck one, and Lee was done.

  For that matter, Catherine mentioned Lee too: Well, what do you expect? He’s no Eisenhower…

  What has Lee got to do with all of this?


  Catherine also said something about “a building filled with ghosts”—to which she also added that, “Carl knows that better than anyone.”

  Perhaps she means a mausoleum of some sort? And since I never fought Carl in any trial, what does he have to do with any of this?

  As to where it happens, Nola’s response provided me with another clue—sort of. I say this because for the life (or death) of me I can’t make heads or tails of her cockamamie answer: something to do with a setting sun in the west, and a bird with a broken wing…

  I’m so confused.

  And, finally, there's the clue from Valentina. It makes absolutely no sense whatsoever: The wife knows everything.

  Was she talking about me? If she meant me, she is so, so wrong.

  Maybe that's the problem: none of this is real—

  Which is why it doesn't make sense to begin with.

  Oh, my God—listen to my medical monitors! They’re squawking like angry parrots—

  And my cardiac meter is zigzagging up and down, up and down—

  No—

  Just down, down, down while I float up, up, up toward the ceiling.

  What is happening to me?

  11

  She's Not There

  Performed by the pop group, the Zombies. Written by band member Rod Argent. Released in September 1964, this was the group’s debut single. It spent fifteen weeks on the Billboard’s “Hot 100” chart, reaching the #2 slot; as well as #2 on the Cashbox chart, and #12 on the UK Singles chart.

  Argent claimed that the inspiration behind the song was his first love: a girl named Patricia, who broke his heart by calling off their wedding just weeks before he wrote it.

  When a woman breaks off a relationship, invariably, her ex will opine, “She blindsided me! I didn’t see it coming…”

  Dude: really?

  For any guy who can commiserate with this declaration, or who may have an inkling that their own Significant Other is moving in the same direction—that is to say, out the door—here are some telltale signs that very soon she won’t be there:

  Sign #1: She’d rather be at work than spend time with you.

  Sign #2: She’d rather spend time with her family than with you.

  Sign #3: Heck, she’d rather spend time with your family than with you.

  Sign #4: She’d rather spend time with her girlfriends than with you.

  Sign #5: For that matter, she’s already looked up your old girlfriends because she wants validation that she should do what they did—get the hell out.

  Sign #6: Speaking of life, if every woman you know has come up with an excuse to move on, take it as a very broad hint that you’re not living up to their expectations. Time to do a little soul searching. Look at it this way: if you die a lonely old man, you won’t have lived up to your expectations, either.

  Frenzied doctors and wide-eyed nurses swarm into my room. Battle stations are quickly assumed. Nancy shouts out my EKG reading, causing one of the doctors, McLanky, to swear. He leaps forward with the defibrillator paddles, placing them on my chest. The other doctor, who sports one big dimple in his chin and is too handsome for his own good, barks the order to zap me while Nancy yells out my readings yet again.

  It takes four shots to my chest to raise the semblance of a pulse.

  In unison, my medical team breathes a sigh of relief. A couple of the nurses high-five each other. Not Nancy. She looks worried.

  And why is Dr. McDimple frowning?

  With one hand, he grabs a penlight out of the breast pocket of his lab coat. With the other, he rolls my eyelid open. Shaking his head, he mutters, “This one is definitely LOBNH.”

  LOBNH…

  Did he just call me “Lights on but nobody home”? Why that son of a bitch!

  “The family still believes she’ll pull out of it,” McLanky insists. “Frankly, I do too.”

  McDimple frowns. “Wishful thinking on their part—and yours, my friend. The vultures are circling. This one needs to be put out of her pain.”

  McLanky’s tired eyes narrow with anger. Turning to McDimple, he retorts, “What you’re suggesting, doctor, may be somewhat premature. As her attending surgeon, I’ve noted responses on several occasions, including—”

  My monitor starts squawking again.

  Once again, my medical team scrambles to their positions.

  Six shocks later, a pulse is detected—

  “Barely there,” Nancy declares.

  The members of my med team, exhausted, slump against the walls or plop down into the chairs. Jeannette turns to face McLanky. “Doctor, we’ve tried everything. Maybe it’s time.”

  He purses his lips. Finally he shrugs.

  “Poor Donna,” Death exclaims in my ear. “Well, hon, you can’t say you didn’t give it your all.”

  “I was cheated out of my last trial!” I gasp desperately. “It wasn’t my fault–”

  I’m interrupted by the knock on the door.

  Slowly, it opens:

  Jack.

  Aunt Phyllis stands beside him. She holds a pie box in her hand. Its sweet cherry aroma is potent enough to widen the nostrils of my medical team. She’ll take credit for it with the nurses, but I know Mary baked it. Otherwise, it would have smelled like burnt crust.

  My children peek out from behind my husband and my aunt. Mary, Trisha, and Evan hold bouquets of long-stemmed roses. Their yellow petals are tinged a sweet pink. Jeff has my favorite sweater in his hand.

  Jack’s eyes widen hoping that the gathering of my med team means good news. But as he scans their faces, the hope in his eyes softens with despair.

  Hearing McLanky’s sad sigh, Jack’s shoulders slump.

  “We should talk,” my doctor says. “Would you mind following me?”

  Aunt Phyllis is no fool. She’s lived long enough to know what those words mean. Distraught, she drops the pie box.

  As I float out the door after them, I look down at the box. Its top opened in the fall. The pie’s lattice top is now broken. Cherry juice oozes beyond the tin, through the broken box and onto the hall floor.

  It is the color of blood.

  I follow my doctor and my family into a large closed room at the end of the hall.

  Thank goodness, the room is empty. Its walls are painted a soft moss green. Crisp white molding gives it a homey feel. A couple of settees flank a large coffee table. Comfortable easy chairs face a fireplace, where colorful glass chips, sprinkled over a lit gas grate, send out Tinkerbell flickers across the room. Two more easy chairs are angled toward a window that faces a beautiful walled garden.

  No one sits down. Instead, my children and my aunt cluster around Jack. All eyes are on McLanky. While their silence begs him to fill the void, their pursed lips warn him that bad news will batter their hearts yet again.

  Despite its serene ambiance, I wonder: how many tears have been shed in this room? Within these walls, how many lives have been shattered by the seven-word sentence now being uttered by my doctor: “There is nothing more we can do…”?

  How often is this room remembered as the place in which a patient’s loved ones lost hope?

  Jack’s eyes have glassed up, but his fists have tightened in denial. “Are you trying to tell us that Donna will never wake up?”

  Dr. McLanky nods.

  “But…but her eyes fluttered when we talked to her!” Mary exclaims.

  “She’s squeezed my hand—twice!” Jeff exclaims.

  “She responded to the ultra-sound,” Aunt Phyllis reminds him. “And that was just yesterday—”

  “I’m sorry, but brain activity is now negligible. What little there is indicates a persistent vegetative state,” the doctor explains.

  “In other words, she’s no longer Donna. She’s just…a body,” Evan says, deflated.

  I wave my hand in front of his face. No! No! I’m here! Please see me…

  “You’re wrong,” Trisha shakes her head firmly. “Mommy came to me in a dream! She told me that she l
oves me, and she wants me to never give up on her. She asked me to leave Birthday Bear with her!”

  McLanky bends down so that he’s eye-to-eye with Trisha. “You walked in just after we’d resuscitated her for the second time in a ten-minute span. Trisha, I wish I could tell you that your mother will wake up, but her organs are shutting down.” His eyes then scan the rest of the family for their comprehension of my situation.

  Jack’s mouth hardens. Seeing this, Dr. McLanky sighs. “I’m sorry, but as of now it’s only a matter of time.” He places a hand on my husband’s shoulder. “When she’s taken off life support, it will be a few hours at most. It can be done here”—his pause comes with a wince–“or you can have her transported home if you prefer.” He nods to my children. “I’ll let you discuss it in private.”

  My family stays still and silent until he leaves the room.

  “We aren’t pulling the plug on Mom,” Jeff growls.

  Trisha nods. “She’s in there! She told me she wants to be with us and that it’s just a matter of time.”

  “People say that when they are on their way to heaven too,” Mary murmurs.

  Jeff is now tall enough to go nose to nose with his sister. “Don’t tell me you’d do what he says!”

  “No! …Yes—I mean, if she’s already gone up here”—Mary points to her head—“and her body is dying, why would we keep her in such pain?”

  “She’s not in pain!” Trisha insists.

  “Really?” Mary counters. “Do you know that for sure?”

  Jeff drops his head at the thought that his eldest sister may be right.

  “I…no,” Trisha admits. “Daddy, does Mommy feel her wound?”

  Jack closes his eyes for a moment, as if hoping the right way to answer our youngest child will manifest itself in his mind.

  Jack, please tell her I’m here now with all of you. Tell her I know you’ll make the right decision—

  When he opens them again, the serenity I see there puts me at ease.

  “Trisha, your mother is here with us now. She knows we’ll make the right decision—”

  “To…let her go.” Jeff’s exclamation comes out as a husky whisper.