Killing Monica

She stumbled across the mudroom to a narrow cabinet. She reached up to the top shelf and took down a large bottle of whiskey. She unscrewed the cap, took a gulp, and then, as the whiskey hit her system with a jolt, she came to slightly and went back to the phone. She picked it up. “Hello?” she slurred. “It’s PJ Wallis.” And then the tsunami that had been building inside her suddenly came spewing out. Bile, black ash, and whiskey sprayed the floor.

The shock of this purge suddenly made Pandy feel better. The clamminess receded. She picked up the phone and hung it up, wanting to take advantage of this brief moment in which she felt slightly more mobile. She grabbed the bottle of whiskey and wobbled up the back stairs.

From where, only a short time ago, she had originated on some kind of mission. Unfortunately, she now had no idea what that was.

She wove down the hallway to her room, stripping off her garments as she went into the bathroom. Taking another gulp of whiskey, she sat down on the edge of the tub. Her hands were trembling as she turned the tap to run the hot water.

She got in, lying flat on her back in order to cover herself as quickly as possible.

As the hot water began to trickle in, her muscles began to relax slightly.

She sat up and took another sip of whiskey.

“There’s a body burning up in the boathouse,” she said aloud in the kind of silly voice that would have made Hellenor laugh. Hellenor. If she really had burned up in the explosion, Hellenor wouldn’t be laughing. She’d be sad. But at least she would inherit everything Pandy owned, including the rights to Monica.

Monica. Pandy groaned. She put her head in her hands. And suddenly, she was stone-cold sober.

Now it was all going to come out. The truth about her marriage; how she’d given Jonny money. Everyone would say it was because she was so desperate to hang on to him, she gave him whatever he wanted. And then they’d whisper behind their backs that she’d deserved it. She’d made more money than her husband, and certainly that merited some kind of punishment.

She took another swig of whiskey, got out of the tub, and lurched for a towel. Whatever happened, she’d just have to deal with it. She dried herself off and then used a corner of the towel to wipe the steam from the mirror. She stared at her reflection. What she saw nearly caused her to go into shock again.

She was basically bald. Or would have to be, soon. What remained of her charred hair was a patchwork of crinkled, blackened strands of uneven lengths that would clearly have to be shaved.

For a brief moment, she could only shake her head in wonder at the viciousness of this particular run of bad luck. It wasn’t enough that her book had been rejected and she would have to explain to the world why she couldn’t write Jonny his check. She was going to have to do it as a bald woman.

Suddenly, she was exhausted. She dropped to her knees in a fatigue so deep, it threatened to overwhelm her. And in this fog, she remembered that she still had to deal with the fire department.

* * *

They arrived, having been informed that Hellenor Wallis had reported that her sister, PJ Wallis, was burning in a fire. Pandy took one look at the grim-faced volunteer firemen and realized she simply didn’t have the energy to explain the mix-up. She would take care of it in the morning.

It was so much easier to go along with the notion that it was vaguely true.

“And your name is Hellenor Wallis?”

“Yes,” she said.

“And your sister was in the canoe—”

Pandy tried to say no, but her teeth were chattering so much, she couldn’t get out another word. She pulled the blanket she’d wrapped around her head and shoulders closer as three more men came up the drive, shaking their heads.

They’d found what they presumed was Pandy’s cell phone, now a twisted, charred piece of unidentifiable material. They explained that they were truly sorry, but because the house was so remote it wasn’t technically in the jurisdiction of the township and they could only file a report.

And then the nice man with the gray mustache told her that she would need to make a citizen’s report to the local coroner. She could do it on their website.

When she haltingly explained that the house didn’t have an internet connection, the man must have felt sorry for her, because he offered to file a paper report instead, in which he would describe the fire. The coroner’s office would be out in a day or two to comb through the ashes when the site had cooled.

Pandy nodded, propping herself against the wall in utter exhaustion. By then, of course, it would all be sorted out. Finally they left, their red taillights flickering down the drive like fireflies.

When the last one had winked its red eye, she turned back to the house, determined to do what she’d been needing to do forever, it seemed:

Curl up into a little ball and go to sleep.

She stumbled into the mudroom, kicked off her boots, and fell onto the couch in the den. She pulled the acrylic comforter her grandmother had knitted over her. As the world slowly blinked out around her, her mind circled down into long-ago memories. Like the night twenty years ago. When she and Hellenor were sitting on this very couch. When they’d gotten the news. In addition to the house, she and Hellenor had each been left fifty thousand dollars.

“Spend it wisely,” the lawyer had said.

Pandy’s brain clicked off like a light jerked by a string.