Big Foot Stole My Wife Page 18
Yes, I go to the wardrobe and open its doors. Of course everything hangs neatly and the shoes are aligned in precise rows. The woman dresses well, although with modest discretion. She doesn’t stuff dirty clothes in the dark corners and then forget to take them to the laundromat. She is too fine a gentlewoman to wad up sweatshirts and jeans. Her shoes have no mud on them. Her purses, arranged on the shelf, don’t have broken zippers and torn straps.
I’m beginning to like her less and less, this trespasser. For that is what she is. It is my apartment, my lease, my extra locks on the door, and my continual fight with the super to fix the leak in the bathroom. Who is she to hide in this orderliness? Why shouldn’t she share my frustration when the radiator goes cold and the dripping faucet reverberates and the animals next door begin to groan?
Who she is is what I intend to find out. I slam the wardrobe door and go to the bedside table. Maybe I’ll find an envelope with her name, or a perfectly balanced checkbook with her name—and our shared address beneath it. I yank open the drawer with enough anger to make it screech.
There is a Bible. She is pious and self-righteous, I think hotly. She knows I stopped going to church years ago, when I found the confession box claustrophobic and the platitudes nauseating. I can almost see her kneeling in a pew, her gloved hands clasped together, her face aglow with the inner radiance of a madonna.
I snatch up the Bible and open it to the first page to see if her name is written there in perfect script. Nothing. I throw the Bible on the bed and don’t give it a second glance as it falls to the floor. She can pick it up and replace it herself.
I feel in the back of the drawer and blink as my hand withdraws, holding a small gun. I have a gun that resembles this one very closely. I bought it when I first moved to the neighborhood. I think it’s in the bottom drawer of my dresser, under the sweaters and scarves. Or maybe in the back of a kitchen cabinet.
At least she’s worried about being mugged, I think as I examine the gun to determine that it’s loaded. Like me, she must lie awake at night listening to the horns blaring and the occasional arguments in the street below, or to the rhythmic squeals of the bed in the next apartment. Like me, she has nights when she can’t sleep, when the sheets become damp and the blanket is twisted like a snake around her legs.
I feel better as I imagine her fear. She may not live in a chaos of dirty clothes, unpaid bills, dishes in the sink, dustballs on the floor, and calls from nosy relatives, but she still has a malignancy that swells in the dark and evokes demons.
I decide to steal her gun. Then she’ll be even more frightened. After a few nights of insomnia, she’ll be clumsy and scatter powder on her dresser. She’ll leave clothes on the chair, forget to replace her makeup in the tray, decide it’s easier to leave the bed unmade.
I start for the door, smiling to myself. Then I glance at the dresser, and above it I see her. I halt, catch my breath, and move cautiously forward until I’m facing her. Her hair color is much like mine, but she is wearing it in a stylish cut and it shines in the light. She is at least twenty pounds slimmer. Her face is not bloated. Her eyes are clear, with no trace of the redness that greets me every morning.
The worst thing is that she’s smiling. It speaks of contempt, and I know that she compares my hair, my face, my body, and my clothes with hers and that she feels superior. She sees the ugly clutter in my room beyond the doorway.
I decide to show her just how messy life can be. I put the barrel of the gun in my mouth. Now I’m going to wait just a minute until I can see that she’s beginning to comprehend what I’m about to do. Then I’m going to splatter brains and blood all over the ceiling and walls of her perfect, tidy bedroom.
About the Author
Joan Hess (b. 1949) is the award-winning author of several long-running mystery series. Born in Arkansas, she was teaching preschool when she began writing fiction. Known for her lighthearted, witty novels, she is the creator of the Claire Malloy Mysteries and the Arly Hanks Mysteries, both set in Arkansas.
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
These are works of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2003 by Joan Hess
“Big Foot Stole My Wife!” copyright © 1991 by Joan Hess. First published in Sisters in Crime 4.
“Paper Trail” copyright © 1994 by Joan Hess. First published in Deadly Allies II.
“Heptagon” copyright © 1998 by Joan Hess. First published in Once Upon a Crime.
“Make Yourselves at Home” copyright © 1994 by Joan Hess. First published in Malice Domestic 3.
“All That Glitters” copyright © 1995 by Joan Hess. First published in Crimes of the Heart.
“The Cremains of the Day” copyright © 1997 by Joan Hess. First published in Funny Bones.
“Dead on Arrival” copyright © 1991 by Joan Hess. First published in Invitation to Murder.
“The Last to Know” copyright © 1992 by Joan Hess. First published in Malice Domestic.
“The Maggody Files: D.W.I.” copyright © 1992 by Joan Hess. First published in Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine, March 1992.
“The Maggody Files: Death in Bloom” copyright © 1999 by Joan Hess. First published in Mom, Apple Pie, and Murder.
“Another Room” copyright © 1990 by Joan Hess. First published in Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine, October 1990.
Cover design by Andy Ross
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