Scott Nicholson - Curtains

But he managed to prop it against his knee and turn the handle, then push his way inside.

Her voice came from the living room. “Ricky?”

“Who else?” he said in a whisper. As if a random attacker would walk through the door, as if her ordered life was capable of attracting an invader. As if she deserved any type of victimhood.

“What’s that, honey?”

He raised his voice. “Yes, dear. It’s me.”

“Did you get everything? You know how forgetful you are.”

Which is why she gave him the lists. But even with a list, he had a habit of always forgetting at least one item. She said it was a deliberate act of passive aggression, that nobody could be that forgetful. But he was convinced it was an unconscious lapse, because he did it even when he wrote out the list himself.

“I had to-” He didn’t know what to tell her. A lie came to mind, some elaborate story of helping someone change a flat tire beside the road, and how the person had given him a watermelon in gratitude, and Ricky wanted to put the watermelon in the refrigerator before shopping. But Maybelle would see through the story. He wondered if the murdering husband had told such white lies.

“I had to come back and take my medicine,” he said, heading down the hall to the kitchen. “You know how I get.”

Maybelle must have been sitting in her chair, the one that dominated the living room and was within reach of the bookcase, the telephone, and the remote control. Her perfect world. White walls. Knickknacks neatly dusted, potted plants that never dared shed so much as a leaf. Photographs of her relatives lining the walls, but not a single member of Ricky’s family.

“You and your medicine,” she said. “You were gone an hour.”

He pretended he hadn’t heard her. He put the watermelon on the counter and opened the refrigerator. He thought of hiding it in one of the large bottom bins but he wasn’t sure it would fit. Besides, this was his refrigerator, too. He’d paid for it, even though Maybelle’s snack foods took up the top two shelves. In a moment of rebellion, he shoved some of his odd condiments aside, the horseradish, brown mustard, and marinade sauces that occupied the bottom shelf. He slid the watermelon into place, though its girth caused the wire rack above it to tilt slightly and tumble a few Tupperware containers. He slammed the refrigerator closed with an air of satisfaction.

He turned and there was Maybelle, filling the entryway that divided the kitchen and dining room. Her arms were folded across her chest, wearing the serene smile of one who held an even temper in the face of endless trials. Ricky found himself wondering if the murdered wife had possessed such stolid and insufferable equanimity.

“What was that?” Maybelle asked.

Ricky backed against the refrigerator. There was really no reason to lie, and, besides, it’s not like she wouldn’t notice the first time she went rummaging for a yogurt. But, for one hot and blind moment, he resented her ownership of the refrigerator. Why couldn’t he have a watermelon if he wanted?

“A watermelon,” he said.

“A watermelon? Why didn’t you get one back in the middle of summer, like everybody else?”

He couldn’t explain. If she had been in the grocery store with him, she’d have been impressed by the watermelon’s vibrancy and vitality. Even though the melon was no longer connected to its roots, it was earthy and ripe, a perfectly natural symbol for the last day of summer. But he was afraid if he opened the door, it would just be an ovate mass of dying fruit.

“I liked this one,” he said.

“Where are my things?”

“I-” He looked at the floor, at the beige ceramic tiles whose seams of grout were spotless.

“You forgot. On purpose. Just like always.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, and suddenly his throat was dry and tight, and he thought of the husband and how he must have slid open the cutlery drawer and selected something that could speak for him when words were worthless.

“Of course, you’re sorry. You’ve always been sorry. But that never changes anything, does it?”

“My medicine-”

“Have a seat in the living room, and I’ll bring it to you.”

He went and sat on the sofa, afraid to muss the throw pillows. The early local news came on the television. A fire on the other side of the county had left a family homeless. Then came the obligatory follow-up on the murder.

“Investigators say they may have uncovered a motive in last week’s brutal slaying-”

Click. He looked away from the screen and Maybelle stood there, the remote raised. “Evil, evil, evil,” she said. “That nasty man. I just don’t know what goes through people’s minds, do you?”

Ricky wondered. Maybe the husband had a wife who controlled the television, the radio, the refrigerator, the garage, and wrote large charity checks to the animal shelter. Maybelle gave him his pills and a glass of water. He swallowed, grateful.

“I read that he was an accountant,” Ricky said. “Just like me.”

“Takes all kinds. The poor woman, you’ve got to feel sorry for her. Closes her eyes to go to sleep and the next thing you know, the man she trusted and loved with all her heart-”

“-is standing over her, the lights are off but the knife flashes just the same, he’s holding the handle so tight that his hand is aching, except he can’t feel it, it’s like he’s got electricity running through his body, he’s on fire and he’s never felt so powerful, and-”

Maybelle’s laughter interrupted him. “It’s not a movie, Ricky. A wife-killing slasher isn’t any more special than a thief who shoots a stranger for ten bucks. When it comes down to it, they’re all low-down dirty dogs who ought to be locked up before they hurt somebody else.”

“Everybody feels sorry for her,” Ricky said. “But what about the husband? Don’t you think he probably feels sick inside? She’s gone, but he’s left to live with the knowledge of what he’s done.”

“Not for long. I hear the D.A. is going after the death penalty. She’s up for re-election next year and has been real strong on domestic violence.”

“He’ll probably plead temporary insanity.”

“Big surprise,” Maybelle said. “Only a crazy man would kill his wife.”

“I don’t know. With a good lawyer-”

“They’re always making excuses. He’ll say his wife made him wear a dress when no one was looking. That he had to lick her high heels. That she was carrying on with the pet store supplier. It’s always the woman’s fault. It makes me sick.”

Ricky looked at the carpet. The stains must have been tremendous, geysers of blood spraying in different directions, painting the walls, seeping into the sheets and shag, soiling the delicate undergarments that the wife no doubt wore to entice her husband into chronic frustration.

“Ricky?”

Her voice brought him back from the last reel of his fantasy film and into the living room.

“How are you feeling?”

“Better,” he said, lying only a little.

“Ready to go back to the grocery store?”

“Yes.”

“And not forget anything this time?”

He nodded.

After shopping, getting all the items on the list, he sat in the grocery store parking lot and re-read all the newspapers hidden beneath the seat. He looked at the mug shot and visualized his own face against the grayish background with the black lines. He pored over the details he already knew by heart, then imagined the parts not fleshed out in the news accounts: the trip up the stairs in the silent house, a man with a mission, no thought of the act itself or the aftermath. One step, one stroke at a time. The man had chosen a knife from the kitchen drawer instead of buying one especially for the job. It had clearly been a crime of passion, and passion had been missing from Ricky’s life for many years.