Blue M&M

Blue M&M
By Eleazar Orozco

WORD COUNT: 3,932

He slipped the pill into his shirt pocket and replaced the lid on the prescription bottle, sliding it back into the medicine cabinet. The family was waiting downstairs. He looked in the mirror, straightening his black tie and brushing the lint off the padded shoulders of his black suit. He leaned forward, his face almost touching the glass, to stare at the blond freckles sprinkled on the bridge of his nose. He noticed two new ones.

Downstairs, he mingled with the crowd, mostly family, that had gathered for support. It had been three days since the sudden death of his wife, Kathy, and he still couldn’t believe she was gone. Several times he walked into the kitchen and forgot why. He reminded himself to be careful because it was critical for him to be alert at a time like this. He still had to take care of the children.

In the crowded living room he greeted his wife’s older sister, Jill, with an obligatory hug that barely touched.

“Why don’t you let the kids come home with me for the weekend,” she said, as she straightened her velvet, black veiled hat. He suspected she wore it so that everyone would know what a difficult time she was having.

He smiled weakly and said, “I’ll think about it.” Bitch, he thought to himself. The funeral flowers that covered her sister's grave were still fresh, and already she was trying to control his life.

Jill paused for a moment as if deep in thought. “The children have been through so much. They may need some time away from the house and the memories.” Her words were spoken one at a time with a cautious persistence, like a guileful cat that pretends not to impose. Pretending to see someone he needed to hug, he shrugged and walked away.

These pleasantries always made him feel sick to his stomach. He tried finding refuge in the kitchen, pouring himself a cup of coffee just to be there. “One more day,” he muttered to himself. He closed his eyes wishing his life was a DVD player so he could push the “skip” button. When he opened them, Auntie Jill, as his children called her, was in front of him again. She had followed from the living room.

“Why are you being so hard-headed about this, John?” she asked, her tone growing louder with each word. “My sister would have wanted them to be close to their family at a time like this.” He closed his eyes again, tighter this time, as if that would make her magically disappear. He knew that nothing infuriated Kathy's family more than not getting their way.

Later, as the last of the family members slipped out of the house, a dirty brown Chevy sporting a large dent in the driver’s side door pulled up to the curb next to the mailbox. Two men in Sears suits emerged and walked up the sidewalk, respectfully nodding to the family as they passed. It was the same pathetic nod he had been receiving for three days and he was sick of it.

“Mr. Crater?” the two suits asked almost in unison as they walked to the front stoop of the house. John patted his shirt pocket, to ensure the pill was still there. It was.

“I’m Detective Simpson and this is Detective Cole,” the skinny one, whose tie ended about four inches too soon, started. “We’re with the Junction Police Department.”

Junction was a secluded village nestled in the foothills of the Rockies. There were no mountains for hundreds of miles, but some of the hills were big enough to create a view, so everyone wanted to live there. Only the wealthiest could afford it. He certainly couldn’t, until Kathy’s parents bought the place for them and set him up in the family trucking business. It was a decision he knew he would regret the day he made it – or rather, the day Kathy and the family made it for him. Not that he had much choice.

Junction was about an hour away from civilization so he was mildly surprised that the insular town even had a detective, much less two. The skinny detective asked, “It’s John, isn’t it? John Crater?”

“Yes …” John answered with a dead-pan tone. The detectives looked at each other as if they forgot to rehearse which one would speak next.

“Well …we’re awfully sorry about your loss,” the chubby one said. “We hate to bother you on a day like this.” His words came haltingly as if reading from a script. John couldn’t place the man’s accent. It didn’t sound like Junction. He stared at them with vacant pale-blue eyes.

He couldn’t imagine what they might want. The funeral director had given him all of Kathy’s belongings – everything she was wearing when she died. It had happened at church. She volunteered in the soup kitchen. It was the thing all the young socialites did and they made sure everyone knew it. Her heart stopped beating and she slumped onto the table she was serving. The whole ordeal was clean and simple, all the loose ends taken care of in one trip to the only funeral home in town and three days later she was six feet under.

He noticed a bead of perspiration inching its way down the temple of the chubby detective. “Mr. Crater,” the chubby one said, “we just need to tie up some loose ends.” He wiped the sweat with the palm of his hand as he continued, “Just a couple of questions.”

There was a pause in the one-way conversation, as if the detectives were waiting to be invited into the house. When that didn’t happen, the skinny one intervened: “Routine questions, really. It won’t take long.” He had a soft, unassuming voice that betrayed his desire to be somewhere else.

That evening it seemed different at the dinner table. One chair empty, waiting for her to walk in late from the mall, throw the bags on the buffet, and sit in a huff in front of them. But John knew she wasn’t coming in and it struck him as strange.

He looked across the table at Veronica. She suddenly seemed older than seven, sitting with her legs crossed, picking at her peas. The hazy light leaking into the dining room from the setting sun brushed her jet black hair a purple tinge. Her dark hair set against snow white skin and a constellation of light freckles perfectly placed on her cheeks just under her shiny dark eyes made her seem somber and delicate and … older. But she still had the look of clean porcelain doll innocence. Just like her mother, once.

John was very young when he married Kathy. She came from money and he couldn’t work hard enough or fast enough to afford her lifestyle. He went from one financial failure to another. Then the family stepped in and did what they did best: took control. Ten years and two kids later, John hated his life. He couldn’t sustain the glitterati, I'm-stinking-rich-and-happy façade one day longer. He hadn’t wanted Kathy anymore. In fact, every woman he met seemed better than her. He had a few affairs but always had to come home to her. He ached for something more. He believed he deserved something better.

“Would you like more tea?” he asked Veronica, raising the pitcher.

“No thanks, Daddy.” Her voice had a flat, faraway tone. It was understandable. She was old enough to feel the weight of the loss. Her little brother, Timmy, had more mashed potatoes on his face than his spoon. He was too young to fully understand. But Veronica knew what was happening. Although, not everything.

“You sure you don’t want more?” he asked again. She shook her head without looking at him. No matter. She had already drunk one glass of tea and that was enough. He patted his shirt pocket to make sure the little blue pill was no longer there. In the last six days, it had become a nervous tic for him. Touching it to make sure it was there … or wasn’t.

He had carried the first one around for three days before slipping it into Kathy’s coffee the morning she left for the soup kitchen. Veronica was easier, of course. But he wanted to be sure he didn’t dream dropping it into his daughter’s tea. So he touched his shirt pocket and it wasn’t there. She would be dead within a couple of hours. It wouldn’t take as long as it did with Kathy. For a moment he thought he might be sad.

He had considered allowing the children to live, but after months of planning he realized they would have to die. He knew that alone, he could disappear into Mexico and never be found. But with two children it would be impossible. Leaving them in Junction was out of the question. He would rather die than leave them with the family. They were still very young and would not have to endure the pain of life as he did. He quickly pushed these thoughts out of his mind. These were the types of thoughts that could kill a good plan.

He kissed her goodnight after tucking her into bed, making sure the pink Cinderella comforter was folded over just the way her mom always did it.

“Daddy, is Mommy in heaven?” Her voice was still a mousy seven. He wiped the tear stuck at the corner of her eye with his left thumb.

“Yes, baby. Now go to sleep.” He kissed her on the forehead and turned out the light. Ten minutes later he re-entered the room and found her dead. The poison was designed to paralyze her vocal chords at the same time it did her heart. She probably didn’t even whimper. She must have felt a sudden loss of breath, like someone kicking her in the stomach, knocking the wind out of her, and then a few seconds later her heart simply stopped beating. Just like her mother.

The covers were pulled back, the ruffles slanting across her body where she must have reached for her throat right before she died. He leaned over her body and carefully pulled the cover back over her chest, gently tucking her arm into the fold, just as he had done a few minutes earlier. He stroked her black hair and kissed her lightly freckled cheek. It felt like there was still life in her, even though he knew she was with her mother. The thought made him feel better.

He stood in the doorway staring at her, the Little Mermaid nightlight casting a halo of fuzzy light on her angelic face. She had the peaceful look that any child has when they are sound asleep. For a moment, he was so mesmerized by the serenity on her face that he lost track of time.

When the telephone’s shrill cry jolted him back to reality he wasn’t sure how long it had been ringing. He ran to his room to answer. It was Jill. No surprise. This was her third call since leaving the house that afternoon. She wanted to come see the children.

“They’re asleep.” He was rolling his eyes.

“I don’t care. I want to see them,” she said.

“That’s impossible right now,” He said.

“Don’t tell me that. I need to see them.”

John sighed. “No. They’re fine. I told you they’re asleep. You can see them tomorrow.” There was a long pause.

“What time tomorrow?” she asked.

John sighed again, heavier this time. He spent half an hour deflecting her questions. After he hung up, he felt confident he had convinced her it could wait until the next day. But she was ruining his morning schedule. Everything would have to be pushed ahead, and that made him angry. There were very few things that made him angry.

Jill wouldn’t understand in a million years, John told himself. He was killing them out of respect. He didn’t want them to share death with anyone else. He was convinced it was the right thing to do. Now the bitch was messing it up. She was forcing his hand. He needed to calm down. He needed to rest. Tomorrow would be a big day.

He spread the map on the bed. It had become his drug. Puerto Escondido – he highlighted it. He found the little beach village quite by accident on their tenth wedding anniversary trip to Acapulco. Ironically, he was trying to get away from Kathy, if only for a couple of hours. So he had hopped into a rented turquoise blue ‘Vette and headed south and kept driving about an hour longer than he intended. As soon as he saw the sleepy coastal village, perched on the side of a hill overlooking the Pacific blue, he knew it would be home one day. White sandy beaches greeted warm ocean waters and the sun showered beautiful brown native girls with no tan lines and no baggage. About two hours south of Acapulco, it was a quiet Eden in Southern Mexico, untouched by grubby American hands. It was the place that would breathe new life into his dying existence. Even the name made sense: Hidden Port.

He fell asleep on top of the map, dreaming of his new Zion, his drool watering the deserts of Mexico. He slept like a rock and woke up an hour later than planned. But that didn’t upset him. After all, it was the day of his new birth.

He checked on Veronica. She was in the same still position as when he had tucked her in. But she didn’t look the same. The serenity on her face had been replaced by a stiff look of discomfort. Rigor mortis had come and gone and her porcelain-white skin was a pasty gray. Her lips, too. There was a single fly buzzing over her head like a miniature vulture. He locked the door and resolved not to go back in. There was no longer anything in there for him.

There was a honk outside. It startled him so that he almost cut himself shaving. He peeked out the window, the lather still covering half his face. The honking car was across the street. He kept watching just to be sure. A teeny-bopper with bleach-blond ponytails ran out of the two-story, Tudor-style house, across the manicured lawn, and jumped into the waiting car. The red Miata peeled away.

Relieved, he was about to let the curtain fall back into place when out of the corner of his eye he saw a brown Chevy with a familiar dent in the driver’s side door cruising down the street. It was traveling at a snail’s pace toward his house. His heart fell into his stomach.

He moved away from the window so quickly that he almost startled himself. He was throwing on a shirt when Timmy came into the room.

“Where’s Sissy?” Timmy asked.

“Sissy’s sick. Don’t bother her.” John closed the armoire door, and tousled Timmy’s hair on the way to the master bathroom.

“Hey Tiger, how about some cereal for breakfast?”

“Yea!” Timmy squealed as he ran to the kitchen like a hungry puppy.

John yelled after him, “I’ll be right there!” as he opened the medicine cabinet.

There was one pill left. It struck him that it looked like a blue M&M, just a little smaller. After it was in his shirt pocket, he threw the empty prescription bottle at the small forest green trash can next to the toilet. He missed. It would probably draw attention to itself later, but it wouldn’t matter. The old prescription bottle that had masked the deadly pills was for the Viagra he had never used.

As he made his way down the hall, the doorbell rang.

“Shit,” he muttered. He gave a loud whisper to Timmy. “Wait for Daddy in the kitchen.”

He slid up to the front door and peeked through the peep-hole. It was detective what’s-his-name – the chubby one. Unbelievable. His mind raced. He instinctively patted his shirt pocket. It was still there. Now what? He figured he should deal with the detective. Surely, the idiot had not discovered anything wrong with Kathy’s death so quickly. The autopsy report would take a few more days to complete. By then he would be thousands of miles away sleeping with a curvaceous Mexican beauty, spending the five million he had embezzled from the family business. The thought calmed him. He just needed one last blue pill and a twenty-minute drive to the airport.

He decided to answer the door. If he didn’t, the detective might get suspicious and actually start investigating. As he opened the door he had a stroke of genius.

“Hello detective,” he said in the weakest voice he could muster.

Before the detective could say anything, he continued with a raspy voice. “I’m sorry, but I’m not feeling very well this morning. I’ve had a rough night. Can I call you later this afternoon?”

“Uh … well … sure … I guess … If you’re not feeling well,” the detective said with a curious look on his face, as he craned his neck to see into the house.

The detective reached into his coat pocket. “Here’s my card. Call me later. I hope you get to feeling better.” He continued looking past him into the dark house.

John closed the door but kept watching through the peep-hole. The detective walked back to his car slowing every once in awhile and looking around as if he couldn’t remember where he parked.

Back in the house, John moved quickly. The clock on the wall thundered with every tick. His mind raced as he scrambled to the kitchen. Timmy wasn’t there.

“Timmy!” he yelled.

Timmy scampered in from the backyard with sand all over his pajama feet. John didn’t even bother to scold him. No time now. It would all be over soon. But he had to move quickly. Let’s see, he thought to himself: one hour for Timmy to die, thirty minutes to pack. It was going to be tight. He thought he would have plenty of time this morning. Now everything was spinning out of control.

The phone rang.

In one move he poured the milk over the cereal, stole the blue pill from his shirt pocket, and dropped it into the bowl as he plopped the Frosted Flakes on the table in front of Timmy. The pill almost bounced out of the bowl. The phone was ringing incessantly.

“Eat it,” he said as he rushed out of the kitchen toward his bedroom.

The phone would not quit. In his bedroom he threw a few things into a chocolate brown, leather duffel bag. He should have packed last night, he scolded himself. The phone was still ringing.

“Daddy!” Timmy yelled from the kitchen.

“Not now!” he shot back. “Eat your cereal.”

The phone wouldn’t give up. He grabbed the receiver and yelled, “What?” He knew who it was without looking at the caller I.D.

“I want to talk to the children.” She was crying.

“They’re still asleep,” he said through clenched teeth.

“I’m coming over.” Jill hung up before he could protest.

“You’re a blood-sucking bitch whore!” he yelled into the receiver after she hung up. He said it loud and didn’t care who heard it. He was already feeling born again.

Jill lived fifteen minutes away. He was out of time. He knew she would break down the door with her big, fat ass if she had to. Fortunately, the money that would give him a fresh start with a yet-to-be-chosen, bikini-clad wife was already deposited in a Jamaican bank account. The family wouldn’t discover it missing until Monday and that would be too late. He only had to make it to the airport.

On his way back to the kitchen he peeked out the living room window. Somehow, he knew what he was going to see before he saw it. Brown Chevy parked one block down the street. “Asshole.” He went to the kitchen. Timmy was half finished with his now soggy cereal. It didn’t matter. The blue pill would start to dissolve after a few seconds in any liquid and even a few grains were enough to kill a horse. Timmy didn’t have a chance. John fought the temptation to go into Veronica’s room. She’s no longer there, he reminded himself.

“Daddy, can I go pway in my sandbox?” He suddenly seemed small for a four-year-old. For a split second John saw himself reflected in Timmy’s pale blue eyes and mispronounced “L’s.”

“Sure, tiger. But first give Daddy a hug.” Timmy threw himself into the hug and John was surprised at how long he held on.

“I love you,” John heard himself say.

“I wuv you too, Daddy.” John watched him bound off the back porch and hop into the sandbox. It was his favorite thing to do. John thought it fitting that he would die there.

John hated to do it, but he had to leave. Jill would be there any minute and then all hell would break loose. He decided that Timmy would be in heaven within 30 minutes anyway. The bitch would never have him; if she got there in time, Timmy might even die in her arms. She would have to live with that the rest of her pathetic life. The thought put a smirk on his face as he gulped down the last of the coffee he had poured for himself before the morning got crazy. It was only luke-warm but he wouldn’t have time to stop on the way to the airport and he needed the wake-me-up.

He threw the old duffel bag over his shoulder and walked out the front door. He could buy all the clothes he needed in Acapulco, his first stop on the way to new birth. Hell, he could buy a whole new duffel bag. The brown Chevy was gone. Good. He was getting away. A light drizzle baptized him on the way to the car. The freshly cut grass, wet from the morning mist, smelled like new life. He breathed it in deep. He was going to make it. Everything would be better in Mexico. He could feel it.

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The flashing red and blue lights seeping through the cracks in the curtains and reflecting across the shiny wood floor announced that the ambulance had arrived. The chubby detective gave a heavy sigh and stared at the palms of his hands as he sat at the kitchen table beside Jill.

“Why Sweetie? Tell Auntie Jill again, why is Daddy silly?” she asked, hugging Timmy and hopelessly holding back the tears.

Timmy giggled. “Daddy put an M&M in my cereal, but I don’t wike the bwue ones.”

Her eyes widened. “Timmy …. sweetie,” Jill cupped her hands around his face, “Tell Auntie Jill, what did you do with the M&M?” She choked on her words. “Did you eat it?”

Timmy looked down and shook his head, “Daddy wikes the bwue ones.”

“What did you do with the M&M, sweetie? Where did you put it?"

"Daddy's coffee," he said softly as he raised his arm and pointed at the empty coffee cup on the kitchen counter, right where John left it. “I don’t’ wike the bwue ones,” he said. “Daddy wikes the bwue ones. Daddy’s so siwwy.” And with that he slid off his chair and bounced outside to play in his sandbox. It was his favorite thing to do.