Suicide Supper Club

by Rhett DeVane

  Joy extinguished the incense. “Namaste means ‘peace to you. I bow to the divine in you’.”

  Choo-choo rolled up her small blanket. “That’s a nice sentiment.” She turned to Loiscell, Abby, and Sheila. “I need a cheeseburger. Let’s take this show up to Bill’s Homeplace and bow to one of those.”

  When Abby led the Yoga Rat Pack into the Homeplace Restaurant, the faint blended scents of cooked sweet onions and brewed coffee greeted them. An intimate at-home ambiance echoed in every furnishing: rows of shiny red vinyl-seated booths, Formica tables circled with wooden ladder-back chairs, country-themed memorabilia, and printed cloth gingham valances in the signature sunflower print. Everything shouted personal pride from the spotless windows to the shiny linoleum floors.

  “Those folks in Tallahassee have nothing on us,” Choo-choo said, sliding into a booth. “I’ve eaten many a cheeseburger, but Bill’s burgers put them all to shame.”

  Loiscell plopped down beside her. “Add a pile of home fries and you have what folks around here call heart attack on a plate.”

  “Got to die of something.” Abby grabbed a laminated menu. “It’s my belief that one day they’ll find out that grease makes you live longer. Won’t that be a slap in the face for all the folks who’ve been eating nuts and berries and choking down cholesterol drugs by the handfuls?”

  Choo-choo flipped the menu over and studied it. “Look at the pretty little sunflowers around the edges.”

  Julie Nix, veteran head waitress, stood beside the booth. “Evening, ladies. Yoga class must be over.”

  Choo-choo nodded. “About five minutes ago. Hey, when did y’all get these fancy new menus?”

  “The cook’s granddaughter is at FSU in some kind of design classes or the other,” Julie said. “She did those as part of one of her assignments. Mr. Bill liked them so much, he decided to use them. They pick up our sunflower motif.” She motioned to her printed cotton apron. “Though, I’ll have to admit, by the time I get out of here at the end of the day, I’d run screaming naked to Georgia if I had to look at one more sunflower.”

  “You don’t usually work the evening shift, do you?” Abby turned to the others. “My office orders lunch from here a lot. I like the French dip sandwich, Christine eats the BLT, Dr. Payne loves the fish sandwich, and Sabrina—she’s our health nut—sticks to a chef salad.”

  Julie grabbed the pen from behind her left ear. “My other server took a week off to drive up to North Carolina with her husband. Those two nuts are going white-water rafting. Can you fathom such?”

  Sheila spoke for the first time. “I think it sounds like fun.”

  “Tell you what’s fun, a dentist named Dr. Payne. Anyone ever comment on that?” Loiscell looked to Abby.

  “Every day.” Abby’s lips drew into a wry line. “And he’s so gentle with patients.”

  “I can attest to that.” Julie flipped an order pad open. “What’ll it be tonight, ladies?”

  Choo-choo spoke first. “I want a super-sized cheeseburger, all the way, with home fries. Tell the cook not to scrimp on the mayo. I hate a dry burger.”

  Abby added, “I’d like the same, except no fries. I’ll take fried onion rings instead.”

  Julie’s gaze shifted to the opposite side of the table.

  “You have any pie left?” Loiscell asked. “The hell with demon sugar. Short of Sheila’s cinnamon rolls on occasion, I’ve starved my cells of anything remotely connected to sinful for so long, I can’t recall the last time I’ve eaten even a bite of pie.”

  “I still have a couple of slices of my deep-dish apple. Made it early this morning. Used Granny Smiths. Makes it a little twangy, but the brown sugar and cinnamon evens it out.”

  Loiscell smiled. “I’ll take a big slice of that, then. And vanilla ice cream on top.”

  Julie scribbled. “And you, Miz Sheila?”

  “A cup of decaf coffee with cream, please.”

  Her three tablemates stared Sheila down.

  Choo-choo snorted. “Live a little, for heaven’s sake. You’re skinny as a snake’s shadow.”

  “I’ll have a fried egg sandwich with mayo on toasted bread. And cheddar cheese . . . two slices, please.” Sheila slapped the menu shut.

  Choo-choo patted Sheila’s hand. “There you go!”

  After the waitress walked away, Loiscell leaned over to Sheila. “You call home?”

  “Yes.”

  “Glenn okay with you staying out this late?”

  Sheila shifted in her seat. “He’s fine.”

  After Julie returned with their drinks, the conversation flowed around the booth.

  “I had an amusing, little chat with one of my Hospice patients yesterday,” Choo-choo said. “You know me. I like to kid around, and I find humor often comforts the dying. Depends on the person of course. Some folks lose any semblance of levity when they are so ill.”

  She took a long swill of cola. “This lady’s nearly a hundred, and funny as the day is long. She has memory issues—fades in and out like a bad light bulb—so I don’t think she even realizes how cute some of her sayings are. We were talking about old age, and all the trials and tribulations that seem to come with it. I commented, ‘I don’t know how I feel about getting near the one hundred mark. From all I’ve seen, I think I might just hire a hit man to take me out one afternoon as I’m rounding the corner somewhere.’ ”

  Choo-choo smiled. “Know what she said? ‘Honey, you might want to check with some of your friends. Y’all might be able to get a good group rate!’”

  The women cackled, a sound like a flock of disturbed chickens. A few fellow diners directed attention to the group for a second.

  Abby took a giggly breath and added, “I can see it now. This group gets together and goes out for a really nice meal. Right after some rich, gooey dessert, Uncle Guido comes in and mows them all down.” She held her hands out, mimicking the rapid fire of an Uzi. “Dat-dat-dat-dat!”

  Loiscell jumped. “Oh, I got it! The perfect name for that group—The Suicide Supper Club.”

  Five weeks before suicide, Tuesday

  Loiscell Pickering’s kitchen phone rang at six a.m. Unusual, since her friends knew to wait until at least nine to call. She was awake by five-thirty—a left-over from workday habits—and generally in the garden by sunrise. Her pulse accelerated. Phone calls at odd times generally brought unwelcome news.

  Her daughter’s voice: “Mom?”

  Loiscell set her filled coffee mug down so hard, it sloshed onto the kitchen counter. “Lisa? Honey, what’s wrong? Are you okay? Rachel? Rick?”

  The sound of Lisa’s laughter eased the tension gathering in Loiscell’s throat. “Rach is fine. So is Rick. I’m good too. Overworked as usual, but fine.”

  Loiscell released a long breath. “You scared me.” She sopped up the spilled coffee with a rag.

  “Sorry. I had some fantastic news and I couldn’t wait until the weekend to share.”

  Every Friday night, as dependable as the evening train whistles sounding from River Junction, her daughter phoned and the two talked for at least an hour. Thank God for cell phones and unlimited minutes.

  That aside, Loiscell worried about her daughter’s finances. The twins attended college—Rachel at Emory and Rick at Georgia Tech. Kids, no matter what age, required a steady influx of funds. Lisa had a good career as an attorney for a small law firm, but still. And that lousy ex-husband, who the heck knew where he was? Handsome man. Between his and Lisa’s good looks, Rachel and Rick were amazing representatives of the human race. Beyond that contribution, the man had failed miserably, skipping out on responsibility when the twins were five years old. Still, Lisa had made it through college and law school. Loiscell’s daughter—tenacious and independent—provided more reason for prideful boasting than any of her rosebushes.

  “Now that I’ve gotten my heart out of my throat, tell me!” Loiscell said.

  “You know I’ve always messed around a little with writing . . . ”

&nbs
p; Loiscell tasted her coffee, frowned, added more cream. She liked coffee with muscle, but this batch could bench press her Volvo. “It’s important to have at least one creative outlet. ‘All work’ is not good for you, Lisa.”

  Her daughter chuckled on the other end. “I know, Mom. You’ve only told me that for over thirty years.”

  “Guilty as charged.”

  “You remember how Daddy used to tell me little stories at night, ones he made up?”

  Loiscell’s heart warmed. “Yes.”

  “I sat down a while back and started writing down some of them. He had this one funny character—”

  “Big Joe the Big Toe,” Loiscell supplied.

  “Yes! Big Joe!” Lisa laughed again.

  Loiscell couldn’t remember a recent time when she had heard her daughter express so much mirth.

  “I’ve written a series of picture book stories featuring Big Joe the Big Toe. And the best part . . . I’m going to be published!”

  Loiscell transported her coffee to the front porch and settled into a rocking chair. “Details, I need details!”

  “Short version: I had lunch with one of my friends who works for a small publishing house here in Atlanta. She kept urging me to submit one, so I did. And they accepted it! Plus they want more! Can you believe it?”

  “I’ve seen some of those picture books they have out now. If a farting dog can be a hit, then I don’t see why Big Joe can’t make you rich. When will you have a copy for your old mama?”

  “One, you’re not old, Mom. Two, it will be about a year. I just signed the contract yesterday.”

  “This news will keep me going for at least a week. I can’t wait to tell the Yoga Rat Pack.”

  “Listen, I need to hang up and pay attention to my driving. Even with this Bluetooth, I can’t talk and watch out for idiots at the same time. I’ll phone you Friday night, ’kay?”

  “One quick thing before you go—your brother. Has he called you?”

  “You know Lance, Mom. I think this might be the time of year when he and his nutso buddies bike Moab. Why, do you need him? I can see if I can leave a message with one of his friends. Most of the places he goes don’t have very good reception.” She hesitated. “You . . . all right?”

  Her daughter had a drama antenna. The slightest hint of distress from her mother, and up it shot. “Just wondering about my other child.”

  Eventually she would have to tell Lisa. Maybe not. Could she put her daughter through yet another of her mother’s battles?

  “Nice move, butthole.” Lisa growled. “Gotta go, Mom, before you hear me lose my religion for real.”

  Loiscell sat for a few minutes, enjoying the fuzzy aftermath of the conversation. Her daughter, a published children’s author. Who could ask for better news at sunrise?

  Songbirds trilled. Loiscell cocked her head to pick out the separate calls. A few of the migratory crooners from up north had filtered into the area on their way to warmer climates, a sure sign of upcoming changes.

  Chapter Six

  Four weeks before suicide

  Monday

  Glenn Bruner took a swig of Jack Daniels to help him think straight. If killing was a job, how could it be considered a sin? If so, every soldier defending the good old U. S. of A. would be in danger of damnation. Besides, as he had heard in a movie once, “some folks needed killing.” Not that he cared, really. All that religious fretting had belonged to his mother, not to him or Big Glenn.

  The boating supply catalog next to his recliner was more dog-eared than any girlie magazine Glenn had ever owned. He flipped through its glossy colored pages, mentally marking digital GPSs and fish locators, depth guides, marine radios, and tackle. Who would need to worry about cost? If he had the boat he wanted, he wouldn’t want to scrimp on the extras. Nor would he need to get a two-day shoulder cramp trying to install the equipment. Hell no. He’d pay some boat shop peon. And clothing—not to ignore that! He perused the section with special waterproof pants and jackets, and one of those fancy vests with all the mesh pockets. No more T-shirts and jeans. He’d put all those high-falutin’ bass fishermen to shame.

  Glenn took another swill of whiskey. The familiar burn slid down his throat and warmed him like a campfire.

  How would it feel to watch a man—for surely, it would be a male—crumple and hit the ground? On the network crime scene shows, the blood always spread out in a large, dark pool.

  Glenn thought back to his first deer kill. He was ten and barely able to hold the gun steady when he spotted the ten-point buck. His arms and legs ached in the early-morning cold. He would never live it down if he let this one pass and Big Glenn found out.

  His heart beat so wildly, he feared the big buck would hear. Glenn squeezed the trigger. For a moment, the blast rang in his ears. He heard the sound of a loud thump. His eyes, pinched shut by reflex, opened wide. The massive animal lay on a bed of brown leaves, quivering with the final rattles of death.

  His father appeared a few moments later, puffed with pride. “Damn, Boy! Lookit what you went and done!”

  The rest of the memory, a dim blur. Glenn watched his father and hunting buddy gut and clean the buck. They saved a bucket of animal entrails and poured it over Glenn’s head: a sticky rite of passage.

  His mother prepared some of the venison when it came wrapped from the processing shack—a tender choice cut called the back-strap—soaked in buttermilk, then floured and fried. He ate a tall tower of home fries with catsup. When he tried to chew a small chunk of the back-strap, the meat rolled around in his mouth. Though the deer had been killed while it was calm and still, the meat tasted strange and wild. The more he chewed, the larger it seemed. He spit it out in a napkin when his father wasn’t looking, then forked the remaining piece and hid it beneath a glob of catsup. His mother caught the furtive movement and smiled slightly. Each time he thought of the buck and the bucket of blood and entrails, his stomach roiled.

  The mounted head of his first proud kill hung in his parents’ den beside the menagerie of his father’s mounted deer and fish. Its ebony glass eyes mocked him every time he passed by.

  By the time the next hunting season came and Glenn killed again, the shock had worn thin. His father and a couple of his cronies lifted his kill to a hook on a two-by-four braced between two trees. Glenn grabbed a skinning knife, and his father stepped back with a nod. Glenn sliced the buck’s throat and the blood poured, red molasses sweet with the scent of death. His father cut off the testicles, then ran a deep gash lengthwise of the belly. Glenn watched, fascinated, as the steaming intestines curled into a large trough beneath the suspended carcass.

  Would human blood have the same ripe odor? Glenn shuddered involuntarily. How would it all unfold? How would he go about planning the event? Who would he whack?

  Whack. Like a gangster. Glenn chuckled and swigged his whiskey.

  Abby McKenzie unrolled a newly-purchased, on-sale yoga mat. Unlike her older friend’s, Abby’s mat matched neither her outfit nor carry bag. “How is your killer guard dog?”

  Choo-choo huffed. “Prissy’s fine. That little dickens has had me waiting on her hand and foot. She was in a state for a few days after her little run-in with the pit bull—which, we found out, belonged to a young man almost to Greensboro fifteen miles away. How that dog made it into town and kept from getting run over is anyone’s guess.”

  “I’d be in more than a state if I’d taken on something ten times my size,” Loiscell commented. She winced, then loosened the sweat-drenched orange and blue tie-dyed bandana wrapped around her head.

  “Don’t I know it,” Choo-choo said. “Prissy and I seem to have reached some kind of truce. I suppose this little incident has been a good gift in a plain paper bag.”

  Sheila plopped down and crossed her legs lotus style. Other than Loiscell, she was the only Yoga Rat Pack member who could accomplish the pose. “You mean, she’s stopped urinating on the bathroom mat?”

  Choo-choo’s lips drew into a thin line.
“Said it was a truce, not a miracle.”

  Sheila smiled. “Animals can sense when we like them. They need approval too.”

  “The only approval Prissy ever accepted came from Charlie. Since he passed, that dog has been downright surly. Only here lately, has she stopped growling at me for living and breathing.”

  “That’s a little harsh, don’t you think?” Abby asked.

  “Everyone has to have a fair share of aggravation. Prissy has seen to it that I’ve had mine.” Choo-choo stretched to one side, then to the other before lowering herself to the mat with a grunt. “Her hips have been bothering her a lot. I’ve had to start lifting her onto the bed.”

  “This, from the woman who said she’d rather drop-kick the poodle in the middle of the night. When was that…?” Abby tapped her chin with a finger. “Just a couple of weeks ago?”

  “I have a heart, Abby McKenzie. I can’t help it if I’ve been sharing space with a she-devil of a dog, up until she decided it was a good notion to lose her mind completely and go after a dog the size of a bulldozer.”

  Loiscell reached over and patted Choo-choo on the back. “You’re getting yourself all fired up, hon. Take a deep breath and chill, or you won’t get a thing out of Joy’s class.”

  Behind them, Ben Calhoun settled onto his mat. “Good evening, ladies.”

  Choo-choo rotated to return the greeting. Her eyebrows arched. “Well, I swear, Ben. You’ve gotten your hair styled! And something else . . . the mustache is missing. I’ve never minded facial hair on a man, but you look a good ten years younger without yours.”

  Abby stared at him for a moment. “It does look . . . um . . . nice.”

  When Ben smiled at Abby, the corners of his lips curled up and pushed twin dimples into place. Heat rose to her face.

  “Look there, all the more reason you’re better off without that lip fur,” Choo-choo added. “I don’t think I’ve ever noticed how nice your smile is.”