Pandora's Closet Part 18

Brenda started to reach out to take the bags from him but then changed her mind and decided that he could roam free, but he had to carry the heavy candle and healing hands lotion. "Go," she announced with a wave of her hand. To her own surprise, her voice held little irritation.

"What?"

"Go. Shoo. Wander." Her fingers brushed at him. "Get out of here. You're driving me crazy," she lied. "I'll call you when I'm done shopping. Make sure your phone is on."

Now Bob was walking alone in the mall, looking at the people and thinking about stopping for a Guinness at the faux British pub near the food court. It was cold today, so most of the young women were wearing jackets or coats, and it made it blissfully easy to dismiss the haunting, firm young flesh that occupied his thoughts. Bob was glad that the weather had forced all these young s.l.u.ts to cover up.

A tall red-haired woman wearing a tight minidress came breezing out of one of those lingerie stores. She was not wearing a coat, and her body and hair bounced as she sashayed, moving toward Bob. As she got closer, he saw deep gashes on her face, and a red line s.h.i.+mmering across her neck, releasing blood down her plunging neckline. The skin and muscles along her left cheek peeled down and plopped wetly to the floor.

Bob stopped and closed his eyes, breathing slowly and calmly. He smelled the rush of blood as the woman's high heels clicked louder and louder toward him, beside him, and then the noise trailed away, fading into the crowd.

He opened his eyes slowly, still facing the store the red-haired woman had come from. Bob saw a plump brunette woman whose b.r.e.a.s.t.s had been sliced off standing in the window. She was holding up a black and pink lace bra.s.siere in one hand, and a skimpy orange one in the other hand, comparing the two. Her blood stained the front of her s.h.i.+rt, dripping between her feet as she considered the price tags.

Bob's throat tightened. He turned slowly away and resumed walking. He was careful not to step in the b.l.o.o.d.y footprints left by the red-haired harlot.

A few minutes later, Bob felt normal again. He was in control. Again.

Bob continued to window shop without any real destination. He dismissed the cigar shop, blew past the cell phone kiosk and the puppies, and he did not even notice the model train store. He slowed as he approached a shop with electric razors in the window display. Thinking about his old Remington electric, he went in to see if they sold blades for his old model.

The store was filled with red velvet display cases glimmering full of silvered blades. Razors, scissors, and electric shavers were prominent as well, but the vertical display cases with the hundreds of exquisite knives captured his imagination. Along with half a dozen other men, Bob walked along the displays, admiring the seemingly endless a.s.sortment of stainless steel. There were entire cases of straight-bladed hunting and fis.h.i.+ng knives, military fighting knives, diver's knives, and replica daggers. As he ogled the fine craftsmans.h.i.+p, he came upon the folding knives. His pulse quickened slightly when he saw an a.s.sortment of small, razor-sharp knives with unusual blades. Some were partially serrated, and others were so straight that light sang across the edges as he moved by. The blades were small and extremely thin, even when folded up. Most of the men were window shopping the larger knives, but Bob was transfixed at this case of small, efficient blades that folded into your pocket.

h.e.l.lo there!

It was nestled in red velvet beside a knife touted as a special police design. The blade was less than three inches long, and it was serrated almost all the way to the tip. It hooked at the end like a talon. The special description indicated that it was designed for use by sailors to cut rope at arm's length, and the beak-like tip provided leverage on moving targets. The blade had a small hole where you were meant to place your thumb knuckle so the blade could be opened one-handed. The knife was named the Harpy.

Well, well.

Suddenly sweating and short of breath, Bob gladly paid one hundred twenty dollars and quietly returned to the traffic of the mall.

He was entirely too old to be in this bar, and he knew it. The wife and kids were out of town visiting family, and he was stuck working the weekend.

Hope Sonya isn't driving Brenda crazy.

The majority of the clientele was from the college down the road. He knew the place well by now and knew that he could charm young college women with his quiet confidence and willingness to buy them drinks without asking the waitress how much they cost. Bob would sit and pretend to listen to them as their blood dripped off their pretty, mutilated faces onto the little umbrellas that sat in their fruity drinks.

It was crowded tonight, and Bob was at the bar, holding his overcoat in his lap because there was no safe place to drape a coat. It occurred to him that there were no less than a dozen guys his age sitting at tables by themselves, leering at the young girls.

Losers.

He fidgeted with the b.u.t.tons on the overcoat and noted that Brenda had tightened up the loose b.u.t.ton.

Wow, that was nice of her.

After a while, a woman sat next to Bob. She was almost his age, also too old for this place, with overdone blonde hair and a tight red dress that exposed a lot of hanging cleavage. Her skin was weathered, showing years spent in the sun. She ordered a drink and did not immediately pay for it. As she raised the gla.s.s, she cast a sidelong, dirty glance at Bob, then she drained the gin and tonic.

Bob motioned the bartender to bring her another one.

Roxanne was the name she gave, and she was not as loud as the younger girls. Her voice was husky, and she smoked. Bob hated cigarettes and women who smoked them. In fact, he didn't like her at all. She sat there in the tight red dress, with her rough tanned skin, long legs, and her slightly overdone eye makeup looking at him like she was interested. She smelled of sickly sweet perfume and cigarette smoke. Bob did not have to look away, or close his eyes, or suppress any urges from under his folded overcoat as long as he focused on her.

They talked for a time, and Bob gave her his attention without listening. He did not allow himself to be distracted by the firm and blood-soaked bodies of the sorority girls on the dance floor. After her third drink, she leaned in close to make sure he heard her. "Honey, don't take this personally, but you should know that I have bills to pay. We can take this party somewhere private, but it will cost you. I hope that doesn't spoil the mood."

A distant feeling of familiarity threatened Bob's composure, but he remained calm. He ignored the blood that was now slowly dripping from the gash where Roxanne's nose should be, and gazing into her mutilated eye sockets said, "No, not at all. In fact, I think you just said the magic words, Love."

Standing in the bathroom, Bob washed the blood from his hands. The small apartment stank of stale smoke and fried foods. There was a litter box in the kitchen that stank, too. He dabbed at the sleeves of the overcoat, but there did not seem to be any blood on the wool. In fact, looking in the mirror, he was remarkably clean considering the past hour's activities. He was certain that some blood had sprayed across the sleeve, but looking at it now, it was dry and soft with no trace of blood. He finished was.h.i.+ng off the knife, grateful for the ingenious design that prevented it from holding water in any crevices.

He walked through Desiree's bedroom one last time and saw her lying peacefully on the bed. Her hair was rumpled across the pillow. Her b.r.e.a.s.t.s and an ovary were arranged on her bedside table, beside most of the tissue from her face. Someone had already gotten to the other ovary years before Bob met her, it seemed. Her legs were splayed open, and the soles of her feet were pressed together, near her b.u.t.tocks. He had taken his time, and treated the dirty wh.o.r.e with the care she deserved. He hated rus.h.i.+ng.

He felt a vibration near his right hip. He reached down and noted with surprise that his cell phone was somewhere in his overcoat. Fumbling with a strange pocket he wasn't sure he'd noticed before, he pulled it out. He was on full alert, as if Brenda might somehow know where he was through the phone. His voice was artificially cheerful, "Hey Sweetie. No, you didn't disturb me; I'm on my way home right now. No, it's okay, I'm just wrapping up here at work. You aren't bothering me at all."

Bob walked outside, talking quietly. "Say, did you sew a pocket into my overcoat? You did? That's the sweetest thing, thank you. You're becoming a regular little seamstress. Be home in a flash. Love you. Bye-bye."

The kids rushed out the door to catch their various school buses. Bob was surprised to see Brenda come back in the house. She would usually hurry over to the school and sit there out of view, waiting to make sure David got inside safely before driving to work. She denied doing it, but Bob knew better. Bob did not discourage her paranoia. After all, there were a lot of sickos in the world.

But this morning, she was still there after the kids were gone. Bob noted that she was bringing a small armful of dry cleaning in from the minivan.

He drank coffee and read the local paper. There was a short article on the front page about another hooker who had been found murdered downtown. A redhead. She'd been dead a couple of days. No other details were released. Bob turned to the sports section.

"Honey?"

"Yes, Dear?" Bob set his paper aside and looked at his wife. Her brown hair was pulled back and she was wearing one of the dark blue and black dress suits that she wore when she was trying to hide her weight. She held her overcoat across her arm, stroking it absently as if she were on her way out the door. Her freckles were obvious this morning, despite the fact that she had actually used a little makeup today to cover them. Bob recalled her saying something about her boss having a presentation that she was helping with.

I'll have to call and offer encouragement later this morning.

"Are we... are we okay?" she asked.

"What do you mean? Of course we're okay." Bob was genuinely confused. "What do you mean?"

There was a long pause as Brenda looked around, "It's just that... I mean... I worry that we don't do things together anymore."

"What do you mean, Dear?"

Where is she getting this?

"Well, you've been staying out late a lot and coming home smelling like you've been in bars. And... well... I don't have to tell you how long it's been since we've made love." The last bit was almost mumbled, but Brenda had momentum going and didn't want to stop, "Bob-is there another woman?" she blurted out fearfully.

"No, of course not." Bob said almost laughingly but without a trace of mockery.

"Well, it's just that... well... sometimes I can smell the perfume, I think."

"Dear, there's no other woman," Bob said dismissively and convincingly.

She offered him a weak smile. "I hate to say anything. It's just that you've been so different these past few months. I mean, you're more thoughtful, more... and you don't even peek at other women when we're out anymore, which is actually kind of nice, but..."

Bob s.h.i.+fted a bit uncomfortably at that. He felt like a kid who finally realized that his mother always kept a count of how many cookies were in the jar.

"But at the same time, we haven't had... s.e.x... for almost four months." She ran through the speech quickly, with rehea.r.s.ed speed, and kept going. "Cosmo says that these are signs that a husband is cheating."

Smiling a bit, Bob repeated, "Dear, I haven't had any kind of s.e.x with any woman but you since we started dating. I'm sorry if I ever looked at another woman. The sight of most other women makes me ill compared to you, Dear, and I am grateful that your face is the one I wake up to in the mornings." Bob's words rang with surprising sincerity.

Relieved, but a bit unprepared, Brenda pressed an issue. "Where have you been going at night?"

Chuckling, Bob said, "I've been hanging out in bars and patrolling street corners finding hookers and eviscerating them for my sick pleasure, Dear." Bob's heart almost stopped.

Where the h.e.l.l did that come from?!

Brenda chastised him, "Bob! That's tasteless to laugh about those poor murdered women like that. Shame on you! I don't care that they were prost.i.tutes, they were still people."

"I'm sorry, Dear, I didn't mean to upset you."

What in G.o.d's name did I say that for?

"I love you just how you are, Brenda, and I like us the way we are. I'm not cheating on you."

I told her... about the hookers. I can't just let her walk out of here now.

"Don't read too much into my behavior, Brenda. Midlife crisis, maybe."

Now I have to keep her quiet!

Bob felt the tremor of fear grow into a knot.

Brenda smiled sweetly and came close. He could smell the fresh, clean scent of the morning shower and fabric softener. She was incredibly plain, and Bob felt absolutely no desire to have s.e.x with her. He inhaled the scents again and remembered all the anger and hatred he had felt for her all these years. He summoned up the apathy and rage, building to a sharp, razor's edge as he looked into her eyes.

He saw her freckles, her concerned brow. He had nothing. No blood, no stench, no rage, no visions... nothing compelling him to silence her. Just fear. If he had to kill her, he had to do it alone. He did not have the knife or his treasured coat.

He averted his eyes in wilted defeat.

"I'm glad we talked, Bob. And I'm glad you were honest with me. Couples should be honest with each other." The tone of her voice had changed, and when he looked back up to her, he noticed that the coat she was holding over her arm and stroking lovingly was his. She bent down and gently kissed his head, holding her hand on his shoulder. "Be sure that it stays that way."

She handed him the coat and then reached into her pocket and extracted something that flashed silver in the kitchen lights. She placed his knife on the table in front of him. Bob's heart jumped into his throat, and his breath froze.

"Bob-don't be out too late tonight."

IRRESISTIBLE.

by Yvonne Coats.

Sandy slumped against the wheel of her old-but-it-still-runs Toyota Celica and tried to figure out how her day had gone to h.e.l.l. A tap on the window startled her: It was Billy, one of the regulars, smiling at her in a way she'd gotten far too familiar with. Not a bad guy-none of them were bad guys, usually-but she surely did not like that smile.

She rolled the window down a crack, and Billy didn't say any of the things she'd antic.i.p.ated, like how unfair it was that she'd been fired. He didn't ask if she'd be okay, or offer her a loan. What Billy did say was, "I wonder, I mean, could I call you sometime?"

"No. I gotta go now, Billy." s.h.i.+t s.h.i.+t s.h.i.+t, she thought as Billy reached for the door handle. She turned the ignition key and had never been more grateful to hear the little Celica's sewing machine engine turn over.

She pulled away from Billy as fast as she could without knocking him down and zipped through the parking lot and out into the street. She'd made good money serving drinks at the Silver Dollar, but she hadn't put much away. She didn't think finding another job would be all that easy, especially since Sh.e.l.ly, the manager, said she'd fired her "cause she couldn't keep her hands off'n the customers."

Tears welled in Sandy 's eyes. It hadn't been her mauling the customers, but the other way around. I need a drink, she thought when she saw the Handy Pantry sign.

She pulled right up to the door-good, it's not busy-and went inside for some cheap beer. She hoisted the six-pack onto the counter and rummaged in her purse for her wallet.

"Hi," the clerk said. He was a skinny redheaded guy who looked about seventeen years old but had to be older if he could sell beer. And he had that smile.

"Hi," Sandy said, extracting her wallet. "How much?"

"Drinkin' alone?"

She kept her eyes down but was sure he was still smiling.

"Preferably."

"Not very friendly, are ya?"

"Sorry. Just tired and not in a very good mood." She smiled slightly and forced herself to look up. Yup, he was smiling, like a man about to take his first bite of a really good steak. "How much is the beer, please?"

"Onna house."

d.a.m.n. "Come on, how much is it?"

"Onna house," he said again, louder.

"If you don't let me pay for it, I'm not taking it."

When he just kept smiling, Sandy thought, I am not leaving without beer. She pulled out a five, slapped it on the counter, and walked out.

"Hey, wait! This is too much." The redhead came out behind her, but he was too slow. She had the Celica in reverse and out of the parking lot before he stepped off the curb. In the review mirror, she could see him waving her five-dollar bill.

When she got home, to a former garage some thrifty soul had turned into a dollhouse of a rental, she was glad she lived alone. Right now, she was glad she wasn't dating anybody. Do Lutherans have convents? she wondered, though she hadn't been to church since she left home.

She popped the top on one of the beers, took a long swig, and snorted at the brand name, Blitz. How come cheap beers have all the best names? I guess names are cheaper than ingredients.

She flopped down on the squashy red plaid couch, pulled off her spike heels, and rubbed her toes and arches. Groaning, she stood up and peeled off her stockings, tossing her fancy garters on the coffee table and aiming the stockings toward the bathroom.

She sat back down, took another slug of beer, and considered her situation. She had a couple of hundred in checking, nearly seven hundred in savings, maybe two months' worth of money if she really watched it.

Her gaze settled on the garters. Last week, they'd seemed perfect. Last week, her sister Cheryl asked her to be a bridesmaid, said she'd buy Sandy's dress-hallelujah-and asked Sandy to find her something "old and blue" that Cheryl could "borrow" and wear on her wedding day next month. Before Sandy could panic about finding something wedding-appropriate, she saw an ad in one of her magazines. There was a tiny photo of a pair of garters, and they sure looked blue. Underneath was printed, "Be irresistible," and a description of the garters as "antique."

Sandy had called the phone number, and a soft southern voice answered, "Blue Ridge Bazaar, Rennie McCoy speaking."

"Um, I'm calling about some garters."

"I got them when my grandmother died. I believe they'd been in the family for a long time. They're handmade, probably late Nineteenth Century and, since I a.s.sume you want to wear them, the elastic is in remarkably good shape."

"That's nice," Sandy said, in a hurry because it was long distance. "I can't tell from the picture... are they blue?"