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MENU ( story fomerly known as MACABRE)

In the afternoon, I sat with a book on the deck. I liked to be at the cottage, especially at this time of the year. Late August had advantages: warmer water in Georgian Bay, fewer people on the beaches, deeper shadows in the forest. The spots of sunshine filtered through the branches of the nearby trees danced on the porch floor. Crickets had a concert in the tall, yellowing grasses. Blackberries ripened slowly to perfection. With my eyes half opened, through eyelashes I observed Mark unpacking something from the car.

Mark had a strong muscular body and a boyish face, despite gray streaks in his hair. I liked everything about him, blue-green eyes, soft voice, a smile and the way he looked at me. Except for those two times when his face turned white and his eyes became stainless steel cold, but that was at the beginning, at Christmas, now it's summer, our first summer together.

“Daydreaming?” Mark asked.

He appeared suddenly on the deck. I turned, sun shone straight in my eyes. Something heavy fell from Mark’s back, a large bundle covered with black plastic. Mark stood looking down. I noticed shiny pearls of sweat on his forehead and large blue veins on his hands.

“You have to help me this time. You know what to do.” He stepped in front of me blocking the sun.
“We don’t have much time, The Larsens are on their way, I will pick them up from the station in Midland, but first I have to finish something. You know what to do.” Mark turned and walked toward the garage.

I knew what to do. Karen and George were coming from Toronto in about two hours. I had to rush. The plastic bag on the floor swished and moved. My heart pounded.

'You know what to do.'

I knew, I never did it before, but I saw Mark doing it more than once and helped cleaning after.

Through the porch doors I went to the kitchen, opened the cupboard and took a hammer from the toolbox. I weighed it in my hand; the yellowish leather handle had oily spots. I took from the sink rubber gloves and a large knife from the stand on the counter. I checked, the knife was sharp, sharp enough. “You know what to do” I repeated to myself, stepped outside again and looked around – nobody else, only me, crickets, a blue lake and a light wind high in the crowns of the trees. I hunkered down, slightly uncovered the corner of the plastic bag, placed the hammer at the back of the head and hit it.

I didn’t like wet, squashy sound and a sweet taste in my mouth. I hit again, turning my head away. I jumped up when the body moved. I looked down. It trembled, twisted spasmodically once, twice… one more convulsion and silence. I stood waiting.

Step after step, slowly, quietly I walked back. Ice cold drops slid down my spine. With a thumping heart, I pushed the body with a tip of my slipper. It didn’t move this time all covered with plastic, all except the pierced corner. The look of the bulged, glass like eyes and wide-open mouth brought back the sticky feeling in my throat. I noticed a stir somewhere in the bushes. I froze. A squirrel darted between the trees. I looked around. I was alone. I grabbed the plastic and pulled hard to move the corpse deeper to the shadow.

---
The shower made me feel clean again.
I combed my wet hair and looked in the mirror. “I am a killer a MURDERER.” I said.

I had to hold the edge of the sink when I recalled what happened in the last two hours. Who am I now? I cannot say that Mark pressed me to do it. I just wanted to help, to do my share. The look of his eyes! I didn’t want to see this coldness and distance again.... After all MY friends are coming to visit, I HAD to do my share! I had to help, I had to!

“Compose yourself and finish,” I said to myself and went back to the kitchen.

I looked around checking again every spot. Kitchen shined. I cleaned everything methodically with the sharp brush and soapy hot water: the hammer, the knife, the electric saw, the cupboards, the counter and the kitchen floor. I scrubbed bits of meat from the tiles above the sink. The strong smell of bleach brought me a strange relief. I looked in the fridge at large pieces of meat stacked neatly in layers separated by wax paper.

"Mark will be proud of me, he wouldn’t do it better." I thought.

I put bread on the table, a bottle of wine, forks, glasses, napkins and a little vase with wild flowers I picked in the morning when air was fresh and cool and grass covered with dew. I turned on the radio to kill the silence inside the house. 'No, no, they can’t take that away from me' an old swing standard sounded just right for the occasion. My hair almost dried after a shower.
I looked back at the kitchen. Perfect! I returned on the porch and checked the barbecue. Clean and tidy! Mark does a very good job of keeping it so neat. Everything is ready for my guests; they should be here any minute.

Crickets had their usual concert, blackberries shined, birds sang their love songs, aroma of balsamic pine, heated soil and mushrooms filled the air. My act of violence passed unnoticed. Nothing happened, nothing changed; undisturbed comfort and peace.
I stretched in the chair and looked at the serene emerald lake and lonely sailboat on the horizon.

“I won’t do it again.” I said out loud, my voice sounded unnatural, rough, like not my own.
“I will never kill fish again. Never!” I said louder and sank deeper in the chair.