Diane Davidson - Killer Pancake

“Let me in, Goldy,” he bellowed. “I have to talk to you!”

Fear opened a hollow in my stomach. In the years since the divorce, my ex-husband had rarely demanded to talk to me. Looking for Arch, he either barged in angrily—pre-security system—or waited sullenly for our son on the doorstep. But this afternoon Arch was doing tie-dying with Todd. I looked out at John Richard, trying to decide what to do. He drew back in a dramatic gesture from the door and held his arms out. He was wearing Bermuda shorts, Polo shirt, Top-Siders without socks—the very portrait of a rich guy.

“I’ve got news,” he shouted, pressing his face in again at the peephole. “Bad news! You want to hear it or not?” He added snidely, “It concerns somebody you care about a lot!”

I really did not want to see him. The day had been awful enough. And yet here he was, doing a typical power-trip, teasing with the possibility of bad news. I hesitated. The security system was disarmed. I could go out on the porch to talk to him. All I had to do was unlock the dead bolt and walk out the door. But when I started to fumble with the bolt, the phone rang in the kitchen. Darn it all, anyway. I dashed for the kitchen.

“Goldilocks’ Catering—” I began breathlessly. The Jerk was banging on the front door. There was a smart thwack of wood against metal. I heard the Jerk curse loudly. “Goldilocks’ Catering,” I repeated, “Where Everything—”

“It’s me,” Tom interrupted. “I’m at the hospital.”

“Boo!” said John Richard Korman as he walked up behind me. His breath smelled of whiskey. I shrieked and dropped the phone.

“Who’s that?” said Tom. Coming from the dropped phone, his voice was distant but clearly alarmed. “Goldy? Are you there?”

I stared furiously at my ex-husband, who gave me a wide-eyed mocking leer in return. Involuntarily, I glanced around for my wooden knifeblock. John Richard followed my gaze and wagged one finger at me. He moved in the direction of the knifeblock, scooped it up, and cradled it and its protruding black handles as he moved into the dining room. Goose bumps pimpled my arms. By the time John Richard walked empty-handed back into the kitchen, I’d managed to pick up the dangling receiver. “It’s … John Richard, and Arch isn’t home, but John Richard says that there’s bad—”

“For crying out loud, Goldy, what the hell is he doing there?” Tom hollered. “Get him out! Now!”

I closed my eyes so I wouldn’t see the Jerk’s furious expression. “Tell me how Julian is,” I said firmly into the receiver. “Then I will.”

“I’m not calling about Julian—” Tom began.

“Hey, Gol-dy-y!” the Jerk said calmly. Nastily. “He’s not calling about Juli-a-n. He’s at the hospital and he’s calling about somebody else.”

“This is bad news—” Tom began again.

John Richard grabbed the receiver out of my hand and slammed it down in its cradle. I closed my fists and glared at him.

“Listen to me, goddammit!” Dr. John Richard Korman shouted in my face. “Marla’s had a heart attack!”

Awhat?”

“Are you deaf?” He lowered his voice, sat down at the kitchen table, and assumed his all-knowing tone. The mood-switch was both predictable and frightening. “She was trying to jog her lard-assed self around the lake. She got home, didn’t feel well, and called her g.p. He hadn’t seen her in five years, of course, so when she described her symptoms, he sent in some paramedics, and they called for the Flight-for-Life copter.” The phone on the counter rang again. The muscles in John Richard’s face locked in anger. I knew the look. Now he was just a time bomb. He sat at the kitchen table and said too calmly, “I would like to talk to you without interruption.”

My throat constricted with the old fear. My palms itched to answer the insistent rings. But I knew better than to defy the Jerk. As the phone continued to ring, John Richard made no move to answer it. He crossed his legs. Ever smooth, ever urbane. But I was watching. He said, “You won’t get in to see her without me.”

“That’s not true,” I said, trying to sound unruffled. “Look, you’ve been drinking.” It didn’t take much to set John Richard off. Two ounces of scotch was enough to ignite him for at least four hours. “Why don’t you just—”

“Are you interested in Marla or not?” His eyes blazed and he tightened the formidable muscles in his arms. “I mean, I thought she was your best friend.”

The phone rang and rang. I didn’t take my eyes off John Richard. “Have you seen her?”

“No, no, I was waiting to take you down,” he said with mock sweetness. John Richard leaned forward. A hard pain knotted in my chest. “Whether you like it or not, Miss Piss, as an ex-husband, I am a relative.” The phone shrilled. Tears pricked my eyes. I hated to be so paralyzed with fear. Marla. Forty-five years old. A heart attack. The Jerk, unheeding, talked. “You, as the friend who fed her all the cholesterol-filled crap that blocked her arteries, are not a relative. Friends might not be able to get into the Coronary Care Unit whenever they want. Relatives can . Are you with me so far? So if you want to see Marla at the hospital, I’m going to have to go in with you. Am I getting through to you?”

Any moment, I thought. Any moment and this man who worked out with the fanaticism of an Olympic athlete could take hold of one of my wrists and shatter it against the table with such force that I wouldn’t be able to knead bread for a year. I kept my eyes on his maniacally composed face and picked up the receiver. “I’m okay,” I said without my customary greeting. On the other end, Tom noisily let out air, a sound somewhere between a sigh and a groan. “Thanks for calling back, Tom. He’s just leaving.”

“Just leaving?” Tom yelled. “You mean he’s still there? I’m staying on this phone until he’s out of that house and that door is locked and bolted. Turn that security system back on. If you can’t do that, get out. Understand? Goldy? You listening? I can get the 911 operator to call your neighbor. Have a department car there in ten minutes.”

I turned to my ex-husband. “Please go,” I said firmly. “Now. He’s going to send in the authorities. They’ll be here in ten minutes.”

Dr. John Richard Korman leapt to his feet, grabbed the box of cocoa I’d used for the cookies and flung it against the wall. I screamed as brown powder exploded everywhere. John Richard dusted his hands and gave me a look: Now why did you make that necessary?

“Get out,” I said evenly. “Leave. Nine and a half minutes, and you’re in a lot of trouble.” He’d thrown something because he was thwarted. I wouldn’t go to the hospital with him, and I had paid.

The Jerk assumed an attitude of nonchalance and shrugged. Then, without another word, he withdrew from the kitchen and sauntered his Bermuda-shorted self through the front door. I followed, pressed the bolt into place and armed the system, then ran back to the phone.

“Miss G.?” I broke out in a sweat from the relief of hearing Tom’s old term of endearment. “Will you please talk to me?”

“He’s gone,” I said breathlessly. “Can you tell me where, I mean, how long ago did she … how is she?” I remembered all too vividly Marla’s sad history, that her father had died from a heart attack when she was very young.

“She’s okay. In the Coronary Care Unit at Southwest Hospital. She had a mild heart attack this morning either before or after jogging around Aspen Meadow Lake. Since when is she a jogger?”