DETAILS
By J.B. Smith
Mavis Button lay sprawled across the double bed. Radio static filled the room with eerie noise but she didn’t hear it in her unconscious state. A great, black cat sat on her bloody chest, tail curled neatly across his front paws. Wrapped around one leg was a brown cord attached to a heavy lamp askew on Mavis’ head. A deep gash and distinctive bruise marked where the object had made first contact. Slowly, the feline stood, turned his rump to the old lady’s face, and gave his tail an upward tick. Stepping daintily off the body, he leapt to the floor, and sauntered out between two paramedics like a panther pacing off after a kill.
The police photographer turned to Jackie and said, “Okay, she’s all yours,” a signal the stretcher could be moved into the room. In the back of the ambulance, consciousness started seeping back into Mavis via needle and drip bag. A coronet of fiery, jagged pain held her brain hostage in a red haze. She softly cursed wondering why she hadn’t drowned that cat, Sammy Kaye, ten years ago; it was her last clear thought before the stroke.
She still couldn’t make the left side of her body work. Her tongue felt mired in thick mud. But Mavis knew her other injuries were improving. Too bad the hospital staff was such an irritation, talking too loud and slow as if she were deaf or mentally unbalanced. Stupid, she thought, the whole lot of ‘em; and with that, Mavis decided to block-out her daily surroundings and simply replay her tangled memories, determined to unravel them detail by detail.
This morning, as her wheelchair was maneuvered through a series of elevators and long hallways, she concentrated on how and why she murdered her lame-brained husband, Otis. She hadn’t much liked Otis although they’d been married more than thirty years before she killed
him. Mavis felt no remorse—rather, she was frustrated she couldn’t dredge-up certain particulars.
She did recall Otis had talked all the time, always asking for affection, like a whining ninny. He would say, “Mavis, give me a lil’ kiss,” or “Mavis, how ‘bout a hug?” rubbing her shoulders lightly with his fingers. Over the years, she had grown weary, then repulsed by Otis’ wheedling demands. “Stop it,” she would growl at him, “stop fingerin’ me like that. Feels like a spider crawlin’ on ma leg.” But children then age and modest comfort held her in the marriage. “Shfft,” she mumbled thinking about his too soft touch.
Mavis thought she killed Otis around four a.m. It was the time she usually got up to use the bathroom. She remembered stopping at the bedroom door to stare at him as he loudly snored, spittle flying. All her married life, she’d suffered this disgusting habit.
But then what? Did he wake-up and ask her for “Jus’ a teeny hug, shuga?” in that breathy, creepy voice he liked to use? Like his touch, it made her shudder to think about that voice. Mavis was certain that’s how it went; Otis’ pestering frayed her last nerve causing her to grab a pillow and shove it over his filthy mouth. She was always bigger and stronger than her husband. Why she’d let him live so long was the mystery.
When strong arms lifted her into an auto, Mavis was startled out of her reverie. She’d no idea she was leaving the hospital but she didn’t really care. Buckled into the car’s front seat, she turned her attention back to her earlier recollections. There was something missing, some fact about the murder still playing hide-and-seek in the recesses of her injured brain.
The car ride ended at a faded brick building. “Here we are, shuga,” said a grating voice from the driver’s side, “I think yer gonna like yer new home.” Mavis felt chilled as her door opened and familiar hands roughly shifted her into another wheelchair. As he pushed the chair down dingy, deserted corridors, Otis gleefully contemplated the surprise he had in store for his wife. For thirty years, she had terrified him with her loudness, meanness and size. Just look at her, he thought, floppin’ to one side with her head sort of lollin’, eyes not quite focused, talking gibberish, what I have in mind serves her right. “When I roll ya’ through this door,” he whispered, “look to the left.” He finished the torment by flicking his tongue across her ear lobe with reptilian speed. Mavis’ astonishment gave way to dread.
Inside the room, Mavis faced a bed flanked by a dresser. Slightly rotating her droopy head, she began to mutter, “Ge, ge, ge, kft…” over and over punctuated by snorts and rapid head bobbing. A shiver went up Otis’ spine and a smirk crossed his lips as he watched his wife’s reaction. “Payback’s a bitch,” he sneered, “but rightly deserved after toleratin’ hell and one attempted murder.” Mavis, still gabbling, stared at the bureau where a black cat sat like an ominous deity next to a silver-framed picture of Otis Button. Here was the forgotten detail of that murderous night. Sammy Kaye, curled on a chest of drawers as if parked at a kitty drive-in, had watched
while she smothered her husband. Mavis’ face twitched in terror recalling the cat’s vicious attack as Otis flailed under the pillow.
“I picked this place ‘cause they allow pets,” Otis crooned. Mavis fixed her gaze on the old man coming towards her, the huge cat in his arms. “Yes, this ole’ boy saved ma life.” Mavis groaned. Why hadn’t she killed that goddamn cat years ago? Otis was grinning. “And now, I’m gonna leave him with ya, Mavis darlin’.”
Unable to scream or move, Mavis could only grimace and grunt as the animal was placed on her lap. Sammy Kaye, intent on clawing Mavis’ thighs, never heard the quiet thud of the door as Otis left the room.
- - -
J.B. Smith is a freelance writer living in the Finger Lakes region of New York with her pastor husband, a demanding cat and wall-to-wall pictures of her three grown children. She aspires to buy groceries with her writing but will settle for a cup of coffee. Her work has appeared in a Long Story Short, Short Story Library and various regional publications.
By J.B. Smith
Mavis Button lay sprawled across the double bed. Radio static filled the room with eerie noise but she didn’t hear it in her unconscious state. A great, black cat sat on her bloody chest, tail curled neatly across his front paws. Wrapped around one leg was a brown cord attached to a heavy lamp askew on Mavis’ head. A deep gash and distinctive bruise marked where the object had made first contact. Slowly, the feline stood, turned his rump to the old lady’s face, and gave his tail an upward tick. Stepping daintily off the body, he leapt to the floor, and sauntered out between two paramedics like a panther pacing off after a kill.
The police photographer turned to Jackie and said, “Okay, she’s all yours,” a signal the stretcher could be moved into the room. In the back of the ambulance, consciousness started seeping back into Mavis via needle and drip bag. A coronet of fiery, jagged pain held her brain hostage in a red haze. She softly cursed wondering why she hadn’t drowned that cat, Sammy Kaye, ten years ago; it was her last clear thought before the stroke.
She still couldn’t make the left side of her body work. Her tongue felt mired in thick mud. But Mavis knew her other injuries were improving. Too bad the hospital staff was such an irritation, talking too loud and slow as if she were deaf or mentally unbalanced. Stupid, she thought, the whole lot of ‘em; and with that, Mavis decided to block-out her daily surroundings and simply replay her tangled memories, determined to unravel them detail by detail.
This morning, as her wheelchair was maneuvered through a series of elevators and long hallways, she concentrated on how and why she murdered her lame-brained husband, Otis. She hadn’t much liked Otis although they’d been married more than thirty years before she killed
him. Mavis felt no remorse—rather, she was frustrated she couldn’t dredge-up certain particulars.
She did recall Otis had talked all the time, always asking for affection, like a whining ninny. He would say, “Mavis, give me a lil’ kiss,” or “Mavis, how ‘bout a hug?” rubbing her shoulders lightly with his fingers. Over the years, she had grown weary, then repulsed by Otis’ wheedling demands. “Stop it,” she would growl at him, “stop fingerin’ me like that. Feels like a spider crawlin’ on ma leg.” But children then age and modest comfort held her in the marriage. “Shfft,” she mumbled thinking about his too soft touch.
Mavis thought she killed Otis around four a.m. It was the time she usually got up to use the bathroom. She remembered stopping at the bedroom door to stare at him as he loudly snored, spittle flying. All her married life, she’d suffered this disgusting habit.
But then what? Did he wake-up and ask her for “Jus’ a teeny hug, shuga?” in that breathy, creepy voice he liked to use? Like his touch, it made her shudder to think about that voice. Mavis was certain that’s how it went; Otis’ pestering frayed her last nerve causing her to grab a pillow and shove it over his filthy mouth. She was always bigger and stronger than her husband. Why she’d let him live so long was the mystery.
When strong arms lifted her into an auto, Mavis was startled out of her reverie. She’d no idea she was leaving the hospital but she didn’t really care. Buckled into the car’s front seat, she turned her attention back to her earlier recollections. There was something missing, some fact about the murder still playing hide-and-seek in the recesses of her injured brain.
The car ride ended at a faded brick building. “Here we are, shuga,” said a grating voice from the driver’s side, “I think yer gonna like yer new home.” Mavis felt chilled as her door opened and familiar hands roughly shifted her into another wheelchair. As he pushed the chair down dingy, deserted corridors, Otis gleefully contemplated the surprise he had in store for his wife. For thirty years, she had terrified him with her loudness, meanness and size. Just look at her, he thought, floppin’ to one side with her head sort of lollin’, eyes not quite focused, talking gibberish, what I have in mind serves her right. “When I roll ya’ through this door,” he whispered, “look to the left.” He finished the torment by flicking his tongue across her ear lobe with reptilian speed. Mavis’ astonishment gave way to dread.
Inside the room, Mavis faced a bed flanked by a dresser. Slightly rotating her droopy head, she began to mutter, “Ge, ge, ge, kft…” over and over punctuated by snorts and rapid head bobbing. A shiver went up Otis’ spine and a smirk crossed his lips as he watched his wife’s reaction. “Payback’s a bitch,” he sneered, “but rightly deserved after toleratin’ hell and one attempted murder.” Mavis, still gabbling, stared at the bureau where a black cat sat like an ominous deity next to a silver-framed picture of Otis Button. Here was the forgotten detail of that murderous night. Sammy Kaye, curled on a chest of drawers as if parked at a kitty drive-in, had watched
while she smothered her husband. Mavis’ face twitched in terror recalling the cat’s vicious attack as Otis flailed under the pillow.
“I picked this place ‘cause they allow pets,” Otis crooned. Mavis fixed her gaze on the old man coming towards her, the huge cat in his arms. “Yes, this ole’ boy saved ma life.” Mavis groaned. Why hadn’t she killed that goddamn cat years ago? Otis was grinning. “And now, I’m gonna leave him with ya, Mavis darlin’.”
Unable to scream or move, Mavis could only grimace and grunt as the animal was placed on her lap. Sammy Kaye, intent on clawing Mavis’ thighs, never heard the quiet thud of the door as Otis left the room.
- - -
J.B. Smith is a freelance writer living in the Finger Lakes region of New York with her pastor husband, a demanding cat and wall-to-wall pictures of her three grown children. She aspires to buy groceries with her writing but will settle for a cup of coffee. Her work has appeared in a Long Story Short, Short Story Library and various regional publications.
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