Page 19 of Confessions of the Dead

Talk. Talk. Talk.

Whatever happened tosilence is golden?

Norman looked down at his hand. When had he picked up a butter knife? He was squeezing it hard enough to leave a red line across the bridge of his thumb, not hard enough to break the skin (good luck doing that with a butter knife), but still.

“ … I suppose I could ride down with Julie if they ban Bernadette, but I’d rather not. Would you believe she’s still smoking? She thinks her husband doesn’t know. Her car smells like an ashtray, and she smells like an ashtray that’s been dipped in watered-down Estée Lauder. Two minutes in her Prius, and I feel like my lungs are coated with tar and my clothes need to go in the trash heap. Mary said she’d pick me up, but she lives on the opposite side of town, so she’d have to go out of her way to get me and …”

Norman did the math. Hollows Bend was maybe seven square miles soaking wet. You could walk one end to the other in less than an hour, so was a mile or so in the opposite direction really such a deal-breaker? More bullshit. More of Eisa spouting out words for the sake of spouting out words.

He squeezed the butter knife again, pressed his thumb down on the blade with all the force his arthritic hand could muster. He found himself looking up at Eisa as he did it, at the tender spot on the side of her neck. No need to beat that with a mallet to soften it up, a knife would cut right through like …

He looked at the butter knife in his hand and grinned.

Just like butter.

“Norman? I asked you a question.”

He almost hid the knife, which was stupid. She was still facing away from him. Also stupid, because it was just a goddamn butter knife and there was nothing wrong about handling it at the kitchen table. Not like he was holding one of his chisels from the garage or his bowie knife. Now that would do some damage. He loved that bowie knife. If he pressed his thumb on that blade like he was the butter knife, his thumb would be on the floor right now. He could cut Eisa’s head clean off with the bowie and probably not even work up much of a huff. Start by burying it in that soft spot right above her shoulder, give it a good twist and a yank, and he’d be off to the races. Bet he’d be done in less than—

“Norman? Are you wandering again?” Eisa asked beforebringing the hammer down on the steaks. “You think I tell you these things because I like the sound of my own voice? I want your opinion.”

Oh, you love the sound of your own voice. You can’t kid a kidder, you cackling old—

Norman cleared his throat and gave the sports page another rattle. “I’m trying to get up on the game before it starts.”

“Sure, because that’s important.” Eisa smacked the hammer down again. She put some oomph behind it; the cabinets rattled with that one.

Norman felt a tickle at his temple and realized he was sweating. He wiped it away with the back of his hand, caught his reflection in the butter knife as he did. For a brief second, he didn’t recognize himself. It was his eyes. Not like looking in a mirror, the blade distorted his features slightly, stretched them out, he got that, but those eyes were not his own.

“Maybe you should drive me,” Eisa said, breaking the momentary silence.

“Drive you where?”

Smack!

Christ, those poor steaks.

She said something under her breath, all he caught was “ … never listen.”

Why the hell was it so hot in here? Did Eisa forget to shut the oven down? Norman’s shirt was sticking to his back and chest. “Can you open the window?”

If Eisa heard him

and she most certainly did

she made no move for the window behind the sink. Instead, she beat the steaks with three quick hits—Smack! Smack! Smack!—in rapid succession.

Norman found himself staring at that soft spot on her neck as she did it. The loose flesh bobbed and quivered like a—whatwas that dog called?—a Shar-Pei, that was it. A fucking Shar-Pei. He remembered what that neck looked like forty-seven years ago, and it certainly wasn’t that. No loose, flabby skin back then. No cackle. No blah, blah, blah, run-off-at-the-mouth. Then a crazy thought entered his head—well, not that crazy; it actually made a lot of sense—if he cut deep enough, if he got under that flabby skin and sliced it away, would he find the woman he married?

A butter knife had no will of its own, no thoughts or feelings, but Norman was fairly certain the knife grew warm in his hand, became excited, anxious. The knife sent him some kind of signal, as if saying,I like where your head’s at, Norman. Not only do I think you’re right, I think you’re a goddamn genius for figuring it out. Count me in. Let’s do this. I know I’m not sharp, but I’ll do my part, just put some elbow grease behind it.

“The window, Eisa,” Norman heard himself say in a voice that wasn’t his anymore, this one belonged to the eyes he saw in that reflection.

This time, she did reach for the window. She unlocked it, tried to lift the sash, but the window didn’t budge. “I think the wood is swollen again. It’s stuck.” She grunted.

Norman set the newspaper down carefully, avoiding the dirty and wet spots on the table. He fully intended to finish that story about Jackie Bradley Jr. later, and there was no reason to muck it up more than it already was. He rose and felt a strength rush through his limbs he hadn’t felt in a long time, maybe half a lifetime ago.

The knife firmly in his grip, Norman eased up behind Eisa, both eyes on her neck as he reached around her for the window. “Let me give it a try.”

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