Live and Let Die (6 page)

Finally, Paula set the table for two, arranging each place setting symmetrically. Her last act was to drop a straw into Phillip’s glass of iced tea with practiced flourish. She glanced at the oven clock and went down the hall to the master bathroom to get ready. She held a damp washcloth to her face then pulled her hairbrush from the drawer and ran the stiff bristles along the sides and top of her head. She smoothed her hands down the front of her short-sleeved gray housedress and adjusted the seams of her stockings, which ran into sensible white flats.

She heard Phillip’s car pull into the driveway. Paula threw her shoulders back and greeted her husband when he opened the front door. With a wide smile, she held out her arms, beckoning him.

“Hello dear. How was your day?”

Phillip smiled and gave his wife a chaste hug. “It was fine. And how was your day?”

“Oh, fine. Let me take your jacket. Dinner is ready. Baked chicken, your favorite,” she sing-songed.

“Mmmm, that sounds delicious. I’m starving.”

As Philip waited, Paula took her husband’s blazer and hung it up in the bedroom closet, taking care not to let it press against any other clothing. Paula came back to escort Phillip to the small white wood dining room table and pulled out his chair. She smiled and picked up the white linen napkin next to his plate and tucked it over his blue striped tie and into the collar of his crisp blue shirt. With a small smile, she dished up dinner for them both. She picked up his glass of iced tea and brought the straw to his lips.

“Tell me when,” she said as she held the straw. He took a few hearty sips then nodded his head, indicating he was through. With a contented smile, Paula put the glass down next to Phillip’s plate before she took her place at the table across from him.

“Did you complete your errands today?” Phillip asked as he took a small bite of salad.

“Yes. I got the money back from the teakettle that didn’t whistle. It’s in my purse.”

“Go ahead and keep it,” Phillip said. “Add it to next week’s grocery allowance.”

Paula smiled, pleased. “Oh, thank you dear.”

Phillip gave his wife an adoring look. “I thought you would like that.”

The two continued dinner in silence, each concentrating on their food and little else. When Phillip was done, he cleared his throat and Paula put down her fork, though her plate was half-full. Paula stood and cleared both of their dishes, throwing all the food down the garbage disposal. Phillip didn’t like leftovers—unless it was dessert—preferring a freshly prepared meal each day. She brought out two plates of homemade apple pie that she’d made that morning, one scoop of vanilla ice cream apiece.

She proudly placed her husband’s apple pie in front of him and went to pick up his fork to feed him his first bite when he placed his hand over hers.

“Paula.”

“Yes, dear?”

“Paula, what have you forgotten?”

Paula looked over the table, searching for the offense. Her face fell as she realized. “The coffee,” she whispered. “I forgot the coffee.”

Paula dropped to her knees, her breath coming in short bursts before the floodgates opened and she sobbed, unable to stop. She clutched the space between the tops of her husband’s brown loafers and the hem of his blue slacks.

“Oh, please, please forgive me. You know I only want to please you,” she cried.

With gentle force, Phillip placed his hands underneath Paula’s armpits and brought her to her feet. “Now, now. I guess the errands were too much for you. Perhaps we should limit your outings during the day. We can’t have you forgetting your duties.”

Paula shook her head, scared. “Oh, no dear. No. It wasn’t too much. I… I just forgot. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

Phillip looked at Paula for a few moments before he softened. “Alright. I’ll forgive it this time. But you must be more careful. Now, please make the coffee.”

Like a grateful puppy, Paula nodded and snatched up Phillip’s plate of pie before she scurried into the kitchen to make him a cup of coffee. She dumped the pie down the garbage disposal and started the coffee. Five minutes later, she came back into the dining room with a fresh slice of ice cream topped pie in one hand. In the other was a steaming white mug of decaf, the half pack of Sweet ‘N Low already stirred into the brew. She set both down in front of him and waited.

“I hope it’s okay,” she said, eager for his approval.

Phillip took a small sip of coffee and put the cup back down on the table. He gave her a curt nod and a relieved Paula could now pick up her fork and eat her own soggy pie, now swimming in a pool of melted ice cream. After dessert, Paula removed Phillip’s napkin from his collar and walked him to his favorite chair in front of the television. She flipped it to the all-sports channel before she returned to the kitchen for the first part of her nightly ritual. First, she washed and dried all of her dishes by hand, even though she had a dishwasher. Next, she swept the kitchen floor before she got on her knees and scrubbed it with a hand brush and Ajax, although she had done it that morning.

Wiping the sweat from her brow, Paula moved into the bedroom to prepare it for the evening. While Paula changed the sheets on the bed—Phillip liked to sleep on clean sheets every night—her husband stayed in front of the TV for the rest of the evening. After taking a bath—Phillip didn’t like her to come to bed unless she’d bathed—Paula pulled on a long pink flannel nightgown and climbed into bed. It was nine-thirty; Phillip would come to bed at ten. Paula turned on her back and looked up at the ceiling, ignoring her aching knees and gnarled shoulders. She could hear the low hum of the TV in the other room. She took a sharp inhale, willing herself to stay awake.

She was afraid to sleep, afraid of the dreams that would come. Paula turned over on her side and focused her gaze on the white wall opposite the bed.

“Think about your day today. Think about your day today. Think about your husband. Dream about those things,” she whispered to herself in the darkness. Paula continued to mumble to herself before she drifted off to sleep, praying her dreams would be sweet.

•

She was running, her feet stabbing the pavement as she propelled herself forward. The icy wind pummeled her face, chapping her lips and stinging her eyes. But she kept on. Punch, punch, punch, went her shoes. She tried to make out what was around her, but it was too… hard. Too much wind and… snow. Furious white flurries swirled around her, further obscuring her vision.

Finally, she stopped, unable to go any further. She bent over heaving, her breath coming in short, violent bursts. She closed her eyes to shield them from the brilliant whiteness beginning to form in front of her…

Paula jerked straight up, hyperventilating. She held her hand to her chest and felt her heart jam against her palm with rapid popping movements. Phillip lay sound asleep next to her, oblivious to her torment. She slid back down under the covers and closed her eyes, trying to steady herself. She hadn’t had that particular dream in so long.

Except it wasn’t a dream, but a horrible truth she couldn’t seem to bury.

S
ondra got out of the cab in front of her building, her body wilting with fatigue. It was close to two in the morning and she had to be back at the studio at nine. The narration was done and final mixing was taking up a huge chunk of time. They were on an aggressive editing schedule as the New York premiere was only a few months away, with the nationwide release shortly afterward.

Sondra dragged herself inside and checked her mailbox before falling into the elevator. She opened the door to her apartment and straggled to the bathroom to twirl the faucet on in the shower. Sondra stripped down and climbed in. She stood underneath the blistering needles of water, relishing the chance to power down her brain, even if only for a moment. She scrubbed the day away before washing and conditioning her thick black hair with vigorous strokes. After stepping out of the shower, she rubbed generous amounts of baby oil across her smooth brown skin before she shrugged into a pair of green sweats and a black tank top. She shuffled into her kitchen to make a cup of chamomile tea and as she waited for the water to boil, she leaned against her counter thinking about the documentary. Overall, she was happy about how it was shaping up.

The kettle whistled and Sondra poured the hot water over the tea bag followed by two heaping spoonfuls of sugar. She stirred it, the clinking of the spoon against the side of the mug the only sound echoing throughout the apartment. Sondra blew into the tea and plopped onto one of her bar stools. That day’s “Times” and “Post” were still hanging over the edge of the counter where she’d thrown them that morning. She grabbed the “Post,” not having the mental capacity to handle the “Times” at the moment. She leafed through it, that day’s news only of mild interest now. She stopped on a picture of a pretty blonde girl with doe eyes, from California apparently, and shook her head. Yet another young woman who’d been missing for two weeks, triggering a statewide search.

“Hmm,” Sondra murmured. “She went jogging just like Tracy.”

Sondra kept reading, intrigued. When she finished, she pulled her laptop out of her bag and typed the woman’s name into Google. Thousands of pages came up, including mentions in “People” and “USA Today.” On a whim, Sondra typed in “Tracy Ellis.”

No media frenzy surrounding her sister’s disappearance. A few outlets had picked up on Tracy’s connection to a well-known author and former Olympian, though her parents had chosen not to exploit their fame to spur the search for their daughter. It was just their way. If Sondra had been in the country at the time, she would have raised holy hell. Which was her way. Granted, Tracy had only been missing just shy of a week, so Sondra wouldn’t expect there to be a ton of news stories. Still… Sondra glanced back at the “Post” story with half a page dedicated to Sharon Wilson from Cupertino, California.

Sondra continued to click around Google, finding yet more stories about missing women. Sondra’s curiosity was piqued by a “USA Today” article questioning the volumes of media ink devoted to finding missing white women versus minority women who vanished. She Googled the names from the article and was astounded by the disparity in coverage. Sondra leaned back, her wheels clicking, like they did when she got an idea for a documentary. She re-read Tracy’s obituary again.

“Well, baby girl, maybe you won’t have died in vain.”

P
aula folded the last of her husband’s brown socks and dropped them on the top of the clean laundry already snug inside the blue plastic basket. Humming to herself, she went into the bedroom and opened the top drawer of the dresser and scooped all eight pairs of Phillip’s socks out of the basket and laid them next to each other in the drawer. They were all color-coordinated, the blacks next to the blacks, browns to browns and so on. She moved onto the other drawers, repeating the same meticulous movements of placing his clothes inside. He was quite particular about how his clothes were put away and Paula only wanted to please him. She lived for pleasing him.

She looked at her watch as she picked up the laundry basket. It was Saturday and Phillip always worked a half-day at the clinic on Saturdays. It was now eleven and Phillip would be home around one, expecting lunch. As Paula walked through the living room and toward the kitchen, she noticed the window ledges had a thin film of dust.

“Well, if I start now, I should finish in plenty of time to make lunch,” she said as she ran her finger along the edge. “Shouldn’t take more than a half hour.”

Paula filled up a beige bucket with water and pine cleaner and became lost in wiping the smudges from every windowsill in the house with a bright yellow sponge. As she finished, she looked at her watch and panicked. It was twelve-thirty.

“Oh. Oh no,” Paula whispered. She’d lost track of time and now would have to hurry to get lunch on the table before Phillip got home. A slender trickle of sweat crawled down the inside of Paula’s arm as she hurried into the kitchen.

On Saturday afternoons, Phillip liked two grilled cheese sandwiches with American and Cheddar, creamed corn, a glass of milk and chocolate pudding for dessert. He would then take a nap until three before going into his office until six, when he would emerge, ready for a dinner of chicken potpies and iced tea.

Paula’s fingers fumbled over slicing the cheddar, and she tore holes in three pieces of bread as she tried to butter them. She kept looking at the clock, knowing she wouldn’t make it but terrified of what would happen if she didn’t at least try. She had just flipped the second sandwich when she heard Phillip’s car pull into the driveway. She grabbed a plate from the cabinet and plunked it down on the counter. She slid the first sandwich onto the plate and began to spoon corn next to it.

Phillip’s key turned in the lock and he walked in. Paula froze, her fingers still wrapped around the black plastic handle of the pot of corn.

“Paula?”

Paula licked her lips and brought the plate of food out to the dining room table. “Hello dear. How was your day?” She hoped if she acted normally that he wouldn’t get too upset about lunch being late.

Phillip slammed the door shut before he walked over to her. He stood in front of her with his arms crossed. “What is this, Paula?”

Paula looked up meekly, her hands clenched together in front of her. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I was cleaning and I—”

Phillip cut her off. “Paula, I work hard, six days a week and when I come home, I expect to find you at the door to greet me and my meals ready and waiting.”

“I know, I know, I’m sorry—”

“You know Paula, you’ve been doing a lot of things wrong lately.”

“Oh, Phillip, no,” she whispered. “I’ve been trying so hard—”

Phillip shook his head. “Not hard enough, Paula. I’m afraid I have to punish you. You’ve been a bad, bad girl.”

Paula’s head whipped back and forth in terror as Phillip seized her arm and dragged her towards the hallway. “Please, no, Phillip, please. I’m sorry. I’ll do better—I will, I promise.”