by Britney King
“I don’t know,” I say, rolling my shoulders. “Maybe. I guess.”
“On what?”
I suck in my bottom lip and once again, I shrug. “Just because you’re an accountant, doesn’t mean I am.”
“Well, sorry,” he tells me.
“Inflation,” I say. This seems like a word he will understand. “Me, too.”
Then he catches me off guard. “But you should have started with the necessities.”
“So, what…I’m on an allowance?”
“Not an allowance. A budget.”
That word. He might as well have taken the knife and shoved it through my windpipe. Seems like that would be more pleasant.
“I can’t believe this,” I say throwing up my hands. “What am I supposed to wear?”
I’ve never felt more locked down, more trapped. I could change that. Before it’s too late. When he lets go of the knife, I could decide to end this. It would be so easy. Just a short stumble forward, and I could make contact, carefully shoving his former wife’s very expensive, very proper knife into his stomach. I’m fairly confident I could even make it look like an accident. He just slipped, that’s what I would say. Surely it happens all the time.
“You look pale,” Tom says. “Are you sure you’re feeling up to this?”
“I’m fine.” One tiny decision, that’s all that stands between him and oblivion.
He pulls back and studies my face. “Seriously,” he says. “You really are so beautiful. I don’t know how I got so lucky.”
Maybe next time.
“I think it’s your hair,” he mentions, stopping at the back door. It’s like he’s forgotten all about the money. “I like the way it’s done up like that. Very classic looking.”
I press my lips together, and then I offer a slight smile. I knew he would like it. His first wife wore her hair like this in most of the photos that still line the walls of our home. Of his home, I should say. Her home, really. Who cares if she’s dead? She’s everywhere.
I let the knife slide into the thick skin of the cucumber. Chop. Chop. Chop.
“I thought you might,” I call out, as he’s halfway out onto the covered patio. Lie. Lie. Lie. Tom might love my hair, but he doesn’t love me. Three times now, he’s lied. Once at our small ceremony, after our I-do’s, and once after he first brought me to live here, in this shrine to his dead wife. He threw a party to show me off to his friends, his church friends, and I guess I must have passed the test. “To Melanie—I love you,” he’d said as he toasted our marriage with champagne neither of us drank.
I study my reflection in the blade of the knife. I hate my hair like this. I reach up and release the pin. I don’t want to look like Tom’s old wife. What I want is to get a reaction out of him. I don’t tell him that. And I don’t tell him I wasn’t actually sick or that instead of reading his agreement, I spent hours watching YouTube video tutorials to learn the updo. I don’t tell him I’m thinking of starting my own channel. Or that I might name it ‘the most bored housewife in the world.’ He lies, so I lie. I hear that’s the way this whole marriage thing works.
I watch through the window as he makes his way around the outdoor kitchen. Is his hairline thinning? God, shoot me now. All the things you notice after you marry someone. Why does no one warn you? What I wouldn’t give for a drink. Tomorrow, I tell myself. Tomorrow, I’ll replenish my secret stash.
Speaking of which, it’s no secret what Tom sees in me. I’m young and I’m attractive, and obviously there’s the tiny issue of him thinking I’m knocked up. But minus the make-believe oopsie and the ensuing shotgun wedding, the truth is, Tom could have found any number of girls just like me. He’s not terribly unattractive, and more importantly, he has what most women my age want more than anything: money.
Plus, he’s stable. A sure thing. He comes home every night, doesn’t drink, and doesn’t smoke. Apparently, the kind of husband everyone wants. I know because when we go out, women flirt with him even though he’s standoffish and rude. They bend over backward for him. That says something. It’s sickening, sure, but I guess I should be counting my lucky stars he chose me. And, that’s not all. There’s something else I’m counting: the dollar bills in my future.
I can’t see this now, of course. Here in this kitchen, there is no light at the end of the tunnel. Not like before. Not like in the beginning. I think my period is coming. Hopefully that explains why I feel so down. I don’t know if I can hide it another month.
But I’m not worried. Not about the hidden things or the women. They could never give Tom what I can, and that’s the edge I ride in him. Unexpected and impractical, I was the kink in the tidy corners of Tom’s orderly life, and now, the thing that threatens to further unravel it all. And he likes that, even if he can’t see it yet, the probability of danger. But he doesn’t really want to find out what I’m capable of, the damage I can do. I’ve only just scratched the surface, toying with the pressure. How much can he take before he realizes the truth?
Chapter Four
Tom
“Never be so sure of what you want that you wouldn’t take something better,” Adam says, slapping his hand on my shoulder. He rests it there. “Am I right or am I right?”
He’s eyeballing my new wife from across the room. I move out from under his grip. He doesn’t seem to notice. I don’t answer his question, but I understand it. What he’s really asking is how I managed to land a woman like that.
“Man,” he sighs. “You’re one lucky son of a bitch.”
He’s right about the latter.
The former, who’s to say? All of a sudden, I’ve gone from invisible, which I prefer, to a man with a secret. How’d he pull that off? That’s what Adam’s thinking. That’s what most men in here are thinking. What he’s saying is, what everyone is saying is, look at you, Tom. You took lemons, in this case a dead wife, and made lemonade. People see what they want to see. Never mind how the lemonade tastes.
To the naked eye, Adam’s evaluation is correct. I am a man who should be content with what he’s got. To a more keen observer, I am equal parts man on a mission and provisional. On principle, I am not an indecisive person. That’s precisely the worst thing to be. Neither here nor there. But in the proper circumstance, the waiting game is not a bad one to play. It’s simple enough. Like fishing. All one has to do is stick their lure in the water and wait. Sometimes the fish bite, sometimes they don’t. Fear not, they will always eat when hungry enough, which makes it more about timing than anything. In the meantime, all you have to do is sit back, fold your arms neatly behind your head, fingers clasped, kick your legs up and wait for the nibble. Eyes on the prize, you’ll watch carefully as the fish circle the chum, as your enemy works its way into your web, and if one is patient enough, they always will. It matters not how long it takes, so long as one is having fun in the doing. That’s the trick, you see, to make the game fun. It’s about the journey. The destination is a given.
Adam doesn’t notice me baiting my lure. He’s more interested in small talk. “This party is really something.”
I glance around the ballroom. He’s right. New Hope’s quarterly dinner for newcomers is a packed house. This makes him both happy and hungry.
“Just look at all of these fresh faces, would you?”
I am looking. Sam Watson and his wife are in attendance, which explains why Adam is extra chatty. He wasn’t expecting me to land them. He hadn’t expected me to pull it off. That and he wants to make a good impression. He wants to be seen as the guy who knows everyone. For him, it comes down to this. Everything has to go just right. First impressions and all. Not me, I say it’s better to surprise them. Plus, I hate small talk.
“The ballroom looks great,” I mention, feeding my line. “Very grand.”
Adam grins. “Business is booming, my friend.”
He means membership.
I don’t disagree. “Numbers are way up and tithing is at an all time high.”
“The Men’s
Alliance is very happy with the plans we have in place.”
He means the new agenda.
Eventually, Mark comes over and joins us. “Oh, look,” Adam remarks, “our fearless leader.”
“Mark,” I nod. It’s important to show respect. Mark is one rank above me, the only rank above me. That means Adam comes in third place, something that bothers him more than he’s willing to admit. It would bother any man, I assume. It’s a long way to the top.
Mark stands silently for several moments, taking it all in. He’s watching the dance floor. He too has honed in on Melanie. “Your wife,” he says with a nod. “She appears to be having more fun than all of us put together.”
“She likes to dance,” I say.
“ Maybe.” Mark runs his hand along his jawline. Afterward, he meets my eye. “But you need to reign that in.”
If I knew how to do that I wouldn’t be in this situation. I don’t say this to him, of course. It’s important not to break rank and a rule for all members of New Hope. Obedience is the key that opens every door, as Mark said, who is infatuated by either/or.
“She needs to learn a thing or two about submission,” he continues.
I don’t disagree with that either. True strength lies in submission, said Mark. It’s the backbone of the agreement.
I don’t think he understands there is more than one kind of freedom.
“I’ll have Beth pay you guys a visit,” he suggests. “Chat about the rules. Bring her to heel. Maybe I’ll even come along, too.”
“Sounds like a plan,” I tell him, recalling the last time we discussed the rules. God knows, if I could’ve reined it in, I’d still be married to my first wife. Probably June would still be alive. Alas, she isn’t.
Mark signals the band. “In the meantime,” he suggests. “Let me show you how to handle these things.”
I look on as he strides onto the dance floor and cuts in on Mel’s dance. She’s dancing with Sam Watson. Mark wants this to bother me as much as it does him. I find it amusing. He forgets the common denominator in this equation. Me. He takes her hand, nods at Sam and takes the lead. They waltz. “Handled,” he mouths when he looks in my direction. He gives me a thumbs up just in case I haven’t understood. I do understand. My mind flashes back to a dance of another kind, to the last time Mark and I discussed how to handle things.
“You mean to tell me, of all the rules, Tom—OF ALL THE RULES—you had to go and break that one?” He’s already said this once. Mark likes to repeat himself. Meanwhile, he paces the length of his office. Back and forth. Back and forth. All I can do is watch. Any minute and it could all be over. That’s what I was thinking.
Statistically speaking, at least seventy-two percent of men and I stand in solidarity. While I don’t often compare myself to other men, by that I mean we have had at least one extramarital affair. Somehow, it didn’t seem like a good time for statistics, and I didn’t have to tell Mark anyhow. He already knows. That’s half his mission in life. It’s why he founded the church in the first place.
The irony is, there I was, his right-hand man, standing in his office telling him I’d broken a cardinal rule. I knew what this meant. I’d have to pay.
“It was a mistake,” I confessed. I wanted to point out that he hadn’t met Melanie, that he doesn’t know her bedroom eyes or her charm, or yet understand the fact that she might very well be the devil. “Surely, we can be reasonable about this,” I offered instead. I remind him of the agreement: The strong rule the weak, but the wise rules them both.
“Jesus, Tom,” he said, running his fingers through his hair. “The church cannot afford this sort of embarrassment.”
He’s right. I gut-checked him. This was a dangerous thing to do. Under normal circumstances, I wouldn’t be afraid. But I’ve seen what he can do.
He confirmed my thoughts by punching the wall. “And such a betrayal from my second in command. Of. All. People.”
He threw something heavy, and he raged. “Fuck!” It was a paperweight or a Bible. I cannot recall. He was considering how to kill me. I was considering how to outrun him.
If it were only the affair he had been railing against, I realized he might let me live. It wasn’t. So unless I was quick on my feet, I was about to be discreetly discarded. New Hope does not tolerate traitors. It’s written into the agreement. An agreement I know better than anyone. Anyone, it turned out, except Mark.
It wasn’t just the affair he was upset about. There was the other thing too. The resulting pregnancy. It wasn’t a part of the plan. Neither his or mine.
“Good then,” he’d said finally. I don’t know how much time had passed. I was too busy plotting my escape from the building. “You can be the first member of our pilot program.”
“I have no interest in being a pilot,” I assured him. I realized immediately this was the wrong thing to say. I could see it in his expression. But I was eager to make light of the situation, given that he was about to order my demise. “Even though I’d be quite good at it,” I said, attempting a quick recovery. “What I mean by that is… it’s a completely logical endeavor.” I wasn’t lying. I was trying to buy time. Sometimes, occasionally, lengthy explanations help. “To fly a plane safely,” I explained. “Pilots have to be aware of all the forces—such as wind and gravity—that push the plane down, lift it up, and shift it from side to side. Harnessing these forces to work in their favor makes it more likely the plane will fly the way the pilot wants.” He looked at me as though I was crazy. It was a stupid analogy intended to throw him off. If your opponent has an idea what you have up your sleeve, they know how to act. Information, even useless information, forces their brain to work things out for themselves. I was making a point. Mark feels this way about the church. He wants things to work the way he wants them to work. My predicament was that he’d use any force necessary to see this happen. To him, it was life or death. Literally. To get him to make a more lenient decision, particularly one in my favor, it was imperative I channel his emotions into something constructive. I had to lead him in the right direction. I had to force his anger to subside. Sometimes you have to take the long way around.
“Tell me,” he said. “What would be the logical thing to do in this situation? According to Tom?”
He wanted my opinion. This was good.
“Like all good things,” I reminded him. “Take church accountants for example—honest ones—who I hear can be hard to come by— piloting is mostly science.”
“So? I don’t see what this has to do with anything.”
“One can’t be too emotional about such matters. To panic would be certain—” I paused and shifted my stance. Quickly, I decided against using the “d” word. Reminding him of death was not a point I was trying to make. “To panic in this situation would be ill-advised.”
Mark scoffed nervously. “What we are not doing here is getting a pilot’s license.” He took a deep breath in and held it. “At New Hope,” he went on, “we take vows. We have morals. Standards, if you will.”
“I get standards. Melanie is very beautiful. I know how important excellence is to the church, and I can assure you—”
“I’ve heard.” He waves me off. “Anyway, we’ve had this idea…”
My throat constricts. I realize he’s just reminded me of the vow I took. That’s always a bad sign. I’ve seen Mark in action. Til death do you part. And please let it come soon. I sit up a little straighter. “An idea. Really?” Clarification is important when the manner of your murder is up in the air.
“The Men’s Alliance. We’ve recently disseminated some biblical text that suggests that we as men aren’t living up to our full potential.”
“I’d like to hear more about that.” Such calming words, those are.
“Well—the guys and I, we’ve had this on our minds for awhile now…when our children come of a certain age, we think it would be in our best interest to start over. Not only to further our genes but to further the mission of the church.”
I have no idea where this is going but what he says makes sense. Almost. “Advanced maternal age would be of great concern.”
Mark laughed. “I like how you always get straight to the point, Tom.”
After several long seconds, he stood, walked over, and slapped me on the back. This is a ritual the male species repeats often, a signal of dominance. His hand comes to rest on my shoulder. Kill or be killed. Survival of the fittest. Mark is always saying stuff like that. He’s very paranoid. Says it comes with being at the top. Perhaps paranoia can rub off on a person. My pulse quickens. I realize he could snap my neck at any moment. Thankfully, Mark likes to hear himself talk and that works in my favor. “That’s where the replacement wife comes in.”
I feel his grip on my shoulder. I gage each finger where it meets my skin. Is it my imagination or is he slowly increasing the pressure? My brow furrows. “The replacement wife?”
“Yes. Like your Melanie.”
My eyes widen.
“While we would have appreciated more time for testing our theories and for laying out a plan, it seems you have beaten us to the punch.”
I take this as a sign he wants to discuss specifics. “Well, you would want to be very careful in your selection process,” I warned him. “In general, mathematical models have confirmed that selection builds more variation than expected from randomly combined genes.”
He let go of my shoulder and moved away. “Of course,” he said. I did not believe he actually knew this. Mark is smart in regard to certain things. Mostly, the lowbrow stuff. He is not, as they say, very intellectual.
“You have to take this seriously,” I repeated. Also, I figured complex explanations might buy me some time. “Understanding the mathematics behind the approach is well worth the effort. In a field as mature as evolutionary genetics, it’s not so frequent that someone takes an old problem, looks at it from another angle, and finds new connections.”
For several long moments, he seemed to consider what I’d said. Until, all at once, his expression shifted, and he confirmed what many others before him had suggested. “You’re a genius, Tom!”
