It wasn’t hard to access my own anger-the energy I needed to pull this off. It boiled endlessly within me like a desperate, churning volcano.
With the train in sight, I did the deed. Exactly as I had practiced time after time. One simple bump.
“Next stop, Foggy Bottom!” I shouted the words, rejoicing in the triumph.
Athena toppled, as if in slow motion. Her cell phone sailed high into the air. Her fancy bag fell to the platform, where it teetered helplessly on the edge. Time stood still as the lime green, glittery show of materialism seemed to struggle to hang on-as if it had a life of its own and did not want to die. Eventually the bag lost its fight. It tipped too far and fell onto the rails, just in time for the cars to slice them both like a hot knife through butter. Athena and her fancy bag. Dead. I wondered if the ring survived.
Then came screaming and mayhem. Not one person considered it anything but a tragic and unfortunate accident that this beautiful woman had tripped on her own tall, spiked heels at just the wrong time. No one noticed me at all.
For a moment, I almost felt sorry for her. I knew how it felt after all. To die. To have my life stolen from me when I was still so young. Of course, I was murdered by my own husband who wanted to be rid of me and, more importantly, needed the insurance money to marry his new, popular, prettier love. And since Athena was the reason I was dead, the pity never came.
When the dust settled and passengers were moved from the scene, Athena stood on the platform next to me in her new form. Confused, no cell phone, no fancy bag, she batted her long lashes at me.
“Margaret?” she asked. “I…I don’t understand.” She scanned the platform, as if looking for answers. A fireman passed right through her. She yelped. Her eyes reflected the fear I remembered so well when I discovered that my body and I were no longer one. When, from across the room, I first viewed my carcass sprawled on the hard tile of my kitchen floor while Terry scurried about, testing different locations on the floor to place the unused EpiPen I’d “dropped.” Wiping down the counters then placing one tiny shrimp in my bowl of leftover fried rice from Hunan Feast. I had no one there to greet me as I greeted Athena now.
“Down there,” I said, motioning to the bloody scene on the tracks. “That’s what you get, Athena Papas.” I was so pleased with myself.
“You did that to me?”
I smiled. She wasn’t as stupid as I thought. “What do you think, pretty feet? And your Terry, sweetie, handsome man-he’s next.”
Leaving Athena behind to contemplate her earthly demise, I found my way to Terry. We spirits move effortlessly, once we learn the ropes. Then I waited. I wanted to be there when the police rang the doorbell to notify Terry about this oh-so-tragic accident.
Later, at the kitchen table that was once mine, he sobbed uncontrollably. The tears he’d cried for me were only for show. When family and friends left the room, his eyes had dried faster than desert sand. It felt good to watch him suffer for real.
Fully intending to capitalize on my newfound power, I had planned to continue my reign of revenge, exacting a similar fate on the man whose bed I once shared, whose love I practically begged for. The man I despised even more than the wretched Athena Papas. But as I observed his obvious despair, it occurred to me that death would be too good for him. They would only end up in each other’s arms again.
No, I decided. Death would not suffice.
His suffering must be greater. Longer. Enduring.
And so it is.
Athena has found us, but she’s weak. All she does is moan.
Not me. I’m hard at work every day seeing to it that Terry the Murderer, Terry the Devil, Terry, Sweetie Handsome Man understands the true meaning of torment.
And when his doctors and family and psychiatrists don’t believe him when he tells them of the strange events that befall him-doors opening and slamming of their own accord, mugs shattering in his hands, knives flying through the air, narrowly escaping his throat, the endless wailing-I just laugh.
And the best part?
I know he hears me.
Karen Cantwell has been writing plays and short stories for many years. Her short story “The Recollections of Rosabelle Raines” was published in Chesapeake Crimes: They Had It Comin’. She is also the author of the funny bone-tickling Barbara Marr murder mysteries, Take the Monkeys and Run and Citizen Insane. These days, if she’s not kicking back, watching movies with her kids, Karen can be found at her laptop, conjuring a third Barbara Marr novel, Silenced by the Yams.
LUCKY IN DEATH, by E. B. Davis
“Mrs. Decker, you don’t have any sales experience.” The large, bald man looked up from my job application and leaned back in his desk chair.
Baldy had eaten too many grits and enjoyed a few too many libations around the campfire. I’d known a few like him so he didn’t faze me. Besides, after yet another dog-panting August day of trying to convince someone to hire me despite my age, I was desperate. ProTrout was the last place I wanted to work. But I was experienced in hiding the truth so Baldy would never know.
“Bet I know ProTrout’s inventory better than most of your sales help,” I replied.
“Really. How come?”
Probably not a good idea to tell him what ProTrout had done to my marriage.
“My husband drooled over every item in this store. In fact, my garage is filled with so many fishing lures, rods, reels, tackle, and accessories, I still can’t get my car inside.”
“A die-hard customer, I presume.”
“You can say that again. Joe died a year ago.”
“Wait…Decker. Are you Joe Decker’s widow?”
I nodded.
“What a shame. I couldn’t believe after years of wanting a fishing boat, he up and died after he finally bought one.”
“He didn’t just buy a boat,” I said. “He bought the whole damned package-outboard motor, GPS, fish finder, even a trailer and a boat cover. All paid for in cash. Forty thousand dollars.” Every penny I’d saved for my granddaughters’ college fund. But Baldy wouldn’t care about that any more than my no-good, long-gone son-in-law did.
“I remember,” he said. “Nice man. I’m so sorry.” He stared at the floor while he talked, subdued, almost contrite.
“Thank you,” I said. “He dropped dead the day after he bought it. And you wouldn’t take the merchandise back.”
“No, once the boat was in the water and the engine immersed, I couldn’t take it back as new. Company policy, I’m sure you understand.” Baldy looked at his shoes like a little boy confessing to soaping the neighbor’s windows. No, I hadn’t understood.
“I sold it on eBay,” I said. “Only got twelve thousand dollars.”
“I’m glad you got something from the deal.”
“Enough to pay for his funeral.”
“Joe sure was a great fisherman,” Baldy said. He looked uncomfortable, making me glad, but then his discomfort wouldn’t get me the job. And I needed the job to rebuild that college fund.
“I may not have sales experience,” I said. “But I know the merchandise, what it’s used for and how to use it. I accompanied my husband to every stream, river, gulf, and backwater around here. Who do you think baited all of those hooks?”
“Sounds like maybe you could sell, but most of our customers are men who wouldn’t take your advice about our gear.”
“I can soft sell. Offer pointers, pander to them. Let me prove myself.”
Baldy’s face looked red, and he patted his forehead with a handkerchief. I knew he didn’t want to hire me, but I also could see that his forty-thousand-dollar sale at my expense worked on his conscience.
“I guess you know our customer profile,” he said, finally. “I’ll give you a try. We’ll start you off in the ladies outdoor-clothing area. After a few weeks, if you do well, we’ll train you for inventory control and on the register. Do you have clothing that fits into our outdoor theme?”