of the gun had been pointing. Which way the blood had splattered.
I corrected myself:
spattered.
Other liquids splatter. Blood spatters.
Thank you,
Dexter
.
• • •
I replayed the first conversation that Sam and I ever had about Currie’s death. I’d been in a derelict phone booth in an even more derelict filling station in the hills above Los Alamos, New Mexico. Sam had been at a pay phone in Boulder. Somewhere near Ideal Market, or maybe across Alpine near the Boulder Wine Merchant.
Sam had mentioned whiskey and pills on the table. I looked at the dining table. The table was solid and simple—dark stained oak that showed the wear of fifty years of dining. I imagined an amber pill container and a bottle of bourbon. A solitary glass. In my imagination I made it a highball glass, with etched vertical flutes.
Had Sam said Jack Daniel’s? I thought he had.
I clarified the image. I made the whiskey a square bottle of black-labeled Jack. I screwed the lid off the bottle and set it on the dark wood.
I poured a double shot into the highball glass. I doubled the double.
• • •
“You coming?” Izza said. “Hello.”
“I am. Sorry—I was imagining what it would be like. You ever do that?”
Izza shivered, her arms covered in gooseflesh. “Yes. Sometimes,” she said.
My question had rocketed her someplace she didn’t want to go.
I took the same wide route around the center of the room that she did. She was rubbing her arms. “Nice,” I said. I stood beside her in the kitchen doorway. It was a good-sized room with plenty of counter space. A big farm sink. That new dishwasher.
“Grandma was a baker,” she said. “It was built like this for her. She didn’t care about much else in the house, but she cared about this kitchen.” She smiled. “And she wanted a deep bathtub. She took long soaks. That’s what she called them.”
The kitchen had its own table and chairs. The table was a linoleum-topped model with three chrome diner-style chairs with vinyl cushions. I could almost feel that vinyl sticking to my bare skin on hot summer nights.
• • •
During that phone conversation from New Mexico to Boulder, Sam had said that the whiskey and the pills had been on the
kitchen
table. He hadn’t meant the oak table in the other room. I rearranged my imaginings.
The black Jack and the drugs reappeared in front of me as though I’d Photoshopped them into the frame. In real life, I didn’t know how to Photoshop. In my imagination, I was a wizard.
Did Sam and Currie sit here for a while, in the kitchen? Did they talk, discuss her options? The mess she was in? Did they share some of the bourbon?
I decided they didn’t drink together. Given the threat she represented, Sam wouldn’t have been comfortable with that.
I didn’t mentally Photoshop a second highball glass into the picture.
I wondered if Currie believed that she could somehow thwart Sam’s plans. Was she seducing, or dissuading, or plotting her big escape while they sat at this table and talked? Perhaps she had a counterattack in mind? A quick move for a kitchen knife?
Or was Currie accepting her defeat, feeling the mantle of martyrdom, or the weight of her approaching death, as she sat with Sam? Was this where she admitted that she indeed planned to kill our children?
I tried to feel some compassion for her. It gave me pause that I was unable.
• • •
I realized time had passed. Too long an interlude for a potential renter who should have been doing nothing more than taking a quick look at a cottage kitchen. I tried to recover. I said, “Just seeing myself here some morning. Having coffee. Maybe some pancakes. A nice breeze from that window. In winter, I could see the sun rise.”
“You’re up early,” Izza said.
I smiled. “Sometimes.”
“Me too,” she said. “I like the quiet. The bedroom? Shall we?”
She blushed at her own words before she rushed ahead of me out of the kitchen.
“Onward,” I said.
I corrected myself:
spattered.
Other liquids splatter. Blood spatters.
Thank you,
Dexter
.
• • •
I replayed the first conversation that Sam and I ever had about Currie’s death. I’d been in a derelict phone booth in an even more derelict filling station in the hills above Los Alamos, New Mexico. Sam had been at a pay phone in Boulder. Somewhere near Ideal Market, or maybe across Alpine near the Boulder Wine Merchant.
Sam had mentioned whiskey and pills on the table. I looked at the dining table. The table was solid and simple—dark stained oak that showed the wear of fifty years of dining. I imagined an amber pill container and a bottle of bourbon. A solitary glass. In my imagination I made it a highball glass, with etched vertical flutes.
Had Sam said Jack Daniel’s? I thought he had.
I clarified the image. I made the whiskey a square bottle of black-labeled Jack. I screwed the lid off the bottle and set it on the dark wood.
I poured a double shot into the highball glass. I doubled the double.
• • •
“You coming?” Izza said. “Hello.”
“I am. Sorry—I was imagining what it would be like. You ever do that?”
Izza shivered, her arms covered in gooseflesh. “Yes. Sometimes,” she said.
My question had rocketed her someplace she didn’t want to go.
I took the same wide route around the center of the room that she did. She was rubbing her arms. “Nice,” I said. I stood beside her in the kitchen doorway. It was a good-sized room with plenty of counter space. A big farm sink. That new dishwasher.
“Grandma was a baker,” she said. “It was built like this for her. She didn’t care about much else in the house, but she cared about this kitchen.” She smiled. “And she wanted a deep bathtub. She took long soaks. That’s what she called them.”
The kitchen had its own table and chairs. The table was a linoleum-topped model with three chrome diner-style chairs with vinyl cushions. I could almost feel that vinyl sticking to my bare skin on hot summer nights.
• • •
During that phone conversation from New Mexico to Boulder, Sam had said that the whiskey and the pills had been on the
kitchen
table. He hadn’t meant the oak table in the other room. I rearranged my imaginings.
The black Jack and the drugs reappeared in front of me as though I’d Photoshopped them into the frame. In real life, I didn’t know how to Photoshop. In my imagination, I was a wizard.
Did Sam and Currie sit here for a while, in the kitchen? Did they talk, discuss her options? The mess she was in? Did they share some of the bourbon?
I decided they didn’t drink together. Given the threat she represented, Sam wouldn’t have been comfortable with that.
I didn’t mentally Photoshop a second highball glass into the picture.
I wondered if Currie believed that she could somehow thwart Sam’s plans. Was she seducing, or dissuading, or plotting her big escape while they sat at this table and talked? Perhaps she had a counterattack in mind? A quick move for a kitchen knife?
Or was Currie accepting her defeat, feeling the mantle of martyrdom, or the weight of her approaching death, as she sat with Sam? Was this where she admitted that she indeed planned to kill our children?
I tried to feel some compassion for her. It gave me pause that I was unable.
• • •
I realized time had passed. Too long an interlude for a potential renter who should have been doing nothing more than taking a quick look at a cottage kitchen. I tried to recover. I said, “Just seeing myself here some morning. Having coffee. Maybe some pancakes. A nice breeze from that window. In winter, I could see the sun rise.”
“You’re up early,” Izza said.
I smiled. “Sometimes.”
“Me too,” she said. “I like the quiet. The bedroom? Shall we?”
She blushed at her own words before she rushed ahead of me out of the kitchen.
“Onward,” I said.
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