by Borne Wilder
Alice had been waiting for this day for a very long time. It had, in fact, been such a long time coming, that she had actually begun to think that Nolte had cut a deal with the devil, somehow managing to turn terminal cancer into a nothing more than a chronic illness. To her dismay, he’d beaten the odds and made it several months past the three to four, the doctors had given him. Even the doctors were baffled by his defiance of their prognosis; one had even mentioned to her, that his drinking alone should have killed him. It was like he had been flat out refusing to die, just to make Alice miserable.
There had been times when the waiting had become unbearably frustrating. More than once, the thought of slipping the asshole a little something, that might help him along, had crossed her mind. Just a bit of a nudge to help nature take its course, nothing sinister or devious, just a bump in the right direction, but the thought of prison terrified her. The caretaker was always the one; cops focused their brutal interrogations on first, right after the immediate family, of course. She happened to be both. This was not an unfounded concern, due to the amount of crime television Alice digested on a daily basis; she was quite familiar with the method of operations homicide detectives employed.
Though the hands-on caretaking had fallen mostly on her sister’s shoulders, since Martha lived closer to Nolte, Alice felt her contributions were not without merit, as far as caretaking was concerned. She had lent a great deal of emotional support to Nolte via phone calls, and that, in and of itself, could be construed as evidence of foul play. The penitentiaries were full of hapless murderers, foolish enough to leave a phone record trail for the cops to follow.
Perhaps it was paranoia or oversimplification on her part, it really made no difference, Alice knew in her heart of hearts, if the old fool was found belly up, the investigators would be able to sense her guilt and with their gut instincts alone, have enough to haul her off to the crowbar hotel. They would skip right over church lady Martha, and slap the cuffs on Alice so fast her head would spin. A quick stop at the courthouse to pick up a guilty verdict, and then off to prison where fat black women would rape her with a broom, she couldn’t risk it; the thought of prison terrified her. The thought of fat black women terrified her.
Oh well, who cares? None of that mattered now that the big day had finally arrived. That sorry sonofabitch was no more, he was worm food. No more middle of the night ‘Nolte’ calls, to ask if her pussy was lonely and in need of some company. No more fabricated complaints: someone was putting Kleenex in the lint basket, someone was putting lint in the Kleenex basket, someone had put the beer on the second shelf of the fridge, someone was drinking his mescal, or he was pitching a tent in his diaper and wanting her to go camping with him. The man was shameless, insane and completely void of any moral values. Creepy and filled to the brim with shit and nasty, was what he was. Not nasty in an unclean way, but unclean in a nasty way.
None of that mattered now, the fat lady had sung, and Nolte was gone, pushing up daisies. He’s off to face the music. She’d hate to be in his shoes right now. She took a long slug of her beer and smiled at the thought of Satan castrating Nolte with toenail clippers. Maybe Satan would mouth rape Nolte with his devil dick. Alice jerked her mind out of the fantasy and scolded herself. A good person wouldn’t think these things; a good person would feel grief. Suddenly Alice felt guilty for not feeling guilty and for her unChristian thinking. She also felt the hint of a beer buzz coming on. She chugged the rest of the beer and belched a bubbly hiss, through closed lips.
Alice thought hard, she knew that if she really put her mind to it, she was capable of feeling bad. Deep down, she was sure there was some sort of grief buried beneath the relief she felt. There had to be, she wasn’t a heartless bitch. She cried at the right places in movies and worried about the homeless when it got really cold out. There weren’t any homeless where she lived, so she worried from afar, and that had to be worth more than up close worrying. It stood to reason, that since she had overcome the mental obstacle of out of sight, out of mind, a greater value should be placed on her worries, than regular worries. The grief was there somewhere, she was sure of it, it probably had a big scientificated name that she didn’t know, was all.
After some deep introspective thought, another beer, and a quick search of her soul, she had decided she did have some grief, it wasn’t much, but it was there all the same. It wasn’t ‘curl up in a ball and cry yourself to sleep’ stuff, but Alice felt it qualified as grief and or sorrow. It was really more along the lines of sadness, like the sadness she felt when the neighbor’s dog was run over. What she felt on that particular day, might have been grief and or sorrow, it was, she finally concluded, definitely grief and sadness. It had been the deep kind which, really hurt badly.
Scout the dog, had been sunning himself against the curb, most likely in peaceful buttery slumber when the mail lady backed over him in her mail jeep.
Alice had secretly despised mail jeeps, long before the day in question, every time she had seen one prior to, or after that fateful day, she would say to herself, “There’s an accident waiting to happen, the damn steering wheel is on the wrong side.” Even though she couldn’t prove it, she was sure the wrong-sided steering wheel was in play when Scout met with his demise.
She had seen the tragedy happen up close and personal and was standing over Scout when the dog took its last breath. Scout had begged her, with sad and frightened eyes, for help, but there was nothing she could do, other than hysterical screaming and blind panic, she had limited experience in dealing with sudden tragedy.
Sometimes she would dream about that horrible day. In her dreams, it’s the mail lady screaming hysterically and Alice is the one kneeling beside Scout, stroking his fur, and gently coaxing him toward the light. She is the one who had told him, that it was okay to pass on and how wonderful puppy heaven would be, where ancestor dogs chase an abundant supply of bunnies through tall grasses. In this version of what happened, she also takes the mail lady’s hand and comforts her, assuring her that it wasn’t her fault.
Of course, she had done none of those things on the day the dog lay dying at her feet, in fact, she had repeatedly screamed—almost chanted— “You ran over Scout, you stupid cunt!” In fact, she had not rendered any form of comfort or aid, but she felt she would have, had she not been in shock over the traumatic event. Sometimes in her dreams, it wasn’t the mail lady driving, but Alice, and it wasn’t the neighbor’s dog Scout, but the kid from across the street. Alice took a big gulp of beer to wash the dog and the kid out of her head.
The memory of the dying dog caused her to re-evaluate the grief she felt for Nolte, and after careful contemplation, she realized she was mistaken, she, felt no grief for Nolte, none at all. As a matter of fact, she felt the angel of death had finally stilled the hands of perversion and for that, she was grateful and truly happy.
Alice was quite sure; Nolte never had a passing thought, without some deviate act, or perverse behavior, or sinister motive attached to it, so there probably has never been a more justifiable case of good riddance, than the death of Nolte, that’s what Alice thought.
The angel of death had finally stilled the hands of perversion; the nasty old man had not only been quick with his paws but was as skilled in the art of ‘sleight of hand’ as any magician. He could have fingered Mother Teresa to orgasm, in full view of the pope, before she even realized her panties were missing.
For as far back as Alice cared to remember, the pervert had grabbed her ass and pinched her nipples, every chance he got. The entirety of her adolescence was accompanied by the after-burn of a tweaked nipple. Even now, her skin crawled at the thought of his touch. Even though he lay safely dead, on a cold slab, in a funeral home fifty miles away, her skin still crawled. However, imagining Nolte’s cold dead body on a slab, brought with it another twang of faux guilt, but this time, the twang was tinged with beer and she felt less guilty, for not feeling guilty.
Alice took another swallow and tried again
, to think of something nice about the old man, after all, he was dead, and she’d been taught one shouldn’t speak ill of the dead. Maybe she had seen that in a movie. Well, it matters little where it came from; to her, it seemed to be a sound characteristic a person would do well to have, and to prove she really felt that way, she would adopt it as one of her own. And so she did. She took another swallow of beer to seal the deal and held the cool can to her forehead to help her think.
There had to be one redeeming quality about the man. Even with the coolness of the can helping her, she was drawing a blank; she could come up with nothing. At least nothing that wouldn’t be considered nasty, when compared to the moral standards of most social circles, who frown upon child sacrifice.
Alice hadn’t been Nolte’s only pinch toy; her younger sister Martha had actually been the first to draw his unwanted attentions. His eyes would follow her ass every time she walked past and when she stopped moving, he would stare openly at her boyish breasts. The man had no shame.
He was forever determined in his attempts to catch one of them alone in a room, a mistake both girls had each made and tried never to repeat. The two actually became quite adept at watching each other’s backs over the years, a courtesy that quickly disappeared, as they went their separate ways in adulthood. At this point in their lives, they were more than willing to throw the other under the bus, if it measured out a few dollars.
Nolte’s first success came when Martha had forgotten to lock the door to the bathroom behind her. The absence of the lock clicking into place had caught Nolte’s attention immediately, and he had sprung to his feet like his ass was on fire. He had closed the distance, from the couch to the bathroom at the speed of light. Without so much as a look around for potential witnesses, as silent as smoke, he’d poured himself through the door. Alice could just see the surprise/horror on Martha’s face as Nolte quietly closed the door behind him. The asshole could move like a cat, and this time, the lock did click into place.
They were only in the bathroom for five minutes at the most. Not much could happen in five minutes, Alice had thought, but the look on Martha’s face, when she came out, told her a lot could happen in five minutes. Bad things happen quickly. A few times she had asked Martha what had gone on, but she never answered, she always shook her head and looked away, the last time with tears in her eyes. Alice never asked again, instead she focused on preventing her turn in the bathroom.
Her precautionary measures proved to be insufficient; Nolte was almost superhuman in his quest for forbidden fruit. Someone had once told Alice, that locks were only there to keep honest people honest. She found this to be so true, a dishonest person didn't give a shit about locks. A butter knife, a credit card, a bobby pin, Nolte could pick locks like a seasoned cat burglar.
His second success with the girls was with Alice. A memory, which she had, over the years, suppressed and buried so deep, it hardly resembled a memory anymore. It seemed more akin to something someone had told her about, rather than a personal experience.
Mona, her mother, had been somewhat of a buffer, never letting it go any further than pinching and groping, before she would slap playfully at his hand and giggle, “You’re so bad.” Mona wasn’t about to bite the hand that paid for her bourbon and necessaries, however, she did feel it was her motherly duty to at least try and keep her husband’s dick out of her daughters. Whether or not, she tried hard enough is still undecided.
Mona had been damaged by men early on in her life, but instead of hating and shunning them entirely, she used alcohol to dull the sharp, hurtful edges that God, in his infinite wisdom, had seen fit to adorn men with. Even so, she had still found it near almost impossible to keep one around, who would not only accept her love of alcohol but also finance her passion.
Her love of the drink was deep and profound and something she had come to desire above all else. Nolte seemed to be able to accept that type of emotional commitment, without jealousy, and be satisfied with the small portion of her heart she was able to share with him.
The fact that she had two young daughters didn’t scare him away either. He was everything she had been looking for in a man/sponsor, a real family man, he was. As long as he kept her mind lubricated, in the manner to which she had become accustomed, her girls could put up with a little ‘dirty talk’ now and then.
After Mona died, the gloves came off, literally. To be cornered by Nolte, was comparable to being locked in a broom closet with a professional fighter, hammering away with body shots. “Once he had you on the ropes, no amount of duckin’ and weavin’ would set you free,” Alice would later recall to her husband, Junior.
The pervert seemed to be driven by a force unseen; he had tried everything in his quest to fuck them. He would offer them money, feed them beer, threaten to cut them out of his will. One time, even force was applied, until, Alice had screamed loud enough for the neighbors to hear and caused Nolte to cut bait and run, the R-word scared the shit out of him. As a last resort, if he was drunk enough, he would beg and pout. The begging, by far, was the worst. Watching Nolte as he struggled to fake a look of loneliness with his bloodshot 'puppy-dog' eyes, or at least his best guess at what loneliness resembled, was beyond pathetic and bordered on torturous.
Sometimes, Alice would actually feel sorry for him, maybe it was pity, maybe it was generosity, she really never stopped to analyze her actions, she just wanted a moment of respite from Nolte’s relentless mind-fucking.
She would make sure no one was looking and slip her hand down the front of his shorts. She’d rub him a few times to shut him up, and then, avoid him like the plague for the rest of the day. Sometimes it worked and she would have a bit of peace while he devoured his sexual brain candy, but most times it backfired and fueled some dark fantasy and he would return with a vengeance, not to be denied. In either case, it mattered little, because she knew the time was coming when he was going to want more, much more.
If asked, Nolte would have said these little ‘fondlin’s’ were not about satisfying or pacifying him, or meeting a need, per se, it was about the beginning of the bitches schooling. He prided himself as a man of patience, methodical planning and a master of manipulation. A man that knew what he wanted, and knew how to get it. Besides, this wasn’t his first fuckin’ rodeo. He had been talking young girls out of their panties since Christ was a corporal. Good things come to those who wait, his mommy had always said. You can’t rush a good thing and all that other shit. It’s all about the big picture, you know.
The way Nolte saw it. You don’t toss all your fishing tackle into the lake and splash around in the water until a fish comes. You gently toss out your line, teasing the bait with little tugs. You make it dance until the fish thinks it’s all good and natural, then, when the fish has become convinced that what’s happening is A-okay, you set the hook and reel it in.
Therefore, it only makes sense not to throw your dick at a young’un and expect her not to run screaming to her mommy. You ease into it. Gradual increments, if you will, slight imperceptible shifts from right to wrong. Smooth out the naughty wrinkle. Get them used to the idea. Patience is the key to success. Slowly and steadily, you increase the size of the carrot until it’s ticklin’ the bitch’s tonsils and panties are no longer an option.
If asked, Alice would have sucked it up and repeated what her mamma had always said: “We all charge for pussy, Baby, it’s just that sometimes we have to change the form of the currency, in order to get what we want.”
If asked, Martha would shake her head; look ashamed and more likely than not, cry.
Alice liked to day drink and this since this day was special, she was tipping back a few more than usual. Bent backward at the waist and holding the refrigerator door open with her knee, Alice gulped down the last of her beer while simultaneously reaching inside for another; she could almost hear calliope music backing her circus pose. She stuffed one under her chin and pinned it against her chest, she would have a spare in case the next one, (if her
prediction was correct) went down as fast as the last one. She imagined, all stretched out and catawampus as she was, she might look somewhat like Stephan Hawking trying to limbo.
She immediately cracked open a beer and sent a good portion of it into her plumbing, she was going to have to get a good jag going, if she was going to make phone calls and spread the tidings of great joy to all of Nolte’s friends and relatives She dreaded informing the 'relatives,' aka the brothers the most. She absolutely hated the brothers. Assholes with attitudes were what they were. Cocksuckers of the first order and then some was Alice’s lasting impression of the two idiots, Nolte had the misfortune of squirting into this sad world.
Martha had immediately bailed on phone call duty. She was too distraught, having been the one to find Nolte all dead and blue. She was too something, Alice thought. If distraught was another name for chicken shit, then Martha was surely distraught.
“Faker bitch,” Alice mumbled. She knew Martha was over at Nolte’s at that very moment, rummaging drawers and bagging up everything of value. At least everything of value, she thought Alice wouldn’t remember or miss, or wasn’t actually mentioned in the will that Nolte had held over their heads for so long. Nolte had shown both sisters a copy of his will, so Martha had a pretty good idea of what would and wouldn’t be missed. The will, as it was written, had helped make them more receptive to Nolte’s deviate requests and general debauchery, but it had also pitted them against each other and made them wish he was dead, all the more.
As soon as Junior came home from work, she would have to put a foot in his ass. He could drink his allotment of beer on the drive to Nolte’s, they would need to get their ass on the road and get there before all the good stuff was gone.
At least Martha couldn’t take the Corvette. That was Alice’s. Basically, bought and paid for in the truest sense of the word. The returning memories of what she had to do with Nolte, to secure that item, made her throw up a little in her mouth. She opened another can and washed it all back down with a swish of beer. What’s a little vomit, she asked herself, some of the things she had choked down over the years would make a Billy goat blow chunks.
