King of Murder

Meat stood at the front window of his house even though there was nothing to see. His shoulders were slumped. His hands were jammed into his pockets.

Herculeah had long ago departed for Death’s Door. She had come out of her house in her usual rush. She had turned in the direction of town, a sweater tied around her waist, her hair flying out behind her like a cape. Superwoman.

He had hoped she might glance across the street, see him, and give him a wave of sympathy for his upcoming dental visit. But, no, as if she already knew he didn’t deserve any sympathy, she hurried on down the sidewalk and turned the corner.

He knew his mother had come into the room from the kitchen, because he smelled mayonnaise. “You want a sandwich?”

Of course he wanted a sandwich, he had never not wanted a sandwich in his whole life, but he shook his head. “I’m not feeling well,” he said. “I may be coming down with something.”

“Don’t bother trying that I’m-coming-down-with-something trick.” His mother’s tone made it a warning. She crossed the room and put her hand on his forehead.

He wished, as he had many times, that there was some simple way to get a few degrees of fever when you were desperate to get out of something. He knew from past experience that there wasn’t.

He went to the hall closet and came back dragging an athletic sweatshirt that had seen better days.

Meat went back to the closet. When he returned to the room, he said, “I still can’t believe you’re doing this terrible thing to me.”

“Terrible thing? What terrible thing? Taking a beautiful young girl for pizza and a movie is a terrible thing?”

“It’s a terrible thing to make arrangements behind your children’s back. It’s like a return to the Dark Ages.”

“In some respects the Dark Ages weren’t so bad.” She took a deep breath. “Anyway, I owe my friend Dottie big-time. When your father deserted us—and there’s no other word to describe what he did—it was my friend Dottie who kept me from falling apart. You think it’s easy to be deserted by a husband?”

“Dottie listened to my fears—and I had plenty of those. She dried my tears—I had plenty of those, too. She cooked meals for us. She slept over when I needed her. She was better than a psychiatrist. When I see psychiatrists on TV, I think to myself, You’re pretty good, but you’re no Dottie.”

She paused to get her breath. She was getting kind of red in the face—a color that was not becoming on her—so Meat said, “All right, all right, I get the message.”

That didn’t stop his mother. “And in all those years since your father deserted us, did she ever ask a favor of me?”

“Now, she asks one tiny favor. Her niece Steffie is visiting and she wants to arrange an outing. She thinks of you, Albert. You think I could say no?”

“I’m not trying to be smart, Mom. I’m just trying to stay alive in the Dark Ages.”

“You mark my words. When you get home this afternoon, you’ll thank me for a wonderful afternoon.”