“Uh-huh.” Greg opened the medicine cabinet and reached for the big new bottle of Vicodin. A lifetime supply, he thought, provided he died on schedule. He loosed a grim “Ho-ho.”
Barb, so accustomed to his laughs she didn’t question them anymore, gave him a patient smile while she slipped into her panties and lounging sweats. He swallowed his third and fourth Vicodin of the day, unless he’d forgotten others.
He followed Barb through the cramped living room to the kitchen, where she looked into the fridge and a cabinet, then turned with an exasperated grimace. “Should I go to the Safeway or do you want to?”
“I’ll go. Babe, we need to tell Chez. Tonight.”
Barb retreated as though he’d sneezed a mouthful at her. “Greg, she’s only seven. She doesn’t even know what death means, not really.”
“She found her bunny stiff in the strawberries.”
“I mean people.”
“Grandma Ruth. She knows Grandma Ruth’s in heaven.”
“So?”
“So how did she get to heaven if she didn’t die? Did you tell Chez she flew United?”
Barb plucked the magnetized notepad off the fridge and began jotting a grocery list.
“See, if we tell her now, there’s less chance it’ll knock her silly. I can smile while I’m talking about it, tell her you guys ought to have a party to celebrate me going to the most bitchin’ place.”
“Oh sure, that’ll make up for her daddy leaving her.” With a reproachful frown, she asked, “Have you given up praying for a miracle?”
He shook his head, a half-truth. He hadn’t quit praying, but he’d quit believing when he began to sense that God figured his work on earth was done. Though how God could reach that conclusion was a mystery. For all his good intentions, Greg thought, he hadn’t done much except mess things up.
She gave him the list and two bills, a ten and a five. “Don’t stop and talk with the street people, okay? I’m pretty hungry and Chez said she’s starving.”
“She’ll eat about six bites and say she’s stuffed.”
“I know.” Barb went to the sink and ran hot water to wash the dishes Greg had forgotten about.
Outside the Safeway, he ran into Chad, a homeless amigo who needed five of his dollars. He returned with one bag of groceries. Barb had already called Chez home and was helping her with Sunday school homework about daily life in biblical days.
While passing the couch, Greg kissed the crowns of his girls’ heads. He set the groceries on the sink-board, reached to a top cabinet for corn oil, and grabbed the cast-iron frying pan that hung from the wall behind the stove. Rust had formed along the rim. He hadn’t used the pan for months. He poured the Mazola oil, turned a burner to medium high, and set the pan on the burner.
He was chopping lettuce when Barb came in. “What’s that smell?” She went past him to the counter. “You bought a precooked chicken?”
“Yep, faster.”
“Not much faster than the microwave. What’re you making?”
“Tacos.”
She frowned. “Well, all right, but you can’t fry the tortillas.”
“I already started.”
“Then stop and microwave them. You can’t eat greasy tortillas.” She leaned closer and whispered, “They’ll kill you.”
“Yes, dear.” He winked at her.
He was turning to the stove when she asked, “Did you get the milk and Cheerios?”
“Nope. Ran out of money. I’ll go back later. Say, Chad’s hanging around the Safeway. How about I run back and invite him to share the feast I’m preparing?”
“Darn it, Greg,” she whined. “We have to watch every penny.”
He might’ve argued, if not for the fire. Flames spurted up from the corn oil, orange and blue, two feet high, to the cabinet. “Oh no!” Barb shouted, and pushed him aside. While she jumped to the fridge and opened the door, he grabbed a potholder from its hook. He meant to grip the handle and carry the flaming pan to the sink, pour off the grease, and let the fire burn itself out. But again, Barb pushed him out of the way.
Standing arm’s length from the fire, she poured heaps of baking soda from a box into her hand and slung them at the fire, until it died out.
The stove looked like a winter scene, Greg thought, and stalactites spiked down from the cabinets where the wood-grain plastic veneer had melted. Barb stomped out of the kitchen. Covering his eyes and leaning on the counter, Greg listened to her footsteps drum the wood floor, all the way to the bathroom. He knew she would lock herself in, sit on the edge of the tub, and weep.
As he lifted his hand from his eyes, he saw Chez beside the table, shooting a laser glare at him. Then she turned and marched out, stiff legged as a Nazi on parade.
He fought a chill. Bright flashes blinded him for a minute. Then he returned to preparing dinner. He was going to the fridge for lettuce and tomatoes when he noticed, on the door, a flyer from the Roxy Theater. A blurb for the movie that inspired James to dream up the murder game.
