Suicide Supper Club

by Rhett DeVane

  The woman huffed. “If that’s when it is, so be it. Ten in the morning. Doesn’t matter what day. Could you send me a card in the mail? If you tell me now I won’t remember it, and I don’t get my free calendar from the insurance company until sometime in December.”

  “Will do, Mrs. Warren. You have a good day, now.”

  Abby picked a time slot and entered the name. The computer program automatically supplied the rest: contact numbers, medical and drug alerts, and type of appointment. Though Sophie the Manic Computer often made life a living hell, Abby appreciated the ease of managing the practice. She tried her best to remember that fact when the computer refused to cooperate.

  Some days, she wouldn’t be surprised if patients asked her most anything. Could you pick up my dry-cleaning and drop it by on your way home? I need a gallon of milk, too. And my tires need rotating. Do you think you could ask around and find out who my husband is sleeping with?

  The strangest question Abby had ever had: How often should a cat urinate? It took every speck of professionalism not to laugh or offer a sarcastic reply. First of all, I don’t own a cat. Second, if I did, I wouldn’t follow it around counting bathroom breaks. Third, I work in a dental office…ma’am.

  She didn’t envy Elvina Houston her position in the community. How exhausting. Abby could barely keep up with her own life, much less monitor everyone else’s.

  A tap sounded on the reception room window and she slid it open. Ben Calhoun handed over a tall stack of mail. She knew without looking, most of it would be junk flyers and magazines.

  “Afternoon, fellow yoga person.” Ben’s mustache curled up with his lips.

  Every cell inside her went all goofy schoolgirl. Easy there, gal. Abby tossed the mail onto the desk. “Ever have one of those days where you wish you could snap your fingers and end up on the moon?”

  “Oh no. Not at all.”

  “Wouldn’t have taken you for the Pollyanna type, Ben.”

  “I hide my grave dissatisfaction behind a veil of well-being.”

  She laughed, amazed at how easy conversation had become with him. “Very profound. So are you enjoying Monday nights?”

  “Very much. My back doesn’t bother me nearly as much as it did. You?”

  “Uh-huh. I use the breathing thing all the time. Can’t believe the class is so popular. Who would’ve ever thunk it? You’re responsible in part.”

  His light brown eyebrows shot up. “Me?”

  “Because you’re male and you started taking classes. I notice a few more husbands and boyfriends there now.” Abby wanted to add: and the best part, I can say more than two words to you without my throat closing up. Her heartbeat thrummed. Her headache eased up too.

  “We men folk have such a hard time doing anything that doesn’t involve heavy padding, bloodshed and bruising, or a power tool.” Ben checked his watch. “Guess I’d better quit yakking and get back to work.”

  Abby looked at the stack of mail. “Me too.” There it was again, the niggling pain in her temples.

  Ben held up his index finger. “I almost forgot.” He rummaged in the black messenger bag and handed her a small paper sack.

  “Special delivery? What?”

  “I searched for this after we talked about old childhood toys, last night in class.”

  Abby opened the bag and gasped. “Oh my gosh! I haven’t seen one of these in years.” She pulled a three-inch tall rubber doll from the bag. Its bright orange acrylic hair stood straight up. When she turned it around, the distinctive logo etched on its mid-back attested to its authenticity. “A troll doll! This has to be over forty years old.”

  “I found quite a collection. Forgot I still had so many. All different sizes. Used to make my mom crazy, me calling it a DAM doll, though it wasn’t cussing really since that was stamped across the back.” Ben gestured toward Sophie. “Thought you’d like one to keep by that ornery computer of yours.”

  She’d rather keep him by her computer. What would it feel like to have his slender fingers twine through her hair? That mustache tickling her neck, then her throat as he kissed lower and lower . . . Her insides froze. Sex. She’d only done it six, maybe seven times, if she didn’t count the sweaty moments she had pleasured herself. Good girls didn’t admit to that. Shame, shame.

  Abby rubbed the troll’s coarse hair, a ritual that was supposed to make wishes come true and ward off bad things. Help me with Ben. I can do this.

  Prissy whined and danced in front of Choo-choo Ivey’s front screened door, wiggling and stepping from one leg to the next.

  “What in the blue blazes has crawled up your shaggy butt and lodged sideways?”

  The poodle looked up through milky eyes and yelped twice. Choo-choo peered through the screen. “There’s nothing out there, you little lunatic. Just the breeze blowing the flag.”

  A cool front had pushed the early morning temperatures down into the mid-seventies. Not chilly by any measure, but a welcomed change from the high eighties. Might as well enjoy; the forecast called for upper 90s by next week. More stifling heat. Like a cat tormenting a wounded lizard, letting up and pouncing, letting up and pouncing.

  The dog’s urgent keening escalated, a sound that could’ve been used to torture sensitive information from a captured spy.

  “Oh, all right. Walk out with me to get the paper. What’s up with you anyway? Do you have to pee-pee? Can hardly fathom that. I can’t remember the last time you asked to go out to do your business.”

  Choo-choo tightened the sash on her robe, looked again to make sure none of her neighbors watched, and opened the door. Prissy sailed out, banging the side of the wooden screened door against the house.

  “Don’t you go far! I refuse to look for you this time of morning! You hear me?”

  The poodle spooled from one side of the yard to the other, her nose to the ground. Maybe the cooler weather had spurred her on. Choo-choo rescued the Tallahassee Democrat from the middle of the yard. When she stood up, she froze. The largest pit bull dog she had ever seen barreled toward her from the right. A flash of fur passed by from her left.

  Prissy went straight for the pit bull’s throat, missing twice before gaining purchase on the loose skin beneath its chin. In one blazing movement, the large dog flipped the smaller one into the air and pinned her down, its massive jaws wrapped around Prissy’s upper body. Choo-choo reacted before she had time to consider, yanking the massive dog off Charlie’s pet and shoving it away. Prissy shook, struggled to her feet, snarled, and jumped in the direction of the prostrate pit bull.

  “Have you lost your mind?” Choo-choo snatched the poodle into her arms. She shuffled as quickly as possible to the house. The pit bull followed, wagging its nubby tail. Once they were safely inside, Choo-choo ruffled her hands through Prissy’s hair. No visible gashes or blood, only ropes of slobber.

  “What to do? What to do?”

  Prissy, now locked in the spare bedroom, yelped and keened. On the porch, the pit bull sat down and cocked its head, tongue hanging out. Choo-choo could swear it was smiling.

  “I can’t leave you to run loose, now can I?” she asked from behind the screen. Choo-choo swallowed hard and opened the door a crack. When she stepped onto the porch, the canine came to her. The nub of a tail wagged the dog, and its tongue slathered her knees with liquid love.

  “You’re not so bad, are you gal?” She noticed the undeniable evidence to the contrary hanging beneath the muscular hindquarters. “Um . . . excuse me, fella.”

  Choo-choo lowered herself to a squat with a moan. Why was it, since she had moved into advanced age, each movement out of the ordinary came with vocal accompaniment?

  The pit bull’s jaws reminded Choo-choo of one of those huge earthmovers with the vise-trap maw. She shivered. What had she been thinking? Proof positive that adrenaline made a person strong. And stupid. The pit bull could’ve not only eaten Charlie’s dog like a chew-toy, but killed her too.

  “Let’s see your collar, big boy.”

/>   The green bell-shaped metal rabies tag showed a recent date, vaccination number, and the name of a Tallahassee veterinary clinic.

  “Only problem here, the vet’s office won’t be open yet. You don’t have any other ID tag, so what am I to do with you? Can’t let you run free.”

  Choo-choo stood and moved to sit in a porch rocker. The pit bull followed and rested his bowling ball-sized head on her lap.

  Who could she call? Elvina? No. She was a dyed-in-the-wool cat person, and would fall out if she saw the size of the pit bull. Besides, Choo-choo wasn’t in the mood for a lecture about how foolish she had been for intervening in a dog fight.

  “You stay right here, boy. I have to make a call.”

  Loiscell’s Volvo screeched to a halt at the curb in a matter of minutes. She dashed through the front yard and stopped cold when she spotted Choo-choo petting the pit bull. “Good Lord! You didn’t tell me it was the size of a Shetland pony!”

  “It’s okay, Loiscell. He wouldn’t hurt a fly. Only I don’t quite know what to do with him. I can’t keep him here. Prissy won’t tolerate it.”

  “Where is Prissy? Is she hurt?”

  Choo-choo motioned toward the house. “She’s still whining, so I know she’s alive. It didn’t look like he actually bit her.”

  “You can’t blame her, Choo-choo. Prissy was protecting you and her territory.”

  Choo-choo tilted her head. “Hadn’t thought of that. Up until this point, the only thing Charlie’s dog has ever protected was that mangy bed of hers.”

  “We’ll have to call the police. Animal control won’t pick up this early.”

  “You know everything, Loiscell. I swannee. And I thought Elvina Houston held that title.”

  Loiscell flipped open her cell phone and hit the speed-dial number assigned to the Chattahoochee Police Department. “I had a stray at my house a couple of months back. Not like I’m a whiz kid or anything. And things like this always happen at odd times. Must be some kind of Murphy’s Law or something.”

  Within ten minutes, a police cruiser pulled up behind Loiscell’s Volvo.

  “Morning, Miz Choo-choo. Miz Loiscell. What have y’all gotten yourselves into, this early in the day?” Officer J.T. Smathers adjusted his gun belt and grinned. He picked up the rolled newspaper, forgotten in the fray, and walked toward them.

  Choo-choo returned the smile. She was a sucker for a man in a uniform. It was all she could do not to speed just to get pulled over and talk the officer out of giving her a ticket. Old enough to know better. Female enough not to give a care.

  “We hated to call you,” Loiscell said. “But we don’t have a clue what to do with this stray dog.”

  Choo-choo rubbed the velvety hair on the dog’s muzzle. “He’s not mean. I have to make that clear. Prissy went after him, not the other way around.”

  J.T. chuckled, handed over the paper. “Your little poodle went after this huge dog?”

  Choo-choo nodded and stuffed the newspaper underneath one arm.

  J.T. leaned down and let the dog sniff his hand. After the brief introduction, he examined the animal’s head and neck, then ran his hands along the dog’s flanks. “No healed cuts or signs he’s been used for fighting. Judging from how healthy he is, I’ll bet he’s someone’s pet. No doubt, somebody paid a lot of money for this dog.”

  The officer pulled a nylon leash from his belt and snapped it onto the dog’s collar. “I’ll ask around at the station. See if anyone recognizes him. We’ll call the vet’s office in a little while. If nothing else, I can always take him home with me. Melody loves animals.”

  Choo-choo reached out and grasped the officer’s hand. “I thank you kindly, J.T. You’re a good man.”

  The young officer winked. “Some days. Depends. You might ask Melody about that.”

  If Choo-choo was ten years younger, she’d give that Melody some heavy competition.

  After the cruiser pulled away, the women went inside and double-checked Prissy for injuries. Other than a case of the shivers, the little dog appeared unharmed.

  “She reminds me of that Looney Tunes cartoon, the one where Wiley Coyote takes those earthquake pills. Then, he takes to shaking every step or so . . . ” Choo-choo petted the poodle. To her surprise, Prissy licked her hand.

  “She’s working off the adrenaline dump,” Loiscell said. “You got any coffee on?”

  “What Southern woman worth her salt wouldn’t?” Choo-choo positioned a soft pillow on the couch and lowered Prissy down. The dog twirled three times in a circle before curling into a tight ball and falling asleep.

  “After this, we might need to add a shot of that Jim Beam you keep for medicinal purposes.”

  Choo-choo patted her friend on the back. “I have something better. Homemade Kahlua.”

  “You made Kahlua?” Loiscell’s eyebrows arched.

  “No, not me. Elvina. She gave it to me last year for Christmas. It’s G-double-O-D, good!” Choo-choo grabbed two pottery mugs from the kitchen cabinet. “Elvina’s not as lily-white as she lets on. But don’t you dare breathe a word that I told you about her making spirits. She’d throw a clot.”

  Six weeks before suicide, Saturday

  In the minutes before full sunrise when faint light filtered through the plantation blinds, Sheila Bruner watched her husband sleeping. The lines around his mouth relaxed from the usual pursed disapproval. Long, brown lashes curled against the tanned skin beneath his closed eyes. His breathing, deep and even. Innocent. Sweet.

  She struggled to recall the times early in their relationship when he had been less angry, less in need of her total submission. But that was before that football game dashed his dreams, and before his daddy’s sudden death dashed his heart.

  Sheila closed her eyes and feigned sleep until she heard him rise and go into the bathroom. Then she changed into a cotton housedress and slipped into the kitchen to start the coffee.

  Glenn approached the new day like nothing had happened the night before, wolfed down a tall stack of blueberry pancakes with maple syrup and bacon, showered, dressed in bark-printed camouflage, and left for his weekend at the hunting camp.

  Glenn Bruner started at the sound of a deep voice.

  “This cherry boat you keep going on and on about, why isn’t it sitting at your house?” Julius Herndon—Clay to his club associates—regarded Glenn with an indifferent gaze.

  Other than a handful of men Glenn knew personally, few of the others—particularly the older ones—gave him the time of day. This fellow stood out for his lack of redneck-flavored southernisms. If Glenn had to guess where Clay was from, he couldn’t. The guy had that flat of an accent. And he hardly ever cussed; the sound of his voice alone was enough to rivet attention.

  “You kidding me? You are kidding me, right?” Glenn ejected the spent magazine from a Glock .45 caliber semiautomatic. No use for more target practice today. Though still far from setting, the sun threw scant light through the thick pines. The two men were the last diehards left on the firing range.

  Glenn’s gaze took in the weapon Clay used—a .308 assault rifle with all kinds of fancy scopes and optics that marked him as one of the standoffish elite. Who were they all kidding anyway, with their weapons of choice? Oh, they’d say they were planning an elk-hunting trip to Colorado, or maybe something vague about Canada. Right. That, and monkeys would fly out their butts. Glenn was no fool. The assault weapons should’ve been in the hands of a tactical team member or a professional assassin, not some Joes planning a hunting expedition.

  Glenn listened to the others as they cussed, spit, and farted around the campfire. About how they longed for weapons beyond the long-range rifles. Something fully automatic. “Spray and Pray”: the phrase some of the men used in jest. Spray the area with fire and pray it hit something. Why worry so much about proper aim? No matter how hard they tried to pitch the All-American, right-to-bear-arms thing, the only reason to carry such a piece was to kill a man, or several. Death in the fast lane.

&n
bsp; “I look like the kidding type to you?” In the dim light, the shadowy hollows beneath Clay’s cheeks added to the skeletal likeness.

  Glenn shrugged to cover an involuntary shiver. “Hell no.”

  Clay regarded him with bored, lifeless eyes. Glenn had seen the same lack of expression in a few of the incarcerated juvies at the correctional institution, the ones he knew wouldn’t be fazed by the good-intentioned work training and anger management counseling. The ones who had a body part or two in zipper-sealed bags in their freezers or buried beneath their mama’s prize rose bush.

  In the short time he had known Clay, Glenn had seldom seen any emotion from the man. The only time his rough features registered a flicker of humanity was when he fired a weapon. Clay seemed to have a different gun every morning, like those lacy girl-panties Sheila had with a day of the week stitched across the ass.

  “So why don’t you already have that boat?” Clay said.

  “I can think of several thousand dollars’ worth of why.” Glenn used a soft lint-free cloth to wipe down his gun. Only one true color for a handgun: flat black. No chrome to reflect light. Prettier than a high-end whore and a lot more dependable, not to mention less trouble.

  Clay returned his rifle to a hard foam-lined case. He chewed on the end of a splayed toothpick, rolling it from one side of his down-turned mouth to the other. “Money should never stand in the way of a man and what he requires.”

  “Yeah. What do you suggest I do, rob a bank?”

  When Clay laughed, Glenn steadied himself to hide the shock. The sound didn’t come out joyful; rather, it erupted like the rasp of a dying engine. “No! You wreck me.” Clay winked: another out-of-character gesture. It was like watching that Jack Nicholson’s ax-wielding character in The Shining turn into the cuddly fabric-softener-commercial bear.

  Glenn joined with his version of good-ole-boy bluster, hoping he might gain entrance into the coveted inner circle. “You holding out on me, man? You really some long-lost Donald Trump love-child, or something?”