by Merry Jones
Alone again, I stood sandwiched between warm bodies at the bar. Holding a beer and a rose.
Okay, I decided, I’d done enough for one night. Had taken the first step, proved I could go out, even talked with a hot guy. So I could go home. With luck, I’d get there in time to catch the end of NCIS. I located Becky on the dance floor and waved to her, mouthed the words, “I’m going.”
“Behind the bar.” She pointed to the ladies’ room.
“No,” I moved my lips. “Home.”
“What?” She cupped her ear, gyrating. The guy she was dancing with now was swarthy and buff, mesmerized by her backside.
I made my hand into a telephone, held it to my face. “Later.”
She looked disappointed. “You’re leaving?”
I nodded and, before she could protest or pout or even miss a grind, I’d pushed my way through the crowd, dashed out the door, and escaped into the chilled evening air. At the corner, I hopped into a taxi, thinking of Charlie who, until that night, had been the only man ever to give me a rose.
The night was warm and the cab stale, so I cracked the window, watching couples walking hand in hand or arms circling each other. We inched slowly through traffic on Main Street, passing crowded upscale clubs, boutiques, and restaurants. Manayunk had grown in the hills above the Schuylkill River, had housed mill workers, but now it was gentrified. Populated by young professional types. I lived only a few miles away, near the Philadelphia Art Museum, in the townhouse that had been Charlie’s and mine. Now it was just mine, or would be when our divorce was final. I played with my empty ring finger. There was nothing to regret. Nothing left to save.
Nor was there a reason to feel so raw about attending a Happy Hour. There was no shame in being single again. In looking for companionship. Divorce didn’t make me a loser or a failure. Or unattractive. It didn’t mean I sucked at life. All that it meant was that Charlie and I hadn’t worked out. Millions of women were separated or divorced. Millions of men, too. I didn’t like bars, that was all. There had to be other, quieter, more comfortable venues to meet men. Like health clubs. Super-markets.
By the time the cab pulled up to my house, I’d almost convinced myself that I had hope. It wasn’t definite that I would grow old lonely, sad, and celibate. I was an educated, professional woman, a second grade teacher. When I stood up straight and held my stomach in, I was kind of stately. I had big hazel eyes and full lips. Charlie used to say I was striking; other men must think so, too. But, then again, finding a new man wasn’t the answer. What I needed was a new passion, something fulfilling that I could do alone. Maybe I’d take classes in Italian. Or Portuguese. Or Tae Kwon Do. Or opera or skeet shooting.
I exited the cab with more dignity than I’d entered and stood tall as I unlocked my front door, only to slump again when I stepped inside, confronting what was left of my home. The blank spaces on the walls where Charlie’s art had hung, the empty corner where he’d kept his aquarium, the half-vacant shelves that had held his books, the bare corners where his philodendra had clustered. Everything was a reminder that Charlie was gone.
Never mind. Spaces could be filled. I’d redecorate. Get new stuff. I set my bag on the hallway table and took a deep, cleansing breath. Maybe my head was aching because I was hungry, had eaten only carrot sticks for dinner. On the way to the kitchen, I stopped, sniffing. I wasn’t imagining it. The scent. I knew it, had lived with it for ten years. The air smelled of Charlie. Old Spice. Had he been in the house? Was he still here?
“Charlie?” I stood still, listening. He still had keys. Our divorce wasn’t final; I hadn’t changed the locks. Even though he shouldn’t and, as far as I knew, hadn’t come in, he still could.
“Charlie?” Louder this time.
Silence. He wasn’t there. Of course, he wasn’t.
Even so, I stepped into the living room again, checking, seeing no one. Nothing out of place. Obviously, I was imagining the scent. Or maybe the house had just held onto it, absorbed it in walls, in floors. I went back to the kitchen, suddenly drained. My arms felt leaden, making it difficult to open a bag of Spring Mix. My hands were stiff, fingers sluggish, struggling to add chunks of bleu cheese. Slicing an onion, forgetting about the cut on my hand, I pushed the knife as if slicing through bone. Felt the wound reopen, a warm gush. What was wrong with me? I stopped cutting, pushed on the bandage to stop the bleeding, leaned on the counter to rest. Sensed movement behind me, a tickle on the nape of my neck. A light kiss—
“Charlie, dammit—” I spun around, knocking the knife to the floor.
No Charlie.
Again, I called his name. Heard no reply.
Finally, I decided there hadn’t been anyone moving behind me. And the tickle hadn’t been a kiss, had been just a tickle. I gave up on slicing the onion, added a few cherry tomatoes, a sprinkle of walnuts. Poppy seed dressing. Dinner for one.
Head aching, hand stinging, arms inexplicably wooden, I lifted my plate to go to the study, thinking about which rerun would be my dinner companion. NCIS or Criminal Minds.
“Elf.”
The voice was definite. Clear. And Charlie’s. He was there, after all. What the hell was he doing in the house, sneaking up on me? I turned around, annoyed.
But no one was there.
“Charlie.” Not a question this time. I’d heard him say my name, knew he was in the house. Saw movement in my peripheral vision. I set the plate on the counter, looked down the hall. “What are you doing? Cut it out.”
Silence.
I glanced into the study, went back to the living room. “What the hell, Charlie? Do you think you can just come in any time you want, like you still live here?”
I checked the front closet. The powder room. Yelled up the stairs. “Charlie, dammit. Answer me.”
But he didn’t.
My headache raged. Arms hung heavy, weighed tons. As if their muscles had turned to concrete. Moving, walking took unusual effort. What was wrong with me? Was I having a stroke? I tried to remember the symptoms. What were they? Headache? Yes, I had that. Fast pulse? Had it. Stiffness, or was it limpness on one side? Either way, I had both on both sides. Oh dear. Was I having a double stroke? Could that even happen?
I told myself to calm down, stop being dramatic. Nothing was wrong with me except that I’d listened to music that was hundreds of decibels too loud and imbibed too many beers on an empty stomach. Clearly, I’d imagined Charlie’s voice and the flicker of movement behind me. I wasn’t having a stroke, and he wasn’t in the house. My nerves were simply jangled. Calming myself, taking deep, even breaths, I wandered back to the kitchen, picked up my plate, opened the fridge for a Diet Coke, and got an overwhelming whiff of Old Spice.
“Elf.”
My dish clattered to the floor. I pivoted, shrieked a curse.
Where was he? This time, there was no doubt. I was certain I’d heard him. Scanning the room, I stomped across the salad-strewn floor. “Dammit, Charlie. Is this a game? Hide-and-seek? Because, trust me, I’m not in the mood.”
My words sliced empty air. Charlie wasn’t there. But improbably—impossibly, something else was. On the floor, in the middle of the kitchen doorway.
A single long-stemmed red rose.
I stared at the thing. It couldn’t be there. And yet, there it was. A cold tremor began at the base of my spine and slithered upward. I grabbed my shoulders, holding onto myself for reassurance. Closing my eyes to make it go away. Opening them again to see it still there.
Okay, I told myself. You’re okay. It’s only a rose.
Yes, but there was a problem with that rose. And the problem was that I’d left it with my bag on the table near the front door. And I hadn’t seen it on the floor moments earlier when I’d gone to check the living room for Charlie. And roses didn’t move by themselves. So, obviously, someone had moved it. But why? To let me know that I wasn’t alone? To scare me? Why would Charlie want to scare me?
“Charlie?” It was an angry bellow. “Where are you?”
I shivered, chilled. Unnerved. I told myself that Charlie wouldn’t hurt me, not physically. He’d wronged me a thousand times, but he’d never been violent. Then again, he’d never played hide-and-seek with me, either. Had never refused to answer me, never snuck up from behind to tickle me, never moved objects around the house just to alarm me. Charlie simply wasn’t acting like Charlie.
Then again, how did I know what Charlie acted like? With all the tales he’d told me, what did I really know about him? Not much. Almost nothing. But I did know that he was angry about the divorce, unhappy about losing half his assets to me. But how unhappy? Enough to hurt me? Or to hire someone else to do it?
Lord. Had Charlie hired a hit man? Was someone in the house to kill me?
Every instinct in my being told me I shouldn’t stick around to find out. That I should just get my handbag and go. Fast.
As in a nightmare, though, my legs were stone. Even though I told them to move, they wouldn’t. My heart sped, my pulse soared, but my legs were stiff and stubbornly still. Rooted, like tree trunks.
I remained there, frozen in place, gaping at a rose. Completely exposed and vulnerable. Unable to move. Slowly, cautiously, I twisted my head, checking the room. The shadows. The corners. The empty spaces under the kitchen table and behind the trash can. My eyes did a careful 360, but saw not a trace of Charlie or a hit man. Not a footprint. Not a hair. Just my salad splattered across the kitchen tiles. And the rose.
“Okay,” I repeated the word aloud, assuring myself that I was panicking over nothing. There was no hit man. I’d recognized Charlie’s breath, his scent, his voice saying my name. Obviously, Charlie himself was in the house. Lurking. Toying with me. Not intending to kill me. Even so, just in case, I bent over and reached for the knife drawer. Rattled around for something long and sleek, something that would give even a hit man pause. Ended up with something short and serrated that I used for chopping celery. Still, I was armed.
“Okay.” I needed to stop saying that. To find out what he wanted. “What do you want, Charlie?” I kept my voice deep so it wouldn’t tremble. “Talk to me. Stop acting like a child.”
No one answered. The house stood perfectly still. The silence was thick, tangible. Smothering. I was trembling, kept staring at the rose. I told myself that a thorn in the stem must have caught onto my clothing, that I’d inadvertently carried it to the kitchen myself. That it had simply fallen off.
Knowing that it hadn’t.
Charlie was there, in the house. I could feel him.
“Charlie, where are you? If you don’t tell me, I’m calling the police.”
Silence.
“I swear. I’ll do it.”
Nothing.
“Charlie? Last chance!”
No answer.
Of course, I didn’t call the police. What would I have told them? That I’d found a rose in the kitchen? That I’d felt a tickle on my neck? Heard a disembodied voice? The cops would have smelled the beer on my breath and laughed about me all the way to the donut shop.
No, calling the police would have been useless. I was better off simply ignoring Charlie. Whatever he was up to, I wasn’t going to reinforce it by letting it get to me. Still, my hands shook as they picked up shards of a broken plate and globs of salad. And I was cold, shivering as, with the knife wedged under my arm, I mopped salad dressing off the tiles and rebandaged the cut on my hand. Finally, no longer hungry, chopping knife in hand, I started upstairs to go to bed.
I was halfway up the steps, unbuttoning my shirt, when I stopped, remembering. When I’d cleaned the kitchen floor, I’d scooped up walnuts, tomatoes, blue cheese, greens. I’d mopped up dressing and soda. But there was one item I hadn’t picked up, one I hadn’t even seen: the rose.
Even with limbs of cement, I ran back down the stairs, down the hall, straight to the kitchen. I turned on the lights, surveyed the room, saw no rose. I opened the broom closet, examined the mop and the bucket. I opened cabinets and drawers, looked inside the microwave and the oven. No rose.
My hands were ice cold, holding the knife. My spine was jangling. Where the hell was the thing? And how had Charlie managed to move it without my seeing him?
“This isn’t funny.” I spoke to the air. “If you’re trying to scare me, Charlie, you’re not succeeding.” My voice was thin and shrill, scared. “All you’re doing is pissing me off.”
Silence.
“Okay.” I turned off the light. “Fine. Sit in the dark alone and hide. Knock yourself out.”
Do not tremble so much, I told myself. Do not let him get to you. Keep walking to the steps, do not stop.
I kept walking, shaking only slightly, still clutching my kitchen utensil/weapon, and I made it to the steps. In fact, I made it all the way up to the top. Then into my bedroom.
Where I stopped, staring. Not breathing.
Impossibly, there it was. Delicate, yet dangerously armed with thorns. Red as blood. Perfectly displayed on the pale-cream pillowcase, where Charlie used to leave them.
A low growl gurgled in my throat as I turned and stumbled backward out of the bedroom and turned to run down the steps. The stairway seemed endless, treacherous in the dim light, but I made it to the bottom, where I raced to the front door, still clutching my stubby little knife, grabbing my handbag, heading out onto the front stoop.
Standing outside, panting, I wondered how he’d done it? How had he picked up the rose and moved it all the way upstairs without me seeing or hearing him? I had no idea. Couldn’t figure it out. But clearly, he’d managed it. And had succeeded in scaring me right out of the house.
I grasped the railing, collected my breath, and considered what I was going to do. Was I really going to run to a neighbor’s house, frazzled and jittery, in the middle of the night? What would I say? And what good would it do? If I let Charlie run me out of my home once, he’d do it again and again. I’d never be done with him. No, I couldn’t allow it. Wouldn’t run away.
Still, I didn’t go back inside. I stood on the porch, holding my knife. Wondering why I was so scared. It wasn’t Charlie. I wasn’t afraid of him. Of being married to him, definitely. But of the man, definitely not. Disappointed, furious, hurt, frustrated, yes. But afraid? No, never. Not once until that moment. I’d come to know Charlie as a liar, manipulator, charmer, sleazeball, and cheat. But, in his defense, he wasn’t mean. Wasn’t impulsive. Didn’t have a temper. His intent wasn’t to hurt others; it was merely to help himself. I had no idea why he was pulling this bizarre prank, but I was convinced he wasn’t planning anything violent or cruel. Why should he? Just by moving a flower and saying my name, he had me dropping my plate, stuttering and cursing, running up and down the steps clutching a kitchen knife—all of which was probably cracking him up. Making him reel with laughter. No, I was done. The only way to get Charlie to stop was to calm down and ignore him. And change the locks.
For a while longer, I stood outside in chill October air, watching the starless night sky, the streetlights, the line of parked cars in front of the row houses across the street. Quieting my breath. Then, deliberately calm, I opened the front door and went back inside. The house was dark. Had I turned out the lights? I didn’t think so, but never mind. Turning them off was just more of Charlie’s mischief. I simply turned them back on and, instead of going up to bed, headed for the bar in the study. I deserved a drink.
Snapping on the light, I set my knife down on the counter, grabbed a tumbler off the shelf, and pulled out the Johnny Walker Black. Poured a generous few fingers. Drank. Closed my eyes, taking it in. Feeling its heat work its way through my body to my nerves. Relaxing me.
When I opened my eyes and turned around, I saw him right away. Charlie wasn’t hiding any more. He was reclining on the gray velvet couch, big as life, watching me.
I didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink. I simply turned away again, opening the minifridge, getting some ice. Charlie liked rocks. “Drink?”
Charlie didn’t answer.
I
poured him one anyhow, swirled the Scotch to cool it. I made myself a refill, too. Took another long swallow, let it slide down my throat. Savored its burn. Or maybe the burn was my temper.
“So.” I held his drink out. “I didn’t get the memo—why have you called this meeting?”
He sat still, staring at me. Not reaching for his drink. Not answering.
“Okay, Charlie. Enough.” I set both drinks down on the liquor cabinet and walked over to him. “Tell me what you’re—”
I’m not sure when I finally realized something was wrong. Maybe it was when I saw the slackness of his jaw. Or when I noticed that his brown eyes didn’t move, didn’t follow me as I approached, just stared fixedly at the wall.
For sure, though, I knew when I touched him, when I took his hand, intending to lead him to the door. When I felt it, cool and gripless, offering neither resistance nor acceptance, just hanging there on the end of his arm, a couple pounds of meat.
These events—seeing his jaw and eyes, touching his hand—happened in a flash. Too quickly for my mind to register or interpret their significance. So I persisted in challenging him, tugging at Charlie’s hand, harping at him to explain himself, unwilling or unable to grasp the truth that he was never going to do so. In fact, I continued scolding, didn’t stop even as he slowly tilted and slumped onto his side. Even when I saw the blood soaking his Polo windbreaker. God help me, I was still yapping when I saw the handle of a carving knife, one I recognized from my own kitchen, protruding from his back.
Seconds? An hour? A century? I have no idea how long we remained there, Charlie dead and me yelling at him, pulling and tugging, slapping and shoving at him. For a while, my mind floated away, and I watched myself, my frantic futile struggle to deny the truth. But at some point, I remember the doorbell ringing. At first, I had no idea what the sound was. An irritating repetitive clanging chime. Distant. Irrelevant, because it was unrelated to the sole focus of my being: the act of rousing Charlie. But it persisted. And eventually, it penetrated the thick walls of hysterical confusion and denial engulfing me.
