Page 15 of Slayer Mom
I gasped like he said the most shocking thing, even though we’d been married for seventeen years. You don’t say that kind of thing in front of eighty-year-old hoteliers. “Ha! I’m talking about snoring. We’re talking about my snoring,” I told the old lady, loudly because she’d had a hard time hearing when I told her our names. She didn’t seem to be having a hard time hearing my husband’s innuendos, though.
“Sure he is,” she said agreeably, and held out the other green tasseled key to him.
He took it, but the way he looked at me as we walked up the stairs was much too intent. “You’re still angry at me, I realize that, but do you intend to keep me at arm’s length indefinitely?”
“Hotel room’s length. You’ll have to trust me on this. It’s for the best.” I turned my key in the lock with a beating heart while he stood next to me, almost touching me. I could feel that almost touch so strongly, like electric bullets were brushing my skin, tugging in his direction.
“You’re using my own words against me. Very well. For you, I will wait forever.”
My door opened, and I slipped inside before he got a chance to kiss my hand. I knew that’s what he was aiming for with a line like that. “I’ll meet you in the lobby in two hours. Does that sound good?”
“An hour and a half, and I’ll be here, waiting for you to emerge.” He bowed with a flourish that made me want to giggle or scream. He couldn’t put a lot of effort into getting close to me, or I’d lose it, and then we’d both be nutmeg cursed.
Was this my actual life? Maybe the zombie had been an elaborate hoax, or a drunken hallucination, but Tom had been there, and I’d definitely sewn up his arm, and seen the goopy sludge in the bottom of the burn barrel the next morning. Also, I was starting to smell like nutmeg if I stuck my face in my armpitand inhaled. I wouldn’t take my salt soak until later. I’d just shower and then sleep, but first, I unwrapped a dozen candy bars I’d packed in my bag and left the wrappers in front of my door. I slept with my hand around the table lamp I’d denuded of its shade and lightbulb, so I could use the base to crush anything that tried to come at me.
I woke with a start when Hazen tapped gently on the door. Right. Go time. The time difference was hard to deal with, but this was probably my three a.m. insomnia schedule.
I opened the door a crack and stared at Hazen before I slipped out. Before I could close the door, he looked past me and then turned to me quizzically. “You have dozens of candy bar wrappers all over the floor. Didn’t they clean it for you?”
“It was an art project. I’m trying new hobbies to see what sticks.”
“Of course. Can I give you my arm as we walk down the stairs?”
“No.” I shot him a look. “I’m American.”
“That means you’d prefer to give me your arm?”
“We keep our own arms intact. Arms are necessary. Very necessary,” I said, going down the stairs and passionately missing my knife.
The dinner was odd, but I was too busy checking the doors and windows to really notice how much the headmaster bowed and scraped at my husband. The young man was there, the one from the hall, along with Wat and Lock. The teen watched me most of the dinner, like no one had taught him not to stare. There were some seriously shadowed corners in that dining room. They needed more lamps. The best thing about dinner was the cutlery. The steak knives had actual points that you could probably get through a zombie skull if you really put weight behind it. When the young man sitting across from me tried cutting hispearl onion, it shot across the table and probably would have taken out my eye, except that Hazen reached in front of me and caught it. At that moment, I raised my knife to block it, and cut his hand instead.
I gasped and dropped the knife with a clatter and pressed against his hand to stop the bleeding. I fumbled with the napkin, unfolding it with my other hand before I released my grip and wrapped the napkin around his hand, pressing tightly.
I turned and found his face close enough that my nose brushed his. He was so handsome. How was he so incredibly attractive, even after all this time? My heart pounded faster as his scent wrapped around me, woodsy and sandalwood mixed with something that was all him.
“So, Mrs. Darnell, what do you do?” the punk kid across the table asked, not apologizing for almost killing me with his pearl onion.
His question broke me out of my trance and I straightened up, releasing Hazen’s hand, because he was capable of putting pressure on it as easily as I was. I dampened another napkin in my water and washed the blood off my hands while I considered my answer to the kid’s question. It was a terrible question, the kind I’d been asking myself before the disaster in the theater. What did I do? I still had no idea.
“When I figure that out, I’ll let you know,” I finally said, and cut into my steak.
The conversation went on around me, two new teachers that the headmaster was excited about, a cook that the pearl onion kid was excited about. Wat spent most of dinner pushing his food around his plate while Lock frowned at the guy across from me in a way that was unusual for him. Was he already getting on bad terms with the locals? The kid must be the headmaster’s son, or he wouldn’t be there. I’dmissed introductions while I was busy scanning the perimeter.
When we’d eaten, and it was time to go, I followed Hazen and the children out. I forgot my sunglasses and went back in time to catch the headmaster saying, “That’s the great beauty who Master Haze fell for? I don’t see anything notable about her.”
“No?” Pearl onion child said, sounding arrogant and world-weary. “Didn’t you see how she looked at him and the world bloomed and the angels sang? She loves completely.”
I cleared my throat and walked in, got my glasses, and hurried out without looking at either one. “Excuse me,” I murmured and somehow didn’t dash away. There was nothing worse than hearing what other people think of you. It’s very rarely what you want to hear, although those words coming out of that teen’s face were just weird.
five
. . .
I saton the bottom step of the grand staircase and hit the tennis ball for the seven hundredth time. It hit the wall, then the floor, then my hand. I tossed it up and hit it for the seven hundred and first time. It hit the floor, then the wall, then my hand, hard enough to make my palm sting.
The hall was littered with tennis balls. I’d been going through sports using all the old equipment my children and husband owned, kept in the storage room in case someone decided to pick it up again. Here I was, picking it up. And hitting that ball like it was a zombie.
I hadn’t gotten dressed in a week. Between zombies and missing my children, getting dressed was too hard. Lock and Wat seemed to be doing well, if the phone calls were any indication. That was good. So good that no one needed me.
