Spousal Abuse

Spousal Abuse

  Nelson Lynch

  Copyright 2011

  ISBN 978-1-4657-6266-5

  Cover: Microsoft Clip Art

  Chapter one: Spousal Abuse

  “A splash, dammit. I said I wanted a splash of vermouth.” He handed the martini glass back to his wife. “Make me another. A splash of vermouth is all I want. Did you hear that? Just a splash. I want an extra-dry martini. Do you understand? You are wasting a lot of my good gin.”

  She handled the glass carefully with both hands and retreated to the kitchen. She put fresh ice cubes in the mixing glass. Carefully she measured an ounce and a quarter of gin in the shot glass. She tossed it over the cubes and gingerly picked up the vermouth bottle. Trembling slightly she measured an eighth of an ounce. She stared at it measuring glass for a second and then threw the contents into the mixing glass. She picked up the long handled spoon from the sink and began to stir briskly.

  “Enough, enough!” her husband yelled from the living room. “Quit stirring for God’s sake. You are bruising the gin. How many times do you have to be told?” He paused for a moment listening for sounds from the kitchen. “My first wife made an excellent martini after only a few days of instructions. You have been screwing up my martinis for six months. Hurry up with that martini. “My throat needs an extra-dry superb Bombay martini.”

  She quickly discarded the old martini into the sink. Picking up the strainer, she strained the martini from the mixing glass into the martini glass and added an olive. She picked it up and started to the living room.

  “Remember, I want a lemon peel, not an olive.”

  She stopped, reversed her steps to the kitchen counter. She used her fingers to pick out the olive and throw in the trashcan. She dropped a lemon peel into the martini. She started to the living room.

  “Did you run the lemon peel around the rim of the glass?”

  She turned around and went back to the counter. She wiped her nose with her finger, fished the peel from the martini, ran it around the rim, squeezed the peel and dropped it into the martini.

  “I’m thirsty. My throat is like parchment.” He kept his eyes on the football game. “What are you doing? It can’t take that much sense to make a decent martini. Hurry, it will soon be halftime.”

  She stood beside his chair, her hand wrapped around the glass.

  “Don’t ever hold my martini like that. The heat from your hand warms the gin.” He took the martini and held it at eye level. “I want my martinis well chilled, not lukewarm. Do you think you can remember that? My first wife brought it to me on an antique tray along with a few cocktail napkins.” He swirled the liquid gently, then brought it up to his nose. He closed his eyes and sniffed. A frown appeared. “I think I detected the odor of an olive.” He looked at his wife and took the tiniest sip. His face wrinkled into a grimace. “I did! Why did you put an olive in my martini? You know I hate the taste of olives. My first wife didn’t even keep olives in the house.” He paused and handed the drink back to his wife. “Do it right this time. I’m getting awfully dry.”

  She took the glass and walked back to the kitchen. She placed the glass in the sink and got a new martini glass from the cupboard. She put ice in it to get a nice chill. She rinsed the mixing glass, added ice cubes, measured an ounce and quarter of gin, poured it in, added a splash of vermouth and stirred gently for four seconds. She threw the chilling ice into the sink, poured the well-chilled martini into the glass, and rubbed a fresh lemon peel around the rim. She placed the martini in a small plastic tray. She stared a few seconds admiring her handiwork. Nodding her head and smiling, she carried the drink to her husband.

  A slight grin formed as he took the martini from the tray. He went through the usual ritual; visual inspection, aroma inspection and then the swirling of the liquid. He looked at the drink for a few seconds and then began the final inspection; taste.

  He took a very short sip, just enough to wet his tongue. He frowned and took a second, longer sip. “You’ve screwed up again. You are supposed to use Bombay gin, not that cheap domestic junk made in Baltimore.” He handed back the drink with a disgusted look. “My first wife used nothing but the best Bombay Sapphire gin. Try one more time. If it’s a failure, I’m going to the nearest bar. Remember, just a splash. Don’t ruin the taste of the Bombay gin.”

  She opened the Bombay bottle. She got a fresh glass, put ice cubes in it, put cubes in the mixing glass, measured the Bombay gin, poured it in, measured the vermouth, poured it in, tiptoed to her cabinets and retrieved a small brown bottle hidden behind a support. She held the bottle close and stared at the skull and crossbones.

  “Just a splash,” she whispered.

  Chapter two: DNA Flux

  “What’s that howling noise?” Bill looked over the Great Swamp. “It sounds like someone is in agony.”

  Then old man stretched out on the sand using the base of a statue as a pillow. “She is. She’s calling for a mate. So far, I haven’t heard a male answer. I’ve been on this planet studying their lost civilization for ten years. Sometimes a male never returns the invitation.”

  “What happens then?”

  “She misses out on her childbearing cycle. Then she has to wait another year.”

  “We’ve seen and talked with some males. Why don’t they answer her call?”

  The old man shook his head. “These women are mean. The disease that caused the collapse of their civilization changed their genetic makeup. They treat men terrible and sometimes keep them as slaves for years.” He cocked his head toward the swamp. “That howl was closer. She may be hunting in this area.”

  “What is she hunting? How come I haven’t met any?”

  “They keep to themselves most of the time. I’ve met about a dozen and for some reason they don’t like me but they tolerate me to a degree.” He scrambled to his feet. “That call was closer and behind us. There must be two females.” He peered around the side of the statue. “Oh, oh, she’s coming toward us and she got one of those devil cats they control with her mind. Another thing their screwed-up DNA allows them to do. Let me do the talking.”

  They stepped out in full view and waited for the woman.

  “Whooie, she’s an ugly looking alien, ain’t she?” Bill moved out in front and raised his hand.

  She nodded at the cat. In three bounds, it was in front of Bill, snarling and showing four-inch fangs. “Old man, who is this fool you brought to us? A sorry looking specimen. He is not worth the reward. You were supposed to bring us a big healthy earth man.”

  “He is the only one I could get. Please let me stay. I’m writing a scientific paper on your lost civilization. It will make me famous in this arm of the galaxy.”

  The cat backed a few meters away keeping its huge red eyes on Bill. The woman walked closer, looking at Bill from different angles.

  “He’ll have to do.” She smiled showing prominent eyeteeth. “How do you like your new home?”

  Bill stared at the old man. “What have you done? Did you sell me?”

  The old man shrugged his shoulders. “You know how it is in the academic world. It’s dog eat dog.” He grinned weakly at Bill. “They won’t hurt you. They say they’ll take good care of you.”

  “They say! They may be cannibals. I could be their dinner next week. Tell them you’ve changed your mind. You want to keep me.”

  “I can’t do that. I need these women’s information for my paper. Think of yourself as being sacrificed for the advancement of academic knowledge. I’ll visit their village next year and bring you all the news. Maybe I can buy you back.”

  “Why do they want me?”

  The man shook his head. “I really don’t know. The women have been very tight lipped about what they are doing with you guys.”

>   The woman rested her rifle against the statue. “We need his DNA. The disease that killed 90% of our population four hundred years ago also causes our DNA to be constantly in a state of flux or change. We are using human DNA to aid in stabilizing our DNA. We have had some successes. Just think some of your DNA may be in the next generation of our race.”

  Bill tried to back away from the huge devil cat. “I don’t want that. I want to go back to earth. Take him, he’s smarter than me.”

  The woman picked up her rifle. “He’s not that intelligent and he’s too old.” A low howl came from the swamp. “Are you ready to go?” She nodded at the cat and pointed her rifle in the direction of the howl.

  The devil cat snarled and forced Bill to walk away from the old man.

  The man gave a brief wave. “I’ll see you next year or the year after for sure.”

  A more human looking woman stepped out of the swamp and waited for them. Finally she said, “Whooie, he’s an ugly looking alien, ain’t he.”

  Chapter Three: Borneo

  In hindsight, I should have known she was crazy as a loon. Who else would show up at a meeting thirty minutes ahead of time? Of course, that didn’t register at the time because I was also early. There was nothing abnormal about her introduction. She said her name was Judy and she had a few short stories to show. She hoped someone would critique one or maybe two of her stories.

  I told her my name was Ralph and since we were early, I’d be glad to look at one of her stories. That was my second mistake. The first mistake was even talking with her.

  The title should have warned me right then and there. Sexual Habits of the Borneo Head Hunters was triple sized, underlined and in bold print. I didn’t even look at the first line. I gently pushed the pages back in front of her. I told her I didn’t know anything about Borneo, about head hunters and absolutely nothing about their sexual habits.

  She pushed the pages back asking what was wrong. Was I afraid to read it?

  I reluctantly picked up the first page. It started OK. The first line was about her trip to Borneo. Then the twentieth word was obscene. It was out of the blue having no connection to her story. I hesitated a second trying to figure out how the word fitted her story. I gave up and read the second sentence. Same thing. A vulgar word in the middle of the sentence, making no sense at all. I laid the page down and pointed at the first obscene word. “What is this word doing here? It’s completely out of context.”

  She placed her finger on the word. “It gives the story an interesting start. It’s absolutely needed?”

  I pointed at the second word. “What about this one? It serves no purpose.”

  She looked at me as if I failed the first grade three times. “It does. The aborigines do it all the time.”

  I gently moved a few inches away from her and began reading. I read for a minute. About every twentieth word was obscene and had nothing to do with the sentence. I tapped on about half of the words. “These words do absolutely nothing for your story. The fact is they distract from your story.”

  “Have you ever been to Borneo?” Her voice was two notches above normal. “This is the way they do it. Those words lead the reader on toward the sexual habits of the natives.”

  I looked around hoping to see a few other early members. No such luck so I read the rest of the page. I think the words actually increased in frequency. I used my red pencil to point at a word. “I think you’ve overused this word. You used it six times just on this page.” She was shaking her head and frowning at me.

  “I told you that’s the way the aborigines do it. Besides, the repetition reinforces the sexual drive.”

  “What sexual drive? On this page, you haven’t even seen a native. You are still on the ship.” I picked up the second page. I would read it and quit. I read it slow as possible, taking up time until our meeting started.

  “What about the second page? It’s better, isn’t it? I spent two whole days writing on that page.”

  The door opened and five of my fellow members came in and sat at the far end of the table.

  “What about my story? Do you think the newspapers will publish it?”

  I tried not to shake my head. With other members present, I felt better. “Let me read the rest. I’ll scan it quickly.” I tried to count the obscene words but lost track after fifty. “I think you have used entirely too many obscene words.”

  “No, no, they set the tone for the whole story.”

  “Yes they do. But they are setting the wrong tone.” I touched the last page with a marker pen. “You haven’t met a headhunter yet. You should be describing the beach, the trees and the jungle odors. All the strange things you saw on your first day in Borneo.” I began marking through X-rated words with my pen.

  “What are you doing!” She screamed and jumped from her chair. “You’re messing up my story.”

  “Just the opposite. I’m improving your story. These words have to go.”

  “Are you crazy?” She snatched the pages away and stuffed them into her tote bag. “That’s my story you’re screwing around with. I’m getting out of here.” She trotted to the door. “My boyfriend’s a head hunter. He’ll take care of you.” She slammed the door and was gone

  Chapter Four: Casket Phone

  “I want this cell phone in the left inside pocket of my coat. My daughter, who has my power of attorney, will give it to you at the appropriate time. She knows I want a cardboard casket and no embalming. So don’t try to change her mind and put me in an expensive stainless steel casket. Don’t pay any attention to anything my wife says. She’s nothing but a nagging old woman. I can’t do anything without her checking on me.”

  “Really, Mr. Mason, it is totally unnecessary. There is absolutely no chance that you will be put into the vault while you are still alive. Trust us; we’ve been in the funeral business for a hundred and fifty years.”

  Mr. Mason shook his head. “Just do what I want. Under no circumstances am I to be incinerated.” He leaned against a bronze casket. “This disease I have causes me to go into a deep coma at times. My heartbeat and other bodily functions slow down drastically making it hard to detect life signs. My doctor knows about this. The problem would arise if I go into a coma somewhere else.” He walked to the door and turned around. “If my wife calls, ignore her. I can’t get away from her.”

  A month later, Mr. Williams greets a middle-aged man at the funeral home. “How may I help you?”

  “My Uncle Tom Mason died last night while visiting friends. I want to arrange his burial. I think cremation would be the best thing to do. Just put his ashes in a cardboard box.” He smiled to himself. “I’ll spread them around my garden.”

  “Are you his legal guardian or have his power of attorney? Mr. Mason was here a month ago and stipulated that his daughter would take care of his funeral arrangements. Mr. Mason was quite explicit in what he wanted done at his demise.”

  The nephew looked at the ceiling and rolled his eyes. “I know. For the last ten years, Uncle Tom had this phobia about being buried alive. He wanted a dumb cell phone in his casket.” He grinned at the undertaker. “But I don’t think a cell phone is going to be any good where he’s going.”

  “Where is his daughter? She has his power of attorney. I can’t do anything without authority of some kind.”

  “His daughter was in an auto accident and is still in intensive care at the hospital. Uncle Tom’s wife sent me. She wants him cremated as soon as possible.” He stood and walked to the door. “Do you have him? The ambulance is supposed to drop him off here. When he comes in, get him ready for cremation.”

  Ten minutes later, his phone rang. “We just received a body back here. A Mr. Tom Mason. What do you want us to do with him?”

  “Nothing,” Mr. Williams said. “Don’t even touch him. I’m coming back there right now.” He walked quickly to the receiving area just in time to see an ambulance leaving. His employee was standing beside a sheet-draped gurney. He pulled the sheet back, look
ed down at Tom Mason and felt of his neck.

  “What’s wrong? What are you doing? He’s deader than a door knob.”

  The undertaker kept his fingers on the dead man’s neck searching for a pulse. He looked at his employee. “I don’t feel anything.”

  “What did you expect? Two doctors from Salisbury said he’s dead from an apparent heart attack.”

  Mr. Williams stepped back from the body. “Don’t do a single thing to him. Put him in a cremation box and leave him alone. One of his last wishes was for a cell phone. I’ll give him mine for the time being.” He slipped the cell phone into the inside pocket.

  The next night at the viewing, two people looked down at Mr. Mason. “He looks awful. They didn’t put a bit of makeup on him. Why not?”

  The nephew shook his head. “I don’t know. I didn’t even want a viewing. I wanted him cremated and over with. However, the undertaker contacted his daughter in the hospital. She wanted a plain funeral, no embalming, no makeup, no cremation and a burial in a cardboard casket.” He paused and looked at the crowded viewing room. “Have you ever heard such trash?”

  Mr. Williams nodded for them to sit and for the preacher to begin his eulogy. The preacher waited another thirty seconds and went over the highpoints of the deceased’s life. He had begun the 23rd psalm when the cell phone rang. After the third ring, someone in the audience spoke softly in the dead quiet room. “Answer the phone, Tom. Your wife wants to know where you are.”

  ###