by Rick R. Reed
She wanted to go back to a time before he had ever seen her. But if she could do that, and was standing here now, she knew she would most likely bring the whole sordid mess down upon her once more.
Abbott leaned across the bar. “What the hell are you doing here?”
At his question, the closest people turned to stare at her. Beth reddened. “I came to see you.” Her voice poured out in a whisper.
“Really?” He smiled and moved to the tap, where he drew a Goose Island for a guy standing at the bar, holding out a twenty. Abbott took the bill, made change, and put the change, and the glass, on the counter. Wiping his hands on his white apron, he returned to Beth. “Not trolling for dick?”
A couple of women, heads close, giggled.
Beth knew she should just turn and dash, pushing anyone out of the way who didn’t move quickly enough for her. She could get home, call Mark, wake him, telling him how she couldn’t sleep because she missed him in bed next to her. How she couldn’t wait for him to get home again. About the boring day she had spent: a little shopping, a dinner alone at the tapas restaurant down the street, reading in bed.
But she had come this far. “I need to talk to you. Can you take a break?” She forced breath behind her words, made of her voice a reasonable facsimile of calm.
Abbott waved her away. “I know what kind of break you want, sweetheart.” He spoke loudly enough so that just about anyone at the bar could hear. Beth heard several conversations die. He let his hand whisper across his crotch. “The pause that refreshes, right?” He snickered.
Beth leaned in, forcing him to move closer to hear. “You have to stop.”
“Stop what?”
“You know what—harassing me. Look, I know what I did was wrong. And I learned something from it. Since that day, I swear to God, I haven’t done anything like that again.”
“And that’s what brings you out tonight at…what?” He consulted his watch. “A quarter to one.” He glared. “I don’t have time for your bullshit. Unlike some, I have work to do. Did you want a drink?”
“I just want to talk to you.”
“You’re making a fool of yourself. I don’t have time for breaks.”
“You’re making a fool of me. How about tomorrow, during the day?”
She knew what everyone standing nearby must think of her, that she was some love-struck bartender groupie, desperate to try and reclaim something that was past claiming.
“What for? So you can try and grab my dick again?”
“So I can talk…” Beth’s breath quivered. She couldn’t start to cry, not here. Not with everyone watching.
“Hey, bartender! Can we get some service over here?”
“Yeah, quit hittin’ on her and get back to work.” A flurry of male laughter.
Abbott held up a hand. “Tomorrow. I’ll stop by and we’ll finish this.” He leaned close and hissed, “You fuckin’ slut.”
She stiffened. No one laughed this time. Those who heard, stared. She felt as though they all knew, suddenly, how she had spent her evening, how what had happened was playing in an endless pornographic loop across her forehead.
Abbott walked away. What was he talking about? Stopping by? He couldn’t come to their place, not again. That wasn’t what she had meant. She tried to signal him, but he wouldn’t look at her.
She bit her lip, then moved to the other side of the bar. When he started to walk away from her, she lunged and grabbed his shirt. He glared, his eyes narrowed with hatred. She gasped.
“You can’t come to my house. My husband…” She frantically searched the bar. Where were the words? “We can meet somewhere else. Anywhere. You say.”
“Get…out…of…here. You want to feel humiliated? I’ll really give you something to feel humiliated about. Now GO!”
“Listen, how about…”
“I’ll see you tomorrow. At your place. Early afternoon.” He turned away.
She knew there would be no getting him back, no changing his mind. She wasn’t the one in control here. She never had been. Face red, she edged through the crowd, barely able to breathe.
Someone grabbed her ass.
When the door finally closed behind her, Beth gasped for air and stood in the rain, allowing the freezing wet to soak her to the bone.
But nothing could make her feel clean.
Chapter 7
Beth rode the glass cage up through the center of Water Tower Place, trying to look like any other shopper. It’s what she was, anyway. No one needed to know what she was buying, or her purpose for it.
But it was hard not to get agitated when the elevator filled on the mezzanine level with a gaggle of adolescent girls. Beth would have placed their ages at around twelve to fourteen. Their voices were high, the words came out manically, peppered with more “likes” and “you knows” than Beth would have thought possible in a ride of only a couple minutes. Had she ever been one of them?
No. Never.
Her association with the teenybopper league ended at the seventh floor, when Beth rushed out and turned to the left, where she knew she would find Wright Soldano, the gourmet food store. She passed the store once, knowing it, then circled around and headed for its brightly-lit entrance once more.
You’re nervous. What’s to be nervous about?
She paused in front of the display windows, feigning an intense interest in the food processors, stand mixers, and ice cream makers on display. The other window contained a rustic pine table set up with earthenware dishes. A place setting could be had for $350.
All you’re doing is buying a knife. A simple kitchen knife. There will be no raised eyebrows, no interrogation about its intended purpose.
Beth headed inside. The clerks were all dressed identically: white shirts, black pants, and long green aprons. Fortunately, the store was busy and no one approached her.
She found a display counter with cutlery arranged in rows, lit to shine like jewelry. Blood began to pound in her temples. Silly. She would have to speak to someone; she would have to ask to see a knife.
She knew which one she wanted—an 8-inch stainless steel chef’s knife, with a pointed tip, and a hefty black handle. Was the handle wood or plastic? Did it matter?
She looked around, trying to catch the eye of a clerk who wasn’t occupied with another customer. The knives were locked up in the case. Did they know why she had come? That she was purchasing the utensil for protection, for the cutting of human flesh, rather than say, carrots or onions?
She could have just gone to a sporting goods store and bought a hunting knife. But this seemed less suspicious. Why would a pretty young housewife want a hunting knife?
The obvious answer was murder.
Beth had dressed in her good wife clothes: a khaki skirt, navy blue sweater, with a white Oxford cloth blouse underneath, a tapered squared-toe, low-heeled pump in faux crocodile. She had pulled her hair into a chignon.
Rich Jenkins and son probably wouldn’t have recognized her.
Beth turned again. This time, a young man, willowy with pale blond hair, tan skin, and blue eyes, headed toward her, a predatory smile practically bisecting his perfectly chiseled features.
“Good morning! Looking for a murder weapon? Something to hack away at a pesky stalker who just doesn’t know the meaning of the word, ‘quit’? Well, honey, let me show you what’s new in buh-lades!”
Of course, that wasn’t what he had said. He had simply asked if she needed to see something in the case.
Beth tried to smile, wondering if it came out as more of a grimace. Keep this up and he’ll remember you. “I just need a good, sharp chef’s knife. Mine’s about had it.”
“Oh, we’ve got some great stuff. I’d recommend high carbon-steel alloy. It lasts forever and stays sharp.” He ducked behind the counter. Beth saw “Blake” on his nametag. “Were you looking for a plastic or wood handle?”
“I…I don’t know.”
He leaned forward and confided, “Go with the plastic…di
shwasher safe. Not that it’s always a good idea to put a good knife in a dishwasher. I think…”
“Plastic’s fine.”
“Eight inches?”
“What?”
Blake grinned and eyed her, looking uncertain. Did he think she wanted to make a joke about eight inches? Not today.
“Eight inches. That’s pretty much the standard size for a chef’s knife.”
“Oh.” Beth needed to get out of here. She felt a trickle of sweat down her back. “How about that one?” She pointed at the knife she’d been eyeing.
“Perfect. It’s what I would have chosen to show you first.”
“Good. I’ll take that one, then.”
He turned to a cabinet behind him and removed what Beth assumed was the display case knife, already in its own black box. “Anything else today?”
To make it look less suspicious (or so she hoped), Beth also bought a paring knife, a garlic press, and a set of eggcups in white ceramic.
As Blake rang up her purchases, Beth pictured Abbott standing in the middle of her living room, the blade sunk into his back, black handle sticking out. His face turned toward her, blue eyes filmed over, mouth agape. Blood pooled on the hardwood floor. Beth knelt, the blood staining the hem of her khaki skirt, reaching out to run a hand through Abbott’s black curls.
“That’ll be $347.89. Cash, check or charge?”
Beth stared at Blake. “Uh…charge. American Express.”
While she signed, she pictured herself in the kitchen, washing the blood and bits of flesh down the drain, hot soapy water obliterating the violent facts.
Would she really do this? Wouldn’t it just be easier to stay away from the apartment all day, avoiding him?
She then imagined him turning up, ringing their bell as she and Mark ate the welcome home dinner she had prepared.
The final straw.
“Here you go.”
Beth snatched the bag from his hands, whispered “thanks,” and hurried from the store.
I can’t kill anyone. I don’t have it in me. I’m just buying this for protection, in case he gets rough. Besides, I could use a good chef’s knife. And at $180, this should be a good one.
Beth made her way to the parking garage, the knife an accusing weight in her right hand.
* * * *
As Mark drove home from Door County, he began to feel queasy. By the time he made it to the far north suburbs of Chicago, he was having to pull over every five miles, visiting a McDonalds, A Wal-Mart, or a Bed, Bath, and Beyond, running through each establishment, his face slick with sweat, urgent to find the men’s room.
Each time he’d made it (although the last time he’d made it no further than just inside the washroom). Each time he would empty the contents of his stomach through his mouth, until nothing was left but burning, yellow bile.
His head pounded. Driving had become a herculean effort.
Thoughts of making it back to his office vanished, in spite of the piles of work that awaited him. He needed to find a bed…and fast. A cool cloth across his forehead would be welcome, too, to calm the heat causing his ears and face to burn.
* * * *
Beth sat on the couch, the chef’s knife stowed underneath its cushions.
Its presence will give me some comfort, some confidence. I need to be firm. I just need to have it near me, just in case.
In spite of these thoughts, alarms went off inside her. The adrenaline pulsed hotly through her veins. Her breathing grew shallow. I have to get a hold on myself. Calm and cool is the way to play it. She forced herself to take a deep breath, to let it out slowly, closing her eyes for just a moment.
Abbott paced in front of her. He was dressed all in black, combat boots, jeans, and a form-fitting T-shirt. For someone who professed distaste for being admired, he certainly played a contrary part. A woman dresses like that and she’s asking for it. Beth took another breath, wondering if he had just dressed all in black to symbolize death. His own perhaps?
She let herself look up at the stubbled face, the strong jaw line, the pale blue eyes, the cleft in his chin, his hair with its blue-black sheen. And the smug smile he wore as he stared down at her.
He was enjoying her pleading, had been for the last fifteen minutes. He held all the cards. Or so he thinks, Beth pondered, imagining the knife as it lay underneath the couch cushions, a cobra waiting to strike. The image made her grin.
“What are you smiling about?”
Beth shook her head. “Nothing.” She paused, made a go at collecting herself, and succeeded. “I just need you to stop it. I’m sorry for what I did. And I’m trying to be a better person.”
“Sorry don’t cut it.” He stared down at her. His lips curled, sneering.
But Beth also noticed something in his eyes that she couldn’t quite understand. And it caught her short. What was it? It wasn’t contempt, or disgust…the only two things she thought he would feel for her. Was it fear? Tenderness? Were those things even possible?
He went on. “Promises from you don’t mean much. I don’t want promises. I don’t want…your money.” He smiled, full out. But there was still something contrary in his eyes, something all the posturing and sneering couldn’t hide, belying his next words, “I just want to see you suffer.”
Did she have an advantage here? Was there a way to get through? “You don’t want to see me suffer,” she risked. “There’s something here that goes much deeper, isn’t there? Why would you waste your time on a slut like me?”
She didn’t know exactly why, but she had struck bone. The evil, taunting expression he had tried so hard to cultivate drained from his face. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.” His voice came out closer to a whisper than the self-righteousness that had inhabited it before.
Suddenly, it seemed as if the power in the room was shifting. Something about this Abbott didn’t fall into the realm of black and white; somewhere, sometime, this Abbott had been wounded, hurt. It was only intuition, but Beth knew it to be true.
But she didn’t know enough to determine how to deal with it. Right now, she needed to get rid of him. “You must go now. I’m going to have to tell my husband about you, so you’re not going to have anything to use against me.” She shifted, so she could feel the smooth hardness of the knife against her thigh. “You’re harassing me…and that’s against the law.”
Abbott crossed the room to stare out of the window. “Bullshit.”
* * * *
Mark felt dizzy and wondered if he should pull to the curb. His vision had blurred and he had let the car drift to one side of the road, nearly sideswiping an SUV. The nausea had reached a fever pitch so badly, all he wanted to do was park, stick his finger down his throat, and bring up whatever he could. Maybe then, he would have some relief.
For five more minutes.
He breathed in, trying to quell the roiling stomach juices and the throbbing temples, and pressed down harder on the accelerator.
Just get it over with. Hang in there for another half-hour or so and you’ll be home.
Home.
Safe. Secure. Where your loving wife can take care of you…
Mark gripped the steering wheel, praying for light traffic and enough lucidity to get him to sanctuary.
* * * *
“You know,” Beth said, changing her tack. “I’ve already told him.”
Abbott barely turned his head from his post at the window. “Uh huh.”
She ran a finger over the nappy surface of a throw pillow and tried to swallow. No spit remained in her mouth. “Uh huh. And things are gonna be okay. But not with you here.”
“Right.” This time, Abbott didn’t even bother to look toward her, just continued to watch out the window.
Beth stared at the floor. She thought about telling him that her indiscretion—her temptation—with Abbott had actually brought her and Mark closer, that it made her realize her love for him and she now appreciated him even more, and he her. That couples went thro
ugh this sort of thing all the time. Honesty was important. Communication was key.
The platitudes rang false in her own ears. She knew Abbott wasn’t buying. He was like a dog now, poised, spine rigid as he stared at the street, watching for her husband’s approach.
She laid her head on the couch and closed her eyes, pondering why she couldn’t cry.
“He’s here.”
Beth barely heard Abbott’s whisper. She opened her eyes, raised her head, and wondered how long she had slept. She didn’t know how she could have drifted off, but now her nerves jumped, firing like electric currents through her veins. She leaned forward, wanting to say something.
But, what, really, was there left to say?
She listened to the thunk of a car door slamming shut outside. Listened as footfalls sounded on pavement, ascended stone stairs. Listened—and tensed—as she heard the jingle of keys, heard those same keys being fitted into a lock.
And a plan suddenly came to her, borne of reality crime shows she had seen, borne of desperation.
She screamed, the sound shattering the tense silence. Abbott turned, mouth agape, as Beth sprung from the couch, stopping for only a moment to cut a long, jagged slice down her arm with the knife. Abbott stared at her, stunned, as the blood poured out.
“What the fuck?” he whispered.
Then the door creaked open.
And then Beth screamed again, louder this time. “No! Someone help me, please!” She threw herself on Abbott, her arm aloft, prepared to bring down the knife into any tender tissue she could find, and then, once he was stunned, submissive, to take more careful aim and make the next stab deadly.
But Abbott grabbed her arm just as she started to bring it down.
The knife clattered to the floor. They two of them did an insane dance, slipping around in the blood flowing from the wound in Beth’s arm.
* * * *
Mark opened the door, confronted with a scene that nearly made him forget all about his illness.
Someone was attacking Beth! And the poor thing was trying to defend herself.
Mark tried to rush into the room, but his limbs felt weighted down with sickness and fatigue. Still, he would be damned if he’d let anything happen to his wife. He groped in his pocket for his cell, then let out a wincing gasp as Beth’s attacker—a man who looked oddly familiar—hit her hard enough to send her flying across their living room until she slammed into a wall, halting her backward momentum. A framed print fell from the wall and shattered. Beth’s eyes went wide as she slid down the wall, her feet slipping on broken glass.
