slight with a bowl cut. He looks as sexual as my wooden stool. I can’t believe he had his way with the woman in 10B, but when he drops to his knees, crawls forward, and peers under the crack of my door, I do.
John says, “Would you like I should put a rubber whozeewhatzit on the threshold so he can’t see your shoes?”
“He can see my shoes?”
Eddie lifts his head and presses his ear to the bottom of the door.
Through the peephole, I see his legs stretched out behind him.
His ankles tick right, tick left. He drums his nails (too long for any decent man) against my marble threshold. He taps my door.
And then again, there’s his “Hello?”
John says, “Your husband’s mother would never abide such tomfoolery. Five minutes ago she’d be out in that hallway beating his ears with a rolled-up newspaper.”
My husband’s mother was a sadist. Well, maybe
sadist
isn’t the word I’m supposed to use in this day and age, but I don’t know what else I would call her. Control freak? My husband’s mother was a control freak who wouldn’t let her cook have a stool, her maid leave a speck of dust, her doormen forget their place, her son eat cookies in bed or marry a woman who couldn’t pass her spot test.
She said to him, “Your wife will protect what’s mine.”
She asked me: “You don’t scare easily?”
I do not.
I unlock the front door.
I run to my kitchen and wait.
I hear Eddie come in. I hear his faint “Hello.” I hear his footsteps in the foyer, through the living room, through the dining room. I calculate the time I’ll have to remove his scuff marks before my husband gets home.
The kitchen door opens and Eddie sticks his head in.
One whack of my wooden stool makes Eddie go down. I whack him again before he gets up. And then whack him a few more times to make sure he’s dead.
I have to bake cookies for the board, so I’ll leave the blood for later. I’m careful not to step in it as I move from my fridge to my cabinets to my counter canisters to the mixer. Eggs, butter, Quaker Oats, vanilla. The secret to keeping brown sugar from getting hard is storing it with a marshmallow. I put the first batch of oatmeal raisin in the oven and then return my attention to Eddie. I turn on my radio. Dismemberment and freezing are the priorities.
John fixes the doohickey on my jammed electric carving knife.
I work from Eddie’s feet up and bag each little bit. Tomorrow I’ll give Tony the head to take away with my lunch. The next day: a shoulder. Until evidence of Eddie, puzzled in my freezer, is gone.
When my husband tells the board that Eddie is missing, he’ll be happy to report that another doorman problem has solved itself. When Eddie comes back, I’ll tell him that my husband gave him to me to murder. When Eddie haunts my husband, he won’t do it with repairs or errands. He’ll scare him to death. And then I will claim this whole apartment as my own.
PAGEANT
PROTECTION
L isten up. We’ve got exactly four minutes before they notice you’re not backstage with the other contestants. In eight minutes, they’ll lock down the Radisson. In twenty, they’ll issue an Amber Alert.
So get in the van. Hunch down. Take off your dress. There’s a T-shirt and shorts under the front seat. Wipe off your makeup and take off that wig. Put on
that
wig. Stay down! Don’t look in the rearview mirror. I can assure you, sweetie, you look like a boy. I’m sorry, but that’s part of the drill. Remember, you asked for this and I’m here to help.
You can call me Aunt Mandy.
Here, take this Dramamine. It’s chewable and tastes orange. It’ll make you sleepy but keep you from getting carsick. These back roads are bumpy. Last year your friend, the Ultimate Grand Supreme Little Miss Savannah Stars and Stripes, refused to take her medicine and puked Mountain Dew across the Louisiana state line.
Yuck is right!
Hey, do you still suck a binky?
No? Well, aren’t you a big girl! Breaking a binky habit is
John says, “Would you like I should put a rubber whozeewhatzit on the threshold so he can’t see your shoes?”
“He can see my shoes?”
Eddie lifts his head and presses his ear to the bottom of the door.
Through the peephole, I see his legs stretched out behind him.
His ankles tick right, tick left. He drums his nails (too long for any decent man) against my marble threshold. He taps my door.
And then again, there’s his “Hello?”
John says, “Your husband’s mother would never abide such tomfoolery. Five minutes ago she’d be out in that hallway beating his ears with a rolled-up newspaper.”
My husband’s mother was a sadist. Well, maybe
sadist
isn’t the word I’m supposed to use in this day and age, but I don’t know what else I would call her. Control freak? My husband’s mother was a control freak who wouldn’t let her cook have a stool, her maid leave a speck of dust, her doormen forget their place, her son eat cookies in bed or marry a woman who couldn’t pass her spot test.
She said to him, “Your wife will protect what’s mine.”
She asked me: “You don’t scare easily?”
I do not.
I unlock the front door.
I run to my kitchen and wait.
I hear Eddie come in. I hear his faint “Hello.” I hear his footsteps in the foyer, through the living room, through the dining room. I calculate the time I’ll have to remove his scuff marks before my husband gets home.
The kitchen door opens and Eddie sticks his head in.
One whack of my wooden stool makes Eddie go down. I whack him again before he gets up. And then whack him a few more times to make sure he’s dead.
I have to bake cookies for the board, so I’ll leave the blood for later. I’m careful not to step in it as I move from my fridge to my cabinets to my counter canisters to the mixer. Eggs, butter, Quaker Oats, vanilla. The secret to keeping brown sugar from getting hard is storing it with a marshmallow. I put the first batch of oatmeal raisin in the oven and then return my attention to Eddie. I turn on my radio. Dismemberment and freezing are the priorities.
John fixes the doohickey on my jammed electric carving knife.
I work from Eddie’s feet up and bag each little bit. Tomorrow I’ll give Tony the head to take away with my lunch. The next day: a shoulder. Until evidence of Eddie, puzzled in my freezer, is gone.
When my husband tells the board that Eddie is missing, he’ll be happy to report that another doorman problem has solved itself. When Eddie comes back, I’ll tell him that my husband gave him to me to murder. When Eddie haunts my husband, he won’t do it with repairs or errands. He’ll scare him to death. And then I will claim this whole apartment as my own.
PAGEANT
PROTECTION
L isten up. We’ve got exactly four minutes before they notice you’re not backstage with the other contestants. In eight minutes, they’ll lock down the Radisson. In twenty, they’ll issue an Amber Alert.
So get in the van. Hunch down. Take off your dress. There’s a T-shirt and shorts under the front seat. Wipe off your makeup and take off that wig. Put on
that
wig. Stay down! Don’t look in the rearview mirror. I can assure you, sweetie, you look like a boy. I’m sorry, but that’s part of the drill. Remember, you asked for this and I’m here to help.
You can call me Aunt Mandy.
Here, take this Dramamine. It’s chewable and tastes orange. It’ll make you sleepy but keep you from getting carsick. These back roads are bumpy. Last year your friend, the Ultimate Grand Supreme Little Miss Savannah Stars and Stripes, refused to take her medicine and puked Mountain Dew across the Louisiana state line.
Yuck is right!
Hey, do you still suck a binky?
No? Well, aren’t you a big girl! Breaking a binky habit is
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