Trouble in the Heartland: Crime Fiction Inspired by the Songs of Bruce Springsteen by unknow

Author:unknow
Language: eng
Format: azw
ISBN: 9781939751027
Publisher: Gutter Books
Published: 2014-12-01T00:00:00+00:00

The Iceman

Les Edgerton

I shot her.

Twice.

The first time so she’d feel it, get the picture.

I wanted to talk to her a bit before I finished.

I told you, you didn’t know me, I said.

You kept giving me that stupid grin and saying—I lived with you for twenty-five years. I know you.

But you don’t, I said. See?

Then, I shot her the second time. The first time it was a gutshot and the second I put a hole in her forehead.

I imagine she believed me now, I thought. For a few seconds anyway. Between the first bullet and the second.

She never said anything, either time. But then, she didn’t need to. Her face said it all. She realized I was telling the truth.

After the second shot, the one that quieted her for good, I sat there a while, waiting for the emotion to come, but it never did. Not even a general feeling. Nothing. Nada. That was what I was trying to tell her—had always been trying to tell her.

I sat there, in the chair across from her. From what wasn’t her any more. Now it was just a body. I thought about what memories I’d carry with me of her after twenty-five years of marriage.

All I could come up with was our nightly routine. At nine sharp, each evening, we’d turn off everything downstairs and come up to bed. I’d go in the bathroom first, and sit on the stool, lid down, and read something, usually a novel. I’d have my last cigarette of the day. Take my pills. Open the window so the smoke would go out. If it was summer, I’d close it before I left to keep the air conditioning in. Same thing in the winter, for the heat and furnace. Those times when neither was on, I’d just leave it up.

I’d leave a cigarette for her on the sink counter. We kept a lighter there, all the time.

I’d go to bed, turn down my side and climb in. She’d usually have the TV on, the remote tossed on my side of the bed. That was because she’d go to sleep before me. I was a night owl. From my days in the joint. I couldn’t go to sleep without TV or some kind of noise going on. Since our neighborhood was quiet, it was the TV’s job to get me to sleep.

She’d go in the bathroom and smoke the cigarette I’d left for her.

You may wonder why she didn’t have her own. Years ago, she’d quit. Only she hadn’t. She quit buying cigarettes. She smoked mine.

Depending on the day of the week, she’d have whatever she liked that day on. On Thursdays, it was always Cops, either a rerun or a new episode. If Cops wasn’t on, it would be Court TV for a long time and then IT. Both featured murder cases.

After she finished her cigarette, she’d come in, turn down her side, throw the covers off and lay there. For what seemed all of our married life, she had heat attacks as soon as she came to bed.

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