Murdering Mr. Monti: A Merry Little Tale of Sex and Violence by Judith Viorst

Author:Judith Viorst [Viorst, Judith]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction, General
ISBN: 9780449223550
Google: DOqZfD_qiIEC
Amazon: B0191YI610
Publisher: Fawcett Crest
Published: 1994-11-30T08:00:00+00:00

8

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THIS IS A HOSTAGE SITUATION

After returning the Buick and grabbing a cab back to Georgetown Park to retrieve my car, I made a quick stop at the market to pick up some swordfish, which—topped with fresh salsa and teamed with pasta dressed with garlic and olive oil—would serve to show my husband that no matter how insensitively he behaved, I’d always meet my culinary commitments.

When I got home, however, two brief notes were waiting on the kitchen table—a “Mom, I’m with Jo. I’ll see you Sunday” from Wally, and a “Brenda, I need a time-out. I won’t be back until tomorrow night” from Jake. Wally’s note had a “love” in front of the signature. Jake’s did not.

In all of our married life, Jake had never before gone off for the night without advance warning. He had never gone off for a night without providing a telephone number where he could be reached. Nor had he ever gone off because he needed—what was that nasty phrase?—“a time out.”

My Thelma and Louise euphoria vanished.

Big bad bleak black thoughts clouded my mind.

I shoved the food into fee fridge and removed a chilled, unopened bottle of Chardonnay, deftly yanked out the cork, and filled up a glass. No, in case you are wondering, I am not a secret drinker, but sometimes a woman has to have a drink, A Saturday that includes attempting murder and being abandoned by your husband is—in my view—certainly one of those times.

My big bad bleak black thoughts grew bleaker and blacker.

Had I, in trying to kill Mr. Monti, lost my moral moorings? Had I maybe lost my husband too? Had I, in addition, lost my looks? A glimpse of my haggard self, as I carried my drink past the front-hall mirror into the living room, suggested that this might indeed be the case. I seemed to be a dead ringer for that woman in Lost Horizon who aged a hundred years when she left Shangri-La. No one would mistake me for Goldie Hawn’s first cousin.

For a few shaken moments I almost—along with my moorings and husband and looks—lost my self confidence. I felt myself surrendering to despair. But then my can do attitude—enhanced with several swigs of the Chardonnay—came, as it so often has done, to my rescue, allowing me to review and reconceptualize the current situation.

So I said to myself, If Anne Archer, in defense of herself and her family, is entitled to kill Glenn Close in Fatal Attraction, surely you are entitled to kill Mr. Monti.

Ergo I have not lost my moral moorings.

And I said to myself, If Angelica Huston, in spite of many obstacles, can get Jack Nicholson back in Prizzi’s Honor, surely you will be able to get back Jake.

Ergo I have not lost the man I love.

And I said to myself, Tomorrow morning, after a good night’s sleep, your skin will be brighter, your eyes will be wider, those brackets between your nostrils and mouth will vanish, and you’ll stop resembling that lady in Lost Horizon and start resembling Goldie Hawn’s first cousin.

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