Sex and Murder Magazine

By Eric Bandel

Cathy stood with her back to the dresser in the far corner of the upstairs bedroom.On the wall above the door was an oak framed clock with a cow’s head painted in the center. It was ten after five, Ray home at six-thirty, dinner at eight; the usual Tuesday.Taped to the nightstand lamp was a note: call Aunt Rita.

She crossed the room, took the phone from the end table, dialed, looked to the window and hung up. Rita could wait, it wasn’t a good day for talk; not sunny enough. Cathy straightened the phone and went to the mirror, a Dutch full length with silver trim and a cherub’s face every inch and a quarter. It was an old house and the mirror, among lamps, chairs and vacant trunks were piled beneath a tarp in the basement when they bought the place.

Standing sideways she bent slightly, her eyes on the ass and the same stale question. Had it grown since the wedding? It had and she knew it.Cathy unzipped, ran a finger along the narrow skin crease left by the pressure of the waistband, wiggled the slacks to her ankles, stepped out and walked to the bed.Removing her socks she lifted a foot to examine the shape and the curvature of the arch, the wide toes with chipped nails and a scar on the ankle from childhood.She took off her blouse, shed her panties and once again found herself at the full length. With a hard look to the arms and hips she raised a breast; her left breast. She then pressed down on the abdomen, felt pain near the navel, let the breast fall, returned to the sheets and lay perfectly still.

The eyes of the cow on the clock were upon her when she woke to the rattle of the knob downstairs. Pressure applied to the frame of this particular door made a sound not unlike the strangulation of a small animal. Hearing this, Cathy sat up and looked to the wall. It was six-twenty-one, she had fallen asleep and her husband was home.The knob continued to quake and turn as she went about collecting her clothes.

The racket was not unfamiliar; Ray often struggled with that door in the evenings. While bending to retrieve a well worn blue bra she caught sight of her bare body in the mirror.Cathy paused, took a breath, formed a thought, dropped the shirt and sock she was holding, moved toward the bed, climbed on and crawled to the top. She then placed her hands to the wall, lowered her head and raised her rear.Dinner could wait. Some things were more important. It had been a while and less frequent since the wedding. In this position she could look from the window behind the bed as she often did to watch her husband walk slowly down the street toward the house; but not tonight. Tonight he was home and she would be here, in bed, waiting.

She heard a violent and final shake of the knob as something metallic fell to the floor and the door below was finally opened.He went and broke it, she thought; the knob, the lock or both. Cathy kept quiet with her face to the glass. A child ran by, a large dog followed, a car horn cut the silence and downstairs there were footsteps. Her blood was high and her chosen position on the mattress less comfortable. Slowly she turned an ear to the door. The house was still and all sound had a sharpness which poisoned any feeling of tranquility. The feet below were crossing linoleum; he was in the kitchen now.

Perspiration beneath the arms had gathered, her scalp felt dry and the window was foggy with breath. She cleared a spot with her palm and saw the same dog cross the street in the opposite direction; the boy was nowhere. Cathy was suddenly cold and wishing she hadn’t been so impulsive, she felt foolish and out of place in her own home. A hand could be heard as it slid the length of the railing; he was on the stairs. Hoping to see the dog, she looked again to the street. The dog was not there. Nothing was there. Moving the hair from her forehead she recognized the buckle of a weak hallway floorboard. Her chest was tight. She began to count backwards from twenty as was her usual method of slowing her heart when loose change in a pocket stopped her at fourteen.

He was in the room. No one spoke.placed her left hand on the bedpost and kept her right to the wall.She felt the bed sink as he climbed aboard, still silent, smelling of sweat and gripping her shoulders with firm fingers.She arched her back, moaned, raised her head and felt the center of her stomach drop as her legs went numb and the very blood that had boiled in her bosom froze in a flash. On the street below was her husband, home from work, six thirty; the usual Tuesday.

Ray looked up, saw Cathy, her bare shoulders, the shadow behind, the mouth to the shadow, her left nipple covered by a bulbous thumb and next to it a finger matted with black hair.turned away then, not looking back, not seeing the blood hit the window.