NATE
I NEVER KILLED ANYONE BEFORE.
I never thought I would. I’m not a homicidal maniac after all, but writers feel emotions so much more strongly than the general population, so I always imagined under the right circumstances, I might have it in me. More often, writers commit violence against themselves—suicides. Ernest Hemingway shot himself, Virginia Woolf drowned herself, and David Foster Wallace hung himself, to name a few choice examples.
Interestingly, I’ve never considered suicide. Even in the moment when Eve was threatening my livelihood, the thought never crossed my mind. I have no belief in the afterlife—my feeling is that when you’re dead, you’re dead. And after death, there is nothing. Nothing but an abyss after which there is no return.
I imagine dying is like standing on the precipice of that abyss, knowing that you will fall in at any second. It is my greatest fear, after snakes.
As I squeezed the life out of my wife, I could see that fear in her eyes. I could see her standing by the abyss, terrified of dropping in.
She has nobody to blame but herself.
And now her body is wrapped up in a sheet in my trunk. Eve purchased those sheets herself, and I recall telling her how much I detested navy blue. Had she any idea that eventually the sheets would enclose her dead body? Doubtful. I take the most satisfaction in the fact that her feet are bare. My wife had an unhealthy obsession with shoes, and it is an apt punishment for her crimes to spend all of eternity in her bare feet.
If I were to get pulled over by the police, the facade of the navy sheet would not last long, but thankfully, I have other plans for her in the near future. We cleaned up her blood on the floor of the kitchen before we vacated the house, and Addie was paranoid about making sure there was nothing left behind. As she scrubbed obsessively, I thought to myself, Out, damned spot! Out, I say! But I am doubtful she would have understood the reference. They barely teach the children Shakespeare anymore. I would attempt it, but I’m already gifting them with Poe—I can’t be expected to do everything.
Addie is driving the car behind me. Eve’s Kia. Addie doesn’t even have a driver’s license, only a permit, but we have to take this chance. We need to transport Eve’s car to the commuter rail station. I used Eve’s phone to purchase an Amtrak ticket leaving at close to midnight from South Station, arriving at Penn Station four hours later. I do not expect any of this to hold up to scrutiny, but it will be an adequate story until more information comes to light.
I maintain my speed just below the limit. Addie follows about two car lengths behind. I imagine her gripping the steering wheel with her hands in the nine and three positions, her right foot alternating between the gas and the brake. Even now, even with my wife’s body in the trunk of the car, I am aroused thinking about Addie. It is genuinely such a shame.
If we can make it to the commuter rail station, we will be home free. Or at least I will be.
As expected, the station is nearly empty. Addie gently eases the Kia into one of the outdoor parking spaces. I stay outside the lot completely, in case there are cameras. I wait for her to climb out of the car, and then she darts over to my Accord, hugging her puffy coat to her chest.
For a moment, I consider simply leaving her here. But no. I’ll need her for the next part.
Addie’s cheeks are bright pink from the cold as she climbs into the passenger seat. Her eyelashes flutter as she looks at me expectantly, and for a moment, I am overcome with a deep sadness that this will be the last time we will ever be together. This is all Eve’s fault. Why couldn’t she have left well enough alone? I was a completely satisfactory husband. Not a drunk like Addie’s father was. I didn’t yell at her or beat her or gamble away our life savings. Truly, I deserve a medal for putting up with her neuroses as long as I did.
And then she had the nerve to threaten my livelihood. My career. All I felt when my fingers were wrapped around her neck was a deep sense of relief.
“Okay,” Addie says in a small voice. “I did it.”
She still thinks she was the one who killed Eve. If I told her the moon was made of green cheese, she would believe me.
“Very good,” I say. “But now we must get rid of the body.” Her round face turns green. “Get rid of…”
“We will bury her,” I clarify. “Like a funeral of sorts.”
“Oh.” Addie looks down at her hands. “Okay.”
I don’t have an exact spot in mind, but I do know the general area. There’s a long stretch of deserted road that leads to a pumpkin patch I used to frequent when I was a boy. The pumpkin patch is now overgrown though, and it’s already November, so anyone searching for pumpkins will be disappointed. I believe I can locate that road, and it will serve as the resting place for my wife as she falls into the abyss for all eternity.
