Oh God, no, this isn’t happening. Get him out of here!
He kissed me on the cheek, his left hand moving to my chest.
“Phillip, no.” I tried to pull away from him, but he had a firm grip on my shoulder.
“You know you want it,” he whispered.
“No.” I pushed his hands off me and stood up. “I think you should leave.” I was shaking, my stomach churning.
He stood up as well, his face unreadable. “Come on, Tony.” He reached for me and put his arms around me, pulling me close.
“Let me go!” I tried pushing him away, but he just laughed and gripped me tighter, and as he pulled me in I knew he was stronger than me, and I wondered if this was the last thing Chad had seen before the hands went around his throat and started choking the life out of him, Phillip’s face moving in closer and closer as everything went dark and he slid to the floor... and my heart started pounding, this was it, I was going to die, he was going to kill me, too...
“Phillip, don’t!” Adrenaline coursed through my body as I planted my hands on his chest and shoved with every ounce of strength in my body.
He stumbled backwards, opened his mouth, his face shocked, and gasped, “Hey!” just as the back of his legs hit the coffee table.
I watched. It seemed as though time had slowed down, as though the entire world had somehow moved into slow motion.
He fell, his arms pinwheeling as he tried to catch himself.
The back of his head hit the edge of the mantelpiece with a sickening crunch.
And then he was sprawled on my floor, his head leaking.
He let out a sigh and his entire body went limp, his eyes staring at the ceiling.
“Oh. My. God,” I breathed, as I stepped forward and knelt down, placing my fingers on his carotid artery.
No heartbeat.
He was dead.
“I swear I didn’t mean to kill him!”
I sank down onto the floor in a stupor and started laughing hysterically.
Who was I going to call?
Loot
by Julie Smith
Garden District
Mathilde’s in North Carolina with her husband when she hears about the hurricane — the one that’s finally going to fulfill the prophecy about filling the bowl New Orleans is built in. Uh-huh, sure. She’s been there a thousand times. She all but yawns.
Aren’t they all? goes through her mind.
“A storm like no one’s ever seen,” the weather guy says, “a storm that will leave the city devastated... a storm that...”
Blah blah and blah.
But finally, after ten more minutes of media hysteria, she catches on that this time it might be for real. Her first thought is for her home in the Garden District, the one that’s been in Tony’s family for three generations. Yet she knows there’s nothing she can do about that — if the storm takes it, so be it.
Her second thought is for her maid, Cherice Wardell, and Cherice’s husband, Charles.
Mathilde and Cherice have been together for twenty-two years. They’re like an old married couple. They’ve spent more time with each other than they have with their husbands. They’ve taken care of each other when one of them was ill. They’ve cooked for each other (though Cherice has cooked a good deal more for Mathilde). They’ve shopped together, they’ve argued, they’ve shared more secrets than either of them would be comfortable with if they thought about it. They simply chat, the way women do, and things come out, some things that probably shouldn’t. Cherice knows intimate facts about Mathilde’s sex life, for instance, things she likes to do with Tony, that Mathilde would never tell her white friends.
So Mathilde knows the Wardells plenty well enough to know they aren’t about to obey the evacuation order. They never leave when a storm’s on the way. They have two big dogs and nowhere to take them. Except for their two children, one of whom is in school in Alabama, and the other in California, the rest of their family lives in New Orleans. So there are no nearby relatives to shelter them. They either can’t afford hotels or think they can’t (though twice in the past Mathilde has offered to pay for their lodging if they’d only go). Only twice because only twice have Mathilde and Tony heeded the warnings themselves. In past years, before everyone worried so much about the disappearing wetlands and the weakened infrastructure, it was a point of honor for people in New Orleans to ride out hurricanes.
But Mathilde is well aware that this is not the case with the Wardells. This is no challenge to them. They simply don’t see the point of leaving. They prefer to play what Mathilde thinks of as Louisiana roulette. Having played it a few times herself, she knows all about it. The Wardells think the traffic will be terrible, that they’ll be in the car for seventeen, eighteen hours and still not find a hotel because everything from here to kingdom come’s going to be taken even if they could afford it.
“That storm’s not gon’ come,” Cherice always says. “You know it never does. Why I’m gon’ pack up these dogs and Charles and go God knows where? You know Mississippi gives me a headache. And I ain’t even gon’ mention Texas.”
To which Mathilde replied gravely one time, “This is your life you’re gambling with, Cherice.”
And Cherice said, “I think I’m just gon’ pray.”
But Mathilde will have to try harder this time, especially since she’s not there.
Cherice is not surprised to see Mathilde’s North Carolina number on her caller ID. “Hey, Mathilde,” she says. “How’s the weather in Highlands?”
“Cherice, listen. This is the Big One. This time, I mean it, I swear to God, you could be—”
“Uh-huh. Gamblin’ with my life and Charles’s. Listen, if it’s the Big One, I want to be here to see it. I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
“Cherice, listen to me. I know I’m not going to convince you — you’re the pig-headedest woman I’ve ever seen. Just promise me something. Go to my house. Take the dogs. Ride it out at my house.”
“Take the dogs?” Cherice can’t believe what she’s hearing. Mathilde never lets her bring the dogs over, won’t let them inside her house. Hates dogs, has allergies, thinks they’ll pee on her furniture. She loves Mathilde, but Mathilde is a pain in the butt, and Cherice mentions this every chance she gets to anyone who’ll listen. Mathilde is picky and spoiled and needy. She’s good-hearted, sure, but she hates her precious routine disturbed.
Yet this same Mathilde Berteau has just told her to promise to take the dogs to her immaculate house. This is so sobering Cherice can hardly think what to say. “Well, I know you’re worried now.”
“Cherice. Promise me.”
Cherice hears panic in Mathilde’s voice. What can it hurt? she thinks. The bed in Mathilde’s guest room is a lot more comfortable than hers. Also, if the power goes out — and Cherice has no doubt that it will — she’ll have to go to Mathilde’s the day after the storm anyhow, to clean out the refrigerator.
Mathilde is ahead of her. “Listen, Cherice, I need you to go. I need you to clean out the refrigerator when the power goes. Also, we have a gas stove and you don’t. You can cook at my house. We still have those fish Tony caught a couple of weeks ago — they’re going to go to waste if you’re not there.”
Cherice is humbled. Not about the fish offer — that’s just like Mathilde, to offer something little when she wants something bigger. That’s small potatoes. What gets to her is the refrigerator thing — if Mathilde tells her she needs her for something, she’s bringing out the big guns. Mathilde’s a master manipulator, and Cherice has seen her pull this one a million times — but not usually on her. Mathilde does it when all else fails, and her instincts are damn good — it’s a lot easier to turn down a favor than to refuse to grant one. Cherice knows her employer like she knows Charles — better, maybe — but she still feels the pull of Mathilde’s flimsy ruse.