It started at the party. The dinner party. At the house of a rich man who called himself upper-middle class. My wife likes him a little too much. Why did she buy him roses?
“It’s a fancy event. He’s a good host,” she had argued with me the previous night, but why did she blush with her delivery? Sure, we don’t live in the hills, but I provide for her. I keep her needs satisfied—and her wants for that matter—why does she shun me?
“Quite nice of you to come!” The rich man smiles, eyeing the roses in Josie’s hand, “and nice of you to bring these beauties.” She hands him the bouquet, which he places atop a shelf of books he’s never read: Frankenstein, Pride and Prejudice, and the Bible. Why does he pretend to be sophisticated?
“Well, it is very nice of you to invite us!” Josie laughs; I grimace, enough small talk. The rich man gives me an excessively tight handshake. Asserting his dominance? No, he’s already done that by flirting with my wife.
“Hi.” I greet before slipping into the party. Immediately, I recognize three of my wife’s colleagues: Maddy, Maddy, and Charlene. “Hey Maddy!”
“Hello, Will!” the Maddys Chirp in unison. They love me.
“Where is Josie?” Charlene questions. With the rich pig, I think to myself. But instead of an explanation, I give Charlene a shrug that prompts an awkward moment of silence. I speak up,
“By the way, she wanted you to know that Henry is hiring a batch of new accountants.”
“New people in the office? We are at capacity!” Charlene complains, half jokingly. I laugh; she gets fired up about minuscule inconveniences. I give the women a wave as I leave. Charlene’s continuing rant fades. I scan the room. The rich man stands alone. Where is Josie? Maybe my affair hypothesis was wrong. He stands next to Beckie, his personal chef, by the kitchen counter, a marble surface sharp enough to cut his brain clean in half. I chuckle, imagining him as Phineas Gage. No, I can’t kill the rich man, I think to myself. Maybe a shred of my sanity is left. Sure, if he were unconscious, I might be able to leave this party with a piece of his wealth—his champagne glasses, Chateau Cheral Blanc, or fine jewelry—but the idea is all too stupid, especially if my wife wants to be invited back. I approach the rich man,
“Could you pour me a glass, Henry?”
“Not as much as last time, Will!” he teases.
“William.” I correct. He chuckles, filling my glass with red.
“You know Will-”
“William.” I am annoyed.
“Yes, William, you know, you are quite lucky with that wife of yours,” I grunt,
“I am glad to have her,” I respond, putting emphasis on I and have. I can tell he has had a couple of glasses himself, and his honesty is getting the best of him.
“I am hiring new accountants, Will,” He starts, and this time I don’t correct him, “and I really admire your work ethic. Josie tells me you were laid off, so if you ever want to switch to finance.” He smiles. The first genuine smile of the night, and now I feel sympathy. Maybe he does care, maybe he is not a phony, ego-centric, wealthy, imbecile.
“Now, where’s Josie?” My admiration fades.
“I thought she was with you.” I walk away from the con man and scan the room for Josie. Nowhere. I know the place well, but it takes about 20 minutes to cover. My first thought is Henry’s room—bad, I know— but I keep thinking about her, trapped on his bed, tissue in her mouth and rope around her arms. The more I think, the faster I pace. Soon, I stand on the third floor, facing his door. It’s open a crack, so a push will do the trick. I place my hand on the wood to slowly reveal the disheveled room where Henry dwells. I tiptoe in. No Josie. I am relieved. But my curiosity doesn’t stop there, and his dull closet shines with mystery. I peer inside at his miscellaneous collection of treasures. A fur coat; a tailored suit; a framed diploma; shot glasses, each with a different Golden Girl; a school photo; and above all, cold, hard cash, boxes of it. You’d think a rich man would have better security. How careless. Surely he wouldn’t notice if a couple of bills were gone; consider it charity. After my pockets are filled with Jacksons, Grants, and Franklins, I turn to leave the room. Something else catches my eye. A semi-automatic shotgun. Ah, so he does have security. I lift the thing, lighter than I thought. Loaded too. How paranoid. I hold the weapon, posing like an old western movie star, sliding my hand from top to bottom and slowly resting my fingers on the trigger. “Pow,” I whisper, imagining Henry on the other side of the barrel. The door swings open, and it’s the man of the hour.
“What are you doing in my room?” He whispers through gritted teeth. The gun hits the floor with a small clat. The rich man lunges, pushing me into the wall, one hand on each shoulder. I can’t help but smile; he’s not particularly fit, so seeing him run was a thing of great comedy.
“Oh, you’re amused?” his face goes red. With anger or shame, I wonder. He bends down to grab the gun. He’s drunk and I’m crazy, a real match. I stare into the barrel. He’s trembling.
“You wouldn’t,” I say, and I am sure of it. He’s silent. We stand like this for a while, and now I am more bored than scared, and I don’t particularly like being this close to his face. Slam, I grip the gun and whack his forehead. Down he goes. As much as I would like it to end there, I enjoy this pistol whipping. Soon, I realize, the color—and life for that matter— is drained from his face. I feel triumphant, well, that is until I hear the set of footsteps behind me. I’ve been caught. Too scared to turn around, I imagine life in jail, sure, it’s not too bad, if I keep to myself and perhaps learn the art of the tattoo. I turn around. Charlene. Jesus, as if being caught isn’t bad enough. To my surprise, she doesn’t look shocked, or even disconsolate, for that matter. For a while, we just stare at each other, conversing with our eyes.
“William, do you need me to get a bag?” She finally asks.
“It’s okay, Charlene, there are empty coffins at the cemetery.”
