When the alarm went off at six, I was tempted to throw it out the window. We’d just fallen asleep a few hours ago. My body was as sore as my mind was troubled. The sex had been amazing, momentarily erasing my firing and subsequent murder of my boss. At one point, when I’d entered her from behind, she’d gasped, “My God, your cock is so hard and hot. Just fill me and stay like that for a while.”
I didn’t even remember having sex this good on our honeymoon. For a few hours I was a stud, on top of the world, or at least, on top of my smoking hot wife.
With the light of a new day, my insides clenched as the gravity of my situation slammed me like a pouncing tiger. I kissed Candy and said, “You sleep in this morning. I’ll get Katie ready for school.”
She mumbled something into her pillow. I assume it was thanks.
I went downstairs to make Katie’s lunch and packed it in her lunchbox. Getting her up and ready was a chore. My daughter is not a morning person. There were tears, pleas for mercy, and a fit when I picked out the wrong outfit. How was I to know she wanted to wear her Dora shirt and not the Princess Jasmine top?
Her preschool was just a few blocks away. It was a mild morning, so I walked her instead of taking the car.
“How come you’re not driving?” she said, her little hand in mine.
“I thought it would be a nice day for a walk.”
“Are you going to walk all the way to work too?”
Her innocent remark reminded me of the conversation I’d have to have with Candy later. I squeezed her hand.
“I think I’ll take the day off. That way, I can pick you up later. Maybe we can go to the park. Does that sound good?”
Her face lit up. “I love you, Daddy. Can we get pizza too?”
I longed to be her age again, when a trip to the park and a slice of pizza were all you needed to be happy.
“Sure.”
As soon as she spotted her best friend Emma, she broke free from my grasp and went running with her into the school. I stood for a long time, just staring at the little building and wondering how on earth I was going to break the news to Candy. More importantly, should I tell her about Marcellus?
* * * * *
Candy was up when I returned, and in her short robe that revealed the bottom curves of her bare ass when she lifted her arms above her head. She did not wear that robe when Katie was around.
“Taking a sick day?” she asked, filling a mug of coffee for me. “I wore you out pretty good, huh?”
A news commentator was talking about leaked information on Muslim jihadist sleeper cells in the Midwest and New England. Candy turned the radio off as she sashayed her way to me.
I felt sick to my stomach. I’d taken my box of belongings from my car and dropped it on the floor by the front door.
She wrapped her arms around me, nuzzling her head into my chest. “You haven’t had a hooky day since we moved here. We could watch some movies and do a little you-know-what when the mood hits.”
Taking a deep breath, I said, “We need to talk.”
She stiffened. “Okay,” she said, suspicion in her tone.
I told her that I’d been let go the day before. First she was angry for my not telling her last night, then freaked out wondering what would happen to us. I let her go through all the stages of unemployment grief. When her panic crested, she pulled me into her arms, consoling me.
“We’ll be okay,” she whispered in my ear. “We have savings. We can both get jobs. The pay up here isn’t good, but we won’t starve.”
Would she feel the same way if she knew she was holding a cold-blooded murderer?
I was figuring out how to tell her what I did to Marcellus, dying inside at the thought of losing not just her but her love, when that heart-stopping pain returned. I went into a full body clench. She hugged me harder. “Don’t worry, Peter. You’ve got me. Forever, no matter what.”
She must have thought I was holding back tears, wracked with grief.
How was she to know I couldn’t confess my crime without having my brain explode?
* * * * *
Things settled down and we never got around to watching any movies. Nor did we do the other stuff she’d hinted at. But we did sit and talk and remember the early days of our marriage when we were broke enough to qualify for food stamps if we hadn’t been too stubborn to apply for them. Instead, we existed on whatever pasta and tuna was on sale. At one point, I think I ate linguini with butter for ten days in a row.
Time flew by. I looked up at the kitchen clock and saw it was 2:00.
“I promised Katie I’d pick her up,” I said, searching for my sneakers. “I said I’d taker her to the park and for a slice of pizza.”
Candy grinned. “We’re lucky to have you. Bring some pizza home for me. Let’s take the weekend off from everything and just have fun. We can figure everything out later.”
“I’d like that.”
I gave her a long kiss and headed for the preschool. I got there just in time for the final bell. Cars and parents, mostly moms, were everywhere. I noticed one woman wearing a white surgical mask over her nose and mouth. She was either ill, or one of the lemmings who were easily led to panic by a media bent on instilling fear in a country already in the throes of 24/7 anxiety. I smiled her way but couldn’t tell if she smiled back.
This was my first time picking Katie up from school. I was normally at work now, lost in budgets and ad copy. Two dozen kids spilled from the front door, four teachers (or were they helpers? I had no idea of the hierarchy in preschools) watching to make sure each child went with the correct parent.
Katie jumped into my arms. A heavyset woman with long, gray hair in a French braid said, “Is that your father, Katie?”
“Yes,” she said. “He’s taking me to the park!”
The woman gave me the once over, then nodded. “Have a nice weekend.”
A man bumped into me as he tugged his son along. The little boy’s mouth was pulled into a tight line. He did not look happy. Neither did who I assumed to be his dad. The portly man wore a well-practiced scowl as he towed his child into a waiting car, an old Nissan with faded paint and two crushed fenders.
“You want to walk to the park?” I asked.
“Okay,” Katie said.
I could get to enjoy this. Time at home with Candy, getting fresh air, making Katie happy.
If I hadn’t just killed a man, I might be able to savor these moments. Sure, Marcellus had been a monumental prick. From what I knew of him and saw in those weird visions, I didn’t think he’d have a long line of mourners. But I had murdered him like I was some kind of maniacal vigilante. In the long run, was I any better than him?
Or was I worse?
It was only a five-minute walk to the park. I took a bench so I could watch Katie hit the slides.
My phone vibrated in my pocket.
There was a text from AO. I was tempted to toss the phone in the garbage. I wondered what the pain would be like if I did. Jesus, it took less than twenty-four hours to condition me like a lab rat. Was it weak of me to admit how soft I’d become? Did a double negative make a positive?
Stop making jokes. There’s nothing funny about this.
Feeling my acid reflux kicking in, I opened the text.
AO: That man u bumped into rapes his child.
I looked around furtively, worried that another parent or child had seen what was on my phone.
I wrote back: How can you know that?
AO: You’re going to help his son tomorrow.
I knew where this was headed. Everything got very dizzy, very fast.
AO: The Mustang will be parked a block from your house. The man’s address will be programmed. This one will be even easier.
How could murdering another man be easier? I wanted to scream. My hands trembled too much for me to text back.
AO: Trust me.
I couldn’t even trust myself anymore.