Page 3 of The Kill Clause
Truthfully, I am a person who should not have married. I am not the kind who ever had any chance of settling in happily to domestic life. It wasn’t modeled for me, that type of existence where people fall in love, build something together, have children, grow old, die. My parents modeled fear, violence, chaos. So it’s not surprising that my ill-fated marriage ended quickly, uglily, both of us still bearing the scars.
That’s why I don’t answer the call from “The Asshole” when the notification pops up on the dashboard screen. There’s a second and a third. His ringtone is set to Darth Vader’s theme, “The Imperial March,” by John Williams and the London Symphony Orchestra. Not especially creative but appropriate, given his role in my life. Someone who could have been one thing but turned out to be quite another.
People tend to get maudlin around the holidays. He’s probably drunk somewhere, lamenting his life choices, fantasizing about how we “could have made it work” and “were good for each other in some ways.”
The garage door opens at my approach, and I pull inside, let it close behind me. I wait a few seconds before I kill the engine. I always toy with it. Just sitting there with the engine running and the door closed until—nothing. They say that it’sa peaceful way to go, just like falling into a blissful sleep. My shrink calls thissuicidal ideation, and it concerns her that it’s something I think about quite often—how, when, if.
“Doesn’t everyone think about it?” I asked. I mean—we’re all going to die, right? It’s just a matter of time. So why not bow out on your own terms?
“Of course people think about it. But it seems to me more like you’re strategizing, considering options. Most people cling to the time they have on this planet. That’s the norm.”
“Well, that explains it. No one has ever accused me of being normal.”
“If you’re depressed—” She’s always offering up medication. But I’m clean—no drugs, no alcohol, no nicotine. I keep the machine in tip-top operating condition. I can afford nothing less in my line of work. Because while I’m happy to consider ending my own life, there’s no way some fucker is going to get the drop on me.
“I’m not depressed,” I assured her. “Let’s just call itdeath curious.”
Depressedimplies that at some point you were happy, that there’s an alternate state of being to which you aspire. I’m not sure I’ve experienced that—true, lasting happiness. I don’t know what it looks like. From the outside it seems pretty delusional. But I guess that’s just my skewed perspective on reality.
I kill the engine, sit a moment in the dim of the garage. I can still smell her on me, a clean, light scent, feel the weight of her in my arms. Apple. When I think of how close I came to ruining her life, how any of my colleagues would have ended her while she slept in her princess bed, I feel something almost like sadness. I’ve been triggered. The image of my father kicking and kicking my mother, her gaze holding mine between the slats of the closet door until her eyes justwent blank and a thin line of blood trailed from her mouth. Something happened to my brain, like I browned out. Shock, I suppose.
Where are you, kid?my father said when she’d gone quiet. He was panting like a beast. I smelled blood.Come on out. I’m not going to hurt you.
There were sirens then. I still held the phone in my hand.
911, what’s your emergency?
My father found us. He’s going to kill us.
What’s your address? Stay on the line. I’m with you.
It took them twenty-two minutes. If they’d come faster, maybe they’d have saved her. But apparently it was a busy night in the East Village. Black Friday, actually. That tacky, gluttonous start to the holiday season. For me, the end of everything.
I try to breathe through the rise of emotion, the way my shrink taught me.Box breathing, she calls it. Inhale for four, hold for four, exhale for four, hold for four. Repeat until your nervous system reregulates. Sometimes it even works.
But not tonight.
I stare at my phone a moment, hoping for another text from Nora, something that softens her last communication. But no.
Finally, I climb out of the car and head inside. The lights are on, and there’s music playing. The aroma of something cooking makes me think just briefly of The Asshole with something other than loathing. He was an amazing cook. We ate and fucked like rock stars. We laughed a lot, too, shared the same dark sense of humor. Buried deep in my bag, his ringtone again. He must be really wasted. He’ll never leave a voicemail, just keep calling until I give in or he gives up.
Drake’s at the stove as I walk in, put my tote on the stool at the veined-quartz kitchen island. He turns, flashes me a smile.
“How’d it go?”
“Unforeseen complications.”
“Oh?” He walks over with a wooden spoon. “Try this. Careful. It’s hot.”
It’s good. Not great. There’s something he lacks in the kitchen. Sophistication, I think. He’s young, ten years my junior. He’s never been to France or Italy; only recently has he even been to Manhattan. So there are layers to food, to art—to life—that elude him yet. When he first came into my life, he thought Olive Garden was fine dining. But he has other skills. And he’s learning fast.
“Hmm,” I say. “Bolognese. It’s fantastic.” It’s not. But it is rich, meaty. I never eat before a job, so I’m starving now. Something he knows, so he always has dinner waiting. Like I said, he has other skills.
“So . . . what happened?”
“Can we not talk about it?”
He shrugs his well-developed shoulders. “Sure. When you’re ready.”
