Suicide Supper Club

by Rhett DeVane

  Clay nodded once, a decision made. “The real money, my friend, is in contract work.”

  “Like . . . for the government?”

  The two walked toward the main encampment. The scent of ignited charcoal and lighter fluid made Glenn’s mouth water. No beans and stew tonight. No sir-ee. The word had been handed down at the last meeting: bring your own steak to throw on the grill. The thicker and bloodier, the better. The Committee of Seven would supply all the fixings: baked potatoes, bread, maybe a couple of salads, and thick slabs of homemade cake—compliments of someone’s wife or girlfriend.

  Clay narrowed his eyes. “Privately-funded contract work. Only for those with the keenest eye and best marksmanship. And someone man enough to do what is necessary.”

  Glenn stopped dead. “You’re talking about shootin’ somebody, ain’t cha?”

  Clay grabbed Glenn’s elbow and dug his fingertips into the tender flesh close to the joint. “Lower your voice, you imbecile. Let me tell you something, you want the kind of money to buy that boat with all the bells and whistles, you have to do whatever it takes to get it. And you’re not going to do that on your chicken-feed, state kiddy-prison guard salary.”

  Glenn shrugged off the now-loosened grip and squared his shoulders. “I don’t think—”

  “That’s your problem, girly-boy. You’re trying to think.” Clay slapped Glenn on the back so hard, it nearly knocked out his breath. “One is merely providing a fee for a service. An honest few minutes of work that pay huge.”

  Glenn stood, rooted to the ground. From anyone else, that “girly-boy” crap might earn them a bloody nose or black eye, or at least a smart-ass comeback. Clay wasn’t the type he could sass. Around them, the peace of the deep woods settled in for the early evening. The melancholy call of a whippoorwill echoed in the distance. Glenn forced his bubbling irritation to a simmer.

  Clay looked Glenn up and down. “Maybe I had you figured all wrong. Thought you were different from the rest of these weekend commando-wannabes with their adolescent secret codes. Like any of them could actually get it up if a group of real terrorists hit within ten miles of this place.”

  Glenn swallowed to wet his throat before trusting his voice. “You think it’s such a bunch of losers, why do you come out here?”

  Clay’s shoulders lifted and fell. “Only decent practice range within easy driving distance. Sure don’t come for the fireside ambience, or for the scintillating conversation.”

  The two men stood side by side for a moment. Anyone watching from a distance might think them good hunting buddies sharing one last raunchy joke before rejoining the group.

  “You mention a word of our little talk . . .” The older man shifted his gaze from the camp’s evening activities to Glenn, his intentions clear. “You decide you really want that fancy new boat, you come find me.”

  Sheila Bruner stared at the knob on the hall closet a few minutes before opening the door. It wasn’t a sin, really. Not if it didn’t hurt anyone. Besides she needed something—anything—to lift her up after Glenn’s behavior the previous evening. She couldn’t recall a time when she had prayed so hard or for so long. The night seemed to last forever. Glenn’s brutal, forced affections had left her sore and raw, ripped up inside. Nothing new, until he pulled out the gun he kept beside the bed and held it to her temple. The act seemed to excite and enrage him at the same time.

  Sheila moved two pastel-printed hat boxes full of old photographs to access a third thin coat box. No plain cardboard containers were allowed inside the house. Glenn hated the sight of them, so Sheila watched the Dollar Store and garage sales for attractive storage containers.

  Maria Bruner had taught her daughter-in-law well, about cleaning, about cooking, about pleasing the Bruner men. During the three years Glenn’s mother had lived with them after Big Glenn’s fatal heart attack, Maria had been a lukewarm ally. Then Maria’s heart had given out too, though Sheila suspected it had been shattered for many years.

  Glenn would never see the contents of this particular box: Sheila’s most prized possession. She untied the pink grosgrain ribbon, lifted the lid, and parted a layer of white tissue paper.

  Her other little secret—besides the forbidden pets—lay folded inside, a thrift store find. A garish popsicle-purple women’s basketball jersey with the number 40 in large yellow letters and some other woman’s last name on the back. Not exactly a color combination she would’ve chosen. Better, the garnet and gold of the Florida State University women’s basketball team.

  Glenn wouldn’t return until late Sunday evening. The postal carrier wouldn’t be around until mid-afternoon, and no one ever dropped by the Bruner’s unannounced. Perfect.

  Sheila took one last peek out the front window. Other than one woman power walking, the street was deserted. She slipped the flowery house dress off and stood in her bra and panties in front of the hall mirror. Fresh bruises and patches of reddened skin dotted her thighs. Otherwise her body was as firm and unmarred as the day she graduated from high school. So what if she hadn’t been able to successfully carry a fetus to maturity?

  From what she overheard in the grocery store line or at the hair stylist’s, pregnancy and childbirth altered a woman’s body beyond repair—the stretch marks, extra weight, spider veins. Sheila loved babies, but pushed that aspect of her spirit aside. Better to love a stray animal than bring an innocent child into a home where fear reined. She shuddered, imagining her husband’s reaction to the insistent cries of a hungry infant, the questions of a developing mind, or the blatant rebellion of a teenager. God knew what He was doing when He allowed Sheila to miscarry three times. The hysterectomy had prevented future conception.

  Sheila shook her head to clear the unpleasant thoughts. This time was hers. No sense wasting it on regrets.

  The uniform hung from her frame, the baggy shorts reaching the bottom of her kneecaps. The original owner had been more substantial and a good six or seven inches taller.

  The welcomed, timeworn fantasy unfolded in her mind’s eye.

  Florida State University. She is a freshman nursing major. The class burdens are tremendous, but not impossible. She looks down at the white uniform trimmed in Garnet and Gold, with the number 14 printed in black block lettering: Florida State above, and University below. Her last name printed across the upper back. She glances across the polished wooden floors to where Sue Semrau stands (small matter that the coach wouldn’t have been there so many years back. Sheila admires the woman, so Sue is her fantasy coach).

  Her boyfriend is the star center of the Florida State Men’s Basketball team. He towers above her. Strong, but sweet. Shy. Handsome in a boyish way. They make love every opportunity they get, the sex delightful and unhurried.

  When they graduate, they marry and have a house filled with children. She earns her master’s degree, then on to nurse practitioner training. They live in a sprawling country-styled house with a wrap-around porch, and sip iced tea while the children play in the grassy front lawn.

  Her two daughters are strong women, unafraid of the future. Athletic. Her three sons, though different from each other in temperament, respect others and go on to successful careers.

  She and her handsome husband grow into their nineties, still in love. Still holding hands in public and kissing at unexpected moments.

  The doorbell sounded. Sheila snapped back to the present. “Oh!”

  She shucked the uniform and pulled the housedress on, stopping to check her hair in the mirror before answering the door. The walking lady she noted earlier stood on the stoop.

  “Hi, I’m Melissa Strand. We just moved in a couple of houses down . . . ” The twenty-something woman motioned with one hand to a vague point somewhere to her right. “I’m asking around . . . found this little black and white cat—actually, a kitten—next to your curb. It’s still alive, but . . . Do you know who it belongs to? It looks like it might have been hit by a car, or something.”

  A wash of icy dread dripped from Sheil
a’s shoulders and lodged in her heart. Sometimes punishment for foolish fantasies came quickly. When, oh when, would she learn the lesson about God’s vengeance? She vowed to burn the uniform as soon as possible.

  “Let me slip on some shoes.”

  Sheila used a wadded tissue to dab a fresh crop of tears from the corners of her eyes. “I appreciate you so much for riding over here with me, Loiscell. I don’t know how I could’ve driven and held Oreo at the same time.” Wrapped in an old soft blanket, the kitten purred, crying out only if Sheila shifted positions.

  “No problem at all, hon. I didn’t even know you had a cat, much less two!”

  The veterinary emergency hospital in Tallahassee held two other pet owners and their animals: one wiggly Dalmatian puppy with a cut on its muzzle and a yowling Persian in a cat carrier. Good thing they were open on Saturday mornings. The vet servicing Chattahoochee came to his satellite office three days a week, and never on weekends. Only one technician stayed on the grounds to care for the boarded and sick animals. If they were too ill, the doctor transferred them to the larger facility in Marianna.

  “Technically, I don’t own the cats. They kind of wandered up and I started taking care of them. First, the little yellow tabby. Then she brought me this half-starved newborn kitten a few weeks back. Glenn doesn’t care for cats. He likes dogs okay, as long as they’re hunting dogs.” She shrugged. “Even then, he wouldn’t stand for an animal in the house.”

  “I used to have both. When they ‘crossed over the rainbow bridge,’ as my daughter puts it, I swore I’d never get another,” Loiscell said. “Sometimes I miss the company, but my life is uncertain, and I wouldn’t want the responsibility of a pet. Besides, the dander makes my allergies kick in. My body changed in that way after all the chemo.”

  After they turned Oreo over to a vet tech, Sheila paced the roomy waiting area and Loiscell tried to calm her down. After some time passed, a young woman in dark green scrubs stepped from behind a hinged door. “Mrs. Bruner? Doctor Greeley would like to speak with you in exam room two.”

  “Want me to go in with you?” Loiscell asked.

  Sheila’s hands trembled. “Please.”

  They stood in a small tile-lined room furnished with a cabinet and a stainless steel elevated exam table. In a few moments, the rattle of a chart on the door behind them announced the arrival of the doctor.

  “Good morning. Ben Greeley.” A sixty-ish man with silver-tipped hair held out his hand.

  “I’m Sheila Bruner, Oreo’s mama . . . and this is my friend Loiscell.”

  “I’ve examined Oreo. From the x-rays, I can see that one of his back legs has multiple fractures, and the hip socket is crushed.”

  Sheila held her hand to her lips to suppress a sob.

  “Will you be able to save the little thing?” Loiscell rested a hand on Sheila’s shoulder.

  “It will mean amputating the rear left leg, I’m afraid. And he’ll require hospitalization for a few days so we can monitor him. After that, he’ll need special attention at home.” The veterinarian paused. “It will be quite expensive, Mrs. Bruner. I can have the office manager provide an estimate.”

  Sheila’s thoughts roamed to the thick roll of cash she had grabbed from her bra drawer. The emergency escape fund. “Do whatever it takes to save him. I will pay.”

  Dr. Greeley nodded. “Okay, then. If you’ll fill out some paperwork at the front desk, I’ll get started. Surgery will take a while, if you two would like to go grab a bite to eat. I can have one of the ladies call if you’ll leave a cell number.”

  “Where to?” Loiscell asked when they pulled out of the parking lot a few minutes later.

  “Starbucks? I’d love one of those mocha lattes.” Sheila dabbed moisture from her cheeks. Hard to fathom she could still produce tears.

  “Good enough. There’s one right down from the mall.” Loiscell thought a moment before she asked, “not to pry, but how are you going to squeeze the money out of that tight-wad husband of yours?”

  “I have money.”

  Loiscell smiled. “You been hookin’ on the side, hon?”

  “Right. Like someone would pay me for sex.” Sheila’s face flushed. “If a person saves a dollar or three here and there and tucks it aside, it adds up in a few years.”

  “Grandma’s cookie jar.” Loiscell pulled the car into a tight space in front of the popular coffee shop.

  “I don’t follow,” Sheila said.

  “Hiding money in a cookie jar so the man of the house, or the kids for that matter, don’t know it’s there. Old farm women called it their ‘butter and egg money’—the little spare change they’d get from selling a few eggs or churned butter.”

  They stepped into line behind a college-aged young woman with multiple piercings and a blue streak in her short brown hair. In contrast, Loiscell’s rainbow-striped bandana seemed tame.

  “This has to be one of my favorite things in the whole wide world.” Sheila paid, and carried the tall latte as if she supported the crown jewels on a flocked velvet pillow.

  “You’re not hard to please,” Loiscell said. “We should come over here more often, catch a movie or shop . . . Maybe next time.” She spotted a two-seater near the front window and led the way. Sheila trailed behind.

  “Yeah. Next time.”

  “Something else eating at you, Sheila? I mean, besides the kitten thing?” Loiscell asked after they took seats.

  For a flicker of a second, Sheila considered confiding in her best friend. If the words started, would she be able to stop them? And what if someone overheard? Never tug on a loose thread in a tight-knit sweater. The whole thing might unravel.

  “I . . . I don’t know what to do with Oreo once he’s released. I have a little house set up in the bushes for the two kitties, but with him recovering and needing special care . . .”

  Loiscell consulted her cell phone. Those tech-savvy folks made fun of the older clam-style device, but it still worked. “I know exactly who we can call on. Abby. She’s one of those caretaker sorts. Always has been. Once I tell her about Oreo, she’ll pitch in. I’m sure of it.”

  Chapter Five

  Five weeks before suicide

  Monday

  Abby McKenzie did her best to perform the “tree,” one of the asanas—yoga poses—that required her to stand on one leg, palms held together at chest level, with the sole of the other foot planted on the thigh of her weight-bearing leg.

  “Ducks and seagulls do this and sleep at the same time.” Loiscell wobbled and flailed her arms to regain balance. “All that with a brain the size of a field pea.”

  Abby stifled a giggle. Silent concentration was encouraged, but the class wasn’t so structured that a well-placed comment felt intrusive. “Oreo seems to manage with one less leg. I can too.”

  Sheila nodded and glanced toward Abby. The two women had grown closer since the kitten’s release from the animal hospital. Every day after Glenn left for work, Sheila walked the two blocks to Abby’s, helped her with the kitten’s wound care, then rushed home to finish the day’s cleaning chores before cooking dinner. Oreo—imprinted to Sheila as his first adoptive mother—now clung to Abby. Buttercup came and went from his usual home beneath the shrubbery, and managed to stay out of sight.

  “Focus on a point in front of you, right at eye level,” Joy said. “Allow your breathing to become even and calm.”

  Loiscell maintained the one-legged pose for a minute before tottering. Choo-choo gave up with an exasperated sigh.

  “You will become better at using the breath to help you lift the body and hold each asana as you progress with your practice.” Joy’s smile radiated serenity. “Come back into stillness, now.”

  The group returned to the standing pose: torso erect, weight distributed evenly between both legs, arms at the sides with palms facing forward, and head level. They joined Joy in two sets of cleansing breaths—deep inhalations followed by long exhalations. “Let’s go down on the mats and into savasana.”r />
  “This is my absolute favorite yoga thing,” Choo-choo whispered.

  Loiscell stretched out supine on the yoga mat, arms at her side with palms facing up. Around her, the twenty members of the class positioned themselves in the classic reclining pose.

  “Remember, when you practice at home—which, I hope you all do at least once or twice between classes—make sure not to short yourself time in the relaxation poses. They are as important as the active poses.”

  “What’s not to love about any form of exercise where relaxing’s as important as work?” Abby said in a low tone.

  Joy’s voice, calm and even, floated between the yoga students, providing guidance. “Savasana is also called the corpse pose, for obvious reasons.”

  Ben’s deep voice sounded behind them from the second row. “I like savasana better.”

  “Sounds like some kind of pasta dish. Savasana with pesto,” Loiscell said.

  Joy chuckled. The class grew silent for a few minutes, until the teacher spoke again. She led them in a series of asanas, followed by another rest period. Then they rolled onto their bellies for an equal number of poses before Joy asked them to turn supine.

  Joy switched the CD. The sound of ocean waves brushing the shore filled the room. For the next twenty minutes, she led them in a guided meditation.

  “Allow yourself to return to the present. Feel the changes in your body,” Joy said. “When you are ready, open your eyes and sit up into the lotus position.” The closing poses completed, Joy bowed to the class—palms held together as if in prayer—acknowledging a third of the group at a time. “Namaste,” she intoned. The class echoed the word and bow.

  “Wow.” Loiscell rolled her yoga mat and fastened it with a Velcro strap. “I don’t know what I did before this class. Really. I am so calm after this, I love everyone and everything.”

  Choo-choo stored her mat in its matching carrier. “Me, too. But I’ve been meaning to ask, Joy, what does that last word mean?”