His finger bone snapped in my hand. Another triumphant moment. I was really getting into this. It felt great, like a rush. Who knew fighting could be so rewarding?
Then something pricked my side.
I looked down and saw two small darts sticking out of my T-shirt. They had wires connected to them.
Andrea screamed the word,
No.
Then I felt like I’d been plugged into a Christmas tree as the cops tased me. I looked like I was choking on my tongue because (Andrea told me after) my eyes rolled back in my head and my broken cheek gave my face an eerie countenance. Even the cops were startled when they saw me turn toward them as they pushed the button.
The volts left my system almost as fast as they entered.
It was over. The cops pulled me off the biker and handcuffed him as everyone in the coffee shop told the cops what had happened.
I woke in the hospital later that night with a cast on my foot and crazy bandages all over my face.
Andrea sat by my bed. She explained that her ex-boyfriend had been charged with so many new offenses that bail was denied.
She cried when she told me how sorry she was. I believed her.
Andrea and I moved in together a few weeks after the coffee shop incident. She talked about being on the Other Side when she had died. Also, what it felt like to be dead. I told her I thought
I’d
die that day in the coffee shop.
She talked about seeing me in the coffee shop, even though it hadn’t happened yet.
There was something else she wasn’t saying. Some secret she was keeping. I could tell by the words she chose. The things she said.
It wasn’t until the morning sickness two years later that I finally got to know the last secret of hers from the Other Side.
The Painting
Matt tried to keep his hands below the table so his wife wouldn’t catch on, but it was hard to eat dinner that way. His hands were shaking so bad, he was surprised she hadn’t noticed yet.
He sliced another piece of meat and dipped it in the HP sauce. While chewing, he dropped his hands out of sight again.
It would be an uncomfortable experience to be questioned about the source of his anxiety.
After empty conversation, Matt left his salad on the plate, stood up, and placed his dishes on the counter - to his relief, without dropping or breaking anything. He told Fran that he’d do the dishes while she was out on her run. Then he retired to his office.
Twenty minutes later, he could hear Fran getting ready to take her evening jog along the nature trails in the woods behind their house.
A buzz of energy passed through him when he entered his den. He looked up at the picture hanging on the wall.
That fucking picture.
He willed the painting to move like it did yesterday. He was sure he’d seen it actually moving: the water in the creek running, the trees billowing softly in the imaginary breeze that traveled through the painted landscape. He tried to convince his weak stomach that what he’d seen the previous night had to be an illusion. Pictures that hung on the walls of people’s homes didn’t have moving parts. At least
this
one didn’t…until last night.
He’d bought it for a five-spot at a garage sale two years ago. What impressed him was the deer sipping the creek’s water, and the trail behind the deer. It looked like the trail behind his house. It was so close a replica, in fact, that a few guests over the years had commented on it, wondering if it was a landscape painting of “out back”. Many times Matt had wanted to tell them it was, just to mess with them.
He turned from it and crossed the small room, where he sat in his leather chair. He was still close enough to be able to watch the painting for any sign of movement.
Last night, while sipping his scotch whiskey, he’d felt the same buzz of energy in the air. When he looked around to see what had changed, the painting was moving. The creek ran through the center of the canvas, flowing into the frame. Upon closer inspection, the leaves lolled slowly, and after a few moments of staring, Matt felt himself being physically pulled into the landscape.
He’d rubbed his eyes, checked how much scotch he’d had and looked again. The painting was a still image once more.
The telephone had rung, forcefully yanking him back to the here and now. The call went unanswered, as he’d needed a few moments to collect himself. For reasons unknown, the painting that hung in his den for years had transfixed him hypnotically.
No, it had moved. Like it was a window to the back creek.
Now, sitting before the canvas with Fran out jogging, just as last night, Matt stared at the picture from his reading chair. A part of him wasn’t just nervous, he felt fear too. Would it repeat itself?
After ten minutes of intense scrutiny, Matt looked away, assuring himself that nothing as ridiculous as a moving picture was going to happen tonight. A feeling of foolishness caused him to frown.
What the hell am I doing? Sitting in my chair, waiting for a painting to move? So stupid.
He looked around for something to read. The new Koontz novel sat on his desk. He grabbed it, flipped to the bookmark and stared at the words.
A noise startled him. He cocked an ear to listen better.
Someone was yelling his wife’s name. Goose bumps covered his arms as he sat still, trying to hear the voice again. Fran was out and he was alone in the house. Where could the voice be coming from? It didn’t sound like it came from outside.
He edged forward and then stood up from his chair.
The silence around him was absolute. The house was empty. The proverbial pin could drop in another room and he’d hear it.
The picture moved.
The deer that had sat idle for years, sipping from the creek, lifted its head, and looked to the right. Startled by something, it turned the other way, and bounded out of the picture.
Matt felt his heart rate spike as his eyes widened to their maximum.
Am I going crazy? Is this real?
A man shouted out Fran’s name again. This time Matt could tell it came from the picture. It was like he was viewing a widescreen TV that he’d hooked on the wall. Only, it wasn’t. It was a five-dollar picture from a garage sale.
A man stepped into the scene and walked to the edge of the creek. The man stopped about a dozen feet from where the deer had been.
Matt recognized him. It was Charlie Houghton, his ex-business partner. Their small pizza business had gone under in the last year as Pizza Hut moved into the neighborhood. Two months ago they’d severed ties. Matt hadn’t seen Charlie in at least six weeks, but he could easily recognize the walk, the way he swaggered like a seventies car salesman with too much jewelry around his neck.
What the hell am I watching? Better yet, why am I seeing this?
Charlie called out Fran’s name again.
Just when he thought he was losing his sanity, Matt stood in the center of his den and watched as his wife slowly entered the picture by the right side of the frame and walked up to Charlie. They embraced and kissed a long, deep, kiss.
She was wearing her normal jogging suit.
Without realizing what he was doing, Matt shouted her name. He watched as they yanked away from each other.
“What was that?” Fran asked.
Charlie shook his head and scanned the area. “I have no idea. It sounded like Matt.” He turned to look Fran in the eye. “Could he have followed you?”
“No way. I jogged here. He can’t run, the fat fuck.”
They shared a laugh. Then they were kissing again.
Matt watched everything, stunned into silence. After a long moment, they pulled away from each other.
The creek water entered the painting on the right and oozed through the landscape, exiting on the left.
Matt was past disbelieving. He had lost all doubt; whatever he was witnessing had some psychic quality to it. He felt it in his marrow.
“Are you going to do it this time?” Charlie asked.
Fran pulled away and looked down at the ground. She kicked at a pebble and then looked back at Charlie. “Yes. I told you I would.”
“But this is your sixth time. You’ve told me six different times that you
would
do it. You have to understand that this erodes my sense of trust and commitment.”
Fran nodded. “I understand. But you can count on me. I love you. I will not let you down.” She stepped back to Charlie and grabbed his lapel. Staring him in the eyes she said, “I will do it tomorrow night. When we meet out here again, Matt will be already dying.”
“Good, because getting my hands on ricin is seriously hard. We had to find something that the body metabolizes so no toxicology reports will ever detect what killed him. Also, it’s so uncommon that - when he gets to the hospital - the doctors will identify it too late, if at all, and won’t have a clue how to treat him.”
“I promise,” Fran said, and then kissed him. “Tomorrow night. I’ll make lasagna, his favorite dish. He can’t resist eating extra when it’s lasagna.”
Charlie stepped away from her and crossed his arms like a little boy scorned. Matt watched as he dipped his head and raised his right eyebrow. “Are you serious? This is it? No more excuses?”
Fran nodded.
“I need to hear it.”
“I will murder my husband tomorrow night. You have my word.”
Matt almost shouted again as anger rose inside him, pushing on his temples for release. He clenched his hands into fists and rested them firmly on the filing cabinet under the painting.
“Until then,” Charlie said.
They embraced and kissed again. After separating, Fran and Charlie walked backwards, staring at each other as if they were about to duel.
Then Charlie said something that caused Fran to pause and Matt to punch the metal cabinet his fists rested on.
“Do this, Fran. Do it right. For us. After tomorrow, there will be no going back. You prove to me your love in this action. Don’t do it, and I’ll know who you really are. Understand?”
Fran had stopped now, lingering near the edge of the frame. She nodded at Charlie.
Matt watched as Charlie turned and walked away. Fran stood a moment longer and then disappeared past the frame of the painting.
Exhausted, angry, and scared, Matt turned away from the picture and sat back in his chair. He blew out a long breath and tried to think.
He dropped his face into his hands and wept. His partner had deceived him. His wife had cheated on him. Everything he knew was a lie.
She wanted to kill him.
He rubbed his eyes and tried to stop crying. When Fran came home, he couldn’t have blood-shot eyes. He wiped harder to clear the wet, salty proof. When he had arrested the tears, he saw that the picture was as it always was. The deer was back. The creek had stopped moving. It was as if nothing had ever happened.
He poured himself a scotch, sat back down in his reading chair, and stared at the ceiling. He couldn’t believe what was happening. He needed to do something.
Once he’d laid out the plan’s details in his head, Matt smiled to himself.
He’d show them.
#
“Dinner’s ready.”
For the last hour, Fran had been in the kitchen making their dinner. She had told him that not only was she making lasagna, but that she was adding a new Italian cheese called ricotta instead of cottage cheese. Because it was a new recipe, he had been banned from the kitchen for the last hour.
But now it was ready.
Dead man walking,
he said to himself as he started for the kitchen.
The smell was incredible. He was going to miss this. When everything was said and done, he would probably have to learn how to cook lasagna himself.
He entered the kitchen and took a long, deep breath.
“Wow, that smells amazing.”
Fran turned to him and smiled. “It is. I think you’re really going to love the ricotta.”
He was elated to see she had used the glass casserole dish. Without it, things would be more difficult for his plan.
“Bring your plate over so I can serve you,” Fran said.
“Nope. Not tonight.”
Matt stepped over and grabbed a hot plate. He tossed it on the table without looking at Fran’s reaction. A part of him wanted to throttle her.
How dare you try to kill me? You’re nothing now. I don’t care if you stare. I don’t care if you wonder what I’m doing. Fuck you, if you think you have the upper hand.
He grabbed the oven mitts and picked up the lasagna pan.
“We’ll put this baby right on the table so I can easily grab seconds and thirds without having to leave my chair.”