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Authors: Eileen Browne
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terminated their conversation last evening without even a fuck u gbye .
She flicked her butt onto the front lawn. A generous pile of butts littered the snow-flattened grass, exposed now by the recent and, hopefully, final thaw of the season. Inwardly, Jenny smiled, thinking of Ed with his rake, diligently trying to clean up her mess.
On the other side of the bedroom was a chest of drawers, a heavy oak bureau with mirror that once had belonged to Jenny’s grandmother, Magda. The nursing home to which she’d been committed hadn’t allowed her to keep it, preferring items of a personal nature to remain with the family lest they invest the elderly residents with too great a sense of independence. ( Ha! Independence in a place that reeked like piss and shit!) The piece had passed to Jenny, who hated it and preferred to stow her own clothing and per sonal belongings in her closet or beneath her bed: most of her personal belongings, though not all.
The ugly thing exerted on her a powerful yet inexplicable draw, pulling at her as if it were a high-power magnet tugging at steel. Try as she might, Jenny was unable to resist, compelled to cross the floor from the window to the chest, where she opened the top drawer. Jenny extracted a six-inch by six-inch zippered vinyl carrying case. Returning to her bed, she opened the case, ritualistically sorting its contents in a row atop her bed-sheet: a pair of needle-nose manicure scissors, a stainless steel emery board—wickedly sharp and hooked at one end—a three-inch kitchen paring knife, cotton batting and swabs, small squeeze-bottle of liquid antiseptic (whatever she was, Jenny was not totally crazy) and Band-Aids, in case she inadvertently cut too deep.
Jenny removed her tee shirt and sweats, stripping to her knickers and bra, struggling as she did to overhear the meat of a muffled conversation between her parents filtering from the kitchen below.
Taking the paring knife in her right hand, she inhaled deeply. “Okay babe,” Jenny said to herself, “ let’s get creative .”
…
By six thirty the morning after the murder, Dojcsak was ready to go. He shaved—for the sake of time observing only an abbreviated ritual—showered, had cigarettes for breakfast and kissed his disabled daughter goodbye prior to leaving the house for the second time that day. He didn’t kiss Jenny; he assumed she was asleep, exhausted, no doubt, from the late evening before.
When told by her husband of the murder, Rena Dojcsak shivered. “It wasn’t an accident?”
“It wasn’t an accident,” Dojcsak confirmed.
“Was she…was she… violated in any way?”
His voice flat, Dojcsak replied, “She was murdered, Rena.”
“I’ll send flowers.” Neither the Bitson nor Dojcsak families were close, though from indifference rather than animosity. Dojcsak didn’t approve but couldn’t prevent Jenny from associating with the murder victim’s cousin, Jordy, and while during high school Dojcsak had known the dead girl’s uncle, Drew, they had not been friends.
Outside the kitchen window the sky turned purple, a brief outburst of personality in its inexorable transition from black to blue. The first lick of a crisp North East breeze rattled the windowpane, promising the possibility, if not the absolute certainty, of a brighter day. Smoke from Dojcsak’s third cigarette of the morning polluted the air in the small room, creating an almost invisible barrier across the breakfast table between husband and wife.
Rena had long ago abandoned any hope of keeping Ed from smoking indoors, knowing that if he hadn’t done so to accommodate Luba’s illness, he would not do so for her.
Yesterday, the Sunday afternoon on the day of the murder, Rena had complained about Ed to her friend and next-door neighbor, Kate Bouey. They sat in the kitchen sipping coffee, out of earshot from Dojcsak, who sat in the front room drinking and smoking and whom Rena imagined was disinclined, anyway, to
She flicked her butt onto the front lawn. A generous pile of butts littered the snow-flattened grass, exposed now by the recent and, hopefully, final thaw of the season. Inwardly, Jenny smiled, thinking of Ed with his rake, diligently trying to clean up her mess.
On the other side of the bedroom was a chest of drawers, a heavy oak bureau with mirror that once had belonged to Jenny’s grandmother, Magda. The nursing home to which she’d been committed hadn’t allowed her to keep it, preferring items of a personal nature to remain with the family lest they invest the elderly residents with too great a sense of independence. ( Ha! Independence in a place that reeked like piss and shit!) The piece had passed to Jenny, who hated it and preferred to stow her own clothing and per sonal belongings in her closet or beneath her bed: most of her personal belongings, though not all.
The ugly thing exerted on her a powerful yet inexplicable draw, pulling at her as if it were a high-power magnet tugging at steel. Try as she might, Jenny was unable to resist, compelled to cross the floor from the window to the chest, where she opened the top drawer. Jenny extracted a six-inch by six-inch zippered vinyl carrying case. Returning to her bed, she opened the case, ritualistically sorting its contents in a row atop her bed-sheet: a pair of needle-nose manicure scissors, a stainless steel emery board—wickedly sharp and hooked at one end—a three-inch kitchen paring knife, cotton batting and swabs, small squeeze-bottle of liquid antiseptic (whatever she was, Jenny was not totally crazy) and Band-Aids, in case she inadvertently cut too deep.
Jenny removed her tee shirt and sweats, stripping to her knickers and bra, struggling as she did to overhear the meat of a muffled conversation between her parents filtering from the kitchen below.
Taking the paring knife in her right hand, she inhaled deeply. “Okay babe,” Jenny said to herself, “ let’s get creative .”
…
By six thirty the morning after the murder, Dojcsak was ready to go. He shaved—for the sake of time observing only an abbreviated ritual—showered, had cigarettes for breakfast and kissed his disabled daughter goodbye prior to leaving the house for the second time that day. He didn’t kiss Jenny; he assumed she was asleep, exhausted, no doubt, from the late evening before.
When told by her husband of the murder, Rena Dojcsak shivered. “It wasn’t an accident?”
“It wasn’t an accident,” Dojcsak confirmed.
“Was she…was she… violated in any way?”
His voice flat, Dojcsak replied, “She was murdered, Rena.”
“I’ll send flowers.” Neither the Bitson nor Dojcsak families were close, though from indifference rather than animosity. Dojcsak didn’t approve but couldn’t prevent Jenny from associating with the murder victim’s cousin, Jordy, and while during high school Dojcsak had known the dead girl’s uncle, Drew, they had not been friends.
Outside the kitchen window the sky turned purple, a brief outburst of personality in its inexorable transition from black to blue. The first lick of a crisp North East breeze rattled the windowpane, promising the possibility, if not the absolute certainty, of a brighter day. Smoke from Dojcsak’s third cigarette of the morning polluted the air in the small room, creating an almost invisible barrier across the breakfast table between husband and wife.
Rena had long ago abandoned any hope of keeping Ed from smoking indoors, knowing that if he hadn’t done so to accommodate Luba’s illness, he would not do so for her.
Yesterday, the Sunday afternoon on the day of the murder, Rena had complained about Ed to her friend and next-door neighbor, Kate Bouey. They sat in the kitchen sipping coffee, out of earshot from Dojcsak, who sat in the front room drinking and smoking and whom Rena imagined was disinclined, anyway, to
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