Kill Me a Husband

by Tedd Thomey

  “Leftovers,” he said. “You can bet your sweet life Winifred wouldn’t fix a hungry man leftovers. She’d have something good on the table right this minute, like steak and—”

  “Don’t bring that woman up again,” she said. “I’m doing the best I can. Why didn’t you tell me you’d be home early?”

  “Winifred wouldn’t bellyache all the time,” he said. “Winifred would stay home and plan a fine dinner—”

  “Oh, shut up,” she said. “If you mention that woman’s name again, you can fix your own damn dinner!”

  Hands on her hips, she turned from the range and glared at him. She knew he was provoking her deliberately, as he always did when he thought he had found an advantage.

  He crossed his long legs and folded his arms across his heavy, muscular chest. He let his face, tanned and weathered from countless weekends of boating and fishing, display an expression of piety and devotion to the memory of his dearly deceased fiancée.

  “She was not a woman.” He tried to make his rough voice soft and gentle, but succeeding only in sounding foolish. “She was a young fraulein, sweet and unspoiled, just a girl. And she was better than you in a dozen ways, better-looking, better—”

  “Shut up!” Alma said. “If you think I’m going to stand here and listen—”

  Ignoring her protests, his voice went on and on, his brown eyes looking at her with contempt and scorn. “She would have made me a better wife than you, far better. She would have given me fine sons by now, two or three sons, instead of that spoiled brat of a girl you gave me!”

  “Oh, shut up! If you loved her so much, why did you ever marry me? The way you chased me, the things you said to me on the telephone! There I was, barely nineteen, innocent, knowing nothing, a fourteen-dollar-a-week phone operator. And you, thirty-two already, an editor, knowing everything—how you tried to sweet-talk me into it! You were disgusting! That was the only reason you married me, because that was all you wanted from me, and that was the only way you could get it!”

  She dumped the corned beef and potatoes from the frying pan onto his plate.

  “Now eat that!” She pushed the plate in front of him. “Eat that and shut up, you Heinie pig!”

  His eyes grew cold with anger.

  “What did you call me?”

  “Pig!” She snapped the word, enjoying the bitter, angry taste of it. “A Heinie pig! And who do you think you’re fooling the way you spell your name? Norman Chrysler.” She started to spell it out. “C-H-R-”

  “Shut up!” His heavy fist struck the table so hard his fork tumbled to the floor. “I’m warning you, Alma! Shut up!”

  “C-H-R-Y-S-L-E-R!” she spelled, tauntingly. “Tt looks so dignified. But people know you’re a Heinie pig! People know your name is really Norman Hans Kreisler. K-R-E-I-S-L-E-R! They know you changed it during the war, you Heinie coward!”

  “Alma, shut up!” He erupted from his chair, upsetting it on the floor.

  “And that isn’t all thev know!” she taunted. “They know where vou go on Saturday nights when you’re supposed to be bowling. Thev know about that doxie of yours on East Twelfth Street!”

  His face was suddenly the same reddish-brown color as the corned beef and when he spoke again his voice was a roar,

  “Shut your foul mouth! Bitch! You cheap—”

  “Heinie pig!”

  As he strode toward her, she said it again and again, knowing that he was going to hit her, wanting him to hit her.

  “Heinie pig! Heinie pig!”

  His heavy hand caught her full on the cheek, a blow that knocked her sideways against the range. He struck her again, on the same cheek, and she felt two sharp pains at once, burning pains. To escape him, she tumbled to the floor, screaming curses at him, half-expecting him to kick her.

  For a long moment his shadow towered above her while he shouted at her, swearing in German and English. Finally he turned and went toward the hallway, his angry footsteps making the floor shake and rattling the pans in the cupboard.

  She remained on the floor until long after he stomped from the house. She wept and cursed and wept some more when she saw the burns the range had inflicted on her left palm when she fell against it.”

  She did not stop weeping until she remembered the two parcels hidden in the ashes in the cellar. Then, feeling better almost instantly, she rose to her feet. Brushing the tears from her eyes with her fingertips, she opened her purse and got out a stick of gum.

  “You’ll be sorry!” she said.

  She chewed the gum viciously, feeling the muscles grow tight and hard in her cheek.

  “You’ll be sorry, you Heinie bastard!”

  CHAPTER 8

  It was Friday night. He stood in the office looking at a wall calendar, hoping he was wrong about the date. But it was not Wednesday night or Thursday night. It was definitely Friday night, six o’clock, and in three hours he was due at Alma’s house.

  He felt very tired. He had eaten part of a bowl of tomato soup for lunch and nothing since then. He knew he should go out and find some dinner, stuff some strength into himself, but he was totally without appetite. His stomach felt thick and useless and he knew he shouldn’t pour any more whiskey into it. The whiskey was of such miserable quality that it left a bitter metallic taste in his mouth which nothing would rinse away. And yet, without the whiskey he would be lost, completely lost.

  Seating himself at his desk, he finished the bottle and dropped it in the lower drawer with a clutter of order books and sales slips. He pushed the drawer shut with his foot and then he gazed slowly around the dim, deserted office, trying to remember something he was supposed to do tonight. Somewhere else.

  Finally his weary mind remembered. The rope. Alma had said bring a piece of rope.

  He walked around the other desks, peering into waste-baskets, checking the supply cabinet, examining the shelf above the bookkeeper’s filing cabinets. His movements were well controlled, hardly those of a man who had been drinking most of the day. He went through the doorwav into the stockroom, switched on the bright bulb overhead, and blinked at the cartons of corsets piled on the floor and on the shelves. There was string on a spindle above the wrapping counter, but it was not what he wanted. He shook his head. Correction: It was not what Alma wanted.

  He compromised. A large carton of corsets from the factory was bound with light wire. He removed it. And as his fingers formed the eight-foot length into a coil, he was sure it would not be used for the purpose Alma spoke about. He had given the matter hours and hours of thought. She would not do it, of course. And even if she was foolish enough to try, he would not help her. He would go there, he would talk to her, but he would most certainly not help her.

  It was eight-thirty when he got off the bus. It had been threatening rain all day, but now the night was so cold it hinted of snow. As he drew his overcoat lapels closer about his throat, fastening the top button, he felt the coil of wire in the inner breast pocket. He had a strong urge to toss it into the gutter, but he did not. He would do as he promised. He would bring it to her and let her decide what to do with it.

  The street in front of the Chrysler house was so dark, the roofs of the houses and the tops of the trees were invisible. It was a few minutes before nine when he paused in front of the house, looking up at the second floor for the lamp signal which Alma was to leave for him. The lamp was supposed to be lit in the bedroom of her mother, who was away baby-sitting.

  But there was no light burning anywhere on the second floor. Light glowed behind the living room shades and appeared dimly in the cellar window, but the rest of the house was dark.

  He kept walking. He went to the end of the block and returned. There was still no light from any of the bedrooms on the second floor.

  He walked and walked. He walked completely around the block, crossed the street and walked around the adjoining block. Part of the time, he walked in a kind of stupor, a mental blankness brought on by all the liquor he’d drunk during the day, the l
ack of food and his general fatigue. He did very little thinking. There was nothing to be gained from trying to reason out why he was here, walking aimlessly around the neighborhood. Actually it was far better to walk than to contemplate what might happen if he went into the house. He had promised to come and he was here. That was all. The rest was up to her.

  When he took his watch from his vest pocket, he was astonished to see that it was nearly eleven o’clock. It didn’t seem possible that so much time had elapsed. He walked back toward the house again, but there was still no signal upstairs. The yellow rectangles of light formed by the living room and cellar windows were unchanged.

  As he turned away, a light went on in the kitchen and was quickly extinguished. Again it flickered on and off. He decided it might be a signal.

  Reluctantly he went up the stone path to the rear of the house. He heard a small tapping sound and saw Alma’s face gazing at him whitely through the kitchen window, her finger touching the pane.

  Her face vanished and in a moment the kitchen door opened.

  “Come inside,” she whispered.

  As soon as he stepped into the warm, dark kitchen, she embraced him. Caressing his face, his chin and throat, her hands were hot and moist. She kissed him, opening her mouth and sighing softly. Through the thin nightgown he felt her breasts and the curve of her hip.

  “Oh,’Bud,” she whispered. “I’m so glad you came.”

  They kissed again.

  “I’m sorry about the signal,” she said.

  “What happened?”

  “He hasn’t gone up to bed yet. He’s been down in the cellar chopping wood. Exercise, he calls it.”

  “All this time?”

  “Yes. Did you bring the rope?”

  Her voice was low, the question intense with meaning.

  “No. I-”

  “You fool! You promised!” Her fingernails went sharply, angrily, into the flesh of his neck. “What’s the matter with you? Why didn’t you bring it?”

  “I brought some wire,” he said. “I—”

  “Wire? Oh.” She was silent a moment. “It’ll work as well, won’t it?”

  “I suppose so.”

  “Do you want to go upstairs now, darling? You can wait in Mother’s bedroom.”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t feel good. My stomach’s all upset.”

  “You mean you don’t want to do it tonight?”

  “No. I’m not up to it tonight, Alma. I—”

  He fully expected her to explode with wrath, to curse him and insult him. He swayed against her, closing his eyes, wishing he had something to drink, a long pull of something, anything, even that evil stuff he’d finished back at the office.

  “All right, dear,” she said. “Not tonight. Some other night soon.”

  Her mildness astonished him and he was sure then that he had guessed right. She didn’t want to do it, either. It was all talk on her part, one of her fantasies.

  “Another night,” she added. She swore under her breath, but loud enough for him to hear the names she called her husband. “He would have to chop wood tonight, of all nights.”

  He remained in the dark kitchen a few more minutes, gulping two long drinks from the bottle of bourbon she handed him. Then he opened the door.

  “Wait a minute,” she said.

  She returned almost immediately and pressed another bottle into his hand, a smaller one, its shape familiar.

  “The chloroform,” she whispered. “Take it with you.”

  Relief, sweet relief, poured through him. Now he was certain she didn’t want to go through with it.

  “Thank God,” he said. “You’re doing the right thing, Alma. We can—”

  “Oh, shut up!” she said. “I don’t want to risk having him smell the stuff and wonder what it’s for.” Her fingers pinched his cheek. “Don’t think you’re getting out of it, because you’re not! I’ll pick another night!”

  For emphasis she pinched his cheek harder, inflicting a sharper pain. “I’ll write you a note. Now get out of here before he comes up the stairs and finds us!”

  She pushed him out the door and closed it behind him.

  He walked slowly along the sidewalk, trying not to think about what she had said. When he was nearly a block away from her house, he leaned against the rough trunk of a tree and fought a silent battle with his stomach, trying to keep from losing the bourbon.

  He did not succeed.

  She was better than her word. She did not write simply one note. She wrote four letters which were delivered to him on four successive days at four different hotels. Familiar with his sales route through New York and New Jersey, she knew what cities he would visit and how long he would stay in each.

  The fourth letter, containing three ten-dollar bills, was waiting when he arrived at the hotel in Syracuse. Despite its deeper implications he was glad to get it. And it was not just because of the money, which he planned to send home to Virginia and Josie. The trip had been going badly, very badly, and he needed something to cheer him up after losing both the Rincon Shops and McNeil Department Store sales, two accounts he’d had for years. As usual, her handwriting was poorly constructed, the words slanting irregularly all over the pages, and even though there was a threat at the end, the letter made him feel better. When he got upstairs in his room, he read it over again.

  My Own Lover Boy:

  Gee, but Fm happy. Oh, but Fm happy, thinking about Sat. night and how swell everything’s going to be after that. All I keep thinking of is you, you darn lovable little cuss. I could eatcha all up. Could I get lit & put out this blaze that’s so much bother to me? Ah yes—hon. After Sat. night, we’ll put it out, both of us, and get good and plastered—isn’t that a nice word? Beginning to think Fm already that way on nothing. Hurry home, darling, I’ll be waiting for you.

  All my love,

  YOUR MOMMY

  P. S. If you’re not here, you’ll know what will happen, don’t you?

  Thursday night she phoned him at the hotel and as soon as he heard her voice, full of love and desire, he knew that no matter what she did or said, he needed her more than he had ever needed anyone in his life.

  “What time will you get in Saturday?” she asked.

  “Around eleven or so.”

  “Make it midnight,” she said. “It’ll probably be one A.M. or so before we get back from the Dockstaders. You’ll be sure and bring the things, won’t you? Especially the gloves, so it will look like burglary.”

  “Yes.”

  “If everything’s all right, I’ll leave the cigarettes out on the table. And I’ll leave the other things for you in Mother’s room, under the pillow. And you be sure and set up an alibi, won’t you?”

  “An alibi?”

  “Certainly, darling. We don’t want anyone to know you’re going to be here, do we?”

  “No, I guess not.”

  “All right, hon. And, remember, the kitchen door will be unlocked. And you know what will happen if you don’t come, don’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good-by until Saturday, hon. And don’t forget I love you—and that we’ll get good and plastered afterward. I love vou verv much, sweet.”

  “And I love you, Mommy.”

  As soon as they hung up, he started drinking and he stayed in the room all of the next day, Friday, drinking, giving most of his money to a bell captain who brought him overpriced bottles of rye. Within him, hour after hour, developed the fear that this time Alma really meant to do something terrible. Half a dozen times he told himself he would not show up Saturday night, yet each time he said it he knew he would. He could not understand what was wrong with him. Despite all the liquor, he had slept badly each night on the trip. He was tired, exhausted, mentally wrung out, and in the last few weeks he’d lost another five pounds, weight he could not afford to lose. And yet he had an enormous desire to be with her, to touch her, to feel her body, to see her lying there with that expr
ession of pure lust on her face. If he did not go he would lose her, there could be no doubt about that. And if he lost her he would be lost himself, completely, totally, because he had to have her.

  It was raining Saturday night when he walked slowly up the sidewalk toward the dark Chrysler house. It was pouring heavily, cold rain which soaked his leather sample case and dripped from the brim of his hat.

  He stood out front for nearly five minutes, shivering, debating whether to go in, rubbing his mouth as he remembered Alma’s promise to leave him a bottle. A sudden gale swept down the street, driving heavy drops of water into his face, and he fled before it to the safety of the house, dashing in through the unlocked kitchen door.

  Before he could close it, the wind tore the door from his grasp, slamming it shut with an explosion which reverberated through the darkened house. He stood rigidly, feeling his heart hurtling itself against his ribs, listening for sounds that would mean someone else was astir in the house.

  He heard nothing except the drip-drip of rainwater falling from his overcoat to the floor.

  Cautiously he walked to the kitchen table. In the darkness he could not find the package of cigarettes she was supposed to leave as a sign. He hunted over almost all of the wooden surface with both gloved hands. When he found the package he became confused, unable to remember whether the cigarettes meant he was to go upstairs or remain here. He licked his lips and tried to swallow. He needed a drink so badly he decided to take his chances upstairs.

  Even after he found his way safely to the correct bedroom—Mrs. Jansson’s—his heart continued to beat rapidlv. He went straight to the bed and put his hands underneath the pillow. His gloved fingers encountered the heavy sash weight and recoiled nervously. He found other objects—another pair of gloves, some cotton waste, and, finally, the bottle. It was only a pint but it was good quality bourbon, far better than the watered stuff the bell captain had supplied him with at the hotel. Sitting on the bed he had three quick pulls on the bottle and then, feeling somewhat better, he removed his wet coat and hat and hung them in Mrs. Jansson’s closet.

  He opened his sample case and removed the coil of wire, the bottle of chloroform and the Italian newspaper he’d bought on the train. He put those objects under the pillow with the others and then he sat on a chair near the window and raised the bottle to his lips. His hands were shaking badly and he shivered despite the warming sensation in his abdomen from the liquor. He looked through the window to the street where Alma and her husband would return and he tried not to think what might happen when they did.