A
Bottle of Sherry
by
Hillary Lyon
A
handful of roofies, in a plastic zip-lock baggie. A six foot length of medical
tubing. One scalpel. Four pairs of handcuffs. A roll of plastic sheeting. One
empty wine bottle, screw top. I meticulously store all of these objects in my
duffel bag, the olive green one my father used when he hitch-hiked across the
Midwest, back in the 70’s. Before he was arrested as the I-90 Mangler. But
that’s a story for another time.
* * *
Carson
reached over to tap the mute button on our MP3 player.
“Hey,
I like that song.” Here we go, another tug of war over the smallest stuff.
“Well,
I don’t,” Carson retorted. “You know I prefer classical.”
“But
that’s a classic Pat Travers’ song,” I said. “His version of an old blues
classic by Little Walter.”
“This,”
Carson said, bored with this battle and changing the subject, “is a fortified
wine from Spain, usually served after dinner—as a digestif.” He twirled
a glass of a dark wine-colored liquid before taking a delicate sip. “Often,
it’s white or amber colored, but this one’s an Oloroso—so it’s dark, as well as
complex, dry and slightly nutty.”
I
reached for my glass, and he slapped my hand away. “I’m not finished.” He then
droned on about the region of Spain from whence this sherry came, the grapes
used, how those grapes were processed, how long the sherry was aged and in what
sort of wooden barrels.
I
couldn’t help but think of the sherry referenced in “The Cask of Amontillado,”
which was preferable to listening to Carson go on and on and on about the
attributes of this particular sherry. I hated it when he brought his work home.
Carson worked as the liquor specialist for a local big box spirits
store—Booze-R-Us is how I thought of it. Lately, he was infatuated with
sherries, and all the middling varieties his store offered.
Sherry
is also the name of his girlfriend. The one he thinks I know nothing about.
* * *
On
the back of a grocery receipt, I found a phone number, written in Carson’s
jagged scrawl. He’d also scribbled the name, Sherry. Did he leave it on the
kitchen counter because he wanted me to find it, or because he’s a careless
slob? Having been married to him for 13 years, I vote for the latter.
Yet
it wasn’t the first time he’d left clues around. It was almost like he wanted
me to find out, wanted me to confront him, leave him. He wanted me to do
the dirty work; passive-aggressives are like that. I was on to him.
And
I had other ideas.
I
called the number on the receipt. A woman answered.
“Hey
baby,” she said in a husky voice. Looks like he’d called her from our house
phone before.
“Yeah,
Sherry?” I replied. Silence.
“Listen,
you know Carson? I’m his wife, Janine,” I began. She groaned. I went on, “I
think we should meet, talk like adults. I have an idea that will resolve this
situation for all three of us.”
“Yeah,
okay,” she mumbled. I was surprised how easy, how agreeable she was; probably
how Carson got in her panties in the first place. Sherry was but one in a long
line of store customers who he’d charmed and bedded. The early conquests tended
to be classier wine-moms, but the last few were—let’s just say Carson lowered
his standards.
“How
about, you give me your address, and I’ll pick you up. We’ll do lunch. My
treat.” She told me the name of her apartment complex, and her unit’s number.
“I’ll see you Saturday morning, around 11.” That would give me plenty of time
to pack my bag of tricks.
* * *
Sherry
opened the door after several knocks, wearing a stained pink chenille bathrobe.
Her hair was wild and dry, with last night’s eye make-up smeared on her face.
Eleven o’clock, and she’d just stumbled out of bed.
“Too
much fun last night, huh,” I said as I pushed my way into her tiny, messy
apartment. “You alone? Or do you have a playmate sleeping in the bedroom?” When
he was scheduled to work on Saturday—like today—Carson always stayed home
Friday night, so I know he wasn’t her party buddy.
“Huh?
No, just me.” She mumbled, her breath reeking of last night’s whiskey and
cigarettes. I looked Sherry up and down. What on Earth did Carson see in her?
“You
forget our appointment?”
“No,
no—Janelle, right?” She shook her head, as if that would clear the muddling fog
of her hang-over.
“Yeah,”
I snorted. My name was Janine, not Janelle, but whatever. I dropped my duffel
bag on the floor next to her coffee table.
“What’s
that?” She asked distractedly. Before I could answer, she was on her way to her
tiny kitchen. “Want some coffee?”
I
followed her. “Thanks,” I said as I took a cup of luke-warm instant from her. I
dropped in several roofies.
Back
at the couch, I pointed to a large, framed photo of an apricot poodle hanging
on her wall. “What a pretty dog! Is he yours?” When Sherry turned to look at
the photo, I switched the coffee mugs. So easy.
“Maybe
someday!” She cheerfully slugged her coffee. I could’ve asked what she meant by
that, but I really didn't care.
“So
about Carson,” I began abruptly, “You do understand he’s just using you for a
bit of fun, right?” She shrugged, her eyelids beginning to droop. Sherry
fumbled her mug, spilling coffee on her robe. I took the cup from her, set it
on the table.
Then
I reached for my duffel bag, unzipped it, and began laying out my toys, neatly,
on her coffee table. Her brow wrinkled, and she was breathing heavily through
her mouth.
I
pulled out the handcuffs, dangled them before her unfocused, uncomprehending
eyes. “He’s a serial cheater, and you're not the first slag he’s had,” I said
as I clicked the handcuffs closed around her bony wrists, “but you’re certainly
going to be the last.”
* * *
“You
are going to love this,” I shouted from the kitchen, as I poured the viscous
red liquid into the delicate cut-crystal glasses. I waltzed back into the den
with the two glasses and the bottle of Sherry set on the silver-plated serving
tray. A wedding present from his mother.
I
placed the tray on the coffee table before us, careful not to spill a drop.
“This has a most delightful mouthfeel!” I handed Carson a glass, and raised my
own to him. “Cheers!” We clinked glasses.
I
took a sip, never moving my eyes off Carson. He raised the glass to his nose,
sniffed. “Doesn’t smell like sherry,” he grumbled.
Oh,
but it does!
I wanted to corrected. “This is a special edition,” I said
instead. “You couldn’t say this Sherry is sweet, or particularly attractive.” I
giggled. “Matter of fact, she’s very dry, nutty, and about 35 years old.”
Carson
ignored my critique; as I’d been told many times, he was the
connoisseur, not me. He took a sip, licked his lips. “I don't like it,” he said
as he put his glass back down on the coffee table. “Got a weird, almost
metallic taste.”
“Oh,
contraire—you did like this Sherry,” I grinned. “So much that you
cheated on me with her.” I picked up the bottle, spilling the dark red liquid
on the tacky silvery tray as I did.
Carson’s
eyes grew wide. “How did you . . . when did you . . . this can’t be . . .” For
once in his sad little life, Carson was at a loss for words. I swung the bottle
at his head once, twice. As the old song says, Boom! Boom! Out go the
lights.
