Page 29 of Bad Husband

Madison jumps, her hand on her heart. “You son of a bitch!” And then she scurries inside the house.

Maybe I shouldn’t have done that because now she might not talk to me and the chances of us having sex tonight are slim.

With the bag in hand and amused with myself, I sneak out to the corner of the yard and then it hits me. The guilt. I can’t bury the cat without telling George, our neighbor. I just can’t. Call it my conscience, but it’d eat me alive if I knew I had his cat buried in my yard and didn’t say anything.

I’ve also seenPet Cemetery,and while I enjoy giving Madison a hard time about her paranoia, I’m not at all wild about having a dead animal buried in my yard.

Picking up the bag, I take it next door and knock on the door. Thankfully George answers the door and not his bitchy wife who hates me for starting my truck early in the morning. It’s not my fault she likes to sleep until eight in the morning. IwishI could sleep that late.

“Hey, Ridley, what’s up?” George is a friendly man, or at least he always has been and waves every time I see him, which is about once a month with my crazy schedule. But I’m not sure how friendly he’s going to be when he Wolverine killed his cat.

Though I should, I don’t feel as bad about the cat as I should. Mostly because he leaves footprints all over my black truck. There’s nothing worse than a black truck with dusty cat prints all over it. Pisses me off.

“I’ve been better.” Raising the bag up in the air, his eyes lower. “I’m really sorry, but Noah accidently ran over your cat.”

“Mr. Poppy?”

“Yeah.”

He laughs. Actually fucking laughs. “Thank God.”

Is he for real? Is this really happening?

George tips his head, his stare focusing on the bag and then me. “At least he’s out of his misery.”

Have you seenChristmas Vacation? I want to laugh at the irony of this, but I don’t and manage to ask, “Misery? For what?”

George laughs again, and I’m beginning to think he’s crazy. More so than Noah. It’s one of those laughs that reminds me of, you know, the Queen of Hearts. “Poor bastard had ball cancer. You know, like your junk.”

I back away a few steps. I know what he’s referring to, but George is a retired air force instructor. Did he really just say junk to me?

“Cats can get ball cancer?”

He nods. “Yep. It was all over his body. He should have been dead months ago.” And then he takes the bag from my hand. “I’ll take care of him. I swear it was like he was trying to commit suicide. He’d lay under my car every day right under the tire. Even ran out in front of cars, but somehow they always missed him.”

“Well, his nine lives were up today.”

George takes the cat inside and strangely I don’t feel nearly as bad as I did. If he had cancer, it was for the better. Noah actually did him a favor, in a harsh way, but still.

When I get back to the house, Noah and Callan are watching television in the living room. Well, Noah is and Callan’s reading anotherNational Geographicbook. This one’sThree Mile Island: What could have happened.

At least he’s doing his research, but I am wondering how I’m going to take him to Ukraine someday.

I’m not sure if I should say anything to the little serial killer in training on the floor or not. Do you punish three-year-olds for this kind of thing? Would he even understand?

I gotta do something. He can’t go around killing animals. Stabbing me is one thing but animals are another story.

“Noah.” I kneel next to him on the floor.

He looks up at me, adorable green eyes waiting for me to say something. He blinks a few times, waiting. “Daddy.” And then he crawls on my lap.

Callan peeks around his magazine at us and rolls his eyes like he knows what I’m doing won’t work.

I turn Noah to face me. “You hurt that cat.”

He remembers all right and raises his hand to his check and the deep red scratches. “Bad cat.”

“I know he scratched you, but you can’t run over animals just because they hurt you.” Because if that was the case, then Mr. Poppy would have been dead years ago when he first started using my truck as a red carpet.

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