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August 21, 2009

Scent of Innocence (As it appeared on Associated Content A Years ago)

A breeze lingers before my window and on it the faint scent of innocence. It's a slow moving, salt laden breeze and oh, how I've missed it-the breeze, not the innocence. I've been away from home for six months, long enough to forget how it makes my hair frizz, long enough to forget the slick feel it adds to everything it touches, long enough to forget a lot of things-but not to forgive them.

Soon it will be time to get dressed, in the black dress my grandmother picked out and out of respect, at least for her, I will wear. She thinks it will give me the aura of mourning not reflected in my eyes, I, for one, doubt it. I cannot mourn the death of a man I did not know in life. Well that's not true, I've mourned the deaths of innocents everywhere, and I've even mourned the loss of my own innocence, though I can't remember it. It's not even true that I didn't know him, I just didn't know him as one might expect under the circumstances. So I mean to say I won't mourn this particular man at this particular time, particularly-and this my grandmother does not know-because I killed him, well almost.

So when I say I haven't been home for six months, I mean I haven't been in the home I was raised in for the past six months. I have been in Atlantic City since then and because that was not a trip of leisure, I didn't notice the breeze. I visited my father the last time I was here, even then knowing he would die but not that I would be the one to kill him. A few weeks before my visit, I got a call from a colleague that someone was offering $75,000 to have my father killed and I wanted to know why. Not why someone wanted him dead, but why anyone was contacting me about wanting him dead. In the nature of my business it is common courtesy to contact an...agent before trying to kill a member of their family. Not only is it good business sense, its good common sense-I'm known to have a bit of a temper.

But no one knew we were related.

Anyway, my plan was to confront him in his living room, imagining his surprise to see me, since I didn't have a key. He would talk about his problems: how apparently he owed money to some people I knew, which in my experience isn't why they wanted him dead, and he told them I was his daughter and I would kill him if they touched him. Turns out he knew from a friend of a friend about my career and thought namedropping would save him. And it would have. They were still in the planning stages and hadn't ordered a hit; they were waiting to verify he knew me-which my visit would prove. I didn't like being put in a position to help him and even as I slipped in through the living room window, I hadn't decided I would.

I knew right away something was different, not wrong but different. In my line of work you know death when you meet it and it was staring me in the face and using my father's eyes to do it. Damn. Now I have to find out who killed him and just how they plan to make it up to me.

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April 10, 2009

A Girl’s Guide to Staying Single–Pt. 1

We had been married six years, nine months, three weeks, and four days—no five—and only once have I pictured him dead.

I blame Wal-Mart.

Half way between a tube of Burnt Coffee lip-gloss and a 4-pack roll of single-ply bath tissue, there dangled rows of thick, braided rope. I fingered them, attempting to touch them all, lingering on the thickest braids. The knots were strong against my skin; the frays tickling the flesh between my fingers. One hundred feet for $9.99—One hundred feet.

It was the perfect length for tying a King-sized mattress securely to the roof of a car; or for my nine-year old son to practice tying knots to gain his merit badge; or for securing Justin to his office chair before sending the chair bounding down the 28 stone steps leading from our house to the street.
I slipped two coils into my cart.

“How much was that?” I asked.

Poking the corner of her mouth with her stubby, pink tongue in an act I’m certain someone told her resembled concentration, the cashier focused on the numbers on the screen, hoping I would do the same.

I peered at the slender plastic bag of my purchases: toilet paper, lip gloss, rope. My items implied I was the type of woman to buy on-sale toilet paper for the guest bathroom while buying Charmin for my own; who would apply lip gloss to her full lips to avoid leaving unappealing crescent shaped kisses on coffee cups; and who would haul a king-sized mattress in an elongated shopping cart, hoist it over the hood of a fairly new car and drive 45 mph down 695 to avoid losing said mattress.

In particular, the rope implied I was the type of mother who would stay up nights teaching her 9 year old son to tie wild animals with rope should he be confronted with a wild animal before attempting his merit badge. Or, the type of wife who pictured tying her husband to his leather, office chair, his sailing before gravity propelled him toward the parking pad where her car was conveniently not. A woman who pictured not blood and bone scattered in said parking spot, not his dying, but his death. Death presented neatly, like a gift, a tiny wooden cross where the bow would be.
My mattresses are delivered by people who endeavor to do such things; I do not have a son, and I don’t like the sight of blood.

“Take the rope off, I don’t need it.” I say.

There are at least one hundred ways to end a marriage–make that 99

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Unintentions of Kindness

It is not the sort of place one typically finds me. But, it is where the people go. I had decided to wander amongst them. I had been told by the wife of the man who tends our gardens that of the markets of Florence, Piazza S. Lorenzo boasts the most delicate swatches of intricately hand-woven cloth of all Italia. For his birthday, Roberto’s mother had sewn, day and night, a table cloth of many colors and fabrics. Mama G—saw poorly during the day and even worse during the night. Two nights after her death, I gave the table cloth to her maid for her years of service and sent her on her way to make her fortune elsewhere. Finally, after two years of marriage, I am the woman of the house.

So, I needed a new table cloth for the main dining room and knew of no better place to find one suited to the task. When I arrived, it was barely dawn, yet every beggar, hag and orphan had a bauble to trade or a story to tell. Upon every rickety table, within each dank crevice, and across each wobbly threshold, crosses, beads, scarves, bags, fruits, vegetables, trinkets, spices; every ill-conceived convenience and cheap inconvenience, could be had for a lire or more.

I had wandered nearly an hour looking for a cloth of a certain pattern and distinction. The sun was high when I found it, finally. It was of the lightest cream and burnt beige. It was intricately woven with worn stones for an elegant, earthen appeal to the senses. And, it was in the hands of another.

“I have been here for hours and yours is the most pleasant face I have seen thus far,” I said. I had merely whispered her name when Maria twirled to face me. We gathered in a long embrace, as if we were friends when in fact, we are not.

“S. I have not seen you since dear S. G’s funeral. You have been missed at church.”

Maria spends day and night in church. In youth, we competed in all categories befitting ladies of our class. Beauty, grace, education, opportunity; I won them all. Religion was the only category I cared not win.

“How is Brother Roberto? He has always been terribly close to his mother.” There was a time Maria had eyed Roberto for herself, but the opportunity for her to let it be known to him, did not itself present. Rather, I also had my eye on Roberto and as I had older brothers with whom he was acquainted, the opportunity presented itself often for me to let him know of my interest.

Roberto was not an attractive boy and is not an attractive man. He is, however, very wealthy. My daughters and sons will have every convenience, as I now enjoy. Roberto is generous with his mistress as well, as I am generous with my lover, thanks to Roberto.

“And, how is the Father?” I have heard rumors of convents and wondered if they were true.

“Oh, praise his holy name, why just today—“

“What a beautiful cloth,” I interrupted. I had little interest in the church and spent only as much time as my title demanded in them.

“Reading the bible by candlelight has caused Sister L. to go blind, the delicate strands of this cloth, the mixture of strength and innocence, she will surely love this cloth.”

A cloth such as this is wasted on the blind, I thought.

“I have given the table cloth Dear Roberto’s mother made with her brittle fingers to her girl for her years of dedication.” It was mostly true. By now all of Florence knew the girl’s services were not needed a moment after the S.’s funeral. I suggested she vacate her rooms before the family returned from the cemetery, she did.

“If it will make Roberto’s burden easier to bear, you should have this cloth.”

The old woman of the table frowned. She had openly listened to our conversation and seemed to favor Maria’s nun.

“This cloth is for comfort, not for table,” she said. She crossed her arms as if she had determined who would be the buyer.

“How much is it?” I asked. She named a price Maria could not afford. It was worth it, to be sure, but even I did not want to pay such a price for a shabby piece of cloth. But, I did. Maria watched the old woman’s gnarled, thick fingers delicately fold the cloth into careful, equal sections. The woman wrapped the cloth within tissue and presented it to me as if I had won some great contest.

I accepted, paid and gave the cloth to Maria.

I never endeavored to be holy.

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@tildeathdouspart.com

From: zackthemack@hotmail.com
Sent: Sun 1/12/08 9:10 PM
To: ariel1970@yahoo.com
RE: Tonight

There’s been a change of plans. My beloved wife is so tender and fragile these days, and though I do not deserve it, she has forgiven me, at last. Just last week she could barely look at me. Her speech brittle, words chosen painfully, as if we were in-laws, she talked around the weather, the day, but rarely directly to me. Weeks into therapy, Charlotte had not forgiven me our affair.

I emailed you last week because I wanted you. Living here then was like living here before—you. She was characteristically cold, distant. I was reminded often of you. Not of as you are, but of as you are not. The depths she went to avoid me attending all-day conferences and workshops–why a writer needs conferences, IDK–would have been funny, if it were not happening to me, to us.

But, tonight she smolders. Her short brown hair whipped around her face as she turned it this way and that. Her long, sensuous lashes could barely contain her almond-shaped eyes. I told you once of her passion, you accused me of missing her, you were right, of course. Tonight she bristles over a remark carelessly made.

“Is there milk in the macaroni and cheese?” I am lactose intolerant, a condition my wife had carefully planned meals around—along with allowing for my other allergies—but that I was afraid she had forgotten in my absence.

I wonder that you did not notice, but we seldom dined together, did we? Our entanglement had left her intolerant of my various calamities and so I had asked. Oh, but I am so glad to have asked, for then I realized her forgiveness was finally granted. The words that came out of her supple mouth, the articulate gestures of her long, slender fingers, the contortions of her beautiful golden, brown face, finally she is at ease with me again. I would kiss her bony hands gleefully, but to do so would be to admit I know she did not before forgive me. I would rather to mark this pass silently than to mark it in vain.

I, of course, cannot continue to see you, meet you, as we had planned.

From: zackthemack@hotmail.com
Sent: Sat 2/19/08 9:10 PM
To: ariel1970@yahoo.com
RE: OK

I have been ill these last weeks. Between conferences, Charlotte has taken up cooking with a vengeance rivaled only by Chef Ramsey, LOL. So vexed by my dietary limitations, she has decided to see exactly what I am allergic too, so as to strike a balanced medium for our meals. Breakfast, lunch and dinner are an array of possible intolerants. She tries so hard to please me in ways other women would not endeavor. I have worn a path from the couch (where I sleep so as not to disturb her) to the bathroom. I fear our carpet cannot handle more of her culinary intervention.

How is my girl?

From: zackthemack@hotmail.com
Sent: Mon 2/21/08 9:10 PM
To: ariel1970@yahoo.com
RE: Enough

Of course I will stop calling you my girl, as you are right, you are no longer my girl. Charlotte is the only girl for me. If only I had known before our venomous months of sex on your dented futon and all of that cheap, greasy affair food. Shiny packaged sandwiches from gas stations on the way to your cramped apartment. At least, Charlotte says, climbing six flights up that narrow stairwell (I am convinced echoes of our lovemaking still linger there) kept my body strong. Still, if I had not eaten all of that sleazy food for you, I would be spared the indignities of the weekly colon cleansing Charlotte says I now need to go along with the prune, fiber shakes she makes me for breakfast.

Thx–a lot.

From: zackthemack@hotmail.com
Sent: Sat 3/5/08 9:10 PM
To: ariel1970@yahoo.com
RE: What the hell?

Oh dear silly little one, of course Charlotte knows all about you. She does not know about your emails; though you must be more careful. A cell phone rang during dinner last night. I worried it was you. I dropped my fork with such a clatter I worried the plate chipped. Charlotte would have been furious as the plates were given to her by my mother, as was the house, and everything in it. A price for marrying me, sort of a dowry.

My nerves are so on edge that Charlotte has taken to making me drink a strong brew of teas and whatever else she read or heard will soothe me. She tries so hard. I suggested Charlotte stay home this weekend and spend it with me. The look in her eyes frightened me more than her silence. I immediately reconsidered. These weekly conferences, though I don’t see her write anything, keep her connected with other writers. The phone, of course, was not you. Charlotte has taken to whispering on the phone, no, to taking calls in other rooms and then whispering. I know because when she catches me cocking my head to listen, or tiptoeing behind her into the living room or bedroom, she sneers and sometimes growls at me. Worse, she will turn her back on me, talking as if I am not there, hissing into the phone.

She is everywhere.
BRB

From: zackthemack@hotmail.com
Sent: Tues 4/29/08 9:10 PM
To: ariel1970@yahoo.com
RE: What are you talking about?

I am dreadfully allergic to shellfish, tobacco and olives. Or, it makes a horrid dish. The concoction slithered around the plate, shrimp sliding under leaves, hiding within olives. They slid down my throat faster than I could chew them. Charlotte poised across from me the better to see my discomfort, watching every bite slip in to my mouth. She notices everything, forgives me everything or nothing at all. My insides, and I know because between vomit and diarrhea, I am forced to come face to face with what should be within my body, are rotting. I mean to rid myself of this poison. I will tell her everything, she will know everything. She will forgive me for she loves me so. Her deep eyes water as she empties the buckets I am forced to relieve myself in when I am too weak to get to the bathroom. She utters not a sound as she empties the buckets, when she is home. She spends more time at these conferences. They are spilling in to her work week so much that she had to quit work to devote her time to conferences. I married a writer. She is writing a mystery, it is not finished. She says I may not like the ending. I am sure it is good, I assure her, she has been writing for so long, has so much knowledge by now. Her lips puckered in a huge hard kiss, but she did not kiss me. We are not ready for intimacy: sex, words.

From: zackthemack@hotmail.com
Sent: Sat 5/18/08 9:10 PM
To: ariel1970@yahoo.com
RE: Leave me out of this

You are in it! She knows about us. The teas are working, loosening my bowels, my tongue. I am a babbling fountain of deceit, Charlotte says. She was slithering around the dining room, the bedroom, slithering and hissing in front of me. She has devised a menu of roots and berries, three times a day. I am an unattractive mass of adulterous rotting flesh. I do not know where Charlotte comes up with these things. But, they must be true. Thoughts flicker, anger, indignation, but they wither. Pride is hard to maintain when your stomach knots, cramps and releases in 60 seconds. She hates you less today than she did yesterday.

From: zackthemack@hotmail.com
Sent: Wed 7/2/08 9:10 PM
To: ariel1970@yahoo.com
RE: You’re as crazy as she is. May you both rot in hell

Thank you for the well wishes. Charlotte and I are doing frightfully well. Charlotte has ceased going to workshops. Her novel is finished. She lays up at night watching me sleep, I know because I wake often and she attends me. She has created the most delightful bitter, sweet tasting tea. My angel is just now fixing me another cup of this elixir. Goodbye forever sweet trollop. Tempt me no more!

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