When Boomers Go Bad Page 3

  She cradles the gun in her right palm, savouring its weight, slides her index finger along the trigger she’s never pulled. Shall she tell Stephen why she’s killing him? That the keyman insurance is the least of it? She pictures him sitting on the cot he’s set up in the cramped stockroom, hair tousled from sleep, eyes bugging at the gun. I don’t need you, Stephen. I can hire an accountant to do your work. A hired accountant with no delusions, he has the flair to manage a business like This ’n’ That. You’re an okay bean-counter, but nothing more. A better bean-counter than you are in bed, according to Heather, but she’s biased.

  This ’n’ That is my business, Stephen. My idea, my talent for choosing the knickknacks and gewgaws fashionable people like to decorate their homes with. Your bean-counter brain is killing it. Buying low and selling high only works when what you buy is what people want to spend money on. That’s why I’m killing you, Stephen. The insurance and your mockery have nothing to do with it.

  Then she’ll pull the trigger.

  She replaces all the items in the shoulder bag. As she lifts the gun to place it in the zippered side pocket, she realizes her fingerprints are all over it. Halfway to the kitchen to fetch a J-cloth, she stops to contemplate the preferability of using a Kleenex. She might get gun-oil or something on the J-cloth, and then she’d have to dispose of it. Kleenex she can burn along with the list.

  Kleenex reminds her. She turns, heading for the broom closet, where she’s sure she placed the toilet paper. Two eight-roll packages. Why can’t she see them?

  She fetches a kitchen chair to stand on, so she can see the top shelf. She finds a box of steel wool she’d forgotten about, as well as a cellophaned trio of hand soaps she’d put there in the hope their sickly-sweet smell would fade. She sniffs. It has. She steps down from the chair to place the steel wool in the cabinet under the kitchen sink, and the soap in the bathroom. She glances at the unfamiliar blonde in the mirror. Oh yes. The polka dots. She reaches for a piece of toilet paper and remembers.

  She ransacks the cubby hole the condo saleswoman called the laundry room. Not there. Two eight-roll packs! How can anything that big hide?

  She’s tempted to forget the search, but she hears Stephen’s mocking laughter: So disorganized, she couldn’t find a refrigerator in a kitchen.

  The top shelf of the coat closet. No. The back of the bedroom closet. No. The bottom drawer of her filing cabinet. No. The spare-bedroom closet. No.

  Her search turns up a balaclava that could work better than the toque. Except what would it do to her makeup? Where did she put all those cheap cosmetics? Because she’ll have to toss them down the garbage chute before the police find them.

  She murmurs a prayer of thanks to God as she envisions the white plastic trash bag atop her dresser, left out in the open so she wouldn’t forget. That’s organization. But she can’t throw it out now. It’s still too early; a neighbour might see her. She’ll take it with her on her way out. And drop it in the dumpster along with the gun? No. If the police should find the gun, they’d wonder why someone threw away all those almost new cosmetics, and perhaps make a connection.

  Take no chances whatsoever.

  She enters the bedroom to reassure herself the bag is indeed there and finds one more place to search. On hands and knees, she peers under the bed. Yes! Just out of reach. Flat on her belly, she snatches a slippery edge, but as she backs out from under the bed, the wig catches on a spring.

  She freezes. Inches forward. The wig tugs. Creeps to her right—no, not a good idea. Nor to her left. She tries forward again. She rocks her aching neck. Finally, she slides out from under the bed, wigless.

  In the bathroom, the mirror shows her where the foundation has rubbed off her chin, and how negligent the cleaning lady has been about vacuuming unseen places. And the polka-dots are still there.

  “Get organized,” she commands the gorgon in the mirror.

  She plans. First, wash off the makeup. Then remove the black T-shirt. In that order, she runs no risk of staining the shirt. Then shake out the shirt over the bathtub, rinse the dust from the tub, reapply makeup—no!—shirt back on, reapply makeup... It’s only 11:05. That’s all right, she really did want to leave at midnight. Plenty of time.

  Donna contemplates her clean, slightly damp, reflection. Without cosmetics, hers is the face of a sufferer from AAADD. Not the face of a killer. She must remember not to wear any makeup when speaking to the police.

  She puts on the T-shirt, returns to the mirror, sees she’s forgotten to shake it out, takes off the T-shirt, shakes it over the bathtub, accomplishes little by way of removing the dust. Cursing the cleaning lady, she mentally scans her wardrobe for anything else suitable. But it’s all suits and dresses, a wardrobe for a successful business owner selling unique home accents for discriminating tastes. Doesn’t she have a lint-remover someplace?

  Eleven-fifteen. No more time to hunt. Stacy’s and every other bar closes by two, and there are no sidewalk phone booths in the area. Stephen must be dead by 1:50. In her office, winding Scotch tape around her hand, she curses Stephen’s last-minute announcement that tomorrow he moves into his own condo. If Donna is disorganized, it’s because Stephen never tells her anything until the last minute. She’s coped, she reminds herself as the Scotch tape makes tread marks in the dusty T-shirt. She’s coped beautifully. Here she was, thinking she had weeks yet to rehearse her plan, and now she has to kill him tonight. She’ll cope with this, too. She’ll cope.

  She can wear the T-shirt inside out. In the dim cab, and dimmer Stacy’s, who’ll notice? It’s only a bit of the neckline that shows under the trench coat. Eleven twenty. Still plenty of time. She puts on the T-shirt, reaches for the bottle of foundation, drops it in the sink.

  It doesn’t break, but it does remind her she’s nervous, must take care. She should use a towel as a make-up cape. Towels she has handy, but can’t manage to tie a knot in one behind her neck.

  Safety pin. She knows where she keeps them.

  Except there’s only three little ones, all pinned together like a paper-clip chain. Too small to fit through the thick towel, although she tries. Where are all her bigger ones?

  There’s the skirt that popped a button she didn’t have time to sew on. Which skirt? One by one, she removes each skirt hanger from the closet, examines it and puts it back. Could it be at the cleaner’s? She’s positive not; the cleaner would have asked if she wanted the button replaced. She inspects each skirt again, this time removing the jacket, if there is one, rather than just raising it to inspect the waistband. She did, she did, she did pin a skirt.

  No, she didn’t. It was her grey flannel slacks, as she discovers fifteen minutes later. But now the towel is around her neck and she can plaster on the orangy foundation, turquoise her eyes and be very, very careful not to sneeze when she applies the mascara.

  The wig needs brushing. She’s read about finding hairs in hairbrushes, or saw it on TV. She plans. Brush the wig, clean the brush, flush the hairs down the toilet. Flush the toilet again, and again. Take no chances whatsoever. Wig on fist, she kicks up dust as she brushes. She sneezes.

  A careful check in the mirror puts her mind at rest. The mascara has dried, her pouches are polka-dotless. She flushes, flushes again, and the running water makes her want to pee. She hauls up the mini-skirt, hauls down the black pantyhose, catches a glimpse of the empty toilet-paper holder as she lowers herself.

  But her urge is too great. Now what does she do? Drip-dry?

  Men shake themselves. She tries it, doubts it’s effective.

  She wants to cry, but knows that will destroy the makeup, and she hasn’t time to begin all over again.

  Staring at the grey-brown spool gives her an idea. How absorbent is cardboard?

  The sensation of blotting herself with the cardboard tube is not unpleasant. She’s lived alone too long. Once Stephen is dead and she’s running the store by herself, she’ll have even less time to meet men. But she’ll have more confidence with the
ones she does meet—perhaps a recent divorce furnishing his new apartment?—without the fear of Stephen muscling in and mocking. Heartened, she places the tube end up on the floor, since she can’t reach the wastebasket. She doesn’t like the idea of urine-splotched cardboard remaining in her apartment; she’ll put the tube in the bag with the cosmetics.

  The slight tear in the wig doesn’t show at all, except for the cowlick on top there and to the left. A little gel—a lot of gel—takes care of it. Now to repack the shoulder bag, get on the boots and boogie on out to kill Stephen. She feels invigorated.

  Where is the gun? Pepper spray, gloves, hammer, keys, money, toque, wig on her head, wire cutters—but no gun. She scans the floral bedspread once more. The bedside light isn’t very bright, but she should be able to see a gun.

  She runs a flat palm over the bedspread. Runs it again. Gets on the bed and slowly moves her body across it, careful not to upset the wig. If it fell on the floor, would she have heard it land on the thick carpet? She takes a deep breath, holds it, pictures herself the last time she had the gun.

  She turns her head hopefully to the night table, and there it lies, beside the box of Kleenex. She sits up, pretending she isn’t as relieved as she is, and wipes her fingerprints away.

  Now the spread is rumpled, but she’ll go right to bed when she comes home, so no point in straightening it.

  She’s forgotten something. What? She runs through the list in her mind. Empties the bag once again, careful this time to place everything close together. Pepper spray, gloves, hammer, keys, two twenty-dollar bills for the cabs, toque, wig on her head, wire cutters, gun—what?

  She envisions herself getting out of the cab—yes, she has the money. Walking along Graham—yes, she has the toque. Letting herself into the store—yes, she has the keys. Confronting Stephen—yes, she has the pepper spray (please, God, let me not have to use it!) and the gun. Bullets? She checks the clip as the druggie had showed her. She should really fire a test shot, but where? Wire cutters, hammer, she’s out of the store.

  The paper list. She upends the shoulder bag, shakes it out on the bed. The slip of paper flutters out. She checks the items spread out on the bed against it, then double-checks as she puts each item back. Now to burn the list. She has matches, and she knows where they are.

  Opening night jitters, that’s all it is. Now for the fuck-me boots and she’s out of here.

  As she stuffs her right leg down the imitation patent-leather sheath, she feels her big toe pop through the pantyhose. Damn! She’d meant to buy a spare pair, because the same thing happened when she tried them on in the Sally Ann. Should she switch to miel-doré?

  She checks her wrist. Five to twelve. No more time, not unless she’s willing to risk hailing a cab after the bars close, and the store’s alarm is screaming. She pulls the toe of the pantyhose up and away from her foot and wraps the stretched nylon underneath it. Then, clutching the nylon with her toes, she eases her foot into the boot. The hose slips only a little.

  She is very, very careful with the left boot.

  Donna peeks into the corridor, silent as death at midnight. She quietly closes her front door, then snicks the key in the lock. It’s so late, she’s tempted to take the elevator, but she can’t risk recognition by a neighbour. She’ll use the stairs. It’s only eight flights.

  The metal stairs clang softly as she steps down them. Clang, clang, cloing as her ankle twists, but she catches herself on the railing. The boots, half-impossible in her carpeted apartment, are hard against her soles and weak around her ankles stepping down stairs. One foot in front of the other, and concentrate. It’s not like she’s trying to chew gum at the same time, as Stephen would tease.

  Chewing gum would make her look even more tarty, but it’s a habit she never formed. Just something to think about as she wobbles down yet another flight. Better to think about than how hot it is here in the stairwell, and how much her ankles ache. How much her scalp itches. How much the cheap, sweaty makeup is stinging her eyes.

  She almost opens the door to the lobby, but it’s only another half-flight to reach an exit that will take her outside. Emergency exit only, the sign on that door says, but she’s tested it, no alarms ring when you open it.

  The cool air washes her with relief. She’s on her way, now. Really on her way. She steps—clump, clump—along the asphalt lane to the front sidewalk. Her left boot cuts in a bit on the left side, but her ankles feel much better. She daren’t rush, too noisy and too risky; she might fall on her face. Slow and steady, clump, clump like an old horse, but even if someone hears, they wouldn’t get out of bed to look.

  On the concrete sidewalk, the clump becomes a clop. A few curtained windows glow with light, but what could anyone see other than some blonde woman dressed in black? They’d never recognize her as Donna.

  She’s in a rhythm now, clop, clop and on her way, only twenty minutes to the phone booth at the shopping centre. How long did the stairs take her? It seemed forever, but...

  At the streetlight, she checks her watch. Damn dainty watch-face. If the light were brighter, or she had her reading glasses... She’s walking slower than she had in flats, but she’s still on schedule, once she changed her departure from eleven to midnight. Her elation eases the pain in her left foot. It’s really not that bad, she can make it to the shopping centre and rest the foot in the cab.

  Clop, clop, clop, and something’s cutting into her right toe. The torn pantyhose has slipped. It hurts, but not that much. She can always take them off in the cab. It will make her a more memorable fare, but also give her the opportunity to keep her head down, so that’s okay. Clop, clop, clop.

  Her left foot is another matter.

  Maybe she can cut the pantyhose with the wire cutters, use a scrap as a pad to protect her foot. She imagines herself doing it in the fifteen or so minutes of the cab ride; concentrating takes her mind off the pain.

  She concentrates on killing Stephen. She pictures his bewildered face. Will he plead for mercy? Did you ever show me any, Stephen? When you printed off that joke about AAADD and framed it and hung it on the wall behind the cash, was that merciful?

  Clop, clop, clop. She ignores that nagging little voice telling her she’s forgotten something. Opening night jitters.

  Her lower back, protesting its unaccustomed angle, nags her, too. But if she’d driven her own car, someone might have spotted her empty parking space in the condo’s garage. Or some drunk might back-end her, or sideswipe the Volvo once she’d parked it. And she’d have had to park it blocks and blocks away, and still have this pain getting to and from the store. Stop second-guessing yourself! It’s a good plan, it’s working, you’re even ahead of schedule. If the cab comes right away...

  The shoulder bag slips. She catches it deftly in the crook of her arm, tilting her already contorted spine. It doesn’t hurt that much. No, not that much. Not as much as the pain in her toe from having the circulation cut off.

  The traffic light at the shopping centre intersection is red. There are just enough cars about not to risk jaywalking. It’s a long light. Donna uses the time to contemplate the pair of phone booths shining softly just across the street. The light at the end of the tunnel. She repeats the cab company’s number in her head; she chose the firm with the easiest number to remember. She repeats it again. Back breaking, feet aching, face itchy, scalp prickly, she envisions herself making the call.

  And remembers what she forgot.

  Slowly, Donna turns to regard the long, long stretch of sidewalk she has trod. She might be able to hail a cab, get change from the driver to make the call for the trip home. Or she could die from a gangrenous big toe right in the taxi. She turns again. It’s possible, if luck is with her, that someone left a quarter in one of the phone booths. About as possible as her managing to clop, clop all the way to This ’n’ That from Stacy’s. Maybe if she got off at the corner of Acacia...

  Miracle of miracles, she spots a glowing white triangle in the traffic. The cab is h
eading away from the Heights, but she flags it anyway. The driver halts on the other side of the street; he won’t U-turn. She hobbles across the road, wrenches open the rear door and as she bends to step inside the shoulder bag slips once again, to the sidewalk this time, and she doesn’t know if she’ll be able to pick it up.

  The cabbie gallantly gets out to help her, no doubt thinking she’s either lame or drunk. She sinks into the upholstery, excruciatingly aware of every bone and muscle, and gives him the address of her condo.

  It was a good plan; she just didn’t have enough time to perfect it. She’ll have to perfect another. She can find some way to persuade Stephen to work late. She still has the gun, after all, and they’re both of them far from retirement age. There’s plenty of time.

  Melanie Fogel is the editor of Storyteller, Canada’s Short Story Magazine and a creative writing teacher. Over the years she has authored two books on writing (The Storyteller Fiction Writer’s Workbook is still in print), as well as humour, essays, editorials and short fiction, for publications as diverse as The Canadian Journal of Contemporary Literary Stuff, The Ottawa Citizen and The Mammoth Book of Future Cops.

  My Sister Caroline

  Brenda Chapman

  I always felt like I was on the outside looking in, for I was the last of the baby boomers—too young to be an active participant in the free love, psychedelic generation, but old enough to remember it clearly with unabashed longing. My sister, Caroline, seven years older than me, was a child born under the sign of Pisces. In keeping with the water sign, her life has flowed and woven effortlessly. In the late sixties and early seventies, she was the quintessential flower child in smock tops, jeans and leather sandals, her body slender and melon breasted. With her Peggy Lipton hair and dreamy blue eyes, Caroline never had to try to be popular. She just was. I was the intense one—a Scorpio to the tips of my toes—secretive, jealous and brooding—never quite fitting with the “in” crowd. Entering the teen years, I grew to envy my sister’s free spirit and her ability to slide from one situation, one relationship, to another without a backward glance. By the time I entered university, my envy had metamorphosed into a fierce desire to be different from Caroline, to prove myself better than her in work and in love. I would feel worthy, but it meant treating my sister and all she stood for with complete disdain.