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Domestic Situation
"There's
a machete in the snowman's head," was the first thing I heard Sunday
morning.
The
kids were still asleep and Janie was already up reading the newspaper with a
half-eaten bowl of corn flakes in front of her.
"What?"
I said.
"A
machete," she said, still reading the paper. "In the snowman's
head."
"Right."
I
went over to the coffeemaker, which wasn't on even though Janie had been up for
at least long enough to eat half her cereal. Before I could say anything I
looked out the window.
Two
days ago the kids had had a snow day and put together the snowman as soon as
they got outside. It was misshapen and lopsided, but more than that, it was
ugly. They'd used sticks for the arms, mouth, nose and eyes. The sticks worked
for everything but the eyes. Those two twigs jutting out of its head looked
like someone had used them to put the snowman's eyes out.
And
now there was a rusty machete wedged halfway through its head.
The
weather had gotten colder after the snow. There was a little freezing rain and
then it dropped so low it was too cold for it to snow anymore. That snowman's
head must have been pretty well frozen solid. From here the machete didn't look
very sharp. Someone strong and probably big had put that thing in there because
I could see that it had only been swung once.
"Jesus,"
I said, opening the cabinet that held the coffee filters.
"I
called the police," Janie said, still not looking up.
"When?"
"About
twenty minutes ago. Wonder where they are."
"You
could have woken me."
"What
were you going to do?"
I
looked back out to see a patrol car pull up. I was in my robe, boxers, undershirt
and slippers. And there was no way Janie was going out there. She'd made the
call; her work was done.
After
pulling on clothes and boots I made my way out.
"Morning,"
the officer closest to me said. His nametag read Burrows. The other one was Perez.
Both looked the same: younger than me, mustached, and not yet victims of too
many beers.
"Officers."
Burrows
walked over to the snowman.
"This
yours?"
"The
snowman?"
"No,
the sword here."
"It's
a machete," I said, immediately wondering why I had. "But no, it's
not mine."
"Any
idea who might have done this?" Perez asked.
"Uh,
no."
Burrows
gripped the machete's handle.
"Okay,
we'll take it in and run it for pri--"
He
broke off as he tried to pull the blade out. One hand wasn't going to do the
job.
"Man.
Really got it in there."
He
used both hands and pulled hard. The snowman's head broke away from the body
and Burrows almost fell down.
"Damn,"
Burrows said. "Guess we'll take the head too."
Perez
laughed. They told me they'd be in touch as soon as they found anything.
Burrows apologized for the snowman's head. Then they left.
Back
in the kitchen Janie was pouring herself a cup of coffee. I told her what they
said.
"You
should have put a new head on the snowman. The kids will ask questions."
"The
snow's not right for packing now."
I
got myself a cup of coffee and took the bits of the paper she was done with.
The
kids were up a few minutes later and asked if they could watch TV while they
ate their cereal. I said yes and Janie looked at me but waited until they were
gone before asking, "What are you going to tell them?"
"Nothing."
"And
when they ask?"
"I'll
tell them to ask you."
She
glared at me. I studied the paper instead of looking back. She would have gone
right on staring at me if the kids hadn’t come in.
"There's
something wrong with the TV."
"Fix
it."
"Yes,
Henry," Janie said. "Fix the TV."
I
went into the living room trying to find a comeback even though I knew the
moment was gone.
The
TV was broken.
An
arrow was buried halfway into the screen. The arrow was only slightly off
center. The kids reached for it, but I told them to stop.
I
moved over to the coffee table where the cordless phone was. I was still
looking at the arrow when I grabbed for the phone. It was stuck. A shiny nail
had been pounded through the phone, pinning it to the table. The TV remote had
been given the same treatment.
"Janie,"
I called out. "Call the police."
"Why?"
"Because--"
There were nails along both of the window sills, locking the windows shut.
"Because I said so."
She
sighed and moved. A moment later she appeared in the doorway with the kitchen
phone in her hand.
"What
the hell happened to the TV?" she asked.
"Someone
put an arrow through it. Please dial."
She
started punching numbers but I could already see that the phone cord had been
cut. It dangled at her feet.
"It's
dead," she said. "Did you pay the bill?"
"Yes.
The line's been cut."
"What?"
"At
your feet."
She
looked down and then looked back at me.
"Use
the cordle…" she trailed off at the sight of it. Then she looked back at
me.
"What
are you doing?" she asked.
"I'm
not doing anything."
"Usually
that's true. Why would you break our things?"
"Janie."
She
walked in, still holding the phone.
"Come
on, kids."
"Janie,
I didn't do it," I said.
"Really?"
she waved the phone at me. "I used this phone thirty minutes ago to call
the police. Who else has been in the kitchen since then?"
"You
have," I said.
She
moved past me so I grabbed her arm. She brought the phone up but I ducked.
"Janie,
I'm not--"
"Let
me go."
"Listen
to m--"
"The
door's stuck," one of the kids said.
Janie
wretched away from me and walked over to the foyer. I followed her. As I passed
the hallway I saw what looked like the point of a pick sticking down through
the ceiling. I moved toward it, but stopped when I heard, "Where's your
brother?"
Only
the girl was at the door. Four shiny nails went into the door diagonally,
ending in the doorframe. A screw had been driven more than halfway through the
door lock.
"Where
is he?" Janie said, looking at me.
"Janie,
I've been right with you…"
She
walked down the hallway.
I
crouched down to the girl and asked the same question. She just shrugged.
"Henry!
I can't find him!" Janie yelled from our bedroom. "And what did you
do the bed?"
"Son?"
I yelled.
There
was no answer. When I looked back to the door the girl was gone.
"Sweetie?
Where are you, honey?"
"I'm
in the bedroom trying to understand why you di--"
"I wasn't talking to you," I said, moving back to the kitchen.
Both
kids were there.
"I
think he's hurt, dad."
The
boy was in his usual chair. A pairing knife had been shoved through his right
eye. Blood was all over his face and dripping off the chair onto the floor. I
could see he wasn't breathing.
Janie
screamed when she came in. The girl was in her arms instantly.
"We
have to--"
"Shut
up!" she screamed. She started to cry. "Get away from us."
"Janie,
it wasn't me. Tell her, sweetie."
The
girl couldn't stop looking at her brother. When I stepped forward to shield the
girl's eyes Janie yelled and jumped back.
"Why
are you doing this?"
She
moved for the backdoor which was on a landing that also lead to the basement
steps. Janie took the steps when she couldn't get the door open. The door had
industrial staples running up and down the edges. It looked like a rush job. It
had to be. I'd gone out that door not ten minutes before--
Janie
screamed and I followed them down.
The
basement was made up of a sitting room and a laundry room. There were two
couches down there that Janie had picked out of a catalog. The girl was on the
long one.
She
was sitting on it with her head lopsided. She'd been hit hard on the left side
of her forehead. There was a bloody dent in her skull. Next to her on the couch
was a bowling ball that the original house owners had left behind. The blood
was shiny against the ball's black surface.
"How
did you…you weren't…why?" Janie said.
"Janie,
I haven't done anything."
What
did a bowling ball hitting a human head sound like? I hadn't heard anything,
but I had been upstairs.
Janie
looked back to the girl and then me and then the girl. Each time she shifted
back and forth she looked more and more horrified. I wondered if she was
thinking the same thing I was.
It
had to be Janie. She'd been up before I was and had put the arrow through the
TV, and all the nails and cut the phone cor--
"No!"
she yelled and bolted for the laundry room. It had a sliding door that bounced
once against the frame before she locked it.
I
looked at the bowling ball and the girl. How could Janie have done this? The
answer came to me instantly: She hadn't. She wasn't strong enough to put the
machete through the snowman's head. Neither was I. And the staples, when did
she do that? Why didn't I hear it? Maybe it happened when we were fighting in
the living room.
There
was a thump from the laundry room and then the sound of something sliding down
and coming to a rest. The door lock clicked and the door slid open. A man stood
there. I didn't recognize his face.
As
he came toward me I could see Janie's body behind him. She was slumped against
the drier. Her jaw was still attached but only on the right side. Her left eye
was closed while her right was wide open.
The
man stood in front of me.
"Who
are you?"
"Too
late for that now."
He
held a sledgehammer. It was mine. My father-in-law had given it to me after
Janie had mentioned a patch of concrete in the yard she wanted to replace. I
had never used it.
He
raised the sledgehammer high over his head using both hands.
"Don't
move," he said.
I
didn't.
Michael Thompson lives and writes in Michigan with his wife and dog. He
has published two short stories and several as yet unproduced screenplays.
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