Donna felt she was losing touch with reality. The darkened bus at this empty harbor crossroads seemed to belong to some parallel universe, and Dieter Doremans seemed more a reflection of herself than a man trying to rid himself of a corpse.
The man sat there with his head in his hands, wrestling with his inner demons.
She stared at his nameplate. He couldn’t lose his job. He couldn’t.
She knelt beside him. “Let me help you,” she said. Her exhaustion and nausea were gone. She knew intellectually that what she was about to do was insane, but to her it seemed perfectly logical. It wasn’t fair that people wound up devastated due to circumstances beyond their control. At her previous job, her supervisor had hung her out to dry to cover up a mistake he had made. A patient had been given the wrong medication and had died as a result. All she’d done was call attention to the error — and yet she was the one who’d been fired.
And Dieter’s wife? She had cheated on him. Wasn’t she the guilty party in this story? When Donna thought of her ex-husband’s young blond bitch of a new girlfriend, playing mommy to her children in their fancy villa, she felt a connection to this other DD that made her determined to help him.
Dieter returned to the driver’s seat. “I appreciate your understanding. It’s amazing that you want to help me. But I’ve already gotten rid of the body. I dumped her in the canal, half an hour ago, after I kicked you out.”
Donna stood beside him. She considered the situation. She still felt sorry for him, in spite of what he’d done.
“Take me home,” she said. “No one has to know what happened tonight. You don’t have to lose your job over that adulterous bitch.”
He nodded and started the engine. “I’ll take you home. Promise me you won’t tell anyone.”
Their eyes locked. She nodded. “I promise. I mean it.”
At the next intersection, he turned the bus around and set off again. Soon, Donna recognized the outskirts of Meulestede. They crossed the bridge that formed a borderline between the harbor and the city. She had never been so happy to see the lonely church in the distance, and the houses with their trim gables. Normally, those gables reminded her that she lived in a second-class suburb, but now they shone like beacons in the night.
“It’ll all work out,” he said, opening the door for her. “You’d better go.”
She stepped down and looked back at him. “Are you sure?”
He nodded. “I’ll be fine. I promise. Thank you.”
She waved at him and stepped out into the crosswalk.
And Dieter Doremans, a confirmed bachelor, stomped on the gas. The last thing he saw before the bus hit her was Donna Daems’s astonished eyes. It had been exactly the same last night, right here, at this very crosswalk. It had been just as dark, just as cold, just as deserted. Heading back to the depot after his final run of the evening, he hadn’t noticed the pedestrian in the black parka. He’d run her down. But he couldn’t afford to lose his new job, no way. Not for anything. Or anyone. Whatever she’d promised, he knew Donna would tell someone what she’d seen, sooner or later.
But now he was safe. Nothing but dead silence would remain at the end of the line.
Playground or the Rich
by Jennifer Soosar
Jennifer Soosar’s first paid professional fiction publication was in EQMM’s Department of First Stories in May of 2016. Her first novel, the psychological thriller Parent Teacher Association, was released in June 2017. A Canadian writer with an excellent sense of place, she’s set this new story for EQMM at a popular Ontario vacation destination.
“Put that newspaper away,” Kent said to his wife. “It looks funny to be carrying it around.”
“It’s for reference,” Linda replied. “Lists all the hot spots. And what if I see a celebrity in the general store? Gotta have something in hand for them to autograph.”
Kent scoffed. “Last thing the famous want is Joe Public bothering them. Anyway, you wouldn’t recognize a celebrity if they crashed into you. They all dress like slobs in their downtime.”
“Well, it’s a good thing I’ve seen the paparazzi photos of how they look without makeup on.”
Kent, Linda, and their son Matt were in the village of Rosseau, prime ice-cream destination of the rich.
“I want bubblegum flavor, Dad!” Matt blurted out. It was loud enough to call the attention of the affluent-looking cottagers milling around in pristine white sporting wear. Even the golden labradoodle looked over.
Kent paid — overpaid! — for three ice-cream cones. Linda wormed her way into the small crowd, the newspaper with the feature article on Muskoka still hinged under her arm. The bold headline “Playground of the Rich” faced out for all to see. Embarrassed at how obvious she looked, Kent turned his back and finished his maple walnut, hardly tasting it.
What was so wrong with Dickie Lake for their summer holiday? What the hell were they doing in Muskoka, paying triple rate for a cottage rental? A crummy cottage too. Not the grandiose multimillion-dollar showpieces Linda had drooled over in the article. Talk about a bait-and-switch. Kent knew they would all be much happier in a little shack or trailer on the grassy shores of Dickie Lake. People were friendly there, down-to-earth, could say “hi” to each other. All he got here were a bunch of strange looks which only seemed to inquire into his financial position and social status.
After the ice cream, Linda wanted to “putter” around Rosseau and “pop” into the shops, “see and be seen.” Kent left her to go crazy and took Matt down to the public dock to wait.
Forty-five minutes later, Linda returned, gabbing stupidly about the casual, yet elegant, cottage furnishings she’d seen in some shop and how she wanted to “replicate the look” for their bedroom at home. Kent tuned it out. He was satisfied with the way their bedroom looked now. His wife was always going on about changing this or that, or trying things out “just to see.” She went on as if there was something wrong with everything he provided.
They climbed into the boat that came included with the weekly rental, a basic runabout with an outboard motor. Nothing wrong with it, but compared to all the sexy, top-of-the-line powerboats and polished-to-death wooden classics moored alongside — eighty thou a pop easy, Kent figured — it was as ugly as a white bathtub.
The afternoon breeze had picked up. Out in the bay, there were white-caps and sailboats. Kent ignored the plastic-coated instruction sheet screwed to the dash for clueless renters and started up the motor. He knew how to operate a damn boat! As he untied the ropes, a red-and-black ski boat with a spiderweb pattern on the hull sped aggressively by, bouncing them up and down in its wake.
“Jerks,” Kent grumbled sourly to himself.
Strolling by on the dock, a tall, distinguished looking gentleman stopped to watch the takeoff with mild interest.
What are you looking at? Kent thought, as he eased the boat in reverse out of the mooring. Mind your own damn business, why don’t you!
Whether it was out of nervousness at being observed, or a miscalculation of big-lake conditions, Kent did not back the boat out far enough. But it was too late. As he turned the wheel and pushed forward on the throttle, the back of the boat fishtailed and made contact with the dock. There was a big thud and the creaking whine of fiberglass grinding against wood.
“Omigod!” shrieked Linda. “You’re bumping the boat!”