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Authors: Lucy Burdette
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the master bedroom. The bedcovers had been pulled loosely over the pillows on Chad’s side, and one pair of men’s underwear lay just under the bed. I started to make the bed, but felt a little sick as the faint smell of a woman’s flowery perfume wafted up from the pillow. Certainlynot mine. Inside the master bathroom, I opened the closet doors—Chad’s clothing was arranged by color and season. While I lived there, none of my stuff had been allowed to disrupt the order of his closet or even the bathroom counters. Of course I found no knife, no recipe cards, no more cutlery, no nothing. I felt frustrated and foolish.
Back in the living room, one shaft of light streamed through the front window, broken into jagged shadows by the coconut palm just outside. The sun lit up the tidy piles of paper on Chad’s expansive and modern desk, burnishing the tiger maple to a soft bronze glow. This was the only place in the apartment he allowed clutter—and not much of it at that. Grabbing the feather duster from my crate, I brought it back to the desk and began to work, straightening the stack of papers, tucking a Cross pen into the top drawer, and lightly brushing the striations of the maple surface.
As I dusted, I riffled through the paperwork, which was filled with the kind of incomprehensible mumbo-jumbo that a divorce lawyer lives on. My heart hammered when I came across some handwritten notes about an upcoming settlement. Chad had strong handwriting, manly and brisk but with a hint of softness—just the characteristics I fell hard for on first meeting him in the bookstore. These notes hinted at a difficult divorce (as if any were easy)—he had pressed so hard writing the words “inform M’s lawyer no settlement will be accepted that includes any part of the client’s home, furniture, vehicles, or Irish setter dog” that the same words were indented on the paper underneath. During mybrief tenure in this apartment, I’d gotten a little window into how ruthless Chad could be in negotiation. I was probably—no, certainly—better off out of the relationship. Thank God I didn’t marry him and later suffer through a scalding and dispiriting divorce.
I heard a noise in the hallway and instinctively reached for the knife in my back pocket. As if a serrated steak knife would offer the least bit of protection.
The door to the apartment swung open.
“Drop your weapon and freeze where you are! Put your hands in the air!” called a fierce voice.
I let the feather duster clatter onto the desk, followed by the knife, and raised my hands above my head.
7
“When I made food, I made a tribe.”
—Kim Severson
Officer Torrence crouched in a scary combat stance with his gun trained on me, looking even more substantial than he had yesterday at the station. Behind him was a stocky female cop, and just yards behind them hovered Chad. Leona, possibly the nosiest neighbor on the island, peered around his shoulder.
“Step into the center of the room with your hands on your head,” said Torrence.
I shuffled forward, tears on my cheeks, knees wobbling. “I can explain everything. I work for Paradise Cleaning,” I squeaked, and plunged my hand into my pocket to retrieve and show him Connie’s ring of keys.
“Hands on your head!” barked the cop again.
I slapped my hand back to my skull. Chad winced in the background as my keys clanked onto his Italian limestone floor.
“She’s lying,” said Chad. “She’s my ex-girlfriend. She could own the last bottle of Clorox on earth and I wouldn’t have invited her to clean my toilets.”
I could feel an unattractive line of mucus trailing down my upper lip. Even scared to death, I was bursting with a powerful and inappropriate urge to cackle—I was losing it. “The last bottle of Clorox on earth?” I lapsed into helpless giggles, crossing my legs so I wouldn’t pee on the floor.
Torrence lowered his gun and blinked in sudden recognition. “Miss
Back in the living room, one shaft of light streamed through the front window, broken into jagged shadows by the coconut palm just outside. The sun lit up the tidy piles of paper on Chad’s expansive and modern desk, burnishing the tiger maple to a soft bronze glow. This was the only place in the apartment he allowed clutter—and not much of it at that. Grabbing the feather duster from my crate, I brought it back to the desk and began to work, straightening the stack of papers, tucking a Cross pen into the top drawer, and lightly brushing the striations of the maple surface.
As I dusted, I riffled through the paperwork, which was filled with the kind of incomprehensible mumbo-jumbo that a divorce lawyer lives on. My heart hammered when I came across some handwritten notes about an upcoming settlement. Chad had strong handwriting, manly and brisk but with a hint of softness—just the characteristics I fell hard for on first meeting him in the bookstore. These notes hinted at a difficult divorce (as if any were easy)—he had pressed so hard writing the words “inform M’s lawyer no settlement will be accepted that includes any part of the client’s home, furniture, vehicles, or Irish setter dog” that the same words were indented on the paper underneath. During mybrief tenure in this apartment, I’d gotten a little window into how ruthless Chad could be in negotiation. I was probably—no, certainly—better off out of the relationship. Thank God I didn’t marry him and later suffer through a scalding and dispiriting divorce.
I heard a noise in the hallway and instinctively reached for the knife in my back pocket. As if a serrated steak knife would offer the least bit of protection.
The door to the apartment swung open.
“Drop your weapon and freeze where you are! Put your hands in the air!” called a fierce voice.
I let the feather duster clatter onto the desk, followed by the knife, and raised my hands above my head.
7
“When I made food, I made a tribe.”
—Kim Severson
Officer Torrence crouched in a scary combat stance with his gun trained on me, looking even more substantial than he had yesterday at the station. Behind him was a stocky female cop, and just yards behind them hovered Chad. Leona, possibly the nosiest neighbor on the island, peered around his shoulder.
“Step into the center of the room with your hands on your head,” said Torrence.
I shuffled forward, tears on my cheeks, knees wobbling. “I can explain everything. I work for Paradise Cleaning,” I squeaked, and plunged my hand into my pocket to retrieve and show him Connie’s ring of keys.
“Hands on your head!” barked the cop again.
I slapped my hand back to my skull. Chad winced in the background as my keys clanked onto his Italian limestone floor.
“She’s lying,” said Chad. “She’s my ex-girlfriend. She could own the last bottle of Clorox on earth and I wouldn’t have invited her to clean my toilets.”
I could feel an unattractive line of mucus trailing down my upper lip. Even scared to death, I was bursting with a powerful and inappropriate urge to cackle—I was losing it. “The last bottle of Clorox on earth?” I lapsed into helpless giggles, crossing my legs so I wouldn’t pee on the floor.
Torrence lowered his gun and blinked in sudden recognition. “Miss
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