An Alto for the Choir

by Hillary Lyon

          Somebody forgot to top off the oil in the car. So on that long trek back to the family homestead, on that long, lonely stretch of highway on a cloudless August afternoon, the engine of a beautiful and otherwise perfectly preserved 1978 sapphire-blue Camaro seized, and died.

          Cathi got out of the muscle car and kicked the front tire. “Stupid car,” she muttered, as she dug through her purse for her phone. She scrolled through her contacts, looking for the 1-800 number for AAA roadside service. Nada.

          “Excuse me, miss,” said a voice from out of nowhere. “Need some help?”

 She turned to find a cowboy-hatted, toothpick-chewing officer standing by the car. He adjusted his mirrored sunglasses and crossed his tanned arms.

          “I, uh, yeah,” she answered. He was a deputy or something, so of course he would help her. Or so Cathi assumed.

          “What a beauty!” The officer said, not waiting for her to elaborate further. He obviously referred to the car, not her, because he lovingly looked the Camaro up and down. “This your machine? Don’t usually see a gal driving something of this caliber.”

          “Ah, no, it belongs to my husband.” Cathi then scoffed, and said, “Ex-husband, actually.”

          “Uh huh,” the deputy replied thoughtfully. “You sing? Soprano, maybe?”

          “What?” Cathi was taken aback by this odd question. “Sorta, I mean, I sang alto in my high school choir, but what does that have to do with anything?”

          The deputy arched his shoulder and spit out the toothpick. “Ma’am, you’re not the legal owner of this vehicle. It’s been reported stolen, and that means you’re in a heap of trouble. Grand theft auto, in fact. That’s a felony.”

          “What? No! Derick wouldn’t do that to me!” Her voice rose with her panic.

          “Well, he would, and he did. Gonna have to take you in.” The deputy casually tipped his hat back. Cathi couldn’t read his expression.

          It was only now that she looked for the deputy’s car. There wasn’t one. “Where did you come from? I mean, where’s your car?” Cathi asked.

          “Don’t need a car out here.” The deputy replied, pulling out a new toothpick from his shirt pocket. He jammed it in his mouth and smiled. “But you need to get in line.” He pointed to a spot over Cathi’s right shoulder. She turned to find a line of dirty, jumpsuited convicts toiling away in the middle of the road.

          “Where did they—” Cathi began. The deputy roughly shoved her toward the group, who parted to make a place for her.

          “There you go, missy, a perfect fit next to the tenors.” The convicts began humming, and in spite of herself, Cathi joined them.

          On that particular stretch of highway in the back country, the one that the old folks called the “singing highway,” a new voice joined the chorus. The superstitious will tell you the humming you hear when you drive on a moonless night is the mournful moaning of convicts who worked the road—worked until they died. Though the more pragmatic will say the hum results from the grooved pavement, made so rainwater easily sloughs away, and shake their heads impatiently at the absurd idea of a ghost choir.

Hillary Lyon

For twenty-five years—more than half my life—I bowed to Duncan’s whims, gave in to his arguments, and gave up on trying to compromise on anything. He was stubborn—as his mother gleefully told me when we were newly engaged. No, I should’ve told her, he was a bully. Subtle in his methods; if he’d been a woman, folks would have called him manipulative. He was a master in the art of gas-lighting. I suspect he learned it at his mother’s knee.

Well, I’d had enough. He always promised me whatever he thought would shut me up—a ski trip this winter holiday, for sure! A visit to my aged aunt in the Midwest, just as soon as he finishes this project at work! A new car when we get our tax return! That gorgeous pearl ring for our tenth anniversary—the one in the MOMA catalog!

Fifteen anniversaries later, still no ring. But what he did give me was a trip to Vail. Well, he went to Colorado with his “business associate” Camellia. I got to stay home.

So when he returned, two weeks later, with a new found love of raw oysters, I asked if he’d found any pearls embedded in those slimy globs. You know, for my promised anniversary ring. He laughed, as much at my question as at my new hair-cut. Loves to make me cry. A real keeper, this guy.

Seeing my tears, he had an uncharacteristic moment of remorse. Or did he? He suggested we should go out to eat, to a nice place. Dress up and get an Uber. I know what he’s doing: Get me out in public and drop bad news in my lap—see, if we’re in a nice, crowded place, he knows I won’t make a scene. He’s done this before.

He even lets me choose the restaurant—this really bleeps my radar. I pick Chauncy’s, the most hoity-toity seafood restaurant here in this congested, cement-smothered city. I expected him to argue for some place cheaper and less posh, but he doesn’t. Now the needle of my internal alarm is in the red. I make a reservation for Friday night.

Date night comes and finds us seated at a table covered with an imported Irish linen cloth, little silver salt-and-pepper shakers, and a single flickering candle in a tasteful cut-crystal holder. Would have been romantic if we still loved each other.

He insisted on ordering oysters for our appetizer, smiling at me as he did so. It was either his “I know a secret smile,” or his “I’m going to educate you on the finer things in life you sad little lumpkin” smile. Actually, both smiles are the same smile.

Oysters came with a fresh basket of warm bread and chilled butter. Duncan dove into the platter of oysters, sucking them down one after the other. Did he even taste them? I took a crusty roll and a bit of butter. The butter knife had an ornate, weighted handle. I never understood why butter knives had such dull, rounded tips. Shouldn’t a knife have a sharp end?

Lost in this train of thought, I didn’t notice Duncan was in distress until he slammed his fist on the table, knocking over both his glass of Merlot and the burning candle. Jeeze, set the place on fire, why don’t ya? I slapped out the fire, which did burn the table cloth, as he fell over backwards in his antique Chippendale chair. I think I heard it crack as he hit the floor. Between the ruined table cloth and the broken chair, how much was this dinner going to cost us?

Dutiful wife that I am, I rushed to his side, waving the concerned waiter away. “He’s choking!” the white-coated teen exclaimed. “Yes, I know,” I said, feeling calmer than I’d ever felt in my life. I reached up to the table and grabbed what was handy—the butter knife. “We have to open his airway,” I said to the flailing waiter. “You go call for an ambulance, while I take care of him.” The server ran off in a blind panic.

Duncan looked into my eyes. He was terrified; for the first time in his life, he had no control over anything. “Not to worry, big guy. I’ll fix you right up.” I held his head back by the hair with one hand, and with the other wielding the butter knife, I dug into his throat. “Gotta get some air in there,” I said as he clutched at my arm. “Let go of me, that hurts and you’re going to leave a mark,” I hissed under my breath, so that the other diners couldn’t hear.

I shoved and twisted that dull butter knife—there was more resistance than you’d think, what with the skin and muscle and tendons and blood—all that blood. All over the restaurant’s plush carpet. It will cost a fortune to clean. I wonder if it would be more economically feasible to just re-carpet the dining room.

And there it is! The source of all this drama: A pearl, misshapen but beautiful. As big as your thumbnail, too. How could he ingest something that size, that solid, and not know it until he choked? But that’s Duncan: Always in such a thoughtless hurry. I held the blood-wet pearl up to Duncan’s unfocused eyes. “Looky here,” I whispered  close to his ear as his consciousness faded, “a pearl for my anniversary ring. At last!”

I put my napkin over his face to spare the other diners his expired gray countenance, grotesquely twisted in agony as it was. Death ain’t pretty. But my new ring sure is!

Hillary Lyon

The rhythmic thumping was a distraction, and I hate driving while distracted. It’s dangerous. On the radio, I found a station doing their “70’s Sunday Rock Block,” now playing Heart’s Barracuda. I turned it up.

* * *

Earlier that evening, I’d pulled into a mega-chain gas station, found a free pump on the end farthest away from the mini-mart. Involved in pumping gas, I didn’t notice the youngish man come up behind me until he spoke.

“Hey, ah, excuse me miss,” he spoke shyly, massaged his hands in apparent anxiety. Big brown puppy dog eyes, brows knitted together in supplication. “Could you be so kind as to give me a lift to the next town over? My ma is sick in the hospital, it’s a real emergency, and I got no way of getting there—got no car, ya see.”

How could I say no? He looked so pathetic. “Sure.”

* * *

Miles down the highway, he put his calloused hand on my right thigh and squeezed. I moved my leg impatiently, hoped he’d get the message. He just squeezed harder, hard enough to leave a bruise. I hate bruises; they’re temporary tattoos of abuse. I don’t want them to disfigure my body.

The radio station was playing Rick Derringer’s Rock and Roll Hoochie Coo. I slapped his hand.

“Listen, slut,” he growled, sliding his offending hand up under my skirt, “there’s a scenic pull-off  a couple miles up the road. Pull in there.”

“And if I don’t—”

He grabbed my throat and squeezed. “You got no say in the matter, whore.”

I took the next exit, parked at the deserted scenic look-out.

* * *

“Turn the car off,” he muttered hoarsely, “and get in the back seat.”

“Can I at least leave the radio on?” The station was now playing Blue Öyster Cult’s Don’t Fear the Reaper. One of my all-time favorites.

He didn’t say no, so I left the ignition turned on to power the radio. As I opened my door, he grabbed my arm and made a show of patting his denim jacket pocket, insinuating he had a knife or gun there.

Now it was my turn to play pathetic. “At least let me get some protection, Okay?”

“Whatever,” he answered getting into the backseat. “Just get your skank ass back here.” I reached into the pocket of the driver’s side door and grabbed my little pearl-handled two-shot derringer. It was a gift from my grandmother, who’d given it to me when I left our little town for the big city. “A lady always needs to have protection,” she’d told me.

I opened the car’s back door and found he’d already taken his pants off and was stroking his sexual assault weapon. Are you kidding me? Whatever happened to romance. “Get in here, bitch,” he hissed.

I leaned into the back seat and gave him my most lascivious look, licked my lips, and—

Shot him in the gut.

* * *

I popped the trunk and retrieved my tool bag, another gift from my beloved granny. Pulled out my roll of duct tape, which has numerous practical uses, like silencing a crude mouth and binding invasive hands. And my wrench, just in case something needs to be turned.

The blood loss and impending shock made my passenger docile, so it was easy to tape his mouth shut, and his hands together. I then led him to the back of the car and ordered him into the trunk. He whimpered. “Don’t worry,” I reassured him, “the trunk is lined with plastic, so you won’t soil it with your blood. Now. Get. In.”

He resisted a bit, so I shoved my little pistol against his scruffy neck, right under his jaw. The little gun only held two bullets, and I’d already spent one a couple of weeks ago. But that’s a story for another time. Point is, he didn't know it was empty.

Still, he refused to get in, so I impatiently turned him towards the shadowed maw of trunk, and hit him in the back of the head with the wrench from my kit. After that, all I had to do was push him in. I slammed the trunk shut and got back in the driver’s seat.

* * *

I’d spent more summers than I could count at my grandmother’s little homestead, miles outside of the city. It was during those long, lazy summer days that she’d showed me how to butcher hogs, and any other miscellaneous, malevolent critter that crossed her path. “A gal’s got to be self-sufficient, and know how to protect herself.” Wise woman.

She’d said I was the most like her, much more so than my other siblings. When she passed, I inherited the little old farmhouse, and the small barn. A barn that, decades before, gran had converted to her workshop.

That’s where I was headed now, as the radio station finished playing Heart’s Barracuda, and next started Elton John’s All the Girls Love Alice.

* * *

I opened up the workshop, put on my gran’s leather apron, thick black rubber gloves, and plastic splatter-proof goggles. Safety first! as granny always said. Like any considerate host, I helped my guest out of the trunk. As he was confused, I gave him a shove in the right direction, and he stumbled into the glaring florescent light of the workshop.

Didn’t even have to tell him to lie down on the enameled metal table in the center of the room. Like a lamb to the slaughter, he just knew. Or he was so drained, he needed to rest. Probably the latter, seeing how much blood he’d lost.

There was a boom-box on the worktable behind me. I turned it on to that 70’s station, and Aerosmith’s Back in the Saddle boomed out into the otherwise silent night.

My sweet old grandmother taught me so many things that I still use in my everyday life. For instance, one of the more practical pieces of advice she gave me back in the day was—

My passenger groaned and attempted to sit up. He rolled his eyes, and with a thunk, his head fell back heavily onto the cold metal table.

—always start with the bone saw.

Hillary Lyon

My girlfriend always wears red because, get this, she says it is the color of extreme artistic passion and sensual power, and besides, it hides the blood. I keep telling her, forget all that other nonsense, if you really want to hide the blood, you have to wear black. All black, head to toe. But she loves the garish color, says it brings out her true self, or something. She’s a drama queen, so I don’t argue.

We met in a watercolor class at the local community center, of all places. The class was listed in the spring catalog under Self-Improvement & Continuing Education. Forty dollars for a four-week course, not including the cost of supplies. Though the class was only about half full, she sat next to me each week and made snarky comments under her breath about the assignments. I couldn’t help but snicker, because the assignments were lame, and her sense of humor was wicked. I enrolled in the class for a little me-time and socialization, she enrolled because her therapist recommended it. She’s not crazy, she’s just a little tightly wound, as my grandma would’ve said. Girlfriend just needed something calming to do, something to help her get centered. Like we all do, at one time or another. Don’t you judge her.

Anyway, we became friends—fast. Had lots in common. I love old Tarantino flicks, so does she. I love spicy food like jerk chicken and jalapeno poppers, so does she. I love refurbishing old furniture I find at yard sales, so does she. Well, she likes to go yard-sale-ing with me, and likes to hang out while I work. I love the music of Shawn Colvin and Puddles Pity Party and Journey, and she’s an absolute fan-girl, as well. I get a kick out of spit-balling various ways to kill my husband, and she does too.

Now, because I refer to her as Girlfriend, doesn’t mean we’re lovers, so get your mind out of the gutter, you swine. We’re just really close, that’s all. Twin-sister close. Sometimes, she finishes my sentences, helps me find the right word when I have a brain freeze. I mean, I swear, it’s like she can read my mind. So that’s how I knew it would be totally cool to toss out ideas in regards to offing my lying, no-good husband. I brought the idea of his death up as a kind-of joke—like, ha ha, what if his plane crashed on the way back from that conference in Chicago—and she read between the lines, right away. She laughed, but I could see in her eyes, she took me seriously. Girlfriend argued that innocent people need not die just to get rid of one sorry bastard.

We were in the backyard. I was sanding down an old end table, sweating and headache-y from the south Louisiana heat and humidity. Couldn’t work in the cool shade of the carport, since that’s where husband parked his precious Mercedes, and he didn’t want any saw-dust or paint-splatters or grungy tools to contaminate the aura of his parking space. I drove a “gently-used” Cherokee, because that’s a much more practical vehicle. I parked on the street. Anyway, that afternoon Girlfriend sat on the ground behind me, whisper-singing “Don’t Fear the Reaper.” She’s better than a radio, really. Always seems to know just exactly what type of music I’m in the mood for, and hums or sings softly to me. At this particular time, I was not paying much attention to her music—which was rude of me, I know, but I was on a rant about my worthless husband.

Always calls me toward the end of the work day, I tell her. After I’ve already got dinner under way. Says he’s got to go on a business dinner, can’t be helped, and he’ll call me when he starts home. Sounds thoughtful, right? Except when he phones later, the caller i.d. never fails to read something like “Teasers Gentlemen’s Club” or “Bushwhackers” or “Blue Moon Motel.” See, he has to use the phones at those places because he always “forgets” his cell phone. Leaves it on the dresser so I can’t call him at the office or wherever and bother him. The secretaries already know to tell me he’s in a meeting when I call—whether he is or not. Another fun fact: It’s not unusual for him to leave his wedding ring out on the dresser, too, in full view. Of course, he always has to “work” on weekends, as well. Ironically, he’s the one who suggested I take a class, or something—anything to fill my time and make friends. To get me out of his thinning hair.

You’d think, with all his hard work, we’d be rolling in dough. If that’s the case, why do I have to clip coupons and buy everything at discount outlets and yard sales? Because, he told me on his third tumbler of imported scotch one night when he was actually home for dinner, he works hard to earn money, so it’s his. I can get a job or whatever, if I want my own money. What a sweetheart, right? Don’t think he understands how marriage works. I stay home and take care of the house, do laundry, pay the bills, fix the meals, and all that jazz, but he doesn’t see that as work. I am convinced that he thinks I’m his mother. Not his housekeeper, though, because then he’d have to pay me.

All this time while I’m venting, Girlfriend listens thoughtfully, tilting her head this way and that. Like a good dog trying to decipher her master’s mood and message. And when I finally say, most days I’d like to kill him to get free of this living-death-marriage, she says, well, why not? You could divorce him, she says, but where’s the fun in that? Plus, she points out that if I’m a widow, then everybody will be kind to me and bring me casseroles and run errands for me. Everyone worries and cares, at least for a while. But if I divorce him, well—who gives a damn about divorcees? They’re so common these days. I had to agree. Girlfriend did make some good points.

So, we start coming up with murder plans, just for fun. It was like a game, you know, to pass the time on a lazy afternoon. At one point, Girlfriend leans back on the grass and gives me a cat-ate-the-canary smile. She looks me in the eye and licks her lips. I have the perfect way, she tells me. Look, you have this big, beautiful swimming pool right here in your own backyard. Got a tall wooden fence all around. Enormous trees sheltering this space, making it really private and secluded. How about, next time he comes home drunk—which will be the next time he comes home—after he passes out, you slit his throat. I’ll help you drag his fat ass into the pool. Then we get in your car and split for somewhere west. Like Texas or Arizona or California. Hell, maybe we’ll just go down to Mexico. Lots of really good spicy food there, she adds.

I look up from wiping down the end table, and smile.

* * *

The very next night, sumbitch husband stumbles blind-drunk into bed, already snoring like a gored ox before his head hit the pillow. Too out of it to undress, big surprise.

Girlfriend pops up out of the shadows in the closet and helps me undress the slob. Don’t know how she does it—always being right there when I need her—but I’m glad she does. It’s like she’s magic, or something. I don’t question; I just accept. Anyway, we pull off his shirt and shoes, tug off his socks and pants. It’s like undressing an ogre. A cigarette-stinking, booze-sweaty, under-bridge-dwelling ogre out of a scary fairy tale, who still wears tighty-whiteys. Girlfriend asks me, what kind of male wears tighty-whiteys after they’re over the age of twelve? I sigh and tell her, the kind whose 76-year-old mother still buys their underwear for them, that’s who. And gives it to them for Christmas. Girlfriend peels off the offending undies, grimacing as she does. The whole scene is like something out of a black comedy.

Don’t worry. Hubby-troll was so blotto I could smash cymbals next to his fat head and he wouldn’t hear it, much less wake up. Girlfriend says to me, hey, here ya go. She hands me a filleting knife, one from the wooden block in the kitchen. How’d she get that so fast? I wonder but don’t ask; I just take. The blade is long and thin and really, really sharp. I like it.

Swoosh, swoosh, swoosh. That’s it. I create three fluid strokes with that delicate filleting knife across his flabby throat, like a calligraphy brush across rice paper. I’m done and he’s bleeding out like the clichéd stuck pig—which is what he is. Who’d have thought the old fart had so much blood in him? I remember reading something like that in Shakespeare, in high school lo! these many years ago. Well, William didn’t use the word “fart” in Macbeth, but the sentiment is the same. I wasn’t prepared for the flood of blood, though my mother always said, where blood’s concerned, it always looks like there so much more than there actually is. I don’t know about that. His blood soaked his pillow and all the sheets, and through the mattress. Plus blood leaking, slopping all over the carpet, seeping down to the pad. Ugh. Think of how much bleach and how many buckets of warm soapy water and hard-scrubbing and—wait a minute. This is not going to be my mess to clean up, I realized, and that made it easier not to care. Exactly, Girlfriend giggled, shaking her head in agreement and flashing her devil-may-care grin. About time, she added, you saw how much better life is going to be, now that you’ve finally decided to take action. Nothing worse than whiner who won’t shit or get off the pot.

Back to business. Girlfriend said for me to grab his feet and drag him off the bed, which I did. He slid off the mattress easily. She tried to grab him under his arms, but he was so slick with blood, her grip kept slipping, and she kept dropping him. Thunk, thunk, thunk. His head hit the floor, again and again and again. It was ridiculous; I couldn’t help but laugh at her efforts. Never mind, I said to her. I’ll take it from here. You go slide open the patio door.

Jeez, the mook must’ve weighed over 300 pounds. No wonder he recently bought new clothes. Nothing more unattractive to strippers and office skanks than a fat man in tight clothes, no matter how much money he throws at them. I had to stop twice, to catch my breath and give my arms a rest. I was in good shape, but I can’t haul 300 pounds across the house in one fell swoop. Girlfriend kept urging me on, though, gently reminding me I had to be on the road before dawn.

I drug the ogre-man through the den and out the patio door. Under the moonlight, the trail of blood he left behind looked like nothing more than a very long skid mark, which could be a metaphor for my marriage to that big goon. I lugged him over to the edge of the pool, and rolled him in. Splish. There was a bit of blood still in him, and it blossomed in the water like a dark and lovely flower—it reminded me of watercolors spreading on a canvas. It was inspiring. What an interesting painting this scene would make. Maybe I should take a photo, for future reference.

No, Girlfriend interrupted. Just study the scene. Later, you can paint it from memory. Matter of fact, you can do a whole series of murder-scene paintings, she encouraged. Think how stunning the subjects will appear, portrayed in watercolors. Consider the contrast of a harsh, violent act rendered in the soothing, blurred softness of watercolors. It will probably make you famous, and then you’ll have your own money, to spend how and when you like.

She was right. I washed off the patio, so there’d be no blood to draw flies and other unsavory critters. I changed out of my black jeans and t-shirt, and into a gorgeous, sleeveless red satin dress with gold flowers embroidered along its Mandarin collar—an expensive, sophisticated dress I’d bought for an office Christmas party that we never attended. With my black hair and pale skin, the vivid color made me look like a movie star. Or a vampire, which is equally glamorous. I threw my black clothes into a plastic bag. I could burn them later, or better yet, wash them and donate to a church charity. I like that idea. I’m all about recycling.

With my bags previously packed and already loaded into the SUV, I locked up the house and hit the road. Girlfriend stayed behind, preferring to lurk in the shadows of the now-empty house. So, she wasn’t with me on my long trek across the country. She didn’t appear like magic in the car’s passenger seat, or across from me in a diner’s vinyl booth—mainly because she doesn’t exist. But then you knew that, didn’t you? Don’t you judge me.