Oh, about that fox-fur jacket, I wore it with the leather pants the night they got beer- stained. I was amped that evening because I felt like a model. A star in the limelight. Gorgeous in leather and fur. I nestled my cheek against the jacket collar so much my neck got stiff. The fur was softer than a lover’s caress. But, someone lifted the jacket from the back of my barstool while I was dancing with this stud who also wore leather pants. Smooth leather massaging smooth leather as we slowly danced. Talk about luscious.
I hadn’t noticed your name and number on the label inside the jacket. I’m glad I wasn’t home when the manager at the Olive or Twist Pub called to say he had found it. It’s a good thing he knows you so well at his establishment or you may not have gotten the call. Your revenge attack on my belongings, however upset you were, horrified me. You ripped up my ten-year collection of Elle and Style magazines and opened the window to November winds. Glossy paper shreds littered the floor of my room and danced on gusts of cool air blowing in the window. You sliced up my prized—my only—pair of Christian Louboutin boots. The attack was overkill. I was sure I could never forgive you.
And then tonight…painful, painful slander.
You said my blue spiky hair was outlandish and not stylish with any type of outfit, including band tees over ragged jeans. How would you know? That’s not your world. Then you screamed at me, twisting the truth, telling me you’re slender and sexy and I’m fat. I am not fat. Weight is just distributed differently on my body than on yours. You think you’re sexy. Maybe to some you are, but I am sexy and smart. Intelligent. And, to educate your nonexistent artistic sensibilities, tats are an acceptable and expressive form of body art.
After listening to your idiotic sound and fury, I needed to reaffirm my SQ. That’s Sexiness Quotient to you. While you dressed for your date this evening, I planned how I would later slip into the black beaded gown you bought two weeks ago: deep V-neck, cinched waist, beads and sparkle. I had to prove to myself that the fitted sheath would fit my curves. I longed to swish the diaphanous overskirt, weighted with beads and sequins, with every runway step I took. I wanted to wear a gown that made me feel slender, sexy and beautiful. I’d emulate Audrey Hepburn in My Fair Lady, wearing an exquisite beaded gown, a gown so classy it sang to me and my body hummed along in harmony.
After you left on your date with Dan in that strapless to-die-for Halston rose-pink dress—mmmmm, I may try that one next—I raced to your closet. It was easy to pick the lock.
The dress slipped down my up-stretched arms and past my shoulders like melting ice cream on a summer day, fell over my hips and puddled slightly on the floor. I reached for the small tassel on the zipper pull and started zipping, my left hand stabilizing the gown at the bottom of the zipper while the right tugged upward on the tassel. I held my breath as it closed over my lower back, my hips, my waist…my waist…deep breath…and finished at the neckline. I paused in front of the gilded full-length mirror that you had tucked into a corner of the closet. Definitely high SQ reflected back at me. I felt encased in beauty. Pride and satisfaction pulsed through me but I took shallow breaths until I felt secure within that snugness.
I searched the cubicles that house your shoes, eager to find the perfect pair. I needed stiletto heels to give me enough height to keep the gown from dragging on the floor. And then, perfection: open-toed suede with black beaded accents. I bent over to pull on the first pump and felt the zipper split open at my waist. A whisper of cooled air finger-walked across five inches of exposed skin.
I never expected you back so early.
Hearing that familiar hiss of your anger, I panicked. Your earlier words swirled through my head, overlaid with new invective, battering my ego and my confidence. I spun to face you, shoe in hand.
…ninety-eight, ninety-nine, one hundred. I am calmer now. I keep my eyes closed for a few moments longer and draw a deep breath, sweeping a lightness through body and soul, erasing guilt and fear. I stand and pirouette, laughing, into the semidarkness of your bedroom, arms outstretched, elated by the rustle of silk and the chatter of beads tapping against beads, the bloodstained stiletto pump still in my right hand.
My gaze shifts from the pump to the back corner of the room. Your body lies crosswise on the bed where it had fallen, one knee bent over the edge of the mattress, hands clenched in frozen fists over your flat, flawless abdomen. SQ approximately zero, sis. The stiletto heel that bored into your heart? Well, I’m not sure blood stains will come out of suede. Too bad.
I saunter back to the mirror.
A zipper can be fixed, you know.
Back to TOC
The Two-Faced Dog
Ruth Moose
For months we slept with her ashes—Margaret Rose. I had no idea. Ugh. I shudder to remember. At first, I didn’t know this, had no inkling in the world. Of course I had never checked every shelf in his bedroom closet. Had not peeked in his closet at all. He did his own laundry, sent his shirts out, suits to the cleaners. I admired his self-sufficiency, how he’d learned to do so much for himself since her death. Margaret Rose—the first wife. Blah. Ugh. So now I was living with her “remains” and that included her dog, a black lab named Chrissy. More blah, ugh. The devil incarnate in a sleek fur suit.
When I moved in with Martin, he’d had both of Margaret Rose’s walk-in closets cleaned out; her clothes, her things. Every drawer, every rack, wall unit, shoe shelf, etc., clean as could be. I never knew if he did it himself or had the housecleaner haul everything away. Margaret Rose, the other woman, the other wife, her life, their life together. Gone, gotten rid of, except for two things. I’d have to live with the remains of Margaret Rose and worse than that, I’d have to live with the hound from hell, Chrissy. Her dog.
The day I hung up my meager wardrobe and began to settle in, that hound kept growling, snapping, snarling, nipping at my heels, did everything but clamp those sharp teeth into me. When Martin came home and I told him, he laughed, said I imagined things. That Chrissy had never growled in her life. And of course, to prove me a liar she came over, sat beside me, licked my hand, smiled her sweetest smile. She was so cool butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth. Two-faced liar, I wanted say. Liar. Liar. Liar.
When Martin wasn’t around, Chrissy spent a lot of the time in the master bedroom, in a pink wing chair by the bay window overlooking the water. She’d sit and stare out for hours. Of course, that must have been Margaret Rose’s chair. I noticed Martin never sat in it. Nor in the chair in the dining room, the one Chrissy would lie under half a day, head on her out stretched paws, the picture of depression. If I tried to sit in either chair, Chrissy growled, bumped my legs almost hard enough to knock me over. I soon gave up, let her have both chairs. If Martin noticed any of this, and I don’t think he did, he never commented. And I knew, if I had said anything, I would be accused of my silly “imagination” again.
Mutual friends introduced us, so before I met Martin I knew that Margaret Rose, his first wife had been dead a year. Cancer, of course, breast. Both. He’d had a rough four years caring for her but it made him the sweetest, tenderest, most considerate man I’d ever dated. We dated for three quick-paced months, then married, had a wild and crazy honeymoon in Costa Rica, and I moved into his house in the Hamptons.
I’d walk through the rooms and wrap my arms around myself. A dream. Was this really me? I felt like the luckiest girl in the world. Married to a real prince of a fellow in every way, successful and generous. I even had a home office that overlooked the gardens and the pool for my interior design business. It was all beyond belief.
Except for Chrissy who kept her distance, but watched my every move with those burning, black as hell, lying eyes.
The friends who introduced us said Martin was so full of grief they were really worried about him. He’d lost fifty pounds, wasn’t sleeping, was letting his life slowly leak away. And tears. They had never known Martin to be a man of tears. True, he was the saddest man I’d ever seen. It was a couple of dates before I got a real
smile out of him. And even then, little, half-smiles. Droopy eyes, distracted. But after a while his eyes lit up when he saw me, and he said I’d made him come alive again.
I tried to make up for all he’d lost in every way. And it was all ideal except for that damn dog. And now finding the ashes. My God, what does one do with one’s predecessor’s ashes? In the bedroom, no less. I knew I had to do something.
So I started small; first thing, got rid of that pink chair, which left Chrissy to pace and pace in the bedroom. Then I ordered all new furniture. Whew.
The day it was delivered, I met Martin at the door, said “I’ve got something to show you.” But Chrissy jumped in front of me, leaped, grabbed his coat and pulled him toward the bedroom, like the snotty little tattletale she was.
I followed, opened my arms wide. “Surprise,” I said. “Out with the French Provincial, in with the Stickney. The whole room. It’s collectable. You’ll love it. Very male.”
He didn’t say a word, just turned around, grabbed Chrissy’s leash and they went for a long, long walk.
But to me that damn dog’s heart was black as her fur, her soul burnt in hell like the ashes in that urn on his closet shelf. Cursed day. The day I first saw the box, I thought oh, how lovely, how thoughtful. A gift. A surprise for me. We did have a six-month anniversary coming up. What a wonderful man!
I lifted the gold colored box down from the shelf. Tall and square, but not the right shape for lingerie, much too big for jewelry. And like Pandora, I knew I had to open it. Inside was a sparkling blue, green and gold cloisonné urn. Uh oh. I knew without lifting the lid it was Margaret Rose. My God, here she’d been in our bedroom all these months. Watching. I quick closed the box, shoved it back on that shelf and shut the closet door, then leaned hard against it, as if to bar her from our lives, our lovemaking. Of course, she didn’t see anything. Margaret Rose was ashes, bits of bones. She was dead. Why was I so spooked? And what was I going to do about it? How does one bring up the subject of one’s predecessor’s ashes? Say, something like, oh by the way, I found a box of ashes in your closet when I was cleaning today. (How often does one clean the top shelf of one’s husband’s closet anyway?) So what did I do? Nothing of course. I said nothing. But I burned inside.
Life continued on its every day path of me settling in and that damn dog reminding me every day, every step, I was an intruder, an outsider and totally unacceptable.
Next I tackled the dining room. Out with the cherry Queen Anne, in with the glass and brass mod look. Fresh, clean, clear. The table reflected the Wyeth original paintings I bought, small ones of course, but original. And the twenty-foot-long glass dining table showed off the hand-knotted silk Persian rug underneath.
Lovely, lovely. The colors made the room come alive. Made me come alive, not that Martin ever really noticed.
Chrissy took to staying in Martin’s den more and more. I loved it. And all my changes in the house.
Martin never commented on any of it. Just got a blank look when he walked into a redone room. I learned not to expect anything positive or negative. He’d just leash up Chrissy and walk and walk.
Then I redid the living room: all leather, more glass and brass. His den I left alone. Somehow, I felt that was one place Margaret Rose never put her dainty little foot and it was the place Chrissy stayed most. A relief. His den, his dog now that the house didn’t seem to belong to her anymore. Not that Chrissy was any nicer to me. He didn’t seem to notice at all. I could have been a piece of furniture.
If I walked her, those few and far between times, other dog walkers and their dogs knew her, petted and talked to her. Of course, she smiled! So sweet. And they’d say how devoted Chrissy had been to Margaret Rose. What a lovely sight they made, owner and prized pet. How elegant Margaret Rose always dressed and walked. Blah and ugh I muttered under my breath while nicely nodding.
Of course, Chrissy could do no wrong, bitch dog that she was. All smiles and wags, cute little licking tongue…those eyes…she even had the baby doll lashes and she was all Martin’s. If she had been another woman acting like that toward him, I would have scratched out her eyes.
The minute Martin came in a room, she fawned at his feet, nuzzled his hand, rubbed against him around and around, wap-wapped her tail on my pricey silk Persian rug.
“My sweetheart,” he said. “How’s my darling girl. My precious.”
I swear when my back was turned the two of them locked lips. Yuk. Doggie drool. Now you wonder why my kisses got fewer and fewer. Not even good night. Of course, she began to sleep with us. Three in the bed and always his arm around her, her head snuggled in his chest. She even watched him shave, something I used to do after a night of you-know-what. Not that we did that anymore, especially with you-know-whose ashes on the shelf.
All Martin’s tenderness seemed to go to Chrissy. He took longer and longer walks with her; early in the mornings, late at night. I went on to bed and was asleep most times when he came in. The two of them together were like lovers, only aware of each other, no one else in the world.
To me he’d come in and say, “Dinner ready?” His voice a growl and he never even looked at me. Me, who had spent the day, all day, every day, just slicing and dicing, shredding and zesting…just me and Mastering the Art of French Cooking.
Yes, it was my hope to win him back. You know that old saying about the way to a man’s heart being through his stomach. I had surmised from the lack of cookbooks, not a single solitary one to be found in the whole house, and certainly not in Margaret Rose’s kitchen, that she had never so much as lifted a spatula. I bought the books and began. I made a new recipe a day, from vichyssoise to quenelles to coq au vin, to gratin Jurassien, to tarte a l’Ananas, to trois cremes aux beurre, I almost wore out the pages of Julia’s tome. Plus, at farmer’s markets I bought the freshest local vegetables, even massaged kale to make a salad with pomegranate vinaigrette. All those tiny seeds stained my hands like blood. My caramelized flan was a work of art. When I brought it to the table, lifted my butane torch to flambé it, I thought he’d be impressed but he only said, “Tea?” while my fabulous dessert went up in flames in front of him.
Tea? I wanted to scream. Tea? You want tea? For the moment, I wanted to flambé him!
Meanwhile Chrissy at his feet gave a single bark, got a hug and called, “Darling dog. Sweetheart. My precious.”
Chrissy got whole sentences. I got monosyllables.
The worst part was when he wasn’t here. Chrissy snarled at me, nipped at my legs when I walked past. Growled under her breath. Once she sunk some of those needle-sharp teeth into the calf of my leg so deep I had to have stitches.
“What did you do to her?” he asked when I called from the emergency room. “You must’ve done something.”
He even accused me of being jealous. Of a dog? His work maybe, but a dog can be handled. Unless she’s Chrissy. When I suggested we get rid of her, he hit the ceiling. Absolutely not. He wouldn’t hear of finding her another home. Why should he? She was perfectly fine right here. This was where she belonged. Her home.
“You’re perfect right here. Aren’t you, sweetheart?” he’d say and she’d come to his side. Fawning and licking.
I walked her, fed her, avoided her. The enemy on my hearth. When she took to shitting on my silk, hand-knotted Persian rug, I knew this was the end.
So last night, the minute he opened the door, I met him before he could reach straight for Chrissy’s leash.
“Wait,” I said. I wore my heavy pot roast perfume and when he inhaled a deep whiff, he brightened up.
“I’m starved,” he said and for the first time in a long time, he didn’t immediately look around for Chrissy. “What’s that wonderful smell?”
And it was a most delicious smell. It had distracted him as I’d hoped.
He sat down, carved the roast on a platter in front of him, took a bite. “This is so lean.” He smacked his lips on the juices, couldn’t stop smacking.
“Must be grass fed.
Where did you get it? Local farm? You’ve got to tell them how great this is. When can you go back?” He tucked in knife and fork though it was so tender he could have eaten it with a spoon.
I told him there was another roast just like this one in the freezer. He didn’t have to worry. Plus, there were ribs I’d barbecue next week.
He ate the whole roast, then sopped the gravy with my homemade bread. Gravy I’d thickened with ashes sifted to delicate flakes and carefully seasoned with herbs to counter any bitterness. He almost licked his plate he enjoyed the meal so much.
When he stopped to notice I was eating only a salad, I said my system was a little off and the kitchen had gotten so hot while I was cooking, I’d lost my appetite.
He only nodded, paused a bit and went back to eating and mopping up the gravy.
When he couldn’t eat another bite, he leaned back in his chair, put his hands on his stomach and for the first time looked around for Chrissy. “Chrissy, Chrissy,” he called, went room to room, opened even the closet doors, checked the basement, calling, “My sweetheart, dearest dog, oh Chrissy my love. Come, come to your sweetheart.”
In the kitchen, I rinsed my salad plate, put the roasting pan in to soak and thought, Oh my dear, you can call till the cows stomp and blow in the barn but that dog won’t come. Still, she’s closer than you think, my darling husband, oh so much closer. She’s very near your heart.
Back to TOC
A Look to Die For
Britni Patterson
Carolina Crimes Page 16
