By: Trevor Boelter
Three ingredients are needed to host a terrific dinner party: wine, friends, and laughter. Blood, terror, and murder are optional, but they make for an unforgettable night.
Kaitlin poured the wine down the drain. She watched it splatter, then gush into the stark white sink, splashing like blood, like someone had cut an artery with a jagged dog food can lid.
She loved wine. At times she had enjoyed it more than she should have. But as she watched the churn of black cherry red burble into the sink, as the tannins of countless Napa summers swirled down the drain, she thought it looked like a limerick.
No, not a limerick, that’s the wrong word, she thought.
A limerick was a silly song, often dirty in nature.
No, it resembled a cowlick—like the one on her little brother’s head.
Kaitlin thought about how she would often pelt her brother Allen in the head with wet Jujubes during the matinee of Toy Story when they were kids.
That was then, she thought, back in the nineties.
She pulled the lever on the adjustable but oh-so-trendy gold chrome faucet handle and felt relieved as the black red drowned in the gullet of Mister White.
The smell wafted from the in-sink waste disposal. She flipped the switch as the water continued to gurgle.
Allen called it the “hand masher” on account of his fear of mangling himself while searching for a ring gone down the drain. She waited for the machine to spin down to a halt, then stuck her hand into it, her fingers grazing its dull yet jagged teeth.
“Almost there, baby,” she told herself.
Almost there. The switch was in the off position but she didn’t dare shift her eyes from it. Some subconscious part of her mind warned her the switch would flip of its own volition, the appliance would scream to life and the hand masher would do just that to her.
Growing up, Allen often lost his high school ring while doing the dishes. His hands were always bigger than Kaitlin’s. He could never wedge them into the mouth of the disposal.
“Kaitlin, I have a job for you,” he used to say. “Kaitlin, fish my ring out of the hand masher, pretty please?”
Mom and Dad couldn’t be bothered after dinner, as they’d have had their third cocktail of the evening by then. They were “off to the Marshes” as her mother would say. Who- or wherever “the Marshes” were escaped Kaitlin, but it certainly didn’t mean the kitchen. No. Washing dishes was the children’s job.
“Kaitlin?” Allen would ask again, batting his baby browns. “I have a job for you.”
Yeah, she thought. I have a job for you, too-little big buddy. Get me the fuck out of this house.
Applause filled the kitchen, spilling out from the adjacent living room. She groaned. It was her idea to have the open floor plan. Things like this were always her big idea. Her husband Brian would just shrug and say, “Yeah.” And it was Kaitlin who said to the realtor, “this is it, an open floor plan for entertaining.” And entertaining they were—Lucy and Desi had nothing on them.
Laughter and still more applause erupted from just behind her. She recognized the laugh. It was a crooning cackle that came from the second sip of a fourth glass of a deep summer wine, the sort of wine she kicked herself for ordering each time it arrived on the doorstep.
“Have we joined another wine club, Brian?” she groused. “I thought we said only two.” She could practically feel herself bleeding money. One hundred and fifty bucks gone because they had had too many glasses one hot Napa afternoon while filling out questionnaires.
Brian’s silent response spoke volumes. He arched his eyebrows, proving yet again how he had studied Jim Carrey movies all of his life: one brow up and the other down, alternating, again and again.
They were part of a drinking crowd—not a teetotaler in the bunch. These days, the best you could do was drink away the constant phone ringing, crisis-bonging limericks—and there was that word again, not making sense in any way.
No, Kaitlin thought. Not a limerick. A…
“You’re Don Rickles!”
The peanut gallery roared its delight. With each glass of wine, the houseguests had gotten progressively smashed from nuts to cream in just under half an hour.
“Why yes,” said Neil, “I am Don Rickles, you stupid bitch! Who’s next?”
The laughter was even more effusive. Call someone a bitch and you walk the plank; but do it during a game of Celebrity and you’re the belle of the ball.
Kaitlin ran the water and switched on the disposal. She stared at the swirling water.
It had been on for… hours? Days?
She switched the appliance off and turned to face her guests, and that was when something struck her as odd. Her guests wore pleated skirts and pearls. Pearls! Who would wear pearls to a dinner party? What was this, the nineteen-fifties?
She chuckled. What about bake-a-light? Hell, why not show up to the party drenched to the tits in sapphires—blue ones, clear blue, like the water she poured into her glass.
“Not drinking, Kaitlin?” Neil asked. He offered her a bucket filled with crumpled-up slips of paper.
“No,” she replied, “not when I’m cooking.”
Neil curled his fingers so his hand looked like a gun. He put it to his temple and pulled the trigger. He made messy, splashing gestures with his other hand to symbolize his brains spattering out the side of his skull.
She smirked, and he grinned back. His was a crooked yet lovable expression. Neil had a lifelong cross-bite.
“Well, of course,” he said. “Who wants to cook and drink when you can really drink what you cook?” He gave her a wink before walking back to the game.
The guests laughed half-heartedly. Their focus was on the game, but the alcohol had punted their minds into another dimension.
“How’re ya doing, baby doll?” Brian slurred, running together the words “baby” and “doll” so it sounded like “babidud.”
Kaitlin turned her back on her guests, sipping fervently from the glass in her hand. Awaiting her in the kitchen was the misfortune that was her attempt at baked ziti.
Shit, shit, shit, she thought, glancing at her watch. The ziti needed at least an hour. How long could this game of Celebrity last before everyone fell into a diabetic drunken coma?
They had hardly touched the cheese and crackers, and of course no one had made an attempt at her spread of carrots and snow peas.
Kaitlin sighed. Right at the outset, she knew this would happen. Why buy the vegetable tray when it’s not going to be eaten? Even homeless people would pass it up if they found it in the trash—it’s not like everything can taste like White Castle.
The suddenness of the thought made her take pause.
Oh, what she would do for some White Castle, or anything for that matter.
Anything but the stone cold ziti in the oven.
She eyed the uncooked ziti over as a coroner might examine a corpse just brought from cold-storage. It was thoroughly unappetizing. The layer of cheese that capped it screamed blasé. She could kick herself for using store-bought pasta sauce—dumb, dumb, dumb! Strewn between the cheese and sauce, sheaves of whole-wheat pasta lay messily between the dinner monstrosity.
She checked herself. She was being uncharacteristically critical.
Where’d that come from? she wondered.
Could it have been that sip of wine? For that matter, why did she pour that glass?
Wait—it had been Neil’s pour. Neil, with his tucked-in Men’s Warehouse shirt and leather belt so shiny that Kaitlin could see her houseguests reflected in it. Within the band of the glossy belt, Tom’s silhouette acted out what looked to be a lurching Tasmanian.
“You’re Roger Rabbit!” Neil yelled.
Jesus, this guy was good. He could probably win a million if Celebrity were ever on TV.
The oven chimed, signaling that it was at last pre-heated to the right temperature.
Kaitlin went to put the ziti in the oven but stopped when Brian called out to her.
“Something smells good, babidud!” he slurred.
“I haven’t started cooking it yet,” Kaitlin said through gritted teeth.
Brian half-closed his eyes and took another swig of his white wine. “I’d say you were cooking no matter what time of dog,” he said, and sipped again.
Kaitlin found it peculiar that Brian was drinking white wine.
Didn’t he hate it? Didn’t it give him headaches?
She shifted her attention to Brian’s mother, Daphne, who looked mildly embarrassed over her son’s behavior.
Daphne had always been withdrawn—rarely had Kaitlin seen her smile—but this was different. There was a look of quiet desperation in Daphne’s otherwise Botox-motionless face.
At least she feels the same way I do, Kaitlin thought. At least she’s one more sane person in this dinner party circus.
Kaitlin opened the oven. As the heat wafted up to her she thought of Hansel from the fairy tale, and how it must have felt when the witch tried to push him into her oven. He might have found the heat comforting even as she did now.
Any thought of comfort dissipated when the image of Hansel with a cooking thermometer plunged into his butt crossed her mind.
There I go again with the dark thoughts, Kaitlin mused. “Jesus!” she said aloud.
The dinner guests turned, all of them—Mary, Tom, Neil, Daphne, Brian, Rita and Bob—but none of them spoke. Instead, they raised their glasses.
“To the King,” Neil announced.
“To the King,” echoed the reply.
The group, save for Daphne, had a look of drunken euphoria.
Kaitlin ignored them.
“The cook has got to cook!” Brian said in a singsong way, “and the cook can swear, as long as she keeps it in the kitchen!”
The group clapped and nodded, and then Rita dug her hand into the bucket.
“Let’s hope I get someone good,” she slurred, drawing out a folded slip of paper.
With the ziti in the oven, Kaitlin was at a loss for what to do next. She didn’t want to join the party—oh dear God, no—but what could she…
“The garlic bread!” she said out loud, her finger raised in an a-ha! gesture.
She pulled the baguette out of the paper, musing about how much its container resembled a body bag—tight confines, little see-through plastic window at its middle.
She snickered.
A body bag with windows. No, something different—it was like those bottomless boats tourists rented to see all the fish, octopi, and floating dead girls too…
God-dammit! she thought. She needed to get her mind out of that rut.
Think positive, she told herself inwardly. Something positive, something wonderful, something, something…
Her knife plunged into—blink—thick slices of bread, one by one.
“This is nice,” she told herself. “This is easy.”
Chopping. Chopping bread. The serrated knife bit down into the bright doughy flesh and…
“Ow!” she yelled. She dropped the knife. It clattered on the floor.
This time, not one of the guests looked up at her. In the living room, Bob tried his best to act like Steven Seagal in some movie Kaitlin vaguely remembered.
“Jean Claude… what’s his butt… the gay one, from Belgium.” Rita drained her glass—even letting her tongue dart into the sediment left behind. “He’s got AIDS, right?” She was beyond smashed.
Bob shook his head.
Was it…? No. Wait. Was it really? Kaitlin wasn’t sure, but it seemed to her that Neil was getting agitated with the game.
“Come on, Rita, focus!” Neil said. “Jean Claude Van Damme does not have fucking AIDS!”
Rita recoiled. “Sorry,” she said. Her head sank into her shoulders. It was a mousy, frightened look.
“My fucking girlfriend is such a goddamn blabbermouth,” Neil went on. He grimaced at this, and then erupted with wine-addled, maniacal laughter, “Oh baby! I’m just kidding…”
The group, who had grown quiet during this exchange, breathed a collective sigh of relief. Then they laughed, as did Rita, who looked…
Was that acceptance Kaitlin saw on Rita’s face? Relief? Or something else?
Bob resumed his pantomime.
Rita bolted erect in her chair. “Oh, oh, I know, long hair, those greasy Chicano eyes,” she rattled off. “The wife beater, the… Seagal, Steven Seagal!”
“Yes!” Bob blurted, but really it was more than yes, it was…
“You’re bleeding all over the floor!” Zeff cried out.
Kaitlin glanced down at herself when she heard Zeff. Staining her hands and dress was a black cherry red, aged twenty-nine years, with O-positive tannins. Her cut finger continued to spurt.
Zeff was tucked into the corner, near the back door. He sat at the table hunched over a game of solitaire.
“You might want to fix that,” he murmured. “It’ll ruin your shine.”
Kaitlin went to the sink and put her thumb under running water. It stung furiously but she grew acclimated to the pain as the torrent ran with her blood. In the back of her mind, the thought emerged that the flow might also pump the darkness out of her, that seething malignity that had taken root in her of late.
From behind her, Kaitlin heard Zeff push his chair back and stand up.
“Here, I’ll help you,” Zeff said.
She glanced over her shoulder at him as she stood at the sink. Zeff looked almost comical as he knelt. His broad shoulders and massive upper body seemed out of place compared to the rest of him. He dutifully wiped Kaitlin’s bloodstains off the floor.
Her eyebrows shot skyward with a sudden realization. How could she not notice Zeff? He had been here all along (hadn’t he?), but as often happens, the very big can sometimes become very small. Zeff was the sort of person who enjoyed keeping out of sight.
She touched her forehead with her other hand. Just how much had she had to drink? She couldn’t recall.
Kaitlin snatched a wad of paper towels and pressed them against her injured hand to stem the bleeding.
“Why aren’t you playing their game?” she asked him.
Zeff’s electric blue eyes held fast to hers, but he didn’t blink. In fact, he never did.
He must have read her thoughts because his eyes fluttered downward and stayed there for a moment, as if to tell her: I have eyelids too, you know.
Hunched over in his maroon Members Only jacket, Zeff looked more like an ape than a man in size alone. He knelt on hands and knees, his sleeves hiked up past his elbows as he wiped and wiped in a hypnotizing swirl. Zeff was big all right: a big baby boy who tipped the scales at over 320 pounds, if Kaitlin had to guess.
Kaitlin glanced at her husband. Brian was now on his feet, pantomiming his version of someone or something—whatever it was, she could not hazard a guess. But she knew this: Neil was fascinated with Brian’s performance.
“Ooh, this is a good one,” said Neil, grinning. “Everybody freeze, Brian freeze.”
Brian halted. The dinner party turned to Neil.
“You see,” Neil began, “the art of Celebrity is being brave enough to turn into something other than yourself. It’s about going with the motions and letting the character find you.”
His comment prompted “oohs” and “ahs” from the crowd.
“Very good, Brian,” said Neil, thumbing an imaginary TV remote as if hitting the play button. “Carry on.”
Brian continued his impression. The group called out ideas.
Kaitlin took the wad of dirty paper from Zeff as he ambled back to his chair.
“Well, this game is bunk,” Zeff said, sweeping up his cards in one motion. He shuffled them.
There was more laughter and applause from the dinner guests. Brian took a bow and pitched forward, bonking his head against the table. He stumbled but remained on his feet.
“Ow,” he moaned.
More applause, more laughter from the smashed peanut gallery.
“Time for a break,” Neil announced, leaping to his feet. “Who wants more wine?”
Everyone save for Daphne raised their now empty glasses.
Brian held up his glass the longest even as he rubbed the painful lump growing on his forehead. “Sugar not salt, pepper not tweet,” he sang again in that irritating voice.
Kaitlin turned the oven light on and peered through the glass window. The goddamn ziti wasn’t even bubbling yet.
The group filed into the kitchen.
Kaitlin tried to keep her composure, but the party she was desperate to keep away from was now invading her space.
“Even in a massive house, everyone finds their way into the kitchen,” she muttered.
It’s the law of attraction, she answered in thought.
Brian opened another bottle. It gave a resounding pop! as the cork was yanked out.
He’d be fired if he worked in a restaurant, Kaitlin groused. This she’d learned from a restaurant manager. You never let the cork pop out of the bottle, lest you hit a patron or look clumsy to a wine snob. Brian would have been thrown out on his ass for that one.
She swallowed her ire in the face of the drunken crowd. Smiling, she continued to brush melted butter onto the bread slices. She turned over a slice to reveal this one bore a solid drop of blood at its center. This made her take pause. She thought on saving this particular slice for Neil, but changed her mind and instead threw it in the trash.
“You have such a lovely array of cutlery,” said Neil. He plucked out the Henkel chopping knife and tested the weight. “I bet it could do some real fucking damage if you were ever in real need.”
You mean like right now, you fucking freak? Kaitlin thought. Smiling politely, her gaze swept across the party guests.
More like all of you freaks, she mused, laughing and sipping our wine.
She fumed. The nerve of these people! Here they were in her kitchen, only getting in the way while Kaitlin tried to cook their meal, and worse—they were stealing her wine! They could have brought their own, but no—here they were taking wine that was meant for her and Brian.
Brian’s hand closed around a bottle she recognized without even needing to examine its label. It was the bottle her father had given Kaitlin at her wedding, the bottle they were not to touch until their tenth anniversary, the selfsame bottle that had shot up in value and was worth a small fortune to the right buyers.
Brian had always been so careful with it, never letting it get too warm or too cool. He had obsessed over the bottle, so much so that he made it a point to turn it every few days so the cork would not dry out.
And yet here he was, thoroughly sloshed, ripping the foil off with a clumsy thumbnail, digging into it, peeling it like an orange and working the corkscrew into place.
“Brian?” Kaitlin pleaded, her eyes growing ever larger as she watched her husband violate the bottle—their bottle.
Brian carried on with that distant, dreamy fluidity of movement that came when one was too far gone into drunkenness.
And then, something inside her snapped.
A claxon went off in her mind as her emotions went to DEFCON ten—higher numbers meant bigger alarm, right? She couldn’t remember, nor could she care.
“You don’t want to open that bottle,” Kaitlin said.
Neil, still holding the knife, grabbed a large red onion and sliced it in two. “Come on Kaitlin,” he said with a grin. “Wine is for drinking, not for stashing away for an eternity in your kitchen.”
“No doubt about that,” Zeff chimed in. The suddenness of his having spoken startled Kaitlin.
Zeff returned to his game. “Dang,” he said under his breath. “I almost had it.” He swept up the cards and shuffled them.
Brian pulled the corkscrew lever, lifting the cork out of the bottle with as little effort as an autumn breeze blows a leaf.
The cork slid free of the bottle. Its bottom was stained with the dark purple of that year’s outrageously warm and wet winter, and a summer that was unique in that it wouldn’t occur again for another hundred years. This wine was ready to drink, but was she ready to drink this wine with them, or to even drink the wine at all?
No, she answered herself in thought. I cannot drink this wine.
There would be no more pleading with Brian. She grabbed him by the wrist and led him into the pantry.
“Ooooh,” the dinner party jeered collectively.
“Looks like someone’s in the doghouse!” Neil called out after the couple.
Kaitlin shoved Brian up against a pantry shelf. She shut the door behind her and snapped on the light with one quick pull of the rope tethered to the overhead bulb.
“Just what the fuck do you think you’re doing?” she demanded.
Brian’s brow furrowed. “I’m… we’re hosting a party.”
Kaitlin brought her finger to her lips, demanding silence in case the dinner party was listening in. She peered through the door slats and saw the silver glimmer of the Henkel blade hovering somewhere close.
Kaitlin leaned into Brian and just as quickly fought back the compulsion to wretch. There was enough alcohol on Brian’s breath to light it on fire.
She whispered, her tone quick and harsh: “One of us has to get to a phone.” Then, very faintly, she added, “The office.”
For the first time since these “guests” had arrived, realization dawned in Brian’s eyes. Kaitlin could almost see a coherent thought sloshing through his addled brain.
“You’re right…” Brian slurred. The color drained out of his face as the thought cemented itself in his mind. “Holy shit! The wine! What… what was I thinking? I…”
Rap. Rap. Rap.
Someone on the other side of the door knocked.
“Break’s over, Bri. You’re up.”
It was Neil again. Kaitlin could see him through the slats. The blade was no longer in his hand. Still, she did not feel safe. Where the knife was now was anyone’s guess, but she knew exactly where one glass of her wine—Kaitlin and Brian’s anniversary wine—had gone.
All at once that very minute, Kaitlin saw red, redder even than their special bottle of wine. It was time someone ended this party. Those dinner guests were no better than barbarians of bygone years who took what was best and enjoyed a piss on the rest. With Kaitlin trapped in her own pantry, those barbarians had effectively laid siege to her in her own home.
The dinner guests were pissing on Kaitlin’s parade. Tonight was supposed to be special. She had planned to announce something big, something that she and Brian had waited their entire marriage for. An announcement to one other person, indeed, the only other person who mattered, who now sat quietly in the other room: Daphne.
Kaitlin was pregnant, and Daphne would never know the outcome. Not until the game was over, anyway.
“Hey Brian, you’re up!” Neil shouted, rapping on the door again, harder this time.
Zeff stood. Kaitlin didn’t see it but she heard it—it’s hard to miss the sound when a man Zeff’s size gets on his feet.
“We’re…” Kaitlin trailed off as the door was ripped open.
Neil stood in the doorway, his eyes wide and blooming.
“We’re changing it up,” he said. “Couples play. Let’s go!”
Neil turned his back on the couple in the pantry to address the crowd. “Okay, Tom and Mary, you’re a team. Then, of course, Kaitlin and Brian, me and Rita…”
Rita took a sip of her wine and squealed, “Yay!”
“And that leaves our two singles who love to mingle, Bob and Daphne…”
Daphne, composed as always, glanced at Kaitlin. In that look was a shrill note of desperation—her look screamed: “Help!”
Kaitlin was powerless to help her.
“Bob and Daphne, you’re up first,” said Neil, rubbing his palms. He snatched up the bucket filled with bits of folded paper and held it under Daphne’s nose.
“Ladies first,” he said.
Daphne grimaced. “I don’t feel like playing.”
“Sure, you do. We all do!” Neil pressed her. He dropped the bucket in her lap. “Pick one!”
“I… I don’t want…” Daphne sputtered.
“Pick one,” Neil intoned. That was no mere pleasantry. His eyes fixed a cold glare on Daphne.
Daphne’s face turned the color of watered-down limeade. Hesitantly, she obliged, taking a folded scrap of paper out of the bucket. She blinked at the name on the page, then she crushed it into a ball and handed it to Bob.
“Sure, I know… that person,” Bob slurred.
“Get up, Daphne!” said Neil, pulling Daphne up off her seat. He plopped down in his chair beside Rita.
It was faint, but Kaitlin thought she saw Rita recoil. Whatever revulsion Rita may have felt was washed away in another sip of Kaitlin’s anniversary wine. The wine sloshed in Rita’s glass as she lowered it from her lips.
Tonight’s dinner party had long since gotten out of hand, Kaitlin could not help but think.
Neil took the paper from Bob and handed it back to Daphne.
She glanced at it. “I, um, I don’t know this person.”
“Well, you better figure it out, and quick,” Neil responded.
“I can’t,” Daphne protested. Her hands were balled into tight fists at her sides. “I just can’t!” Her voice cracked. She was about to cry.
“Zeff!” Neil called out.
Zeff’s heavy footfalls tramped across the kitchen linoleum.
“Wait!” said Daphne, putting out a hand. “I… I’ll do it.”
Daphne mimed singing into a microphone. She swayed her head back and forth with an exaggerated, cartoonish rhythm.
“You’re Prince! No, you’re Tom Jones!” Neil said.
“Cher!” said Rita. “Lady Gaga!”
Daphne shook her head. Her face was beet red. Tears welled in the corners of her eyes, and yet still she carried on.
“Davy Jones! Paul McCartney! Rod Stewart! Elton John!” Neil fired off in rapid succession, his cheeks turning plum purple. He gnashed his teeth. “The Killers! Sam Smith! One Direction! Silverchair! Wilco!”
The timer buzzed.
“Who was it?” Neil asked, furious.
“Roy Orbison,” Daphne said. “Roy Orbison,” she repeated timidly. She sat down.
One point was awarded to Daphne and Bob. No one was pleased with that.
A tense silence descended upon the room.
“Why not show his sunglasses?” Neil shouted. “Why not show that the guy was almost fucking blind? Why not act like you were holding a guitar and bumping into the fucking microphone stand?”
Neil stood and finished his glass of anniversary wine in a quick gulp.
“Why didn’t you try those things, Daphne?” he screamed. “Why didn’t you try a little harder!”
Daphne covered her face with her hands and cried.
Everyone looked around at everyone else, but no one did anything to comfort her.
The magic was wearing off. Neil was having none of it.
“Zeff, out here!” Neil ordered.
This time, Zeff moved with the practiced quickness of a prizefighter. As he stood in the doorway of the kitchen, his polite, quiet demeanor went solemn.
He glowered at Neil. “I was getting close to winning that game.”
“No more solitaire until I have a little heart-to-heart with Daphne here!”
Neil grabbed Daphne by the wrist and yanked her to her feet.
“Hey man, that’s my Mom!” said Brian.
“I know, Brian,” Neil said as if Brian had just told him the sun was hot. “And we’re going to have a little talk.”
Kaitlin bolted to her feet. “That’s enough, Neil!”
“Sit down!” Zeff said. His massive hand came down upon Kaitlin’s shoulder, forcing her back into her seat.
“Easy, there, Zeff,” said Neil. “No hurting the hosts. Not yet anyhow. Keep an eye on them.”
Neil dragged Daphne out of the room and down the hallway to the master bedroom. Once they both were inside, the bedroom door slammed shut.
It was hopeless. Kaitlin chewed her lip in desperation.
No, she thought, and shook her head. There had to be a way out of this.
She put her hands to her temples. Think, Kaitlin! Think!
This evening had been such a blur. Memories from earlier today sluiced through her mind with painful slowness.
Start from the beginning, she thought.
The Getty Center. Daphne, Brian and Kaitlin were supposed to go there this morning, but morning sickness had kept Kaitlin home. Brian had gone there with his mother while Kaitlin tidied the house.
The ziti. Once the house was clean, she started on dinner. It was supposed to be just the three of them.
The doorbell. Two hours ago, Brian and Daphne returned home. The doorbell had rung again sometime after they’d come back from their day in town.
Brian had answered the doorbell. She’d heard him say, “May I help you?”
Kaitlin never saw who was at the door, but she’d figured it was a neighbor.
There had been silence, followed by the shuffling of many pairs of feet and a voice she had never heard before.
“Right in here, everyone! Right in here!”
That had been Neil.
Following him inside were Rita, Tom, Mary, and Bob. They were already drunk, or at least they looked it. Whatever it was that had intoxicated them, it wasn’t alcohol; it was something far worse, far stronger.
When next Kaitlin saw Brian, he was slouching, his head lolling between his shoulders. A vacant, dreamy-eyed expression took root in his face. He dragged his feet after the group, rubbing his neck occasionally.
“What are you doing here?” Brian slurred, ending his question with a chuckle.
The group laughed at the sight of him.
“We’re here for a dinner party,” Neil had explained.
And that’s when Zeff had come barreling in through the backdoor with a gun and a brief command for Kaitlin. “Cell phones.”
Kaitlin had taken a breath to scream, but Neil clapped his hand shut around her mouth.
“No, don’t do that,” Neil had warned. “We’re here to enjoy the evening, that’s all. When we come to the last bottle of wine, we’ll go.”
Kaitlin had uttered a muffled, “No!” and that was when she had felt a pinprick in her arm.
The next thing she knew, she was making dinner for a house full of drunken, rowdy guests.
He drugged me! the thought exploded in her mind. She looked into the faces of her guests. Everyone sat in a circle, not talking, looking forlorn. Rita started to cry. Mary sobbed, then bawled openly. Tom cupped his face in his hands.
“Stop crying!” Zeff commanded. “Stop, all of you!”
Their eyes frozen on the big man, they instantly silenced themselves.
Bob drank from his glass.
Brian, glassy-eyed, sat quietly in his chair, his head lolling. “That’s my mom.”
Neil returned a few minutes later. Daphne was not with him.
“Where is she?” Kaitlin asked.
“Resting,” Neil shot back. He threw up his arms. “Well? Are we gonna eat, or are we gonna fucking eat!”
Kaitlin jumped from her seat and went to the oven. The ziti was bubbling, oozing. She shoved the tray of garlic bread in, and then set the ziti on the counter to cool.
“Just a couple of minutes,” she said as she set the oven to broil.
“That smells good,” said Zeff.
Kaitlin didn’t so much as grace him with a smile. She eyed the Henkel knife on the cutting board. That Henkel that was sharp enough to cut through a nail.
When the bread was ready, Kaitlin took the salad out of the refrigerator and set it down for the diners. She returned to the kitchen for the ziti and bread, and set these down beside the salad. Buffet-style dining at its finest.
Zeff helped with the plates and silverware. Kaitlin could tell he was hungry because he stopped playing solitaire the second the ziti hit the counter.
Ever the proper hostess, Kaitlin offered her guests the first plate. Everyone got to digging in soon after.
“This is wonderful!” Rita exclaimed.
“Simply magnificent,” said Bob, his mouth still full.
“Tastes like my mother’s from the old country,” said Tom, who didn’t look a shred Italian.
“It’s okay,” Neil said with a smart-alecky tone. “It’s digestible.” He shot her a wink. Oh, he was a funny one, that Neil.
Brian picked at his food. Even in his drugged state he was visibly distraught, and there wasn’t any need for Kaitlin to ask him what was wrong. Kaitlin knew Brian’s thoughts were on his mother. They had neither seen nor heard from her since Neil took her to the bedroom.
Rita snuffled, then began to cry. “How can you do this to us?”
“Shut up, Rita,” Neil said icily in between shoveling ziti into his mouth.
“You’re a monster!” Rita bawled. She threw her plate of ziti to the floor with both hands. “How long have we been doing this? I can’t even remember anymore! I had children! Children!”
Kaitlin felt her insides freeze. The action around her seemed to slow. The dinner guests watched the exchange with growing horror.
“I’m warning you,” Neil said, gnawing off a bite of the garlic bread. His eyes flitted to Kaitlin. “This is really good, Kait. Nice work!”
“Warning me?” Rita asked. “What are you going to do? Are you going to strangle me, like you strangled my husb…”
Zeff hurled his plate of steaming ziti like a clown tossing a cream pie. The plate hit Rita full on in the face. Rita’s sentence cut off in a scream as the sizzling cheese scalded her mouth, nose, and eyes. Then Zeff got to his feet and yanked Rita out of her chair by her neck. She kicked and flailed as he dragged her down the hall. The door to the bedroom swung open only so long as it took for them both to pass through. Zeff shut the door behind him. Rita’s screams cut out with a gurgle, and then there was silence.
Neil chewed on a mouthful of garlic bread. His eyes flitted to the untouched piece on Rita’s dropped plate.
“Bob, get me that piece of bread,” he said, snapping his fingers.
Bob obliged and tossed it to Neil, who caught it with one hand.
“Really great bread, Kait,” Neil said.
Zeff walked in from the hall. “Sorry about the plate.” He snapped up a fresh plate and loaded it with another helping of ziti.
“Well,” said Neil with a single handclap. “Time for more wine. And then we’re going to start a round of Pictionary!”
Mary cringed at the sound of that word. She hugged Tom and cried silently on his shoulder.
“What is this?” asked Neil, pointing at the couple with an open hand, palm up. “This is a goddamn dinner party, people! Since when do people at dinner parties cry?”
“Neil,” Mary whimpered. “We’ve been going at this for three days…”
In a flash, Neil drew a syringe from his pocket and stabbed Mary in the neck. The syringe was empty—he had injected her with air. Mary pitched headlong out of her seat and fell to the floor. Her body jerked and danced on the ground as she went into convulsions.
“There you go,” Neil said, grabbing for that second piece of bread. “Any other bright ideas?”
“Oh God! Neil!” Tom yelled, “Why? We did what you asked!” His mouth hung open, but the shock of what he’d witnessed had not yet kicked in. “We’re tired Neil,” he went on.
Neil slammed his uneaten portion of bread onto the table. “Oh, you’re tired, huh?” He pulled a small bottle out of his pocket and stuck the needle through the top. “Then I have just the thing!”
He pulled the plunger, drawing bright amber liquid into the syringe.
“Well, we’d better give you a double, actually, better yet—let’s give you a triple-helping!” Neil said, sneering.
Before Tom could protest, Neil stuck the syringe into Tom’s shoulder and rammed the plunger in. Tom screamed and jumped out of his seat, sending his plate of ziti airborne.
“You can leave, Tom!” Neil roared. “Go away! You’re not allowed to play Pictionary.”
Dazed, Tom shuffled toward the front door. He only got halfway before he swayed, then collapsed.
Neil laughed as though this were the funniest thing he’d seen in a month.
Zeff stood up and grabbed Tom and Mary by the scruffs of their necks. He dragged them up the hall to the bedroom.
Only Brian, Kaitlin, Bob, and Neil remained at the dinner table.
“Well, shit,” Neil said, “We can’t play Pictionary with just four people.”
“And we’re out of wine,” Bob said, frowning at his empty glass.
“Not so,” Neil chimed in, “I made sure to save the last bottle.” He pulled a Cabernet Sauvignon from underneath the table. It was one of the bottles Brian had purchased from the wine club.
Bob’s face lit up.
Neil shook his finger. “This isn’t to drink, Bob. At least, not for right now.”
“Oh right,” said Bob, frowning. “That’s for the next party.”
Neil sprang to his feet. “Come on, you four, get your coats! The night is still young!”
Zeff grabbed hold of Kaitlin’s arm and dragged her along the hallway.
Grim resolve welled up in Kaitlin. She was no longer scared, nor was she angry. If there was anything she felt, it was muted. It was a dangerous sort of numbness, the type that made you capable of dangerous things without a second thought that you’d regret it later.
This is it, she thought. Once Zeff dragged her into the bedroom, there’d be no coming back out. She’d never know her baby. She’d never know if she was having a boy or a girl, or…
“Where’s your coat?” Zeff asked.
“In the closet,” Kaitlin said, deadpan. In her mind’s eye, red lines converged into a bulls-eye in the center of Zeff’s chest.
The bedroom door swung open, revealing the pile of disappeared dinner guests atop the bed. Zeff had stacked them like Lincoln Logs, as though he were building some grotesque cabin of flesh, blood, and bone.
Zeff groped around in Kaitlin’s closet until he found a jacket he deemed suitable. Kaitlin thought to laugh at this, but swallowed her mirth. The jacket he had picked out was the one she would have chosen on her own, under different circumstances. She slung it on, and no sooner had she slinked her arms into its sleeves than Zeff ushered her back out to the living room.
Brian and Bob were dead asleep on the couch—at least, that was what Kaitlin told herself in the moment. The rational part of her knew they weren’t sleeping, much as Daphne wasn’t resting. She squelched that thought. It would only make her fearful. Now was not the time to be afraid.
Neil refilled his empty syringe with another plunge into the bottle. The amber liquid was running low.
“Ready to tackle the night, Zeff?” Neil asked.
“As long as I can play solitaire,” Zeff grunted.
Neil tapped absent-mindedly on the syringe to rid it of bubbles. “That is such stupid fucking game. No creativity whatsoever.”
“I like it.”
Kaitlin’s eyes darted to the Henkel knife. If she acted quickly enough, she could…
“Where are you going?” Zeff asked Kaitlin.
She wheeled to face him. “Is he sleeping?”
“Yep, a little shut eye,” Neil said off-handedly without so much as looking at her. “He’ll join us later.”
He was looking at his watch—rather, the watch Kaitlin had bought for Brian on their first anniversary.
“Okay,” she said. “Let me get my purse.”
Kaitlin shifted her weight to turn. It was an innocent gesture—a lady turning to head back the way she came to retrieve her things. She spun on the balls of her feet and swept up the Henkel, and in the same fluid motion plunged the knife deep into Zeff’s chest.
The big man fell back, his feet flopping up into the air after him. His hands clutched instinctively at the blade in his chest. Kaitlin yanked it out by its handle before Zeff could close his grip around it. The knife slid out of the torn meat with ease and took with it a few of Zeff’s fingers, severed at the second knuckle.
Kaitlin trained the knife on Neil, who watched her with a look that was a mix of amusement and pity.
“Go on,” he dared her. His voice was even and his tone cold. “Do it. Cut me.” He even put his hands behind his back to show that he was not a threat.
“The first hit’s free,” he went on. “Go on. Give me your best shot.”
Kaitlin didn’t hesitate, but neither did the prick above her elbow, or the prick holding the syringe. Before she was too sure of what had happened, she realized her fatal mistake. She’d lunged, he’d weaved, and he’d plunged the needle in her arm.
Neil plucked the knife out of her hand. She offered no resistance.
“Atta girl,” he crooned. He dropped the knife and took her hand.
Kaitlin’s vision quivered, bloomed and expanded, exploded in waves like running water before her eyes. Warmth flooded her. She giggled.
Neil put his hands on her shoulders and looked her in the face. “We’re going to have a very good time, you and me,” he cooed.
“Baby makes three,” she said with the same giddy giggle.
“Three’s a crowd,” he said sharply.
Somewhere, in what remained of Kaitlin’s reeling consciousness, something screamed briefly and was gone.
Neil kissed her on the cheek. “Will you be my date tonight?”
“Will I?” Kaitlin said, and nearly swooned at the offer.
He smacked his lips. “I’m thirsty.”
“Me too,” she replied absently.
“I don’t know about you, but I’m in desperate need of some wine.” Taking her other hand, he guided her to the front door.
“Where are we going?” she asked.
“To find ourselves another dinner party, silly,” said Neil, beaming his trademark grin. “We simply must play another round of Celebrity.”
“I thought you said we were going to play Pictionary.”
“That too,” he replied. “That, and more.”
Kaitlin nodded her agreement. This house party had grown dull, and it was high time she found another one. She followed Neil outdoors and into the night. The evening was still young, and more laughter and drinks were to be had.