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A Little Misunderstanding

Fred Miller

    She lay on the kitchen floor, her limbs resembling hands on a broken clock. My breathing skipped into a chuffing jag. I needed air. And I wanted noise, conversation, and music. It’d been ages since I’d been to Louie’s, and I missed the crowd, the laughter, the bartenders, the give-and-take. Brenda never approved of the place.
    I wiped my eyes on my sleeve, grabbed her purse from the floor and hurried toward the front door. A light rain had fallen and the autumn air felt good as I sailed through intersections. When I came to a four-way stop in the middle of “Nowhere,” New Jersey, I pulled all the cash out of her purse, tossed it into some high weeds by the road, and gunned the engine.
    Ahead I could see the blinking lights at Louie’s and a gravel lot packed with cars, lots of people...what I needed. Behind some of the Saturday night crowd I shuffled through a humid gust at the door.
    The place had changed. Well, not the high-backed booths or the concrete dance floor or the neon ads across the walls. But the crowd appeared much younger. Maybe that was because I hadn’t been here for years.
    Brenda believed we were above all this. Louie’s didn’t fit with her social image or her dreams of an invitation to join the country club. Wasn’t going to happen and I told her. But that just made her more determined. The first time I brought her here was our last. “Miss Airs,” I called her. Made her mad. And when she got hot enough, she’d retreat to the bedroom to read and pretend she belonged in another world.
    “Hey, Mr. Johnson, long time no see.”
    “Hi, Cal. Great to see that some things haven’t changed around here. How the hell are you?”
    “Fine, sir. What’ll you have?”
    “A cold draft, Cal.”
    “Comin’ right up, sir.”
    From my perch I could see the room, now alive with people, typical for a Saturday night. Where I needed to be, not that stuffy house. Well, the house wasn’t so bad, but Brenda hated it. Said we belonged in one of the up-and-coming developments across town. She tried to get me to trade up for a nicer one over there even though she knew we couldn’t afford it. But she complained anyway.
    “How’s this?”
    “Fine, Cal, hits the spot.”
    “Say, I wondered if you’d fallen off the face of the earth. Hadn’t seen you in three or four years, Mr. Johnson. You were with your new bride, I think.”
    “Your memory’s pretty good, Cal, but it’s been five years, five years ago this week.”
    “Yeah? I remember her as a perky little lady.”
    “Who, my wife?”
    “Yeah...um, I hope that don’t offend you, Mr. Johnson.”
    “No, not at all. I suppose she was sort of perky, but she didn’t seem to warm up to the crowd here.”
    “No? So that’s why we haven’t seen you around.”
    “Yeah, that and the job I took in the city. Ninety minute commute each way. Too tired to go out week nights. And, of course, Brenda plans all our weekends.”
    “Brenda’s your wife’s name?”
    “Yeah, Brenda. She has us scheduled for dinner parties or bridge games or cocktails with her friends.”
    “Sounds like it isn’t exactly your idea of fun, Mr. Johnson.”
    “Nope, but my vote never counts.” We laughed.
    “That’s the way it is with new husbands or so I hear.” He grinned. “Say, I’ve got to take care of some other customers, I’ll check back with you.”
    “Sure, Cal.”
    I wondered how it might have turned out if she’d liked this place. We could have had fun on the dance floor if she’d just loosened up a bit and gotten that social climbing idea out of her head. But it wasn’t going to happen, and I should’ve seen it.
    Dad was a plumber and Mom took care of us four boys at home. And I was the first in my family to go to college. Mom had come to the city from an Iowa farm and tried to get secretarial work in the city. Ended up over here typing and filing for the plumbing contractor Dad worked for. Mom and Dad fell for each other at first sight. So I didn’t exactly come from a socially elite background. But Brenda’d never buy in to our social status. Not her.
    “Another one, Mr. Johnson?”
    “Sure, Cal.”
    And Mom was adamant that all of her boys would have an education. She went back to work once I was in high school—I was the oldest. And she wanted to make sure there was enough money for me to go to college. Still wouldn’t have been enough except that a crane fell at a work site in the city where Dad was working. Killed him and six others. When the city and the general contractor settled, Mom got a huge annuity. But she wouldn’t quit working until all four of us were out of college, bless her soul.
    “Here you are, Mr. Johnson. So, the little lady give you a break and let you out for a while?”
    “Um, no. Actually we had a little misunderstanding, so I thought I’d get away from the house for a while. Say, let’s talk about you, Cal.”
    “Aw, not much to tell. I still work six nights a week. On Sundays I go places with my girlfriend.”
    “Been dating her long?”
    “Three years now. Neat lady.”
    “I can imagine. What does she do?”
    “Has her own business, manicures and pedicures. Does right well, she says.”
    “You two talking about tying the knot?”
    “Yeah, talking, but that’s about all right now. We’re trying to save up to buy a house. Oh, I’ve got to jump now, people hollering for refills.”
    “Sure, Cal.”
    Perhaps it was the house. Maybe that was the turning point in our relationship. She’d been hell bent on a house from the beginning. She hated the apartment. And, of course, a mortgage specialist was happy to fudge a few figures so we’d qualify. Yeah, I suppose the house was our downfall.
    My job as an accountant took me to the train station every morning at six. I didn’t get home until around eight. Brenda liked to introduce me at parties as “an accounting executive in the city,” anything to dress up our social image. But I wasn’t climbing the firm’s business ladder anytime soon. Too many Ivy Leaguers at the office. I’d graduated from a community college out here. And because of our mortgage payments I didn’t exactly look like a comer. I had three suits. Brenda harped on that too, pushing me to buy better clothes. “With what,” I’d ask.
    On Saturdays and Sundays I just wanted to relax, read or watch sports on television. But she had us lined up for galas or other socials with folks out of our social class—professionals and such. It took a while for me to realize how she’d managed to get invitations for us into these circles. People would approach me and ask if I gave tax advice on the side, or if I took individual appointments, or if all my tax work was corporate in nature.
    None of these, I thought. I was an auditor, but she’d weaseled us into these groups under the guise that I was a tax whiz. I quickly learned to say that all of my work was strictly corporate. And that was true, it just wasn’t tax related.
    “Another, Mr. Johnson?”
    “Well, just one more, Cal.”
    “Coming up.”
    The house was fifty years old when we bought it and in constant need of repair. So on Saturdays I’d either be tinkering with minor jobs or waiting around for some repair guy. Brenda would be out at some charity bake sale, a used clothing drive for the poor, or some such stuff—at least that’s what she said. About four in the afternoon she’d come strolling in and announce our evening plans.
    For about three weeks Brenda had complained about an odor in the backyard. Since I’d continued to ignore her pleas, she’d finally called a septic service to clean out our tank. So I was at home this morning when the septic truck arrived. And I watched as they pried off the concrete cover.
    “There’s your problem, Mr. Johnson.”
    “Where?”
    “Over on the side. See those condoms? They sink and interfere with the drainage process. Must be a bunch of ’em on the bottom.” He winked.
    “Yeah?”
    “But don’t worry, we’ll clean it out good. Just don’t throw ’em in the toilet, sir. That is, unless you want us back out here again real soon.”
    “Of course, yes, I see.” But I didn’t. I hadn’t used condoms since I was in college. The septic man confirmed his suspicions once he’d finished the job.
    “Musta been thirty or forty in there, but we got ’em all. It’s clear now. Should work fine, sir.”
    “Yes, thank you, what do I owe you?”
    After I’d written a check and he’d left, it occurred to me I should have saved some of the evidence. But that wasn’t necessary, I decided. I’d wave the pistol I kept in the bedside table in her face. No, I thought, I’ll just confront her with what I’d seen.
    When Brenda walked in, she could see from my face something was wrong, but she pretended to ignore it.
    “You need to get dressed, Honey. We’re due at the Bricknell’s at seven.”
    I just stared at her, but she passed me and went to the bedroom. I sat at the kitchen table and waited.
    “Honey, you need to come get dressed,” she said. I didn’t move. Ten minutes later she walked into the kitchen in her party dress and heels, fiddling with an earring.
    “Honey, is something wrong? Did the septic man pull a no-show?”
    In plain, straightforward language I calmly explained what had happened. She blinked and her face flushed.
    “Well, there must be some mistake.”
    “No mistake, Brenda.”
    “Maybe one of our guests at last month’s party dropped one in the toilet. Surely that must be the case. Now please get ready, we’re already late, dear.”
    “Not one, Brenda—thirty or forty. Who is he?”
    “Who is who? Don’t be silly. Now please get ready.”
    She turned and began walking back toward the bedroom. I waited. Shortly she returned and said, “Well, if you don’t wanna go, I’ll just tell them you had a headache.”
    “Who is he?” I said again. Then I stood. She moved toward the door, but I blocked her path. She was trapped and she knew it.
    The details of our set-to aren’t that important. Suffice it to say our voices got louder and louder until finally she screamed that she’d never tell me and she didn’t give a damn. Said I couldn’t choke it out of her.
    “How ’bout it, Mr. Johnson. Another?”
    “Um, no Cal, I’ve had my limit. Say, what time is it?”
    “Half past twelve, sir.”
    “Well, gotta be going, Cal. Great to see you again. Keep the change.”
    “Thanks, Mr. Johnson. Hope to see you again soon.”
    Maybe, I whispered to myself once I’d turned away from the bar and started toward the door.
    My car sat at the edge of the lot and as I walked toward it, I looked up and down the highway to see if any cop cars were sitting in the shadows. Wouldn’t do to be picked up on a DUI. I eased down the wet road, obeying all the traffic signs. And pulled into my driveway. The house was dark
    In the tool shed behind the house I picked up a hammer and a rag and smashed a glass pane in the kitchen door. I reached in and wiped the door knob.
    I walked back around the house, unlocked the front door, shambled toward the kitchen, and flipped on the overhead light. No body. My eyes searched the kitchen floor. Nothing. But I sensed the presence of another and wheeled around. With eyes of innocence and the crooked smile with dimples that had once captured my heart, she stood there for a moment, sighed, and fired the gun.
    When I awoke, tubes filled my mouth and throat. A detective stood over my hospital bed and gave me Brenda’s account of what had happened. It was so good, I almost believed it myself. The perp had entered through the kitchen, tiptoed into the bedroom, and found the gun before we were aware of his presence. He’d turned on the light and demanded money. Brenda had given him her purse and I’d told him my wallet and keys were in an ash tray in the kitchen. He marched us in there and when he reached for my billfold, I’d tried to wrestle the gun away from him and had been shot. He’d then accosted Brenda and choked her.
    The cops had found my empty wallet behind the house, but her purse was still missing. And the police were looking for a rusty haired man with crazed eyes.
    “I’ll be back to interview you when you can talk,” he said and left.
    I must have dozed off for a while. When I awoke, Brenda was standing over me smiling. She looked around to assure herself we were alone and eyed the air hose across my chest.

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