by Jeff Gelb
Then Emmie reached back into her purse, got the gun, and shot him.
Only one shot this time, through what she guessed was the heart, and there was blood, but it was flowing around his convulsing body, and she quickly raised herself off him and grabbed her clothes.
She was dressed and back in her own car two minutes later. No one else had been in the parking lot. She hadn’t even gone into the bar.
No problem.
She did five more over the next two months.
After the fifth one (a short-order cook who’d followed her out of the supermarket one night), Emmie realized she hadn’t seen Lori in a while, so she headed over to the Last Resort.
Lori was there, at the same table near the back—and deep in conversation with another woman.
Emmie froze and felt the (now-familiar) rage rising.
The other woman’s back was to the door, and Lori could see her shoulders shaking slightly, her head bowed. She was crying. And Lori was smiling at her.
Emmie stalked forward until she’d reached the table, where she glared down, first at Lori and then her companion. The other woman.
“Who’s this?” she demanded.
Lori looked up at her and smiled casually—but her eyes still had that old tremor, the one that used to leave Emmie so unnerved. “This conversation doesn’t involve you, so fuck off.”
Emmie didn’t move, except to finger one of the empty beer bottles that littered the table. “I think it does involve me.”
The other woman was very young, maybe not even twenty yet, and Emmie felt a quick pang of sympathy as she saw several large bruises splayed out across her face. Then Lori was rising, slowly, and Emmie’s pity changed to wariness. “You know, I can take back what I gave you, you stupid cunt.”
Emmie flinched and felt the shard in her heart tremble. “What are you talking about? You didn’t give me anything—”
Lori suddenly stepped forward, and her hand was in Emmie’s chest, and Emmie could feel something impossibly cold moving around in her ...
. . . and suddenly the icefire was gone from her heart, and she saw what she’d done, and the strength went out of her. She fell to her knees behind the other woman’s chair, gasping, clutching at her empty heart.
“Oh Jesus ... oh fuckin’ hell, what did I do ...”
The truck driver ... the soldier on leave ... the fat guy with a picture of his wife on his visor ... the bald one who liked to talk ... the cook ... and George, oh Christ, she’d loved George and she’d killed him... .
She was wailing, and the bartender, Big Joe, rushed out from behind the bar and knelt next to her. She grabbed on to his massive arms, clinging to them desperately. “Lori told me—she told me to, and I—”
Big Joe tried to calm her down, stroking her fingers. “Hold on there, gal, who’s Lori?”
Emmie nodded at the woman standing three feet away, grinning madly. “Her! Lori! Right there!”
Big Joe followed her gaze, then turned back to her, puzzled. “There ain’t nobody there—”
Emmie turned wide eyes on him. “Lori, right there, are you crazy?!”
Then Emmie realized the other woman, the young one with the battered face, had turned and was eyeing her, perplexed. “Her name’s not Lori. It’s Susan.”
Suddenly Big Joe’s jaw worked for a moment, and he stiffened. “What’s this ‘Lori’ look like?”
Emmie laughed once, harshly. “What do you mean, just look at her! She’s got blond hair, bad teeth—”
Big Joe finished: “—skin’s kinda red and leathery?”
“Yes,” Emmie said.
Big Joe pried Emmie’s grip off him and backed away. “I’m gonna call the cops.”
“What ...” Emmie started but didn’t know what else to say.
Big Joe turned back once before he stepped behind the bar to get the phone. “‘Lori’ and ‘Susan’ were both aliases she used.... Jesus, I figured we’d finally seen the last of her when they executed her. For all those men she killed... .”
Emmie’s eyes jerked back to the woman she knew as Lori, and the woman was laughing, great gales of insane, howling laughter that Emmie knew only she and the young woman could hear.
That other woman suddenly stood and turned, and Emmie saw she wasn’t crying anymore. Instead she smiled, and there was a strange jitter to her eyes. “I gotta go home and fuck my husband,” she said.
Later, Emmie was still screaming in the back of the police car as it drove away from the Last Resort.
Secret Admirer
Steve Armison
I’m waiting outside in the parking lot. Headlights stream steadily down the nearby thoroughfare. A few people walk toward their own cars, some with companions and others alone, but none are more lonely than I am. I take a deep breath, then exhale. I can’t believe my life has come down to this. Never in a million years would I have expected it. I flex the fingers of my right hand and scour the area once again before grasping the loaded revolver on the passenger seat. I check my watch; it will be over soon.
There could be witnesses, of course. But that’s of little consequence. My world ended the moment Sharla decided to be unfaithful.
A tear trickles down my cheek. I recall the start of it all just a few weeks earlier. It was the beginning of the end....
Across the desk from me sat Dr. Tannerbaum, Sharla’s psychiatrist. He was a caricature of a man, and I couldn’t understand how she could take him seriously. He was slightly plump, with a handlebar mustache and thin strands of dark hair slicked back over a mostly bald head. He looked as if he should be singing in a barbershop quartet a hundred years ago. Despite the serious nature of the meeting, I found it difficult to keep from smiling when I faced him. I couldn’t help but imagine him wearing a striped jacket and a straw hat.
“As you already know, Mr. Leach, your wife consented to this meeting,” the doc began. “However, I remain limited as to what I may reveal to you regarding her condition.”
I nodded. “I understand completely, but please call me Edmund.”
He leaned back in his heavily padded leather chair. “Of course,” he answered.
There was a moment of awkward silence. I glanced at the multiple diplomas gracing his rich hardwood walls. I had hoped he’d be more proactive, that he could offer some kind of instant solution to Sharla’s psychological slump. Growing impatient, I said, “So?”
The doc cleared his throat. “There are several contributing factors to your wife’s present state of mind—”
“Sharla,” I interrupted. “Please call her Sharla.”
“Yes, of course.” He shifted in his seat. “She’s postmenopausal, as you know. You’ve recently relocated here, where your wife has no friends, and she’s yet to recover from the tragic death of your only grandchild last year.”
That last one really stung. The truth is, I hadn’t gotten over little Brandi’s death either, and I doubted I ever would.
“Your wife’s—Sharla’s—self-esteem has been shattered,” the doc continued. He paused briefly, then added, “Over the last several sessions, I’ve discussed her past with her in depth. I’ve delved into your relationship with her, and I’ve honestly been unable thus far to detect any basis for the deepening of her depression.”
“She’s never been like this before,” I interjected.
The doc nodded. “To be perfectly honest, I initially suspected that you were part of the problem, that you were berating her, that she was suffering some kind of psychological control or mental abuse, but I could find no specific evidence of that. From my perspective, you two seem to have had a happy marriage.”
I stared at him blankly until I could get the word out. “Had?”
The doc cleared his throat. “Yes?”
“You said had a happy marriage. Shouldn’t that be have?”
The doc appeared to give it some thought before answering. “I suppose only you and she can answer that question.”
Now I was getting angry. I had done
everything imaginable to make Sharla happy, and how dare anyone infer that I could be at fault?
“Listen, Doc. Did she tell you how many surprise gifts I’ve given her recently? Did she mention how often I tell her that I love her? Did she say how many times I’ve complimented her appearance? Did she—?”
“Now, hold on, Mr., er, Edmund, I haven’t accused you of anything. But in answer to your question, no, I’m unaware of any of that.”
I couldn’t believe it. I slowly shook my head. I had been driving myself nuts thinking of ways to cheer her up. I had gone way beyond the call of duty, and she hadn’t even recognized the effort. “Are you telling me that she never even noticed anything I’ve—” I began, but he interrupted me again.
“Keep in mind, Edmund, that it’s simply human nature to discount gestures such as those from our loved ones.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“Well, we expect that kind of behavior from people we love.”
“So?”
“So, we unfortunately tend to undervalue it.”
I shook my head. I was about ready to just get up and leave. “That makes no fu—That just makes no sense.” I was steamed.
“Let me explain it this way,” the doc continued in a softer tone, obviously trying to calm me down. “Would you tell your wife to her face that you no longer find her attractive?”
“Of course not!”
“Would you tell her that she looks great when in fact she looks no different than before?”
“Sure!”
“Well, there you have it.”
“What?” This seemed to be going nowhere.
“We know that those who love us will protect us, even from the truth. We have a tendency to sometimes back away from reality, perhaps even lie, to protect the feelings of those we love. It’s an unwritten rule that we subconsciously expect from those we’re closest to.”
It finally began to sink in. “So compliments from a complete stranger could have more impact on Sharla than anything I might say?”
“That’s correct.”
I slumped back in my chair. “But that just isn’t right!”
The doc smiled and lightly nodded. “Ah, but I’m afraid that’s the way it is.”
And I thought about what he said all the way home. I trusted the doc’s judgment; I took it quite seriously, and it hurt, if you want to know the truth. But I loved my wife, and I would do anything for her.
Sharla Leach booted her home computer and prepared to sift through her daily influx of e-mail, deleting the usual accumulation of spammed messages that typically jammed her in-box. Sharla yawned and took in a deep breath. Spam filters were not yet trustworthy, in her view. She had tried several, but each had mistakenly screened out important messages. Sorting her mail would only take a few minutes, but beyond that she didn’t feel like surfing the Internet today.
When the downloading was complete, she saw that there were nineteen new messages, probably no more than three of which were legitimate. She quickly scanned the list, automatically marking for deletion the notifications for winning lotteries she’d never entered and the requests of foreigners to help safeguard large sums of money. Then she hesitated at the sight of one message in particular. Its subject line read Your Secret Admirer From the Appleton Days. She’d seen somewhat similar headings from spammed messages before, from matchmaking or sex sites, and God only knew how she had ended up on their mailing lists. But this one was different. This one specifically mentioned Appleton, the small town where she and her husband first met in a singles group almost twenty-five years ago.
She stopped for a moment to reminisce. As Charles Dickens had said, it was the best of times, it was the worst of times, the two years following the divorce from her first husband. She’d never been so lonely and heartbroken in her entire life, but after she became heavily involved with an Appleton group of single adults, everything changed practically overnight. Her phone began to ring so often that she bought her first answering machine. There was always something going on, and she had an opportunity to date several men, some of whom she quickly wrote off and others who apparently did the same to her. But that period of her life had always carried a certain mystique, and here appeared to be a message from one of those men from whom she hadn’t heard in a long, long time.
Secret admirer, huh? Could it be someone she liked but never dated? Or someone she dated but subsequently dumped? Perhaps it was one of the two or three with whom she later regretted having severed the ties. She started to open the message, then hesitated. Its sender was identified only as Mystery Man, and she wondered if it was truly the right thing to do. Could the message actually be legitimate? And if so, why was he being so secretive? She could easily hit the delete key, and the whole thing would be behind her. But what would it hurt just to take a quick look? She took a deep breath, then clicked.
Hi, Sharla!
I hope you’re the right Sharla. If you’re not, I apologize, but if you’re the same Sharla who used to belong to a great Appleton singles group, I just wanted to say hello and tell you that I’ve been thinking about you all of these years.
You were always my favorite.
MM
Hmm, not a hint of who this mystery man might be. Should she respond? Curiosity was killing her, and if she was totally honest with herself, she had to admit she hoped the message was from Lewis Michaels. She and Lewis had spent a lot of time together, but for some reason a meaningful relationship never developed. She’d sometimes wondered why. So what would it hurt to respond? She clicked the Reply button, and an e-mail template popped onto the screen. Choosing her words carefully, she typed:
Well, hello, Mystery Man!
You’ve found the right Sharla; and now I’m dying to know who you are.
Won’t you tell me? Pretty please? Sharla
The improvement in Sharla’s attitude wasn’t what I’d call miraculous, but I definitely noted a change. I saw a faint smile here and there, and she was a bit more talkative. We sat at the dinner table quietly eating taco salads when I broke the silence.
“Anything special happen today?” I asked.
She hesitated briefly, then sighed. “Not really,” she said.
So I left it at that. Any improvement at all, even at such a minor level, was significant at this point.
Mystery Man had proven to be quite frustrating. Sharla had exchanged several brief messages with him, and he steadfastly refused to identify himself. More and more she suspected him to be Lewis. Few men had known her well enough to be privy to some of the incidents to which he referred in his messages. And now she began to feel nervous, perhaps a bit guilty about what she was doing. After all, she was a married woman. Happily? Well, that was subject to debate.
Mystery Man had suggested that they IM each other. She hadn’t a clue what that meant, so he patiently explained how to download the free software for instant messaging. Through it, they could have live, interactive online conversations.
Part of the process required registering a screen name, for which she chose SecretSweetie. That name had already been taken, so she added a number and became SecretSweetie319. Mystery Man had wanted the screen name of MysteryMan007, but that one was too good to be available still, so he had to alter it to MysteryMan7007.
They had met for brief chats on a few occasions, and she had gotten no further in determining his true identity. She had quickly grown comfortable with him, however, as a definite connection appeared to be developing. Little by little, Mystery Man pushed her to stretch her limits. Each time she felt more guilty and uncomfortable but couldn’t resist the urge to continue. Should she make him angry, Sharla couldn’t stand the thought of losing him. Booting her computer would never be the same if there was no possibility of communicating with this mysterious man from her past.
Life was getting better. It was nice to see my wife smile every now and then, even though I knew it wasn’t actually directed at me. I was beginning to feel a bit restless myse
lf.
One night as we lay in bed I rolled over and put my arm around her. “You awake?”
“Mm-hmm,” she grunted without movement.
I put my arm around her and worked my hand underneath her flannel pajama top. I nestled closer and squeezed her breast. “Not now,” she muttered.
That wasn’t a good sign.
Little by little, Mystery Man convinced Sharla to try online sex. Without a doubt, that was crossing the line, but she reminded herself that it was only a computer and far less personal than anonymous phone sex. Reluctantly, but also with a twinge of curiosity, she agreed to log on at the specified time for her first encounter with cybersex.
I must admit that by this time I was enjoying the charade. Sharla was feeling noticeably better every day, and I was getting a kick out of experiencing an online relationship like I had heard others talking about. I was feeling a higher level of confidence knowing that I had the power to sweet-talk my wife all over again after all of these years. In hindsight, however, I failed to realize that as I got closer to Sharla online, we were growing more distant in reality.
In both e-mail and IM sessions she continually prodded me for my real name, but I was careful about every detail I revealed. I did tell her that I was married, happily in fact, but that my wife sometimes didn’t understand me. And I admit it stung when she said that her husband was distant and inattentive. She was, in truth, describing herself. And every time she prodded me to admit that I was, in fact, Lewis Michaels, I felt a growing anger.
Our online encounters always occurred during the day when Sharla thought I was busily at work. Being my own boss afforded the opportunity to close my office door and enjoy these temporary liaisons. I carefully planned our upcoming sexual escapade in advance. I wanted to give her a powerful performance, as much for myself as for her. All of this was feeding my ego on one level and completely destroying it on another, though I failed to recognize it at the time. But the fantasy was intoxicating. I could readily understand how people got addicted to chat rooms and such.
