by Rhett DeVane
No hope.
Sheila touched the cover of her Bible. She read it, every day. The tissue-thin pages she dog-eared—where she had read the parables and promises over and over—failed to buoy her as they once had.
When she prayed, she asked for the same things again and again: To be able to relax and take a deep breath without fear. To be safe in her own home. To have a reason to want to live.
Sheila closed her eyes and melted into the worn sports fantasy. So deeply. So thoroughly. She didn’t hear the sound of the back door opening until Glenn stood in front of the couch where she sat, dreaming.
“What the hell do you have on?”
Sheila opened her eyes and mouth at the same time, but no sound came out. The certainty settled on her shoulders. This was it. Did doomed people all share this one moment of clarity before the end?
“I . . .”
Her husband’s features shifted. The neutral expression frightened Sheila more than all of his past rages rolled together.
“I’m going to walk out to the truck. When I get back in this house, I want you to be out of whatever that is you’re wearing and throw it in the garbage, and have my supper on the table.” He turned to leave the room, then spun around. “No, on second thought, don’t throw it out. Everyone has a little secret, huh?” He winked and flashed a toothy smile on his way out.
Sheila fought a wave of dizziness. The back door slammed. She took several deep breaths, stood, stripped off the uniform, and redressed. In less than eight minutes, Sheila set a plate heaping with homemade beef stew and crusty bread in front of her husband.
Glenn reached out and grabbed her hand in a painful grasp that morphed into a sexual caress. “Now that’s more like my good little girl. Isn’t it?”
The moment her sneaker slipped, Abby McKenzie knew she had stepped in a fresh pile of dog poop. “Crap, crap, crap! Literally . . . crap!”
She released the throttle bar on the push lawn mower and the aging engine sputtered and died. Wiping the odoriferous goop across the trimmed grass didn’t help. The base and sides of her sneaker looked like a sprouted Chia Pet. The problem with athletic shoes: too much tread. Every wavy indentation overflowed with feces and the odor wafted upward.
“Mason Dixon,” she muttered, “I adore you. Love the fact you can fix my computer in less time than it takes me to sneeze. But I hate your dang dog!” The last two words, she spoke with extra emphasis and volume.
“Don’t care for dogs, then?” a voice asked from behind.
Abby jerked upright. The offensive shoe dangled from her fingertips. Ben Calhoun, sweaty in running attire, stood beside the curb wearing dark sunglasses and a bemused smile. Abby’s pulse skipped. “Actually I like animals, though I prefer cats to dogs most of the time. I despise it when a dog leaves a huge tower of crap in my yard.”
“Murphy’s law says you’ll always find it, too. And you know the chances go up exponentially if you’re bare-footed.”
Abby’s upper lip curled and her nostrils flared. “Eww . . .”
Ben motioned toward the mower. “May I help you finish up?”
“You’re in the middle of exercising.”
Ben tilted his head slightly when he chuckled, a mannerism Abby liked. “And mowing isn’t? Since when? C’mon. Go grab a hose and clean your shoe before that poop hardens into mortar, and I’ll finish the last few rows.”
“What the heck. Knock yourself out. I don’t particularly like yard work. Who am I to argue? Besides I feel kind of guilty when I have to do this on a Sunday afternoon. That whole day of rest rule. It’s just, I’m tired during the week when I get home, and I like to goof off on Saturdays.” What had happened to poor, conversation-challenged Abby? The new version babbled like a freak. “So that leaves Sunday afternoons to catch up. Plus, with fall coming, the days are getting shorter. I run out of light before I get everything done around here.”
Ben grabbed the start-rope and yanked. The engine fired up on the first try. The dang contraption took her three or four shoulder-wrenching pulls, sometimes more. Abby hobbled off with the soiled shoe in one hand.
She unwound a sun-faded garden hose from its rusty mount on the side of the house, doused her face and arms, and took a long swill before attacking the shoe. Recently she read somewhere that drinking from an outside hose wasn’t such a great idea—carcinogens in the plastic or whatever. If that was true, her generation was doomed, especially the ones from the South. In her youth, Abby had ridden in the back of pick-up trucks, played kick-ball in the street, ate food swimming in animal fat, ingested sugar in every form and shape, and swigged gallons of cool water straight from the hose.
She rinsed the shoe and recalled one particular childhood game. Did it even have a proper name? She and her cohorts had called it Ain’t No Boogers. Darkness was required. One person, tagged the booger—Southern-speak for the bad guy, ax-murdering nemesis of children—lurked outside the small pool of front porch light and waited for an unaware victim to pass by. When the booger called out “ready or not, here I come!” the other players walked, skipped, and ran around the yard singing a little ditty. “Ain’t no boogers out tonight! Grandpa killed ’em all last night!”
Good old Grandpa. The poor man must’ve kidded himself that he’d vanquished evil, but wait! One last booger jumped out from the shadows, chased down the nearest child, and squealed, “Tag! You’re it!” The rest dashed to the safety of home base: a designated spot in the round ring of light. The former booger returned to the victim pool and the newly-tapped booger scurried into the darkness to start the next round.
How innocent that time had been. Predators had existed. Only, not in her small town world.
She snapped to attention with the sudden cessation of the lawnmower motor. A car whooshed by, sending dry leaves skipping across the asphalt. Two cardinals bickered over the wild birdseed in the feeder. The ordinary sounds reminded her how much she disliked the intrusive drone of a gas-powered lawn mower. Before next year, she would research electric alternatives. Better yet, a push mower with nothing but human power behind the whirling blades. No fumes, only the watermelon scent of cut grass.
“Want me to rinse this down before I store it?” Ben asked.
“You’re kidding right? That thing is ancient. Look at it. It has dried grass from the Garden of Eden.”
Ben did the head-tilt/chuckle thing again. “Still works, doesn’t it? No use to cast a thing aside because it’s slightly used.”
Abby stood, the dripping shoe held at arm’s length. “Suppose not.”
They made eye contact and held it a little too long for Abby’s comfort. She cleared her throat. The signs of a friendship budding out of control loomed. How many times had she pulled her little red wagon down the same path, only to stand on her ear trying to apply the brakes? Too many.
Abby’s aversion to even a hint of commitment attracted more hits than a website for cheap prescription painkillers. Men gravitated her way in unlikely places: the grocery store line, the waiting room at her ophthalmologist, the self-serve gas lane. The universe plotted to hook her up with a man, any man.
Ben’s gaze fell to his feet. “So, you going to yoga tomorrow night?”
“Wouldn’t miss it. You?”
He bumped the toe of his running shoe against the curb, watching it as if it held the key to love. “We should, maybe . . . catch a cup of coffee afterwards.”
Abby’s trapdoor slammed shut so fast, it surprised even her. “No. Can’t.”
His expression withered. “Oh okay . . . all right, then.” He stretched each leg once. “See you later.”
Ben jogged away before Abby could respond.
“Way to circle the wagons, Calamity Jane.” Abby shoved the mower toward the tool shed. Hot tears stung her eyes. Her insides curled and snapped like old, rotten elastic.
Chapter Eight
Two weeks before suicide
Monday
Abby McKenzie breathed in the Homeplace’s blend of cooking sce
nts and brewed coffee. For once, the smell of food didn’t entice her. The late afternoon light filtered through the room in a surreal jaundiced shade of yellow. Abby thought about movies and how changes in the light meant some kind of shift. She took a deep breath and forced down a ripple of nausea as the Yoga Rat Pack members sat down at their usual booth.
“Y’all sure are a quiet group this evening.” Julie flipped open her order pad. “Maybe I should substitute the high-octane coffee for you, eh?”
Loiscell’s shoulders lifted and fell.
Abby waited for someone to speak, then filled in the awkward gap. “You seem to be working a lot more night shifts, Julie. What’s up with that?”
“I-Pods and laptops on my boys’ Christmas wish lists. That’s what’s up. It’s a ways off, but I have to stockpile funds, or Santa will be bringing nothing but rocks and coal. I long for the days when I could buy them something from the Dollar Store, and they’d be content. Not anymore. Nothing comes cheap.” The waitress pushed a stray sprig of hair behind one ear with the end of her pencil. “So here I am. What’ll it be, tonight?”
“Cup of decaf for me,” Choo-choo said.
“Make that two,” Abby said.
Loiscell blew out a breath and returned the laminated menu to its clip. “One for me, too.”
“I’ll take a cup of hot water, please,” Sheila said. “I have my own tea bag.”
The server shoved her order pad into an apron pocket. “No pie? No fries? I think I may need to sit down. I feel faint.”
The four women exchanged glances. The weight of shared something, beyond the weary sadness, threatened to swallow Abby.
Julie nodded. “If y’all change your minds, I have peach cobbler. It’s really good, even if I do say so myself. I used those North Carolina Alberta’s I put in the freezer last month.”
Abby waited until the server left the table to speak. “I didn’t want to say anything before class and get you all upset, Choo-choo. Loiscell told us about Prissy. I sure am sorry.”
Sheila reached over and rested a hand over Choo-choo’s. “I know how much little animals steal your heart away. Is there anything we can do?”
“It wasn’t like the two of us were the best of buddies. Well, not until the last few weeks.” Choo-choo’s red-rimmed eyes watered.
Loiscell put her arm around her elderly friend’s shoulder. “You got us, sugar.”
Choo-choo offered a weak smile that didn’t make it to her eyes. “I do, at that.”
Loiscell turned her attention to Abby. “What’s up with you? You’ve been walking around tonight with your lower lip dragging the dirt.”
“And I couldn’t help but notice that Ben took a spot so far back, he practically sat outside.” Choo-choo dabbed her eyes with a tissue. “Did you two have a little lovers’ spat?”
Abby stuffed the urge to blurt it all out. How she was so flawed, no man would ever want her. How she cringed at the thought of loving a man. How she lay in bed every night feeling so depleted and alone, even her anonymous online chat friends couldn’t boost her. “First of all, Ben Calhoun and I are not involved. Second, what do I care where he chooses to sit in yoga class.”
Loiscell whistled low. “Whoo, hit a raw nerve.”
Sheila rummaged in her clutch and extracted a zipper-lock plastic bag of assorted tea bags. “Y’all leave her alone. If she doesn’t like the man, she doesn’t like the man.”
“Gosh, Sheila.” Choo-choo tilted her head to one side. “That’s the most fire I’ve ever seen come out of you.”
Julie appeared with their drink order. “Wave me down when you need refills. From the looks on your faces, you’re going to be here a while.”
“What do you suppose she meant by that?” Sheila asked after the server walked away.
Abby added extra cream and sweetener to her cup. “We look like someone stomped on us—all down and out.”
Choo-choo took a deep breath and exhaled. “I am down and out. Not only did Charlie’s dog die, but my favorite Hospice lady passed this morning. It hasn’t been a stellar week. Sometimes, living is such a chore.” She threw down her crumpled tissue. “That suicide supper club thing is sounding better and better every day.”
Sheila dipped a chamomile tea bag into the steaming water. She didn’t lift her gaze when she said, “I’ve heard worse ideas.”
Loiscell grabbed a napkin to swipe a ring of spilled coffee. “What if we could choose to leave this earth instead of having to go through all this crap?”
“Life is about choices,” Abby added. Her stomach lurched again and a sour taste coated her tongue.
Choo-choo tapped one coral-painted nail on her chin. “Wonder how one would go about it? Say a person wished to hire someone to take her out of circulation.”
“Not like you could look up Hit Men R Us in the yellow pages,” Abby said.
The comment elicited half-hearted laughter.
“It would cost big money, for one thing,” Sheila said. “More than I could come up with.”
“I could sell my car.” Abby tilted her head toward the window. In an illuminated pool of a streetlight, her Honda leaned into the curb like it had been ridden hard and left to suffer. The others tittered again.
“You’d be better off torching it for the insurance money, hon. Not meaning to offend.” Loiscell leaned forward and lowered her voice. “Sheila’s right. It’s not the kind of cash you get from hosting a bake sale.”
Choo-choo’s voice came out in a near-whisper. “I have the money.”
The friends sat for a moment before Abby found her voice. “Wait. You’re talking like you’re seriously considering this.” The taste of bile bit her tongue again and she took a shaky breath.
As if she had received some kind of cosmic nudge, Sheila jumped. “Why not? It’s a free country.”
“What would be so wrong about taking control, for once?” Loiscell’s lips set in a thin line.
Choo-choo’s expression brightened. “We could find a spot out of town. Some place with great food. Eat until we can’t choke down another bite. Right after some really sinful dessert, boom!”
“Get real, y’all.” Abby leaned forward and whispered, “How would we even know where to contact—” she glanced around to make sure no one was listening “—a hit man?”
A shimmer of fear crossed Sheila’s face, then her features hardened into something Abby had never seen there before—resolve. Sheila dabbed a trickle of tea from her lips. “I could make some inquiries.”
Her tablemates openly stared. Abby pushed her jaw back in place, because surely it had dropped.
“Since when do you have connections to the underworld, dear?” Choo-choo asked.
“Glenn works in law enforcement.”
“A prison guard is going to help us find a sniper?” Loiscell huffed. “That’s a bit of a stretch, don’t you think?”
Choo-choo held up one hand. “Does anyone else have a better idea?” She glanced around the group. “No? I say if our resident Martha-Stewart-wannabe thinks she can finagle a name for us, then let her. What the heck?”
Loiscell pointed at Sheila. “Okay. Do it and report back to us.”
“I will.” Color brushed Sheila’s cheeks.
Choo-choo looked from one woman to the next. She enunciated slowly, as if each word carried an equal weight. “If we decide to go ahead with this, none of us asks the others why they want to leave here. That is between each woman and her conscience. Clear?”
The other women cast fleeting looks around the group, then nodded.
“Good. That’s settled. I’ll get busy moving some funds around.” Choo-choo’s features brightened so abruptly, Abby looked at the others with her eyebrows lifted.
The butterscotch incandescent light bathed her friends’ faces and Abby compared it to watching an ethereal scene in some 3-D theatre. Her stomach roiled. Then, a separate sensation floated through. A tinge of excitement mixed with what, relief? Am I really considering this?
&
nbsp; “You know what,” Loiscell said. “Suddenly I have a taste for a giant bowl of hot peach cobbler á la mode.”
Two weeks before suicide, Tuesday
Sheila Bruner hugged Buttercup to her chest and enjoyed the deep rumble of the cat’s contented purr. Surely God would allow pets in Heaven.
Risky, bold business, stepping outside to love the cat with her husband home. But the odds of Glenn looking for her—at least for the moment—were slim. He was on his fourth Jack Daniels and an ESPN college football round-up blared on the flat screen. If there was a Hell, Sheila was certain it would have a monolithic flat screen television tuned to the sports network with an endless monologue by retired players and eons of “the big game” highlights. The only sport worth watching—women’s basketball—never entered Glenn’s radar.
“I’ll be damned if I will sit here and watch a bunch of dykes run up and down the court!” He had made that comment so often, Sheila could hear it echo in her head. In Glenn’s estimation, an athletic, strong woman had to be gay. One of the first things he had required of Sheila when they started dating: quit the high school women’s basketball team. No way any girl of his would play sports.
Thinking about versions of Heaven and Hell made Sheila’s spirit slide even lower. If she took an active part in leaving this life behind, would she still be worthy of a golden afterlife? Or would the one final act of desperation cancel all the selfless mercies, the mounds of charitable giving, and the hours of prayer and Bible study? Couldn’t He look down in all of His boundless wisdom and see how she had no viable options?
Sheila lowered herself to sit on the top step; the cat curled in her folded arms. Leaving Buttercup behind, that she would regret. She’d find a good home for the young feline, one with a nice furry rug in front of the hearth, in time for the cold weather.
Seek and ye shall find. Ask and it shall be given unto you. So many times in her life, she had read that promise. She had pleaded repeatedly to be rid of bearing Glenn’s rages. Prayed as much for him as for herself. Divorce wasn’t an option. And if she screwed up the courage to flee, Glenn would find her. He often reminded her: “You ever do that to me—just up and run off—I’ll track you down and make you sorry you ever drew a breath.”
