Suicide Supper Club

by Rhett DeVane

  Jackie’s visit had stirred the sludge from the bottom of the pond. At first, Choo-choo blamed her daughter’s lifestyle on their estrangement. Easy answer: Jackie was a lesbian, and therefore had pushed Choo-choo away out of fear of rejection. But didn’t her daughter know? Choo-choo loved her, always would.

  Choo-choo frowned, shook her head. But it was more than that. The problems went much deeper. All the times Choo-choo had held the infant without feeling a connection. The times she had brushed the little girl aside whenever she rushed toward her mother with open arms. The times she had ignored the troubled teenager.

  After three days, she and Jackie had carved a few inroads. But where would they go from here?

  Choo-choo took a sip of coffee, watched a second male cardinal arrive. The two fought for dominance of the birdfeeder. Was everything on this earth a struggle? Charlie hovered just above her shoulder; she often sensed his spirit, but more often lately. Over and over during the conversations with Jackie, Choo-choo had heard Charlie’s words in her mind: “Judge not, Choo-choo. Judge not.”

  Jackie had talked. Ranted. Shared. Cried. And her mother listened. Finally, really listened.

  Choo-choo lifted her gaze upward. “Thank God you were there to shield her from my indifference, Charlie.” It had not been enough to cloth, bathe, feed, and provide shelter. Every child deserved to feel cherished. Every child deserved to feel good enough in their parents’ eyes.

  In spite of Choo-choo’s shortcomings, Jackie Ivey had evolved into a secure and good-hearted woman. Once Jackie lowered her defenses, Choo-choo witnessed a keen sense of humor, thoughtfulness, and empathy: the same traits that had made Charlie Ivey such a golden man.

  Inside, the phone trilled. Choo-choo huffed. What good was a portable headset if she kept forgetting to carry the stupid thing with her? And who was calling her so early, anyway? Surely not Elvina. They had an agreement about not phoning first thing in the morning, unless the gossip was so hot it couldn’t cool down before delivery. She bustled in and caught it on the fourth ring.

  “Mother?”

  Choo-choo glanced at the kitchen clock. “Jackie? What’s wrong?”

  “Oh, did I wake you? You always get up so early, I figured—”

  “I’ve been up a couple of hours, but it has to be what, four a.m. there?”

  “I couldn’t sleep. I have to talk to you about something.”

  Jackie calling to talk? Was she ill or . . . dying? Oh, heavens no. Not now, when they had finally reached a square of common ground. Choo-choo settled into a kitchen chair.

  “Mother, are you there?”

  “Yes dear.”

  “Tee and I were discussing Thanksgiving.”

  Oh that was it. “You’re not coming.”

  “Maybe . . . no . . . I mean . . .”

  This new, odd Jacqueline took Choo-choo off-guard.

  “We would—I would—like for you to consider coming out to Portland for the holidays.”

  “Oh?”

  Jackie’s voice picked up its pace and took on the tone of a delighted child. “I’ll take care of the reservations. If you’d be willing to make the flight. I’ll make sure someone assists you between gates in Atlanta, and Tee and I will pick you up at the airport.”

  “Well, I . . .”

  “And you can stay until after New Years’. It’s only a little over a month. I can show you around, you can see our house.”

  Jackie wasn’t just asking her into her house, she was inviting her into her life. Choo-choo felt warmth around her heart. Usually she might attribute it to acid reflux, only she hadn’t eaten breakfast yet, and this glow felt gentler.

  “I’ve always wanted to visit that part of the West Coast.” And besides, this way she wouldn’t have to run all over Tallahassee searching for that free-spirit, organic turkey.

  “G-g-great! Okay, so I’ll check with the airlines and call you back as soon as I have details. Hey, I’ll even spring for first class. And you have to get a cell phone. Even one of those short-term ones without the contract. I’d like for you to be able to reach me. Okay?”

  “All right, dear.”

  “Gotta run. Love you, Mom!”

  Choo-choo barely managed to squeak out the words, “Love you too, Jackie.” She clicked the disconnect button and set down the phone as if it was fine china, and very fragile.

  “She called me Mom.” Choo-choo looked up. “Hear that, Charlie? Our daughter called me mom!”

  The phone rang and she jumped. Oh, no. Jackie’s changed her mind.

  When she answered, Choo-choo heard Loiscell’s voice, strained and breathy. “Something awful has happened. You best get on over here to Abby’s house as soon as you get dressed.”

  “What in the world?”

  “I’d rather not say over the phone.”

  Choo-choo ran her hand through her unkempt hair. “I haven’t even had my bath.”

  “Just come.”

  Two weeks after suicide, Thursday

  Glenn Bruner looked from the window of the small prop plane to nothing but miles of tropical forest. No use asking the idiot pilot questions. The man knew only a few words in English. The rest of their limited communication had been accomplished with gestures and grunts.

  With no small talk to pass the time, Glenn had room to think about how things had gone down. Good thing, too. Took his mind off his sore midsection. Kevlar vest aside, his chest still felt like he’d been stomped by a bull moose.

  The man known as Glenn Bruner was no more; that fact appealed to him. These things happened. Most people knew a fraction of what went on behind the scenes. Still, how the Feds had staged his disappearance had been impressive. Too bad he couldn’t be in Chattahoochee to witness his own funeral. Would Sheila cry? He really didn’t give a rip. And who, or what, would they put in the coffin? Rocks? Some stiff, homeless sap stand-in? Or would they send some random ashes to Sheila? That would make more sense. No lingering evidence.

  Excitement trilled his body like thundering acid rock. How many men had the chance to taste true adventure? No more eight-to-five bullshit. No more lame life. He could be anyone he chose, take any name he fancied, and have a different woman every night.

  Would he be the good guy or the bad guy? Now that he was out from under the clutches of the authorities, the choice was his. Crime was a lucrative business. He could have a fleet of boats, a new truck every year, and hot and cold running women. His services from this point forward would go to the highest bidder.

  A change in the pitch of the engines alerted Glenn. The plane descended and landed on a dirt strip, a slash between the dense tree canopies. The pilot motioned for Glenn to deplane, threw a couple of wooden shipping crates from the cargo hold, and gestured for Glenn to move aside before he crawled back into the cockpit. The plane taxied away and took off, leaving Glenn alone with the sounds of strange birds and wildlife.

  He sat down on one of the crates. Just yesterday, he had been cooped up in a narrow cell. Glenn looked around. What the pluperfect hell was he supposed to do now? Squat here in the midst of some godforsaken jungle and wait for the mosquitoes to feast? Did any of the bigger critters eat people?

  A motor noise broke through the riotous jungle sounds. A Jeep appeared at the edge of the clearing and sped in his direction. It halted feet from him, kicking up a wake of dust. The driver—a massive muscular black man dressed in crisp khaki shorts and a T-shirt—stared at Glenn from behind dark sunglasses. He jerked his arm from Glenn to the crates. What the hell? Glenn frowned, but loaded the two crates into the back of the vehicle. Dude was huge and Glenn was too damned road-weary to pick a fight. Later he’d make sure to explain the proper way to treat the new boss from the U. S. of A.

  Glenn vaulted into the passenger seat and grabbed onto the steel roll bar with one hand and the underside of the seat with the other. The Jeep jostled over a rutted trail worse than any pig trail leading into his old hunting camp. A runaway tractor ride with a drunken redneck would have been
smoother. A couple of times, all four tires left the ground. Vines lashed at the vehicle’s metal flanks, making a screeching noise like rabid caged monkeys. Finally, the driver slowed. They entered a planted field of some sort: row upon row as far as he could see. The trail widened and became less treacherous as the Jeep navigated the periphery of the acreage. A compound of white block buildings came into view. Guards with automatic weapons patrolled the front gate. The Jeep passed through unchallenged.

  The driver pulled to the front of the main structure and killed the engine. “Go in.”

  Yep. He’d have to teach this boy some down-home Dixie manners. For sure.

  The whole thing seemed like one of those spy movies. Hardly real. Glenn stepped onto the wooden porch. Two overhead fans turned in lazy, ineffective circles. The air hung thick. Sweat beads multiplied on Glenn’s upper lip and moisture trickled between his shoulder blades. Crazy hot, worse than he’d experienced in ten hellish Southern summers.

  Inside the building, a single window unit air conditioner struggled.

  “Welcome, Mr. Bruner.” A tall man with a faint accent—British?—stepped from behind a carved mahogany desk. He didn’t extend his hand. “Drink?” He motioned to a crystal decanter of amber liquid and two glasses on one end of the desk.

  Glenn licked his cracked lips. About time someone started to treat him like a guest.

  A second glass container—this one with a lid—rested next to the decanter. Something gray and bloated bobbed in the clear liquid. Glenn stared. Couldn’t help himself. The two shriveled graying objects looked vaguely familiar.

  “Like my little keepsake?” The man poured, handed Glenn a glass. “Those private parts belong to the last associate who defied my orders.” The man raised his own glass with a slight dip of his head toward Glenn. “Here’s to a long and fruitful relationship, eh?”

  The man waited for a beat before he spoke again. “One way or the other . . .” He shifted his gaze from Glenn to the floating orbs and back. “You are mine.”

  When the man smiled, Glenn couldn’t help but notice his cold, vacant eyes. Glenn’s hand trembled. He lifted the drink to his lips and took it all in with one slug.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Four weeks after suicide

  Monday

  Abby peeked out from a slit in the blinds. No reporters lurking by the curb in hopes of a hot scoop. Thank God for Elvina Houston. The woman was part saint, part high school hall monitor in charge of bathroom passes. And nobody got past her. People still dropped by Abby’s house with food offerings, but the cards and flowers had stopped arriving. Chattahoochee settled back into reasonable normalcy.

  Elvina stepped into Abby’s living room with the last of her warmed-over coffee. “You need anything else, dear?”

  Abby held one hand to her stomach. “I’m full, Elvina. Those soft-scrambled eggs were perfect.”

  Elvina glanced toward the back of the house. “I worry about that poor, poor girl. She has barely touched a bite since the funeral. And she’s not big as a minute to start with.” Elvina lowered her voice. “It’s bad enough what all went down, even worse to have her husband so mangled, she couldn’t even view his body.”

  Abby agreed. “Even with her injured shoulder, the only thing that seems to make Sheila content is cleaning. My house has never been so spotless, or so organized. The grout in the bathroom is white again. And she’s helped me get rid of all kinds of stuff I had shoved back in the closets. I won’t be surprised if she moves onto Daddy’s workshop next. That will keep her busy for days.”

  “Her way of grieving, I suppose.” Elvina checked her watch. “I have to get on up to the Triple C. You sure you two have what you need until Loiscell gets here?”

  “We’ll be fine. I can move around pretty good now. Choo-choo’s down the road, and Ben will be coming by as soon as he’s off work.”

  “You two are thick as thieves now aren’t you?” Elvina smiled. “Won’t be long, I expect, ’til we hear wedding bells.”

  “He asked, but . . .” Abby’s cheeks flushed. Before everything happened, the thought of marriage would have clamped down her breathing. Now, the certainty of pledging her life to Ben wrapped around her like a hand-sewn quilt. Not too heavy, not too light. And comforting. “No time soon. I haven’t had the chance to meet his son. Plus I still have another surgery to get past.”

  “I can’t believe you’ve planned that for the week before Thanksgiving. You won’t be able to eat a decent meal.”

  Abby snorted. “Not like I could enjoy any of it now. Most of my favorites are off-limits. I’ll be home before the holiday. That’s all that matters. By then, I may be able to have a slice of turkey and some mashed potatoes.” Abby considered adding “I would kill for a salad,” but anything referring to death, even in jest, gave her the shivers.

  Elvina untied the apron and draped it over one arm. “At least you’ll be pretty far along with your healing by Christmas. I’d hate you to miss out on the entire end of the year festivities.”

  “To be whole again will be enough for me.” Abby glanced at her abdomen. “Don’t get me wrong, having this colostomy wasn’t the end of the world. It’s keeping me alive. If I had to live with it, I could. The equipment is so exact, I’m barely aware of it. Still I’ll be glad to be rid of it. It’s time intensive, taking care of the skin around the stoma and keeping it all clean. I will never take my anus for granted again!”

  Elvina tilted her head. “I guess I never gave mine much thought.”

  Abby jabbed a finger into the air. “Well you should. Everyone should. Matter of fact, I think there ought to be some kind of national appreciate-your-anus day, or something.”

  “Sounds like the kind of craziness Piddie Longman would’ve come up with.” Elvina’s expression softened with the mention of her friend. “I can imagine the T-shirt logos.”

  Abby held her stomach and giggled. “Like . . . have you hugged your anus today?”

  When the laughter dwindled to a few sniffles, Elvina said, “I don’t recall the last time I laughed hard like that. Makes my insides feel ten years younger.”

  “Mine too. Though the incision still doesn’t like the work-out.” Abby nodded her head once. “I’ve decided. I’m going to do everything in my power to return to work by the first of the year. Get my life back to normal.”

  Elvina frowned. “Good intentions never hurt, but you shouldn’t rush yourself, sugar. Even after your new incisions heal, there’s still a lot that’s mending inside. Dr. Payne’s wife and Sabrina are doing a passable job of keeping the front desk running. I hear a little grumbling around town, nothing serious.”

  “I can only watch so much Ellen and Food Network. The walls are beginning to close in around me.” For the first time in as long as she could recall, Abby appreciated her small and ordinary life. “I need to get back.”

  Sheila Bruner sniffled through the entire yoga class. Not on account of her wounded shoulder. Joy took special care to point out the movements Sheila should either alter or avoid. All of the tamped down emotions—fear, anger, frustration, guilt—enveloped her like the black coroner’s body bag she imagined wrapped around her husband. She had not viewed Glenn’s body. Was warned against it. “Everything has been taken care of, Mrs. Bruner,” the federal officers had assured her. Reality trickled in as the drama unfolded—the visitation, the expressions of sympathy, the memorial ceremony, and the tears that burned her eyes, yet never flowed. And the way people looked at her with their unanswered questions.

  Surrounding her, Sheila’s friends formed a close circle. Choo-choo on her hot pink mat to the left. Loiscell in that deep purple bandana to her right. Ben in the row behind her. Beside him, Abby sat on a cushioned folding chair, doing the rhythmic breathing and a few upper body stretches as her incisions allowed.

  The choreographed movements and controlled breath work brought the simmering miasma of emotions bubbling up from Sheila’s core until it reached her heart. Intense heat blossomed where cold
detachment had been since the FBI agents’ visit. In reality, for much longer.

  The energy seared and foamed. Sheila trembled with the effort to stuff it back down. Where it lived, had always lived.

  What hours of prayer had failed to unleash, the yoga movements accomplished. By the time Joy’s soothing voice led the final meditation, tears lined Sheila’s cheeks. She couldn’t make them stop.

  “You okay, hon?” Loiscell reached out to touch Sheila’s shoulder. “You didn’t overdo it, did you? This might not be such a good idea.”

  “I’m fine,” Sheila managed to mumble. She rolled the mat, jammed it and the meditation pillow into a duffle, and dashed for the double doors.

  Choo-choo stood with her hands on her hips. “What’s going on, you reckon?”

  Abby watched the door close in Sheila’s wake. “I’m worried about her. She’s barely said two words since Glenn’s funeral. She’s seemed so . . . like she’s going through the motions.” Ben helped Abby to stand and folded the chair.

  “I think we need to go to your house and be with her,” Loiscell said. “Maybe she’ll open up if we’re there for support.”

  “She rode here with me,” Loiscell said. “Unless she’s waiting in the car, she’s taken off on foot.” She grabbed her mat and cushion and hurried from the room.

  “I’ll drive you home, Abs,” Ben said. “Then I’ll go on to my house. Sounds like this might be one of those girls-only things.”

  Choo-choo hesitated before she collected her yoga props. “I’m coming, too.”

  The four members of the Suicide Supper Club gathered in Abby McKenzie’s living room. Oreo watched from his perch on a nearby chair.

  Sheila cried: great, heaving sobs that shook her thin body. Loiscell hugged her from one side. Choo-choo sat on the other. Abby rested in the recliner across from the three with a box of tissues in her hands.