At the party I watched his wife, knowing she shouldn’t be drinking. The thought of alcohol mixing into that tiny little baby’s blood made my own boil. You don’t mess with kids. You don’t want to screw their lives up—before they’re born or after. They just might turn into something you wouldn’t like.
She drank three glasses of wine.
At her first sip I told her she shouldn’t. “It’s not good for the baby. All the warnings tell you not to drink.”
She grinned at me and raised her glass. “I know!But it’s only tonight. I’m
After that I moved through the house like a robot. I did everything right. Talked to people, raised toasts to the parents-to-be. But every move I made, every word I spoke tremored with vibrations from that new mom. Even with my back to her, I knew where she was at all times. I
Every time she took a drink, it burned my throat.
Weird, I thought, as I stood in the corner of the living room, watching her. What was happening to me? Since when did I feel so in tune with a
Only then did the realization hit me. It wasn’t the mom I identified with.
By the time I left the party—early—I wanted to kill that new mother. Wanted to feel my hands around her throat. Watch the life choke out of her. Wanted to see in her eyes the regret, the guilt over her supreme selfishness.
I drove the streets randomly, chaotically, not wanting to go home. Knowing I would only claw the walls if I did. But I didn’t understand what was happening inside me. As if the cloth thing a week ago hadn’t been enough. Now a ball burned in my stomach, churning, churning. Felt like the Hyde coming out of Jekyll. Memories of childhood and my mother flashed in my head. Memories of Dad. I didn’t know why, didn’t understand how they were connected.
It was barely ten o’clock.
I drove along the south end of town. Saw a woman coming out of a bar. Alone. No one else was in the parking lot. She vaguely resembled my friend’s wife. Medium-length brown hair. About the same build, same height. A small purse slung on her shoulder. She had a haughty walk, as if saying to the world, “I’ll do as I please, just see if you can stop me.”
Everything in my being fastened on that woman. My hands gripped the steering wheel, my eyes glued to her. I watched her cross toward a car and get in. Throw her purse on the passenger seat.
And then I knew what I would do.
My body relaxed. I fell into a state of heightened numbness, if that makes any sense. Very aware but emotions turned off. Except for a vague anticipation in carrying out justice.
How I would go about my business I didn’t know. Somehow. That night. Before the woman got home.
I would follow her.
Sometimes the world turns on its axis right. Sometimes it gives up the deserving.
The woman’s car wouldn’t start.
I drove up beside her and offered help. Told her who I was. Who wouldn’t trust me?
“I have Triple A,” she said. “I’ll call for a tow truck.”
“Let me take you home. You don’t want to be waiting out here in the dark. Tomorrow’s Sunday anyway. It’s safer to take care of this in the daylight.”
“Okay.”
Just like that—“Okay.”
She picked up her purse, locked her car doors, and slid into my passenger seat. Told me where she lived.
We talked as I drove. I asked if she had children. A young daughter, she told me.
“Oh. Who’s watching her now?”
“Her grandmother.”
Her grandmother. While Mom went out to bars.
The ball in my stomach flamed.
“You lived here long?” I asked.
“No.”
How had I known that? Instinct. Bubbling up from deep inside me.
“I know a quicker back way to your house.”
I turned on a road headed west, toward the hills. Past some houses and into a rural area framed by woods.
“You sure you know where you’re going?” She didn’t even have the sense to be scared.
“Don’t you think I would know this town?”
There’s an old dirt road in that area. Teenagers used to park there until too many of them were caught on a slew of drug raids. After that word got around to avoid the place. Now on a Saturday night it was pitch dark and empty.
I turned into it, shoved my car in park, and lunged for her throat.
They say pit bulls don’t let go once they bite. My fingers were like that. No matter what she did to me, they weren’t about to let loose.
She fought. I rammed my head down against her chest, shielding my face from her nails. With long sleeves on, I wasn’t worried about my arms.
The silence surprised me. I expected gurgles, choking. But those require air, and I gave her none. She thrashed in her seat like a mute, her only sound the rustle of her clothes.
Without warning she fell slack.
“Playing dead,” a voice told me.
I squeezed even tighter. My fingers hung on until they cramped. Even then I wouldn’t let go. Another thirty seconds, another minute …
