Double Jeopardy by Martin M. Goldsmith

dreaded that my personal affairs someday might be aired in public. This fear was born of a life spent in a small town. I have seen too many people broken and unable to hold their heads up after the malicious work of gossipers and scandal-mongers.
    I continued to try to quiet her but she would not be hushed. “Why are you doing this to me? You hate me, don't you? Oh, don't deny it! I know you hate me! Well... I hate you, too!”
    “Anita!” I gasped.
    “Yes, I do! I hate you! I can't stand the sight of you! You bore me, see? You didn't know that, did you? Well, now you do!”
    The tears were drying on her face and in her eyes, leaving them rimmed and reddened. The rouge on her cheeks stood out against her dead white skin in round, uneven splotches. With her hair in disarray, she looked almost mad and, I must confess, horribly ugly. Seeing her this way after once having witnessed her beautiful, frightened me. It also hastened me in my decision to do what she wished.
    I managed to get my hand on the hilt of the knife and I began to twist it from her grasp. Struggling to retain it, Anita commenced to shout again with still more rage. “Let me alone! Let me alone, do you hear? I'll kill you if you take that away! Oh... you're hurting me! God damn you! I'll... I'll...” And here her words ran into one another, becoming unintelligible expostulations of hatred.
    I suppose I did hurt her a bit; but it was absolutely necessary. In the mood she was in, I was afraid either that she might attack herself with the knife or use it against me. In any case, her being in possession of the thing was a decided menace.
    To anyone outside who might have heard Anita's words, it would undoubtedly seem that she really and truly despised me; I myself put no stock in them. I was sure that her fit of temper was but a phase of her physical condition and that she didn't mean any of the mean things she said about me. You must know then that Anita was menstruating that night and do not forget that earlier that very day she had had two teeth extracted. What she had gone through was enough to make any woman fly off the handle.
    I thought that if I could get the knife away from her and put her to bed, in the morning everything would be peaceful again. She was still screaming and clawing at my chest like some enraged lioness when I finally managed to remove the dangerously sharp knife from her fingers.
    Then, to my dismay, the doorbell rang.
    Anita stopped her noise at once. Together we looked stupidly at one another. Then she nodded that I should go and see who was outside. The ringing of the bell evidently calmed her hysteria for, as though thoroughly done in, she sank into a chair as I moved reluctantly toward the front door, absent-mindedly dangling the captured knife from one hand.
    Well, young Tom Murphy saw that carving-knife and he could not have helped hearing all the screaming as he came up the walk. He gave me a searching look as he handed me the package containing the sleeping draught.
    “Here you are, Mr. Thatcher,” he said. “This ought to do the trick.”
    I accepted the package with the hand that held the knife, thanked him in a hollow voice, and he hurried away as though he was anxious to get out of the vicinity.
    When I got back to the kitchen, Anita was opening a large bottle of beer which we were accustomed to drink after dinner during the hot weather. She poured out two glasses recklessly, the foam spilling onto the tablecloth.
    “It's a sleeping powder, Anita,” I said, opening the packet and placing the little fold of paper near her hand. “Your tooth may ache. Good idea to drop it in your beer.”
    She gave no sign that she heard me. Although she had stopped crying, there was a wet shine to her eyes that I didn't like. In her silence I could feel repressed a stony hatred for me and it absolutely took away what few regrets I had regarding the store I was now so firmly resolved to sell. Why I didn't tell her of my change of