almost okay

Two days passed. I didn't sleep much. Mostly I drank and I wept. I wept until the tears stopped flowing, then I drank some more.

While it was true that Jackie had been a a real ball-busting bitch since the first two years of our marriage, I still felt bad about having killed her, even if it had been in self-defense. And the fact that her hacked up body was now anonymously composting in landfills two thousand miles from her home and what little family she had left in the world was causing me even more remorse.

But somehow I was completely at ease with the idea of having several bags of flesh that I'd personally stripped from her skeleton sitting in my basement freezer. It was an odd feeling. I can only compare the anticipation of our first meal together since she'd left this earth with the feeling I used to get as a child on Christmas Eve. I was a little giddy.

The simplest solution for preparing the meat was the dehydrator. I pulled it out of its box, dusted it off and plugged it in to see if it worked. A little red light on the side came on so I unplugged it and put it on the counter to the left of the stove. Then I flipped through the instruction booklet until I found the recipe for turkey jerky, checked to make sure I had all the ingredients, put on my apron and got to work.

The recipe said that the meat should be thinly sliced and that it was easier to handle when it was frozen. Good. Finally I'd done something right. I pulled one of the gallon bags from the freezer and put it in the sink. After a few minutes of thawing, I dumped the contents, maybe two or three pounds of what looked to be thigh meat, onto a plastic cutting board and used a serrated carving knife to slice it as best I could into eighth-inch thick strips.

The marinade called for Worcestershire and soy sauce, some onion powder, garlic powder and lots of cracked black pepper. I decided to toss in some honey. Just to sweeten it up a little, I thought, and suddenly I was struck by the memory of the first time I'd met Jackie ten years before.

Jackie was a struggling actress back then. Between failed auditions, she made ends meet by waitressing at Angelo's, a small diner in LA where I used to stop on my way to work for a coffee to go. “You take cream and sugar, Sugar?” Jackie had said to me that first time, a slightly wicked grin working one corner of her mouth. Her eyes caught the sunshine bouncing off the lunch counter and sparkled like chestnut-colored gems as she looked at me.

“Just dip your pinkie in there.” I said. “That should sweeten it just about right.” I knew right then that I was in love.

With the memory of Jackie's smiling young face still fresh in my mind, I put the meat back in the freezer bag, poured the marinade over, zipped up the bag and squished it all together with my hands to make sure all sides of the flesh were exposed to the seasoning. A few slow tears leaked and ran down my cheeks.

The recipe recommended an overnight soak in the marinade, so I popped the bag into the fridge and grabbed a beer. I was sobbing aloud by then, and could taste the salt of my tears as they began to run freely past my trembling lips. The early autumn sun had just begun to set, a beautiful orange glow settling over the trees in the back yard, warm yellow light slanting into the kitchen and across the scarred top of the pine table where I sat. I could hear birds.

My favorite time of year, I thought. Autumn. Jackie never liked it, though. Said she knew autumn just meant winter was coming, and that girl hated the cold weather.

I poured a shot of bourbon and knocked it back. Then I poured another one.

* * * * * * * * * * *

Hours later I woke up with my arms outstretched on the table and my head face down on top, drool running out of my mouth. Several empty beer cans stood on the table in front of me and the bottle of Jim Beam lay on its side, less than a shot's worth left inside. The room was pitch black and I had the sense that something, some sound maybe, had awakened me.

Pain shot through my neck and shoulders as I pushed myself upright. I picked up the fifth and drained what was left, squinted at the clock on the microwave. It read 11:17. I realized then that I could hear the sound of my cell phone ringing from the living room. “Who could be calling this late?” I said aloud before stumbling towards it.

As I reached the coffee table I looked down to check who it was, saw that the screen displayed the words 'Private Number'. I make it a rule to never answer calls from people I don't know, but this one felt strange, so I picked up.

“Hello?”

“Hey, Marty. What's happenin'?” A man's voice, vaguely familiar but I couldn't put a name to it.

“Who is this?”

“I'm hurt that you don't recognize my voice.”

“Who... is... this?” I repeated with measured emphasis on each word, small fear and anger beginning to rise within me.

“It's your cousin-in-law, bro'.”

Suddenly, a face in my memory matched the voice. It was Andy.


1... 2... 3... 4... 5... 6... 7...