21 Tales (25 page)

At the coffee machine all the talk was about the Broadway Butcher. I stood around and listened. The latest victim was a thirty year old librarian from Tampa, Florida attending a library conference in New York. Donald Vicks brought over the front page of the Boston Examiner which showed a picture of the victim while she was still among the living. She was small, pretty, had medium length brown hair and slightly almond-shaped eyes. Like all the other victims she looked a lot like Louise, my wife.

I left the discussion and sat down behind my desk. I forced the Broadway Butcher out of my mind. There were too many other things to worry about. Like the stack of sales inquiries I had to follow up on. And Louise…

I couldn't get any work done. I was dead tired and I was worrying about Louise. About our fight. It had been a bad one, maybe our worst yet. And to top it off she had threatened to show up at the office to continue it.

And Louise, bless her black heart, is a woman of her word.

I had asked Jack in security to keep her out. At about ten past eleven Jack called to tell me my wife was on her way to see me. His voice sounded hurt as he apologized. “I tried to stop her, but well, you know—”

“Yeah, I know.” I hung up and pushed myself away from my desk, hoping to catch Louise before it was too late.

As I turned I saw her enter the Sales office. Donald Vicks flashed me a sympathetic smile and then buried himself into his work. I ran to Louise and grabbed her by her elbow.

“Come on,” I pleaded under my breath. “Let's take this outside.”

She pulled away, freeing herself. “What's the matter?” she asked, her voice rising to a high pitch. “Afraid your coworkers might find out about you? Is that it, Mr. Innocent?”

Bob Harrison, my manager, had opened the door to his office and was staring out, his pale blue eyes not at all happy. I looked at him in a pleading sort of way and then back at my wife. I felt sick to my stomach. “Louise, please,” I said. “This is not the place—”

“No, it isn't, but no place is, huh?” she challenged, her mouth convulsing as if she were about to spit up phlegm. Then she started bawling, all at once like a switch had been thrown. As tears streamed her face they left black traces of mascara. She looked so damn ridiculous. The thought of carrying her to the window and throwing her out head first overwhelmed me. All I wanted was to watch her fall the five floors to the cement below. But all I could do was stand there and let her humiliate me.

Through her sobbing she asked where I was the previous night.

“I already told you—”

“Where were you?”

“Look, Louise, what do you want me to say?”

“Tell me the truth!”

“Honey, please.” I took a step towards her and she moved with a surprising quickness, slapping me hard across the face. At first all I could hear was that slap echoing in my ears. After a while I could hear her calling me a dirty bastard over and over again.

Finally she stopped. As she stared at me her eyes shrunk to small black points. The office became deathly quiet where only Louise's breathing could be heard. Then she started laughing.

“You're  pathetic. Nothing but a pathetic lying bastard.” Her laugh died away. “And,” she added, weakly, “I guess I must be pretty pathetic too. I'd have to be to stick around as long I did. Maybe we should give each other a break and call it quits?”

I felt like I had been smacked full in the face with a sledgehammer. My mouth dropped open and all I could do was stare at her. She was serious. Dead serious. After a while I could talk. “No, honey,” I heard myself begging her, “we can work this thing out. We got to. It's too important.” My voice choked off. Louise was studying me intently. She could tell I was dead serious too. She opened her mouth, paused, and then she called me a bastard one last time. Before she left she addressed the office, hoping that everyone enjoyed the show.

When I returned back to my desk I was shaking like a leaf. I couldn't let her move out on me. Not now. Not after everything I'd been through. As I was trying to sort this out in my mind Bob Harrison called, asking me to step into his office.

My knees were still wobbly as I entered Harrison's office. He looked uncomfortable. It's not easy firing your best salesman.

“I'm sorry, Russ,” he started. “But—”

“Yeah, I know.” I dropped into the chair across from him and met his pale blue unhappy eyes. “It's a shame about the Mullin deal. I was so damn close. Well, maybe if I push it a little I can turn it around.”

“That's not what this is about.”

“No? What, about Louise? Well, I don't blame you for being upset, but I wouldn't be too hard on Jack if I were you. I'm sure he tried the best he could to keep her out but I doubt that she –”

“Stop it.” His voice was just above a whisper. He paused and then looked away from me. “I hate doing this, Russ, but I can't tolerate her disruptions to the office. I've warned you about her.”

“She's not coming up here again. I promise you.”

“You've promised me that before.”

“I know. Christ, I know.” I tried to smile. “I can't afford to lose my job now. Not with the recession. I'll work it out with her. I'll do whatever I have to.” I swallowed hard. I had to fight to keep from sobbing. “Damn it, Bob, give me one more chance!”

He studied me. His pale blue eyes looked miserable. There was a slight crack to his lips as they formed a smile. “You never got home last night?”

I met his eyes. “I was out late trying to close the Richmond contract. Afterwards, I didn't feel I could stomach Louise and all her craziness so I spent the night in a motel. When I stopped off this morning to change into something clean she went nuts. That's all there is.”

I stood up and told him I still had some details to iron out about the Richmond contract. He nodded and watched as I left. We had an understanding. One more visit by Louise and I was unemployed.

When I got back behind my desk I was shaking. I couldn't afford to lose my job, not now, not with Louise going to New York in two weeks. With Sales you're always traveling. I was going to need the alibi the job gave me when Louis met the Broadway Butcher.

# #

I don't know what happened between Louise and me. For the first few years it seemed like we had the perfect marriage. I don't think either of us could've been happier. Then it changed. She changed. Everything with her became a battle. Everything became twisted and ugly. If I said it looked like rain, she'd mutter something under her breath about hoping I'd drown in it. One night I woke up to hear her swearing at me. It was four a.m. and she was sitting up in bed, her knees pulled to her chest, and in a barely audible whisper she was calling me every hateful thing imaginable. It went on for over an hour and during it all I pretended to be asleep and in my mind pictured ripping every limb from her body.

For a long time I thought about divorcing her, but it didn't seem right. She had to suffer. She had to suffer as bad as she made me suffer. And just as important, I had to be able to get away with it. I couldn't stand it otherwise. Not after what she'd put me through.

I knew for six months about Louise's business seminar. For the last three months I've made seven trips to New York. One trip every two weeks. My next trip will coincide with Louise's seminar.

For a while I was puzzled about how the newspapers were reporting the murders. They left in some of the details, like about the teeth and the fingertips, but they left out so much more. Eventually I realized what was going on. They were purposely misleading the public, trying to protect against any copycat murders. And in doing so they made my plans for Louise all the more perfect. Because no copycat murderer, like a husband, could possibly do it. At least not if they were going to match all of the Broadway Butcher's grisly details.

The newspapers were wrong about a lot of it, though, especially their psychological profiles. I got no thrill out of any of it. In fact, I wish I could've made it fast and painless for them. But I couldn't. They had to die the same way Louise was going to die. And Louise's death had to be pure horror.

# #

When I arrived home that night Louise had a suitcase spread out on the bed and was folding her clothes into it. I just stood and watched. It was all for show. If she was serious about leaving she would've already been gone.

“You almost got me fired,” I said after a while.

She looked up from her packing. The skin around her mouth tightened, and for a second it looked like she was going to let loose with something nasty, but as she looked at me a softness melted into her face.

“You were serious before,” she said in a tone I hadn't heard in years. “About me leaving? You really don't want me to leave?”

The fragility in her voice almost floored me. I had to blink to make sure it was really Louise standing in front of me. When I was able to compose my voice I told her I wanted her to stay.

“I think you mean it,” she said.

I shifted my eyes away from her. “I do. I realized how close I was to losing you and it scared me. I don't think I could stand it.”

“Where were you last night?”

“I wasn't with anyone. Does it matter?”

“Yes. Where were you?”

I looked her straight in the eyes. “I met yesterday with a client in Connecticut. I was tired. I didn't feel like driving home so I stopped off at a motel. By myself. That's the whole story.”

“You didn't go anyplace else?”

“Like where?”

Louise stood staring at me. As she did, her eyes seemed to grow larger. I had forgotten how big they could be. “I don't know,” she murmured. Her bottom lip began to tremble. “You really think we can work things out?”

I moved my head up and down an inch. Her eyes were quickly becoming moist. It's funny, but I had forgotten they were brown. For the last few years I had thought of them as nothing but small black holes.

She bit her lip. “I'm sick of hating you. I'm sick of what's happened to us. I can't take it anymore.”

She started bawling and then stumbled to me, burying her head into my chest. She felt so small in my arms. Her tears so hot. The last few years she cried a lot but not like this. Always out of hatred or anger or frustration. Usually a smoldering combination of the three. This was different. As I held her, as I tried to soothe and comfort her, all I could think of was good. Let her think things were getting better. That we could actually be happy again. Later, when the time was right, she'd find out the truth. And her last few hours will be all the more unbearable.

# #

We made love that night. Afterwards she fell asleep in my arms, her head resting under my chin. I felt too exhausted to push her away. About all I could do was let my eyes close.

# #

I could see myself in an alleyway. I'm bending over something. Maybe a dead dog. I can't tell. From behind, my hair is a mess, sticking out and streaked with dirt and sweat. I'm watching as I move away. What I was bending over wasn't a dog. It was the last victim, the librarian from Tampa. Her face looks like raw hamburger. What's left of it…

# #

I woke up in a cold panic. At first I thought I was back in that alleyway. Then I remembered. I looked over at Louise. She had rolled over on her side and was still sound asleep. I collapsed back onto the bed.

It was the first time I had dreamt or even thought about any of the victims. It took a while before I could fall back to sleep.

# #

The next morning at breakfast Louise was eyeing me suspiciously. “I'm afraid I'm going to wake up any minute now,” she said.

I walked over and forced myself to kiss the top of her head. “You have woken up, darling. What we had before was the nightmare.” As I massaged her shoulders all I could think was just wait baby, in two weeks you'll have yourself a genuine eye-popping screamer.

Louise grabbed one of my hands. “Maybe I should cancel my trip to New York?”

I stopped cold. All I could do was stare at her.

“I don't want to risk what we just got back.” Her eyes were searching mine. “I can skip it this year.”

“I'd feel too guilty,” I said at last. “I know how important it is to you.”

“We should be together now,” she insisted stubbornly, her eyes still searching, still probing.

“We've got two weeks for that. And then an eternity.” I reached down to kiss her forehead, but she moved and got on her toes so that instead her mouth found mine.

“You're trembling,” she said.

“Because of how much I love you.”

# #

The next two weeks went by quickly. During it Louise fumbled around awkwardly, trying to do all the little things lovers do. I played along, partly to keep her in line, partly so that our final meeting would have just the right
je ne sais quoi
.

I have to give Louise credit. During those two weeks she worked hard trying to please me. Sometimes I'd look at her and find myself confused, not recognizing her. Her razor-sharp edges softened to the point of being inviting. Her eyes so damn big. So damn brown…

Neither of us slept much the night before her trip to New York. She spent most of it on top of me; sometimes making love to me, sometimes sobbing silently.

I drove her to the airport the next morning. After a painfully long kiss, she burrowed her head against my chest.

“I don't want to leave you now,” she said, her voice muffled by my overcoat. “I wish you could come with me.”

We stood silently for a moment. She pulled away and gave me a timid smile. “Why don’t you come with me?”

I looked long and hard into her eyes and found myself shaking my head. “I can't,” I muttered, my throat thickening. “I'll see you when you get back.”

She stood quickly on her toes and pushed her mouth hard against mine, making the kiss last. “If you get the chance,” she whispered, “sneak down to New York and surprise me. You know where I'm staying.”

I nodded and watched as she walked away.

# #

I didn't go to New York. Instead I stayed home and thought about Louise, about when things first started going wrong between us and why. I guess it wasn't as big a mystery as I first thought. If you looked at it honestly, you could say that I caused most of it. And to be even more honest, I must've, at least subconsciously, wanted it to happen. I must've been searching for an excuse to create the Broadway Butcher. The psychological profiles the newspapers came out with were a lot closer to the truth than I'd want to admit to.