John Lutz - The Ex

Molly tried to rein in her anger as she brought the plastic bayonet-equipped toy rifle out from where she’d been holding it behind her back. “Why did you give him this gun, Deirdre?”

She widened her eyes in surprise. “Why, he’s a little boy. Boys like guns.” She winked. “You know, it’s not like with us. It’s some kind of phallic thing.”

“I found him trying to stab Muffin with the bayonet.”

“Muffin? Oh, the cat.” She smiled at Michael. “Well, Michael’s not a cruel boy. I’m sure he won’t do it again.” The red-enameled nail came forward again to touch the tip of his nose. “Isn’t that right, Michael?”

Molly knew this confrontation hadn’t taken Deirdre by surprise. It was part of a pattern. She was determined not to be sucked into this scenario in a way that fit Deirdre’s script. The problem was, she didn’t know how this was supposed to play out. Her anger rose.

“Don’t you ever give him any kind of toy without checking with me first!”

Deirdre stepped back, shocked that Molly was so upset over such a trifle. “Hey, I’m sorry. It really isn’t a major thing. I found the gun here in the apartment and thought he might enjoy it, that’s all.”

“An elderly couple rented this apartment before you,” Molly said.

“Well, maybe they had a grandson. Or were into some kind of kinky sex with toy guns. Anyway, I certainly wouldn’t have given the gun to Michael if I thought it might do him psychological harm, or for some reason he wouldn’t enjoy it the way other little boys play with guns without it ruining their lives.”

“The cat didn’t enjoy it,” Molly said.

Deirdre considered that for a second, biting her lower lip somberly. “No, I suppose not. You do have a point there.” Then she brightened, smiling again. “Okay, no more guns or knives when I baby-sit you, Michael.”

“There won’t be any more baby-sitting.”

Deirdre looked astounded. “Don’t you think you’re over-acting about this, Molly?”

“You mean ‘over re acting.’ And no, I don’t think I am.”

“Would David approve of this?”

“That’s no concern of yours. My child is no concern of yours. My husband is no concern of yours.” Molly tossed the toy rifle past Deirdre into the apartment, harder than she’d intended. It clattered noisily on the wood floor. Probably it had broken.

“Over re acting, then,” Deirdre said with maddening composure.

Obviously, on a certain level, she was amused by Molly’s rage. Was this how she’d planned their encounter?

Molly stalked to the elevator and slapped at the Down button. The elevator was still at floor level, but it seemed to take forever before the door opened.

Deirdre stood watching as Molly, clutching Michael to her, stepped inside.

“Bye, Michael,” she said with a smile, as the door glided shut.

As the elevator descended, Molly swallowed as if to relieve pressure. The entire building was full of pressure since Deirdre had moved in. Molly was holding her breath as if she were dropping toward the ocean floor in a diving bell. She released it and set Michael on the floor, trying to calm herself. But her anger continued coursing through her blood like a disease.

When she’d stepped forward to fling the toy rifle and Deirdre had moved out of the way, Molly had been aware of a scent she’d noticed without realizing it, as soon as Deirdre had opened her apartment door.

Back in her own apartment, Molly got Michael settled in the living room with television and some toys then went into the bedroom. Cartoons were on TV, featuring cavemen and dinosaurs, and probably, Molly admitted with an infuriating thrust of doubt, more violence than Michael had perpetrated on the cat.

There was an argument to be made that violent childhood entertainment-including toy guns-was as much of a catharsis as a cause or predictor of violent behavior. It was a valid argument, Molly knew, but she didn’t believe it enough to take a chance with her own child.

She stood at her dresser and examined the neat and glittering row of cosmetics bottles. Then she lifted a slender glass bottle shaped like a candle with a plastic cap made to resemble a flame. Elaborate red vertical lettering on the bottle spelled out Flaming Fixation. She removed the cap and sniffed at the bottle’s contents.

She knew now without a doubt. It was the perfume Deirdre was wearing.

Molly thought it should have been named Apropos.

Deirdre threw the dust rag at a lamp hard enough to knock it over. She didn’t bother to pick it up from the floor. She paced and fumed, occasionally pausing to kick or punch a piece of furniture.

“You bitch, Molly!” she hissed. “Bitch, bitch, bitch!..You don’t deserve them!”

Finally she walked over and picked up the lamp, then paused and hurled it back to the floor, bending the shade and causing the brass footing to break loose from the base and lie looped around the cord. She walked to the wall and began slamming her head against the plaster, over and over until she saw bloodstains on the paint and stopped. She staggered to the sofa and fell back on it.

For almost an hour she lay without moving, staring hard and unblinkingly at the ceiling, as if willing it to open like a box lid and free her rage and frustration to the heavens.

Then she remembered Chumley had said he’d be working at the office today. For a moment her hostility hovered around her thoughts of Chumley. She considered calling and having him take her somewhere interesting, cheer her up.

That bitch!

Yes, she needed cheering.

But Chumley wouldn’t be capable of giving her what she needed. He hadn’t managed it yet. She really didn’t want to see him today.

She sat up, reached for the phone, then lay back down with it resting on her stomach. She punched out Chumley’s home number.

A woman answered on the third ring.

“Is Craig Chumley there?” Deirdre asked, making her voice a shade husky.

“No. May I take a message?”

Deirdre smiled at the hint of alarm in the woman’s voice. Shirley. Mrs. Chumley. Another bitch!

“I, uh…Is this Mrs. Chumley?” she stammered, as if caught off guard.

“Yes, it is. Who is this?”

“Never mind, there’s no message. I called the wrong number. I’m really very sorry I bothered you.”

Deirdre lowered the receiver to within an inch of its cradle and held it there. As soon as she heard the inquiring natter of a voice, she gently hung up.

There! Let that bitch think about the phone call. Let her wonder who’d called. Maybe it was all an innocent mistake. Or maybe it was precisely what she feared, a threat to her family and home and security, to everything she thought was hers forever. Everything she simply took for granted that she deserved. Let her wonder for a long time. Let her ask Chumley about it. If he ever asked Deirdre if it was she who’d phoned, she’d deny it and he’d believe her.

That was the beautiful part. He would believe her instead of his wife.

Mrs. Fucking Chumley! Another paranormal bitch!

Chumley sat at his desk, working on his notebook computer. Since it was Saturday, he was wearing his Yankee T-shirt, khaki shorts, and thick-soled walking shoes. When he was finished here, he’d take a long walk and work off some of the rich food he’d been consuming lately. It was hard to resist dessert at some of the restaurants where Deirdre wanted to dine. At Tavern on the Green his willpower had crumbled and he’d ordered-

The phone rang, interrupting his caloric ruminations.

“Shirley?” he asked, after he’d said hello and identified himself. “Shirl?”