blur of red, red hair, red face, red lips, snaky tongue.
“What …” I whispered. If I was going to get through this, I needed cool Gloria back, in her cool white suits, her precise French twists, her powdered face, textureless, planar, marble.
“Don’t turn greenhorn on me now,” she said, facing me. “Listen up. I want you to take the gun and the letter opener. I want you to drop the gun in the sewer drain, but drive at least five miles from town. By the paper mill. Got it? Then drive over by the loading docks and drop the letter opener in the water.
“I’m hoping I don’t need to tell you to make sure no one sees you. Do whatever you have to do to dodge any eyes. Then drive to your place, it’s closer, and pick me up a coat, something long, your trench coat. And a bag. A shopping bag. I can’t walk out of here with this butcher’s apron on. You get it, baby? You get it?”
She grabbed my chin in her hand. It was wet and she wanted it on me. She wanted his blood on me. She curled her fingers so high up my chin they touched the bottom of my lips. The wet touched my lips and lingered there.
“You’re going to do it and you’re going to do it smart. And don’t even think of going Pollyanna on me,” she muttered. “That knife didn’t get there by itself.”
We both turned and looked at Vic’s knife poised there, straight in the air. Still in his hand. Still in Vic’s hand. Had I done that?
Looking at it got my head on straight again, knocked the horror out of my bones and reminded me of the stakes here, for us and for me. Reminded me of the world beyond that room, a world larger than all this, with rules, laws, machines of its own that didn’t care about my dread, about what I had going on inside me, about the ugly red haze stuck in my head.
Then, hearing her breathing next to me, smelling it, and smelling the desperation on her, I realized I had to do something. I had to show her I wasn’t going soft. If she thought I was going soft, there was no telling what she’d do.
I walked over, leaned down, and yanked the knife out. I made sure I didn’t even twitch when the body jolted with the motion.
Holding up the knife, I said, “Guess I’ll toss this while I’m at it.”
She looked at me, her right hand dangling at her side. I could feel the blood on my chin, along my jawline where that hand had been.
“Guess you’d better,” she said.
I walked, slow as she ever did, to where my handbag lay and kneeled down for it, tossing the knife inside. Still kneeling, I arced my arm in a wide circle, sweeping the gun and the letter opener into the bag as well. Then I rose and pulled out a handkerchief and my compact. Looking straight into the mirror, straight at my face, batter white except for the two thick, gruesome red streaks down either side of my mouth, I ran the handkerchief over my chin, dainty as a society lady at a dinner party.
“I’ll be back in thirty minutes,” I said, tucking the purse under my arm, twisting on my heels, and walking out.
Out on the street, I breathed the misty air as deep as I could. After that small space, hot, wet, and close, like the inside of something slowly constricting, I was grateful for the chill in the air, the strangely clean smell of exhaust fumes, factory grit, the whole steel and concrete feel.
In the car, I kept the windows rolled all the way down even though the night was raw. I ignored the stench still in my nostrils. I ignored the rearview mirror, didn’t want to see my face. There was a sound in my head that I wanted to drown out. There was a sound that was knocking around up there. It was the sound of his shoe hitting the radiator again and again with each swing of her arm, each time she brought that brass blade down. Over and over and over and I was standing there. And I was watching and his torso was spraying blood like an atomizer. And I was glad I was standing behind her so I couldn’t see his face, or hers.
When I was back at his
“What …” I whispered. If I was going to get through this, I needed cool Gloria back, in her cool white suits, her precise French twists, her powdered face, textureless, planar, marble.
“Don’t turn greenhorn on me now,” she said, facing me. “Listen up. I want you to take the gun and the letter opener. I want you to drop the gun in the sewer drain, but drive at least five miles from town. By the paper mill. Got it? Then drive over by the loading docks and drop the letter opener in the water.
“I’m hoping I don’t need to tell you to make sure no one sees you. Do whatever you have to do to dodge any eyes. Then drive to your place, it’s closer, and pick me up a coat, something long, your trench coat. And a bag. A shopping bag. I can’t walk out of here with this butcher’s apron on. You get it, baby? You get it?”
She grabbed my chin in her hand. It was wet and she wanted it on me. She wanted his blood on me. She curled her fingers so high up my chin they touched the bottom of my lips. The wet touched my lips and lingered there.
“You’re going to do it and you’re going to do it smart. And don’t even think of going Pollyanna on me,” she muttered. “That knife didn’t get there by itself.”
We both turned and looked at Vic’s knife poised there, straight in the air. Still in his hand. Still in Vic’s hand. Had I done that?
Looking at it got my head on straight again, knocked the horror out of my bones and reminded me of the stakes here, for us and for me. Reminded me of the world beyond that room, a world larger than all this, with rules, laws, machines of its own that didn’t care about my dread, about what I had going on inside me, about the ugly red haze stuck in my head.
Then, hearing her breathing next to me, smelling it, and smelling the desperation on her, I realized I had to do something. I had to show her I wasn’t going soft. If she thought I was going soft, there was no telling what she’d do.
I walked over, leaned down, and yanked the knife out. I made sure I didn’t even twitch when the body jolted with the motion.
Holding up the knife, I said, “Guess I’ll toss this while I’m at it.”
She looked at me, her right hand dangling at her side. I could feel the blood on my chin, along my jawline where that hand had been.
“Guess you’d better,” she said.
I walked, slow as she ever did, to where my handbag lay and kneeled down for it, tossing the knife inside. Still kneeling, I arced my arm in a wide circle, sweeping the gun and the letter opener into the bag as well. Then I rose and pulled out a handkerchief and my compact. Looking straight into the mirror, straight at my face, batter white except for the two thick, gruesome red streaks down either side of my mouth, I ran the handkerchief over my chin, dainty as a society lady at a dinner party.
“I’ll be back in thirty minutes,” I said, tucking the purse under my arm, twisting on my heels, and walking out.
Out on the street, I breathed the misty air as deep as I could. After that small space, hot, wet, and close, like the inside of something slowly constricting, I was grateful for the chill in the air, the strangely clean smell of exhaust fumes, factory grit, the whole steel and concrete feel.
In the car, I kept the windows rolled all the way down even though the night was raw. I ignored the stench still in my nostrils. I ignored the rearview mirror, didn’t want to see my face. There was a sound in my head that I wanted to drown out. There was a sound that was knocking around up there. It was the sound of his shoe hitting the radiator again and again with each swing of her arm, each time she brought that brass blade down. Over and over and over and I was standing there. And I was watching and his torso was spraying blood like an atomizer. And I was glad I was standing behind her so I couldn’t see his face, or hers.
When I was back at his
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