What now?
A. Go home.
B. Go to Frida’s room.
C. Clean the kitchen and wait
for Frida to wake up.
* * *
Seated upright on the sofa, my wakened eyes looked around the sleeping house. The living room was faintly lit by streetlights through the front window; the kitchen was darker, and a black silhouette swung from the ceiling crossbeam, dashing any hopes that the previous night was just a dream. My mind began to accept what had happened, but it was no closer to knowing who had done it, why or what, if anything, came next.
As silently as I could, I rose from the couch and stepped down the hallway towards Frida’s room. The carpet shuffled and the floorboards grumbled softly, until I stopped in front of her door. Though she’d given me an invitation to leave, we were both shocked and I couldn’t gauge her sincerity; certainly, she hadn’t slept well, if at all. Through the darkness, I studied the frame of the door, the square panels and fine grain of the wood; I listened for a noise from within, rustling or heavy breathing, but there wasn’t a sound. My eyes turned to the brass doorknob. My palms twitched, but a fearful trembling rose in my stomach, and I couldn’t will my hand to reach for it, so I finally withdrew and shuffled away.
She would be calmer after some rest, I decided, and once the dead animal was expelled from her home. I reached around the wall and flicked on the kitchen light but, suddenly faced the bloodied, tormented monkey looking like the centerpiece of a deranged taxidermist, I switched off the light. I was an animal-research scientist and had been privy to scenes most people would deem gruesome, but I wouldn’t look at it, all the same. There was too much of myself in it. And if I went slowly, the work could be done just as easily in the dark. I walked along the kitchen countertop, running my fingers beneath the edge, until I came to the utensil drawer, where I took out a sharp, paring knife. Bringing it to the kitchen table, I stood in front of the rhesus monkey, pressed lightly on the bottom corner of the oven rack and let it sway. Then I gripped its furry ankle between my thumb and forefinger, slipped the blade beneath the cord and cut slowly. One by one, the frayed threads opened, until the right leg hung freely. A moist pulling noise followed, like the sound of peeling a banana that had gone entirely soft; a trickle of thick fluid dripped heavily on the tablecloth, the dark-obscured figure stretched and an intestinal rope slid from the torso, plopping against the tabletop. The added weight of the leg had opened the wound further, and the organs were at risk of spilling across the kitchen floor. Quickly, I lifted the bottom of the suspended rack to keep the monkey on its back, shuddering slightly as the intestine brushed against my wrist. Quickly, I sliced the cord at one corner of the rack, and then cut the remaining corner more slowly, putting my palm beneath the rack to keep it from falling. Once released, it wasn’t heavy or threatening. Losing some blood but no more organs, I lowered the dead rhesus to the table and cut the limbs free. I tilted the rack over and let the furry corpse slide onto the table. I set the oven rack on the floor, and wrapped the edges of the white tablecloth around the monkey and its component parts, until I’d made a securely tied bundle on the table. Only then, did I allow myself to turn on the kitchen light.
By sight, the scene fell short of horrific; it looked as if the stork had just made an exceptionally bad delivery. However, the silence over the kitchen and house was soon penetrated by vital questions that nearly made me screamed. Could it be a threat? But there was no demand, no action that makes the threat disappear. Could it be a message? Maybe. Somebody has something to say and wants my full attention. Is this The End? A ball set in motion? Am I headed for a tragic fate that I personally unravel? Can I escape? The mental roar subsided and I took a garbage bag from beneath the sink, put the red and white bundle inside, wiped the excess blood from the tabletop with a hand towel and threw it in the bag, too. Stretching from on top of a chair, I cut the white cord from the ceiling crossbeam. I cut the cord from the rack, washed it and replaced it in the oven. Meanwhile, I distracted myself with thoughts of the vacation, a thirty-minute flight over Nazca and a thermal bath beneath the great, Incan ruin. It seemed like a faraway dream, though it was the very recent past.
In under an hour, the kitchen was back to normal, but I expected Frida would start eating out more often. I considered going home, but I felt a new and rational anxiety take over. If I went home now, Frida and my relationship could very well be finished, and I was truly afraid of losing her. Instead of phoning the cab company, I dug through her cupboards, found a bag of French Roast coffee and made it. I looked for milk in the refrigerator, but found it was ten days past expiration and had begun to curdle. I drank the coffee black, sitting at the same kitchen table, while waiting for Frida to wake up.
After two and a half slow cups, her bedroom door opened, followed by the sound of steps and grumbling floorboards; her shoes were already on. Frida emerged from the hall, her hair in tangles and wearing last night’s clothes, and she gave me a look usually reserved for dead monkeys.
She said without hesitation, “Derrick, I need to start my day. I can’t wait for you to leave, and I can’t wait for you to come talk to me anymore.”
My heart shrunk. “You didn’t sleep, did you?”
“No.”
“About last night…”
“Please,” she stopped me. “You took the body away, so now I really can’t go to the police. This is my home and that wasn’t your choice to make. But fine, you did it, it’s done. Last night, I was ready to talk, but now, this morning, I just want it to go away.” She looked at the black, makeshift bodybag beside the door and asked, “Is that it?”
I nodded.
“What are you doing with it?”
“There’s an incinerator at work I can use.”
“Put it in the back of the car. I’m driving you home.”
I asked, “Wouldn’t you rather have a cup of coffee first.”
Her lips flapped as she exhaled. She replied, “No. I don’t want to talk here or while we drive. I’ll wait for you in the car.”
She walked past me and closed the door hard, as she left. Pain gnawing at my stomach, I grabbed the garbage bag, switched off the lights and followed her, locking the door behind me.
* * *
We drove during sunrise. Frida seemed calm on the road, and neither of us spoke. The quiet was broken only by the click of the turn signal, the hum of the engine and the rustling plastic from the back, whenever she made a hard turn. This was a disaster and I was fully aware of it, but couldn’t do anything to change it; I couldn’t even think.
I was loath to see my parking lot, my car in my parking space and the building to my condo. When she stopped next to my building, I got out of the car and dragged my luggage from the backseat. She popped the rear and I pulled out the black bag, dropped it on the asphalt and closed the hatchback. I circled to Frida’s window, as she rolled it down. She was actively frowning and her eyes were anxious for tears.
I told her nervously, “The milk in your refrigerator spoiled.”
She cut the engine abruptly, turned and said, “Don’t call me or come over again, or I will call the police. If you feel the need to explain things, just leave it in a letter. We’re on a break for now, but don’t feel the need to wait.”
“Frida…” I responded, but nothing else followed.
She looked back at me, waiting momentarily, and began rolling up the window. I stood at the door, staring hopelessly, as her figure was overcast by my reflection in the glass.
I looked haggard, old, defeated.
Frida turned forward, started the car and drove away.
* * *
Suitcase in one hand and garbage bag in the other, I walked through the open door of my condo. I looked at the wood panel flooring, the mantel stretched over a fireplace cut into the white wall, the L-shaped sofa, flat-screen TV and namebrand appliances. It was only when I saw my home completely undisturbed that I realized it could have been. If they vandalized Frida’s home, I might have assumed they’d come after mine. There could have been a dead animal or a message in blood written on the wall, but, at first sight, there was nothing. The weekly maid service had done its job, as there was no sign of dust. The place was frigid, so I punched a few keys on the white panel to turn on the central heating. I left the black bag by the door and took my luggage to the bedroom.
I thrust the suitcase onto my neatly made, double bed and opened it, intending to remove the dirty clothes. A red light flashed on the phone console beside my bed, distracting me. There were messages; I checked them, but they were only telemarketers and a forgotten acquaintance that wanted to catch up. Next, I checked my mailbox, which was full of bills, junk mail and a small package with a CD I’d ordered. I moved to my desk, turned on the computer and opened my email account. There were twenty-three new messages, all but two were junk mail and forwards; one was from a friend who wanted to hear about Paris, and the other was a general announcement from a friend who was now the father of twins. I shut off the computer, leaving them unanswered. At least three times that morning, I mumbled, “Your milk is spoiled” and tearfully laughed over it. I took a long and refreshing shower. Still wearing my bathrobe, I had a breakfast of peach-flavored instant oatmeal and lemon tea. Then, I turned on the TV but immediately turned it off, preferring to listen to the new CD, a re-issue of Animals by Pink Floyd. It was 8:30am and I should have been driving to work already, but I knew I couldn’t be happy leaving if my bags were still packed and there was laundry to be done. While music played in the next room, I went back to the bedroom, dragged the wicker laundry basket from the walk-in closet and set it beside my bed. I took the souvenirs and paperback books off my clothes, tossing them to the other side of the bed. I flipped open the laundry basket lid and, finding a pair of trouser and two shirts inside, I pulled them out. There were no pens in the shirt pockets, so I replaced them in the basket. Individually, I checked the pant pockets and in the third one my fingers touched glass; I gripped the small, cylindrical object between my fingertips and removed it.
It was a medicine bottle. MY ONLY FRIEND, read the tiny, gift tag, written in pen and tied around the bottleneck. It was a familiar, brown glass with a finely ridged, aluminum lid; the white and purple label was covered with small, medical jargon, apart from the drug name, which read, EUTHATOME.