Keep Calm and Kill Your Wife (5 page)

H
ART PACKED HIS BAG like a cartoon character might. One quickly-built giant pile of clothes on the bed was just as quickly bear-hugged and deposited into his only suitcase. Heavily scuffed, his imitation leather-gilded bag had been through the wringer. After stuffing anything back in that happened to be sticking out, he closed the suitcase and fastened the latch. Then he grabbed it, as well as one good-sized semi-filled backpack, and loaded them into his Acura TSX. Summer’s Santa Fe would have made a lot more sense but Hart hated that car and didn’t think it was reliable, even though it had never given Summer a bit of trouble.

“Are you ready?” he bellowed as he re-entered the house, knowing damn well she wasn’t.

“Almost.” Unlike Hart, Summer was very meticulous about her packing. Anything that could potentially spill or leak, like hand cream or shampoo, was deposited individually in a plastic bag before being laid in her suitcase. Her shoes were turned sole to sole and also placed in a plastic bag so they would not touch her clean clothes. And unlike her husband, she rarely forgot anything when packing.

Interstate 5 seemed to be wide open. A real relief to Hart who was so sick and tired of driving everyday on his job that he could just scream—and often did.

“You okay with the Eagles?” he asked, tuning around the dial and pausing at the song, “Take it Easy.”

“Sure,” Summer said. She smiled to herself. She didn’t know if it was her impending pregnancy or what, but Hart had been so nice to her lately that she beamed inside. She loved the little touches. The hand-holding. Asking her if she was okay with his music in the car. Things that he had neglected to do for years.

“Thanks again, Hart, for not minding about me taking a day to go flying. I know we’re trying to spend time together.”

“No problem. This is your vacation, too. I want it to be memorable.” He smiled at her and she took his hand.
Besides, while you’re away flying, I’ll have time to sabotage the bridge.
He squeezed her hand.

It also flashed in his mind that she might die while flying. It was pretty remote but there was always the chance. It would sure make things easier, but it might not be such a good thing. He’d probably have to prove to the insurance company that she had taken up flying lesson
after
she had taken out her policy. Easy enough to do, but they might not like it and could put up a fight. All in all, it would be best if he handled her passing, himself. Besides, there was something about executing his own plan that gave him some perverse delight. Like he was hatching some brilliant jewel heist. There was some strange satisfaction to it all like it somehow deemed him a self-made man versus someone who wins the lottery through pure luck.

Summer looked out the window. She felt so happy. So free. Any anxiety she felt about the woods seemed to float to the back burner. This was her time. Hart had been right. She really did need some R and R. She thought about the words. Rest and Relaxation. They sounded so nice.
For one week, I’m not going to worry about anything. Not spiders, the dark woods, wild animals, tidying up the cabin, getting pregnant, nothing. Total R and R.

She pressed the side of her face against the passenger side window, the green sign ahead inching closer. She smiled.

Cardsdale 280 miles.

Brandy Hastling felt good. This was to be her first summer vacation in three years. And if things went well, she’d eventually be quitting her job as assistant manager at The Pet Expo very soon now. She thoroughly disliked the job and it was one that, in her words, she was “very much over-qualified for.” It was only too bad that she had let so much vacation time build up, because now, with her impending wealth just a few days away, it looked as if she’d never get a chance to use it.

She would be staying one hour south of Cardsdale at a little out-of-the-way motel called the Blue Jay Inn. The accommodations, as she was well aware, would not be nearly as lovely and whimsical as its name suggested. But she didn’t much care. Good times were just around the corner.

Initially she wasn’t too thrilled with the idea of being so close to the location of Summer’s murder, but Hart had insisted.

“I’m the one taking all the risks here,” he had said. “And if anything goes wrong I’m going to need you near me.” She would be an hour away. Close enough to get to Hart quickly if he called her, but far enough away that nobody would be bumping into anyone accidentally.

Brandy had stayed at the Blue Jay a few times before and it gave her some comfort that this “Mom and Pop” motel out in the middle of nowhere could at least serve as some type of alibi for her whereabouts if push came to shove.

But as things often go, events would not work out as planned.

It was two days into Summer and Hart’s trip when Brandy set off on her own vacation. She had worked a long day and was exhausted. As she drove up I-5, her mind was going a mile a minute. Mentally, she felt good, excited. But she was also in a bit of a frenzy as thoughts and ideas poured in. This was really happening. She and Hart would soon be free of their burdensome jobs and money troubles forever. And they would be together, just the two of them. No more sneaking around.

She finally had to stop herself as her head felt like it would explode if she attempted to think of so much at once. Instead, she tried to concentrate on her driving and on her off-ramp—Bort Road.

The miles passed beneath her tires in the most indistinct way. Her eyelids were getting heavy now and she was forced to slap herself a few times to stay awake. If only she could get some goddamn coffee, but she knew that was useless. There was simply nothing around. “Bort Road, Bort Road,” her lips chanted breathlessly. “B-o-r-t, Bort Road,” she said as she read the white letters on the small green sign blurring by. Shit! She had passed it. “Dammit!” she screamed. Her eyes widened as a shot of adrenaline filled her head. She clutched the steering wheel, willing it to turn around. Taking a deep breath, she strained to see the sign up ahead:
Cornhinter Way 12 miles
it read.

Maybe she could just back up on the freeway, she thought, an idea complicated by a pair of headlights that went zooming by. As the car passed, it launched a long drawn out honk clearly meant for her. She had slowed down quite a bit and now realized that yet another car was bearing down on her. So she pressed the gas hard and watched in her rearview mirror as the car swerved around her, this one thankfully laying off the horn. It didn’t look like backing up was going to be an option.

The next eleven and a half miles were a virtual cacophony of yelling, slapping and singing with heavy doses of blasting music and the faint sound of Brandy’s head intermittently banging backwards against the headrest. Anything to stay awake.

She toyed with the thought of pulling over to the shoulder of the freeway, but the idea of being struck by some drunken asshole while she slept, dissuaded her. She could make it, she told herself. God, she was tired. If she missed the Cornhinter off ramp, she’d have to kill herself, she muttered as she stuck hard to the far right lane.

“Yes!” she whooped, as she turned her wheel to the right, exiting the freeway at last. Pure darkness. No hotels, no coffee shop, no nothing. Just sleep.

She drove about thirty feet before she pulled off the road, next to some large overgrown bushes. Killing the engine, she couldn’t pull the seat lever fast enough, dead to the world before she was fully reclined. The Blue Jay Inn could go to hell.

H
UNCKE’S SERVICE STATION had stopped serving deli food a long time ago. And while some businesses that have been around for decades manage to maintain a certain charm wrapped in its glory of yesteryear, Huncke’s personified none of this. Its worn out rusticity was the living embodiment of a functional and aloof shell where weary travelers and indifferent locals got gas and pre-packaged snacks—not necessarily in that order.

Grandma had remembered Mrs. Huncke’s fresh homemade apple pie and Summer had vague recollections of Huncke’s soft-serve ice cream. But those days were long gone and as Hart pulled his car into the station, Summer arched her back and stretched, seeing no reason to exit the car to visit this outdated relic “for old time’s sake” or any other reason.

“Dammit,” Hart yelled as he cut the engine.

“What is it?” asked Summer, her heavy eyelids springing open.

Hart pointed out the driver’s side window at a crudely written sign:
NO GAS TODAY sorry

“It’s okay, Honey,” Summer said. “We’ll get gas tomorrow. We have enough to drive around town for a little while until then.”

“I guess,” Hart said.
Stupid hick little town. This kind of thing never happens in the city.
He reached for the key.

“Wait,” she said. “Let’s take a break. You’ve been driving for a long time. Why don’t you get yourself a snack inside? Oh, and some breakfast stuff for tomorrow.”

Hart shrugged. “Alright. You coming?”

Summer yawned and stretched again. “No thanks, I’m fine.”

When Hart exited the car, his nostrils filled with the fragrant and familiar scent of pine. It was a whole different world out here, he thought. He couldn’t help but notice a certain freshness that permeated the air, and the wonderful background soundtrack that just a few scattered birds were providing.

And then the city was back. Beelining straight toward him was a hippie drifter, his hand out. “Brother, can you spare a dime?” may have been the appropriate opener had Huncke’s maintained its original 1930’s constitution. The drifter’s eyes were dead but penetrating. His entire hue, almost a dull sepia, as if he was fairly rusting away. He was the personification of a living, breathing monochromatic being, brought about by a complete covering of the same dust from head to toe.

A cigarette dangling loosely from his lips, the man was clearly on something, and he approached in a manner that was difficult to ignore. But Hart was ready. Unlike most people, he didn’t mind confronting the homeless. He almost relished it and often screwed around with them for his own amusement. If anything, Hart was more irritated by the shattering of his bucolic surroundings that he rarely got to experience in his everyday life.

Nevertheless, the situation was what it was and Hart decided to use one of his favorites from his transient “bag of tricks”. He watched the man carefully and just as the man was about to open his mouth, Hart quickly injected, “Hey can you spare a dollar?”

“Huh?” was the homeless man’s only response, as if he had suddenly found himself on stage with a seasoned ad-libber during what should have otherwise been a well rehearsed play. He stopped dead in his tracks and crinkled his forehead.

Hart smirked to himself.
Works every time.

Summer watched from the car. And cringed. She had seen Hart do this kind of thing many times before and it always made her nervous and uncomfortable, fearing for both the homeless person’s feelings and Hart’s safety. She didn’t have to wait long, however, to see how this one would play out.

“Get the hell out of here!” yelled Whitman, the owner of Huncke’s, as he sprayed a hose on the homeless man. Positioned as if he was holding a bayonet, he looked ready for a fight.

With water streaking down his face, the homeless man shook his head, his clothing and skin seeming to turn a shade or two lighter.

“And put that cigarette out, you dumbshit. This is a gas station,” continued Whitman, concentrating the blast of water at the man’s mouth.

As the doused cigarette flew from his lips, the man took a few steps toward Whitman, opening his mouth long enough to bark like a dog. Then he stopped walking and added, “Fuck you, Huncke! I’ll be back. And thanks for shower, old man. I needed one anyway.”

“You sure do, you degenerate!” retorted Whitman.

The homeless man turned on his heels. Walking away he flipped the bird with both hands, an evil cackling coloring the scene.

Shutting the hose off, Whitman turned to Hart. “Sorry about all that.”

Hart shrugged. “No problem. I’m just thrilled to get away from the hubbub of the city and out to the tranquility of the woods once in awhile.”

Whitman laughed. “Yeah well, welcome to Cardsdale.”

Five minutes after loading up the car with snacks and groceries, and some jawing with Whitman, Hart and Summer were on their way. Over the river and through the woods to Grandmother’s house they went, the roads narrow and windy but relatively flat at this point, the scene picturesque, calm and inviting.

“I forgot how beautiful it was up here,” Summer said.

“So are you, Honey.”

Summer’s eyes lit up. “Thank you, Hart.”

He put his arm around her and she snuggled into his body.

She smiled. “I’m so glad you thought of this. You picked the perfect spot.”

“I think so.”

Grandma’s house was located on Snug Lodge Way and was one of only three houses on a road that didn’t even have a name until 1942—or possibly 1943; the records were unclear on the matter. And it was Summer and Brandy’s grandmother herself who named the road, being that she was the longest living resident in the vicinity.

Each house on Snug Lodge Way sat on numerous acres of land, and all three served as summer retreats for their primarily absent owners. And much like Snug Lodge itself—the name of Grandma’s house—the other two homes had been in their respective family for several generations. The isolation was quaint by some standards and lonesome by others, but it was, if nothing else, palpable.

Snug Lodge’s name was well deserved. Less than a thousand square feet, it was comfortable with a fairly open floor plan, but a design nonetheless that left most guests with a desire to explore the great outdoors.

The house was set back a good quarter mile from the “main road,” and the grounds were ninety-nine percent the work of Mother Nature herself. Dense clusters of pine trees dominated, but there was no shortage of beautiful wildflowers, paths and boulders and rocks of varying sizes, whose glittery speckles popped against their variegated backdrop.

But the highlight of the property was, of course, the magnificent gorge that sat about a mile or so from the back of Grandma’s house. Its beauty lay in the variety it lent to the natural setting at large and in the skill with which it seemed to be harmoniously carved from the earth; its natural “stairs” serving as an irresistible siren between an untamed wilderness and man’s unquenchable desire to ingratiate himself. To tame the untamable.

Hart stopped the car. He was unimpressed. All he saw was a shack. A piece of crap that could only remain in a family for sentimental reasons. As soon as Summer’s body was cold enough to ever link him to any wrongdoings, he’d push Brandy to sell this place.

Summer’s eyes were glazed over. She stared at the cabin. When she finally did blink, she felt the meandering wetness of her tears as they ambled down her cheeks. The tears, as well as the lump in her throat, surprised the hell out of her. Thoughts of her grandmother, her poor dead uncle Frank and a host of other memories gushed into her brain without warning.

Both out of the car now, Hart looked over at her.

“You okay?” he asked.

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine.”

“About like you remember it?”

“Yeah. More or less.”

Oh, it’s gotta be less
, he thought, suppressing the urge to say it out loud. He walked to the back of the car and she followed suit. He popped the trunk and looked over at Summer.

“You sure you’re okay?” he said.

Summer smiled. “I’m fine. Thanks.”

“Come here.” He embraced her.

She squeezed him back.

“Don’t cry, Honey. We don’t have to stay long.”

She laughed.

“Besides,” he continued. “I hear they’re under new management.”

They broke their embrace and she hit him playfully. “You’re terrible. It’s not that bad.”

“Hey, you’re the one crying. Here. Why don’t you go ahead. I’ll get the stuff.” He handed her the keys to the house.

“Are you sure you don’t want any help?” she asked.

Hart looked down at a bag inside the trunk that he didn’t recognize. He could have sworn he had put his bolt cutters and some rope in that area. He felt his heart start to rev up.

“What’s this?” he asked, trying not to sound panicked. He pointed at the unfamiliar bag.

“Just my stuff for flying.” She picked up the bag.

“Oh. Oh.”

“Something wrong?” she asked.

“What? No. No. I just didn’t recognize it at first. Listen, go ahead. I’ll get everything else.”

The cabin was outdated but Summer quickly made up her mind that she liked it, and appreciated it. As she walked around, more memories flooded back. Any apprehensions she may have had about the woods seemed to melt away.

Hart had taken several trips to get everything in and was now unloading things in the main bedroom.

“Dammit,” he yelled.

“What is it?”

“I don’t believe this. My deodorant and toothpaste ran all over my clothes. And shit! I forgot my brush. And my underwear.”

Summer laughed to herself so he couldn’t hear her. “It’s okay, you can borrow a pair of mine.”

“Thanks.”

Same old Hart. She had warned him that the altitude might make everything leak out and that bottles and tubes should be bagged...

Summer strained her ears for a moment. Hart’s ranting and raving seemed to have stopped. She looked at the lace curtains in the kitchen and thought of Grandma. Maybe Wolfe was wrong. Maybe you can go home again.