Pulp Ink Part 14

I turned on my heel and escaped to the kitchen. In a minute, I heard her climbing the stairs. I poured a stiff drink and turned on my laptop. The articles I googled told me she probably would be her usual self within a short amount of time. But it wasn't certain. I was horrified at that drooping mouth and eye. She looked like the old crone at the cash register in a place where I sometimes took coffee. Pitiful.

Was it my imagination or did she still have a slight droop three months later? But at this point I could not suggest future medical attention and truthfully, no one else seemed to notice it. Was it all in my mind?

Reluctant for her to travel alone, I went with her to Paris in the spring, d.o.g.g.i.ng her every step, wondering what mishap might happen. Nothing did and she returned home unharmed. On some level, I think she intuited the reason for my coming and we didn't have the pleasant getaway I'd antic.i.p.ated.

An extremely valuable collection of stamps was being transported from a dealer to a customer in the fall. It was a chance for me to net as much as $50,000 for a few hours of work. Leila was set to fly to New York for two days. Surely she knew that terrain as well as any. She flew out in the morning and I went to work an hour later. The job was complete by the seven o'clock news.

Leila was in the shower when I came home the next day. Through the gla.s.s I could see a bald patch on the back of her head but thought it was probably an optical illusion. I stepped back into the bedroom after motioning my arrival home to her through the gla.s.s. When she came out of the steamy room, her hair was up in a towel. I was on pins and needles waiting for her to remove it and dry her hair. But she returned to the bathroom, closed the door and blew it dry. Then she put it up in some sort of twist.

"I don't remember you wearing your hair like that before, Leila."

"Don't you like it?" She patted it gingerly.

"I do, but I prefer your usual style."

"This is the newest do in New York." Her voice had an edge to it, a nervous tremor.

"Let me see what you've done now," I said with a sigh, pulling out the clip holding it up.

On the back of her head, there was a patch the size of a golf ball without a strand of hair. It looked like an eye staring at me. I turned away.

"I think it's a condition called... alopecia. Or it could be something else. Thyroid, diabetes, or something psychological."

"You've already been to a doctor?" I asked.

"The Internet. I have an appointment later today." She was already pinning her hair back up. "I'm sure he'll know what to do."

"Of course," I said. "Actually, your hair is very pretty with your long neck. Audrey Hepburnish." I certainly didn't want to discourage her from hiding that eye.

She nodded and began unpacking her things. Leila grew quite adept at hiding the bald spot in the next few weeks, but it didn't go away. No amount of cream, vitamins or other treatments put an end to it. I found new dermatologists, endocrinologists, psychologists, but none had any cure. I grew used to her new hair style and ended my suggestions.

An opportunity for the theft of a valuable collection of diamonds presented itself. There was no buying trip for Leila in sight. I debated the job for several days, but since Leila and I were not on particularly good terms I was not as diligent in separating my lives.

And for the first time ever, something went very wrong. The elderly man who owned the jewels came home from a trip unexpectedly (was I becoming more careless?) and I had to knock him out. He looked amazed for a second, amazed that such a thing could happen to a man of his means. I made sure his heartbeat was steady before I left, having no desire to add murder to my resume. But I also had no wish to go to jail.

When I arrived home, Leila was fast asleep and I slipped in beside her, trying not to wake her up. She gave a cry of pain.

"What is it darling?"

She sat up. "I can't tell you, Greg. You won't like it." Recent tears made her voice hoa.r.s.e.

I tried to take her in my arms, but she pushed me away, and reaching over to the bedside table, turned on the lamp. Light flooded the room.

"What is it?" I repeated. She looked like herself.

Slowly she unb.u.t.toned the top of her gown. Her chest was bright red; a row of boils, cysts, something awful had sprung up in the hours I'd been gone. Pus oozed out of them. There were five of them, like b.u.t.tons between her b.r.e.a.s.t.s.

"When did this start?"

I was transfixed. It looked like something biblical, preternatural. It was so far beyond her normal ivory perfection, her usual smooth soft skin, I didn't even see it as her.

"A few hours ago." She rubbed a hand across her eyes, not used to the light. "I was reading in bed and suddenly felt something oozing. My nightgown stuck and when I took it off, I found this. And it's getting worse by the minute." Covering herself up, she got out of bed.

"It must be an allergic reaction, Darling. Did you have anything unusual to eat?"

"I didn't eat at all." She waited for a response and when I couldn't provide one said, "I'll go to the doctor first thing. It must be an infection."

"A new detergent perhaps?"

She shook her head. "He's going to think I am mad, insane. He's already suggested a new therapist. And now this. Just one more thing that could be psychological in origin."

"I'll find a new doctor. One who doesn't know about your earlier... problems."

Around three that morning, it occurred to me that all of Leila's problems had occurred not just when she was traveling but when I was on a job. That the cosmos or G.o.d or something was perhaps punis.h.i.+ng her for my evil deeds. Or punis.h.i.+ng me through her. Was I mad to think this? Was she to be the vessel of my castigation?

I didn't know how long I could go without plying my craft. Two weeks pa.s.sed, then four, finally three months. I grew itchy, addicted to the profession as much as its rewards. As for Leila, the cysts improved somewhat but remained. Love-making was a dicey task. The eye on her scalp did not grow larger but neither did it go away. She still had a certain slant to her face. Only the repaired tooth was resolved.

I convinced myself I'd jumped to a conclusion. That Leila's little flaws had nothing to do with me or my work. It was happenstance. So after fourteen weeks, I lifted an antique chest from a dealer downtown. It went smoothly but I can't say my trip home was worry free. If some new mishap had befallen my wife, I would have to take more drastic action. The wait shouldn't be long, I thought, as I pulled into the garage. All of her former accidents occurred within hours of my evil deeds.

I found her in the bathtub. The water was red with blood. Both arms had deep knife cuts from elbow to wrist. She was still warm from the water perhaps, but her pulse was still. I put the antique chest down to think a minute, shaking in a way I hadn't since my father sent me away.

She'd taken her own life because of me. Because of whatever curse was hanging over us. Either forced to kill herself by some macabre spell or sick to death of the life I'd pulled her into. I was the source of all her trouble. I took the knife from her limp hand and plunged it into my chest.

As the last breaths of life deserted me, I heard her calling my name. Was it the equivalent of the white light said to accompany death? But no, she rose up from the b.l.o.o.d.y water beside me: her wrists healing, her cysts gone, her hair as full as ever, her face flawless. Even a dying man could see that.

"What have you done, my darling?" she cried, stepping out the bath. "How will I live without you?"

Better than you lived with me, I thought as I died.

Patricia Abbott is the author of more than seventy-five stories published in literary and crime fiction outlets. Her story "My Hero" won a Derringer in 2008. She is currently putting together an ebook collection. She is the co-author (with Steve Weddle) of Discount Noir from Untreed Reads. Forthcoming stories will appear in All Due Respect, BEAT to a PULP: Round Two, Deadly Treats, Crimefactory, First s.h.i.+ft, D*cked, and Grim Stories. You can find her blogging at Pattinase or working in Detroit.

If Love is a Red Dress Hang Me in Rags.

By Michael J. Solender.

Perhaps you should rest now Del. Wearied bones make for weighty ascent.

Rest? I don't think I'm up for any rest just now. What difference would it make? My mind won't stop racing. Her vision will never escape my memory. So at peace, so much at ease. Her pallor shone bright against the ruby redness of her dress.

There's no point in replaying those events over and over, Del. I implore you put your focus forward. Making peace with the past will allow for a much better transition. You'll be forgiven. Acceptance is the first step.

Forgiveness offers no absolution. There is no amnesty for the likes of me. I accept nothing. Whoever accepted me? She didn't accept me. I was simply a vehicle for her. She saw my vulnerability and worked to exploit me. I trusted her. I let her into my soul, she saw my essence and being, she touched my core. I felt alive and then. Then...

Yes Del? What happened then?

Was it theater? I don't know for certain. Her gaze fell upon my face as the curtain drops at the end of an act. With certainty and definition. She lay bare before me and asked me to take her. She was not brave enough to do it herself so she asked me to do it for her. What could I do? How could I say no? I was under her spell.

You didn't mean to harm her?

Harm? Harm? I tried to push her away but she came back like a letter with insufficient postage. Was truncating her torment harm? Was arresting her daily demons harm? Was swathing her in the elegance of the dress rouge harmful? I loved her. I was willing to do anything for her. When I breathed I took in her womanhood and it filled me with life anew. I never knew such a feeling until I met her. I knew extinguis.h.i.+ng her light would befall me with darkness. It was worth it. It was so very right. Why can't anyone see that?

But Del, why did you take her life?

Wasn't she murdered when at nine she was raped by her stepfather? Wasn't she again murdered when two years later the court awarded her custody to the very same monster after her mother died? If murder is taking a life, then she was murdered a thousand times over the next fifteen years until she met me. The courts, the schools, her series of "custodians" all murderous and soul-sucking leeches. I was a giver of life, eternal life and salvation. I was only too glad to sacrifice my life for her.

Are you hungry? I can arrange for anything if you'd like.

I'll never taste sweetness again. It all is tasteless, gray and cast without succor. I want nothing. I want to waltz into the void. I want to feel the absence, feel the emptiness, and be surrounded by the nocturne. Is that what it's like, Father?

It's glorious if you accept Him, Del. That is the only thing I'm sure of. Won't you accept Him, my son, and free yourself of this burden?

No Father, I can't turn there for consolation. I'll find it with her. I'll hang the way she hung. I'll die the way she died. I'll traverse the pa.s.sage with lightness. We'll embrace in the beyond. I'll bathe with her in her red dress, we'll find eternity together. I'm ready now Father, we can go.

Yes Del, may the Lord have mercy upon you.

Guard! Guard! The prisoner is ready.

Michael J. Solender is the author of the short story and poetry chapbook, Last Winter"3">hs Leaves, published by Full of Crow Press. His essay, "Unaffiliated," is featured in the newly released anthology, Topograph: New Writings From The Carolinas and the Landscape Beyond, published by Novello Festival Press. He is the editor of the online magazine, On The Wing. Solender's work is found at michaeljwrites.com and his blog, NOT FROM HERE, ARE YOU?

A Corpse by Any Other Name.

By Naomi Johnson.

Lucian put his El Dorado in park. Holding onto the wheel with the hook at the end of his left arm, he turned to face Mackie in the pa.s.senger seat and gave him a "you best not be f.u.c.king with me" look. It made Mackie glad he wasn't f.u.c.king with Lucian.

"He's really dead."

Both men twisted to look at the man in the back. Frank Murray, an elderly white guy garbed in a limp flannel s.h.i.+rt and faded bib overalls, had indeed shuffled off his mortal coil. His eyes were gla.s.sed over, his skin an unhealthy ash tone, and his mouth hung slack. He was a collapsed balloon of a corpse, slumped across the back seat, not caring anymore about getting home to his frightened wife and hungry dog.

"Well, he's dead, all right," Lucian observed. "Must've had a heart attack. G.o.dd.a.m.n."

"Now what?" Mackie asked.

Lucian shrugged and faced forward again. "We go tell Mr. McCrea. Grabbing Murray was his idea."

Marty McCrea pinched the creases in his slacks and pulled up on the material as he bent over and peered into the rear of the El Dorado. He stared, blinked. Then: "I thought you said Murray was dead?"

"If he ain't dead he's gon' win a f.u.c.king Oscar," Lucian said.

McCrea stood up, a full eight inches shorter than Lucian, but when he stabbed his cigar in Lucian's general direction, both Lucian and Mackie edged back. McCrea was notorious for indicating his displeasure via the lit end of his fifty-dollar smokes. An observant man never took his eye off the cigar when conversing with McCrea. But even an observant man had a hard time watching the cigar while also keeping that same eye out for double-crosses and .45s.

"Oh, yeah, this guy's d ead for sure. You boys know dead when you see it, I'll give you that. But what this guy ain't, he ain't Frank Murray. Didn't I tell you, grab Frank Murray and bring him to me? Did I tell you, grab some clodhopper and kill him and bring me his lifeless piece-of-s.h.i.+t corpse? Did I tell you to do that?"

The glowing stogie was waving around and Lucian and Mackie kept edging away and trying not to look concerned. Mackie just couldn't keep quiet though.

"It is so Frank Murray, boss. We looked him up on White Pages dot com and then we MapQuested him. And then," he declared with no small degree of pride in their foresight, "we asked him before we grabbed him, was he Frank Murray and he said yes."

"No, you moron, no," McCrea caught Mackie on his bare arm with the lit end of the stogie. Mackie shrieked and jumped away. "There are many Frank Murrays in this world, but there is only one I care about and that's the Frank Murray. The Frank Murray on the zoning board who's been taking my money all these years; the Frank Murray who's now ratting me out to the feds; the Frank Murray who's going to get what's coming to him when you two rutabagas get your heads out of your a.s.ses and go grab the right f.u.c.king Frank Murray!"

Mackie stopped blowing on his arm long enough to cast a worried glance at Lucian. "I'm pretty sure that one ain't listed on White Pages dot com."

Lucian ignored him. "So what do you want us to do with Murray, boss?"

"I told you! Grab him and bring him to me!" McCrea popped the cigar back into his mouth and adjusted the black band on his left sleeve.

"Not that Frank Murray," Lucian said. "This Frank Murray." He jerked his hook toward the El Dorado.

McCrea gritted his teeth, nearly cutting the stogie in two. "I don't give a f.u.c.k," he growled. "Bury him someplace n.o.body will ever look for him. He's your problem, not mine."

The moon was hidden by cloud cover as a black hea.r.s.e crept along winding drive of St. Joseph Memorial Garden. Mackie wasn't happy because Lucian had made him turn off the headlights and use only the parking lights inside the cemetery.

"I don't get why we're putting Frank Murray here," Mackie whined. "A cemetery of all places. Mr. McCrea said bury him where n.o.body will look for him. People come here all the time."

"Exactly," said Lucian. "A place full of dead bodies. n.o.body ever comes here looking for a dead body 'cause they already know there's tons of 'em here."

"Somebody works here is gonna notice a grave where there hadn't ought to be one," Mackie pointed out.

"No, they won't. They won't be no extra grave. We're going to find a ready-made." Lucian twisted to view Frank Murray's new abode, a steel casket (stolen for the purpose) of glossy white, in the back of the hea.r.s.e (also stolen). "We're gon' get a little bit dirty because we have to dig the ready-made deep enough to hold two coffins. Then we slide in Frank Murray's coffin, cover him over, and sometime tomorrow or the next day, another coffin goes in on top of Frank Murray and it gets covered over."

The light dawned on Mackie. "You're f.u.c.kin' brilliant, Lucian."

"Don't swear in a cemetery. That's bad luck."

"Yeah? I never knew that. It's a great idea anyway, but how's come we needed a coffin? We could just dump the body in the hole and cover it over. Don't see why we needed a coffin."

"Ain't you got no respect, Mackie?" Lucian was disgusted. "This is a cemetery, man, and a Catholic cemetery at that. This is a sacred burial ground. You got to treat the dead right in a place like this. Can't be treating 'em like that guy we left at the dump or that meatball that went into the new dam."