taking a sip of coffee, she hears someone at the door. she’s not been awake long and is still in her nightgown, which can be mistaken for a sundress. the knock is welcoming; it lulls her to the door, which creaks when she pulls it open. barely morning, the colors in the sky are thin, which makes them bleed. the outside looks more beautiful when you can’t grasp what it’s offering. it is summer, and this year has been extremely warm. everything is dusty and dead, with dust still hovering in the air from his car. he stands there, quiet, a small smile on what could only be described as a head still growing into the man; the puggy youth of cheeks; his white teeth highlighting his face. she notices that he is in a tuxedo that isn’t his. it fit wrong: the cuffs and ankles are rolled up, the jacket comes below his waist, and the shirt is too tucked and bunched a little in his hip areas.
“hello ma’am.” his accent is not quite southern and almost indecipherable. it is sincere and not like a preacher of hellfire and brimstone: his cross dangles above his tie, shiny like a searchlight. he stands straight, but not stiff: a salesman but also a gentleman. his suitcase sits alongside him, upright, the handle joints needing oiled because it still holds itself upwards. “i hope you’re having a good morning. sorry to be so early but i was hoping you’d be interested in listening to me tell you why this will change your life.” her hair catches as the wind sweeps through the doorway. it falls off her shoulder. he smiles again, this time more curious than pleasant. he raises a leather-bound book with golden embroidered letters, which she hasn’t noticed him holding as it was close by his side. “may i come in?”
she moves to the side, sweeps her hand down the hallway, while her other hand is still on the doorknob; he steps up from the porch and into the doorway. she asks if he may take his shoes off and he obliges. the dog, realizing the door is open, rushes out pushing against his leg, causing him to stumble. he involuntarily grabs her arm, his fingers circling the smallness of it. he apologizes and she assures him it’s okay. they walk down a long hallway—family portraits: a man, a wedding photo, an older couple… but no pictures of children, and a vase of wilted flowers sitting on a small table halfway—into the kitchen. the walls are neat and orderly, unlike the flowers.
he pulls out the chair, its weight catches him by surprise; the back legs scratch across the hardwood floor. he sits and she walks to the counter. he places his suitcase to the right and it thuds, the insides clanging; he stations the book on the table, fiddling with the position so the book is slightly angled right, where the spine faces him. she studies what he’s doing as he organizes himself, then offers him a cup of coffee; he takes it black. she pours it into the cup and a bit splashes on her hand; red blotches appear. she shakes it off and rinses her hand in warm water, then rubs her hand along her nightgown. she sits to the right of him at the end of the table.
“i don’t mean to intrude, but where is your husband? i saw that photo of your wedding in the hallway.” he is curious and wonders when he will return home. he grimaces at her husband’s tuxedo. his father wore tuxedos; he had them fitted so they hugged his body. his father would always go on business trips, leaving his mother and him alone for days. his father would always come back angry and for the remainder of the day, he’d drink himself into a rage. at night, his father would lock his mother in the bedroom and come after him. sometimes he’d beat him so badly he had difficulty breathing: blood, spit and snot would be caked on his nose and mouth. his ribs would hurt as he’d weeze in the corner of the room on the floor. his father would then go upstairs to the bedroom and he could hear his mother begin crying as she was thrown on the bed.
one day he was woken by his father screaming. he kept yelling “bitch, where are you?” he could hear things being thrown to the floor, some things being slammed into the walls. the thuds of breaking objects echoing through the walls. he jumped out of bed and barefoot, ran outside as fast as he could escape. he imagined he’d catch up with his mother if he ran fast enough.
in the following years his father had quit his job and began doing farm work. his father always told him that he was never going to be a man, that he was weak and timid; and when he looked in the mirror he didn’t look much like a man to himself. he didn’t look anything like his father. his father’s voice constantly reminded him of that. he was short and thin framed. his father would force him to help on the farm, but he couldn’t do most things his father expected him to do around the property. every time he failed, his father would grab his hair in the back of the head and throw him onto the ground. sometimes he’d crawl away, never wanting to let his father see him cry. his father was a callous man, big and strong, his body built like a tractor.
it had been sometime before dawn. he had stayed awake all night, staring out his window into the sky—the moon was soft and full. his thoughts spinning, but he had no other choice. he left his room and wandered into the kitchen, grabbed the biggest knife he could find, and quietly walked to his father’s bedroom who was on his belly, sleeping. he tiptoed to the side of the bed. he could hear his father’s deep breathing. without hesitation, he took the knife and plunged it into the back of his neck. he heard the puncture and his father began gurgling but there was no movement, and then saw the blood leak onto the sheets and pillow. he stepped back and turned around. he realized he was holding his breath, so he exhaled. as he left the room, he grabbed his father’s tuxedo hanging in the closet. grabbing the keys to the car, he threw the tuxedo in the backseat and fled. a few days later, his adrenaline still pumping, he drove up the woman’s driveway, in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by farmland, believing his mother lived there.
she takes a long drink of her coffee—the way his mother had when he was younger, with her mouth o-shaped, so she could blow on it as she drank it. she didn’t sip the coffee, it poured over her tongue before she swallowed. she looks down, away from him and explains. she explains that he had died in the coal mine. one rainy morning the roof collapsed, burying them, killing everyone but one man. she had met her husband through her father, who was the lead of the crew. her father thought highly of him and convinced her to go on at least one date. they had been married for over three years, and he died about six months ago. she’d been alone since. she’d not only lost her husband, but lost her father that day too; her mother died years earlier of cancer. she is the only child, the only one left.
during the conversation, she begins feeling happy that the visitor has come, even if this man was trying to sell her something she already has. the lonely void has kept her awake at night and she cries wishing someone could hear and hold her. she feels like this is god answering her prayer in some weird way. not to replace her husband, but to give her an ease back into life. she tells him that she loves her husband and feels like he is waiting for her somewhere, but being alone is the hardest thing to accomplish. he gives his condolences and puts his hand on her hand as a gesture of kindness. he slightly squeezes her hand, feeling the brittle bones. “your husband loved you, just as christ loved the church, and he gave himself up for you.”
they casually talk for a good thirty minutes. he wants to ask her if she wanted children, or if she has any children and what happened to them. but he doesn’t. he just sits there and listens as she speaks about everything except why he is there. she smiles all along as she speaks. it raises her spirits. she is comfortable and he notices she is more at ease. she looks around the room as she speaks, laughing nonchalantly. after a long pause, he places his hand on the cover of the book and says “i am the resurrection and the life. whoever believes in me, though he dies, shall live, and everyone who lives and believes in me shall never die.”
below the cover, there is a hole carved inside the pages. a reflection catches her eye. he is faster than he thought he’d be with the knife, the same one that killed his father, and it made him smile. he hadn’t practiced this; yet he dreamed about this. with his free hand, he seizes her hair, tangling it between his fingers. he yanks her head back and she is forced face up looking at the ceiling. it happens so quickly she forgets to scream and when she goes to scream, he has his hand with the knife in a fist, over her mouth, the knife pointing downward towards her chest.
she starts crying. it was mostly involuntarily as she is trying to be calm. “don’t say a goddamn word” he says, with a voice that was nothing like the one that helped him get into her house. spit comes from his lips. he takes his foot and with the tip of his shoe he brings over his suitcase. he is gripping her hair tighter and pulling harder. her skin is taut and her neck is beginning to hurt. he moves his hand away from her mouth and repositions the knife blade to her neck. he warns her if she moves he’ll not hesitate to put the knife into her throat. she can feel the edge depressing her skin. she can feel the anger in his breath.
“mama, why would you open your door after all these years?” he whispers, looking deadpan into her eyes. “daddy’s waiting for you.”
he let go of her hair and bent down, picks up the suitcase, places it on the table, and opens it. the clasps unclamping loud as gunfire. he removes a husky rope and duct tape and places them beside the suitcase. he grabs her hair again, removing the knife from her neck. he forces her head downward making her look into her own lap. he moves her chair sideways. he explains with his simple instructions that if she moves he’ll push her backwards and stomp down on her chest; put the knife through her face.
he puts the knife in his mouth, sideways. he holds the blade between his teeth and the sharpness of it forward. the handle protrudes outward, beside his face, so that if he has to he can grab it easily. with his free hand, he positions her left hand more forward so that it is hanging off the armrest. he tapes her left wrist. after he is done, he walks around the back of her chair and lets go of her hair. he pulls her right hand forward and tapes the right wrist. the tape compresses into her skin, making her hands lose circulation, turning them a dark purple almost as if she has put on a pair of gloves. after he is done with each wrist, he nooses the rope around her neck and lets the long end go down her back, into the floor, like a braid. he takes his jacket off, lays it across the table, and moves his chair in front of her. the suitcase, still open, holding things inside like a chest. he stands and reaches in, shifting things around. he removes a pair of tweezers.
he takes the tweezers and pushes the little bar under her thumbnail, rips it from the skin. she screams loud enough that the dog comes to the door and begins barking. he smiles, different this time, like a wolf. his teeth, sharp. she kicks her feet but they smack the bottom of his chair. the wood cracks against her toes. he continues: the pointer finger, the middle finger, the ring finger; one after the other, digging under each fingernail. her wrists rip as she thrashes trying to get loose. her screams turn into hyperventilating; she is not able to catch her breath. he finishes the last nail, gazes into her eyes. her brown and bloodshot eyes, filled with tears. her lip bleeds a little as she bit her bottom lip hoping that would help differentiate the pain.
after he removes each fingernail, he places it in a pile on the table. with all ten, he takes each fingernail, one by one, and forces each fingernail inside her mouth. he tells her to chew them and swallow. he holds her mouth closed and puts his other hand on the back of her head. he pushes hard, using them as a vice. she kicks again, and this time makes contact with his shin. he laughs, lets go of her, and backhands her across her face. she hurries and spits some fingernails from her mouth. he replaces his hand over her mouth and he takes his other hand and squeezes her nose closed. he counts to sixty. she grunts and squirms but she can’t escape his grip. when he lets go she gasps.
he turns around and pulls out a zippo from the suitcase. he bends down and grabs one of her ankles. he flicks the lighter and the flame rises from the metal. he raises her foot up as far as her leg will let it and puts the flame on the sole of her foot. the fire dances along her skin. it begins to sizzle and darken. her skin starts to peel back in layers. after a few moments he flicks the zippo closed and releases her foot as it falls back to the floor. he remains quiet. she is faintly lucid. he sits down, his breath heaves from his chest.
he stands and begins to search the cabinets. the sun, now high enough that it blinds him when he looks out the window. the tree in the backyard reminds him of the one he and his father had put a tire swing on, like the rope he now has around her neck. he looks for salt. his curiosity takes hold now and he begins his desire to find out what happens when salt is added to different areas of the body: wounds; the eyes; compacted in the throat. he knows he has time to spare, to make her a demonstration of all his ideas. he will be thorough in this project; slow and meticulous, like how one chews the food of a nice dinner and savors each flavor.
now limp, he decides to cut the duct tape from her wrists. he’s lost all interest once she fainted. her sweat matted hair falls along her face. he pulls the chair from the table and pushes it forward, dumping her into the floor, face first. he rolls her over onto her back and notices her nose bleeding. he grabs the rope and pulls it out from under her. he goes to his suitcase and fetches a pair of gloves.
with the rope over his shoulder, he drags her out the back door to the tree. her body moves like a sled over the grass. her thin body gives no resistance. he tosses the rope over the limb and lifts her up. the bark tears away with each pull, his muscles tense to her weight. sweat drips off the bridge of his nose. once her feet come off the ground, he ties the end of the rope to the trunk. her body begins to flinch and shake. he walks around and faces her, watches her dance through the air. she reminds him of a deer that his dad had gutted and hung, then pulled down the hide until only the meat was visible.
she doesn’t bleed like the deer though, her body closed up. he pushes on her leg, and like a tire swing, she sways back and forth. he pushes again, but harder. something seems to have switched inside her brain because all of a sudden her eyes pop open and she begins grabbing at her neck, blood and salt smearing on her skin. he sits down and watches her. as she’s suffocating, he takes his gloves off and plucks a piece of grass and begins twirling it between his fingers, its body frail but he thinks about how if he slides it across his skin just right, it can cut him like a razor. he flicks the ball of grass towards her; plucks another.
these things take time, and he sits there like a child in a story circle, waits and watches. he searches the field behind her and sees a barn in the backdrop. behind that, a row of trees. birds flutter around, and land in a branch. he imagines that they’re curious at what’s going on. the sun is overhead and pours heat across his body. he unbuttons the top two buttons of his shirt, and wipes his brow dry.
while walking back towards the house, in the corner of his eye, he sees the dog coming around the corner. it doesn’t give him much attention, as it goes over to her dangling body and begins licking blood off her toes. he closes the back door behind him; wanders through the house, which doesn’t take long and finds the bathroom. in the middle of the room, a big clawfoot bathtub, the only nice thing he’s seen. he makes himself a bath and lounges in that hot water for what could have been hours. he relaxes and empties his thoughts as he fixates at the ceiling.
