A Menu of Death

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Permanent Fix

I’ve denied it as long as I could, but my hand’s been forced. Dave’s latest show of temper finally opened my eyes to the undeniable truth. He is dangerously unstable, and I must do something before it is too late for me. I have to act now, because time is running out.

I should have gotten out right at the start. He nearly beat a waiter to death for looking at me. The poor guy served food at our wedding reception. I mean what else should he have done when asking me if I wanted another serving, face away from me? In the years since, I’ve gathered quite a few broken bones and scars to show for his way of ‘fixing’ our unhealthy marriage. He likes to prove he’s a man. A strong man; a man who can—will—fix things with his own hands.

These days I mostly just stay at home. He doesn’t like it when I attract attention from strangers. Like I don’t want to attract his attention. At least when I stay in he has no excuse to use his hands to ‘tell’ me not to forget my place.

This morning the gasman came around to fix the meter. It had failed, cutting off the gas. So I rang the emergency services for them to come and replace it. Dave just happened to come home for a quick bite while the unfortunate guy filled out his paperwork at the kitchen table.

I’ve cleaned the kitchen, bleach and hydrogen peroxide do a great job, but the bigger problem isn’t going to go away as easily. Do as Dave says and I’m damned; don’t and it’s game over for me anyway.

What if I run away? As fast and as far away as I can? I’ll be hiding for the rest of my days, he’ll hunt me down wherever I go and he will find me. But I will not lie for him anymore. There is only one option left for me if I don’t want to join the utilities guy.

I carefully prepare Dave’s meal, chili with enough Bhut Jolokia to burn the inside of his stomach to a crisp, just the way he likes it.

He always says, “If you like to play with fire, you better be able to stand the heat.” He’s proud of being able to eat even the hottest of the hottest meals anyone can whip up, and so eager to taunt me for not being able to. I’ve learned to smile while he destroyed my self-esteem after he laughed at it while beating me for being weak and not worthy of him.

I never eat his spicy meals, I can’t, won’t. It’s enough he torments the outside of me, I won’t let him torture my insides too. My food is the only thing I can control.

When Dave comes in again after digging the hole for our new sewage tank, the first thing he says is, “And? What if you confess? Say he tried to rape you, you won’t be convicted. First timer, self-defense and all. On the other hand, if they find out it was me …” He motions as if cutting off his head. “But I’ll make sure they know you made me do it.” He laughs and says, “Man, the cadaver is beginning to get on my nerves. You have to decide fast before someone calls the cops.”

He won’t call the police, he’ll no longer be able to control me if he does. But I don’t have to obey him anymore. That big hole in the back yard he’s been digging to install the new septic tank has given me the perfect solution.

He sits down and shovels the chili in his mouth. After he swallows the first bite he stops eating, Grabs his throat and looks at me. Panic and an unspoken question in his eyes. He drops his spoon, tears open the collar of his shirt and claws at his neck. I smile as he motions frantically when his airway swells and he can no longer breathe. Aware at last of what I’ve done he manages to choke out the words, “Peanuts? You bitch!”

I sit opposite him, smile and watch the generous amount of innocent—but deadly to Dave—nut do its job. A short time later he topples forward, face-down in his beloved chili. When it’s over I rise and rinse the bowl, then look down at his corpse and smile.

Dragging the bodies to the backyard is easier than I anticipated. Working the digger to lower the tank on top of both men? Also not as hard as I thought it would be. Then I connect the pipes running from the house and cover all of it up again. That is more difficult then I expected, but in the end I manage.

Proud of my handiwork I test the new sewage system and find no flaws in it. With my gloves on I drive the utility guy’s van to the parking area just at the edge of the woods. Men meet other men there, Dave had said. Men have been nearly beaten to death on that remote parking lot, a few men had even gone missing after being seen there last, and I can imagine Dave being the one doing the deed. Well, no more, but it does seem like a good place to leave this van. After I get out I re-adjust the seat to match his height, and make sure no trace of my presence is left. Walking back home I go over the best way to report Dave’s disappearance.

I’ll wait until tonight before I call the police. Everyone knows he never stays away, not even for one night. He was far too afraid I might conjure up enough courage to leave him.

I cook dinner, set the table and wait until eight o’clock before I call the sheriff. He and his deputy come and pose their obligatory questions. The sheriff isn’t very concerned about Dave’s safety, but he is convinced I am. It doesn’t take the law long to decide Dave has finally left me like he always said he would on the few occasions he took me out for drinks, and he had no family to ask questions.

When the cops call to tell me they have no more questions for me and I am off the hook, I go out and pick up some rosebushes to plant over the new septic tank to replace the ugly Hebe bushes. When the roses bloom they will fix the last remaining thing which reminds me of Dave; his taste for foul-smelling stocky plants. As I water them I sing that old Joe Cocker song, “Feelin’ Alright,” and think of days to come. Days filled with unconcerned joy at the small things in life: talking to a neighbour, smiling at the baker, greeting the postman, or invite friends over for drinks. Yes, friends. It’s time I got some friends.

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