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Excerpt from More Than One Way by Chris Enix
The next morning, I began my preparations. I knew I’d have to work quickly, but it shouldn’t be much of a problem. I mixed the marinade, measuring out spices and oils and sauces, and simmered them to perfection. Then I went out to get the remaining ingredient while my marinade cooled. I went to her (my) house and tried the key. The door wouldn’t budge. I checked the windows, and they were all locked. Guess I’ll have to go to Plan B, I thought. I opened the gate and let myself into the back yard. The back door was locked, but I had expected as much. I dropped to my knee, and opened the kitty door. “Bootsie,” I called through the opening in my sweetest voice, “Come here you little bastard. Here, kitty, kitty, kitty.” Nothing. My heart raced. What if he didn’t come? I’d be beside myself. I peered into the opening, gaining a cat’s-eye view of my old home. The room wasn’t quite a disaster, but it was close. The sink was piled high with dirty dishes, and the Cheerios box was sitting on the table beside an empty jug of milk. Guess I was wrong about her cooking abilities, I thought. She can cook Cheerios. I called again. Still no sign of the fat little fuck. But I was prepared. I reached into my pocket and pulled out a small stuffed mouse toy. I shook it vigorously, the tiny bells inside jingling. Finally, I heard a faint jingling reply. Bootsie wore a bell-collar, and it rang as he came running through the house. I shook the toy once more, as I saw him round the corner. As he approached, I pulled my arm out of the door, and he followed. I scooped him up with one hand around his fat belly and began walking to the car. He looked at me as if to question my presence, but he was complacent; he never tried once to get away from me. And they say that cats are smarter than dogs. I drove to my apartment (I had not elected to move back in with mom and dad; that would have been a whole different type of hell), allowing Bootsie to roam my car as he had many times before, trying to ignore the sound of his claws scratching in and out of my upholstery. Just before we got to my house, though, I heard a strange hawing, yacking sound coming from the floorboard to my right. I veered quickly to the side of the road and opened the passenger door, hoping that the little monster would jump out before he vomited, but I had no such luck. I ran to the passenger side, reaching it just as he began licking at the putrid mess. Luckily, most of the mess was concentrated on my floor mat, which I threw out on to the graveled burm. I added to the mess, spewing my own breakfast on top of the cat’s.
When I got home, Bootsie was his normal, annoying self. He wove in and out of my legs as I moved about the kitchen, getting a bowl, my cutting board, and my knives (a hunting knife for starters and my filet knife for the finer work), stopping occasionally to dig-in for a scratch at my calves. I started towards the bathroom, Bootsie still at my feet, then returned quickly to grab a hammer. I went into the bathroom and Bootsie followed me into the room. It was bright in there; everything was white and very clean. It reminded me of a hospital bathroom. The knives and cutting board I placed in the tub. The bowl I put on the floor beside the white porcelain toilet. “Come here, Bootsie,” I said. “Time to go nite-nite.” I picked him up and set him gently in the tub, petting the fine white fur on the back of his neck. He purred contently as I raised the hammer with my right hand, but he must have sensed something, because just as I was about to send him off to that great scratching post in the sky, he tensed. He laid his ears back on his head and uttered a low growl. I dropped the hammer and tried to get a good grip on his neck, but he jerked loose and swatted at me, catching one feline claw in the palm of my hand. I howled in pain. Blood squirted out of my hand and onto his white coat. I swear, I think it excited him somehow. He let out another growl and jumped into the middle of the clear shower curtain. I wrapped the curtain around him and slammed him against the tile shower wall. I slid the hammer closer with my foot, still holding the curtain tight. Bootsie was struggling to swat at me again, and I felt one of his claws poke through into my left index finger. I reached down and struggled to pick up the hammer by the claw. I maneuvered it as best I could in my hand, trying to turn the tool around business end-first. Finally, I had it. I struck the curtain hard just above my hand. It spasmed hard and I heard a faint jingle coming from within the curtain. The white fur beneath the curtain was now streaked heavily with red. I took aim again. “I’ll take what’s behind curtain number one, Monty!” I bellowed, and hit him solid in the head. He went limp. . I looked down, and blood was circling into the drain. I was reminded immediately of the shower scene in Psycho
It took only about fifteen minutes to clean and filet enough meat for my recipe. There was no need to be precise; I wasn’t planning on saving any more meat than I needed. I took off my blood-covered t-shirt and threw it into the tub, and took the bowl of meat to the kitchen. I poured the marinade over the chunks and placed the bowl in the fridge. Now I had to clean up. I took two kitchen trash bags into the bathroom and double-bagged fur, gore, t-shirt and all, pausing to take one single item. Then I turned the shower on and watched as the red stains thinned and eventually disappeared. I wiped up the little bit of blood on the floor. I showered quickly and went back to cooking. The rest was quite simple, really. I skewered the meat and alternated with green pepper, onion, and pineapple chunks. While the meat barbequed, I made a batch of my fried rice, adding tiny chunks of Bootsie in place of the pork. Soon a fine aroma overtook my nostrils. I put everything into cheap plastic containers (no way was I going to use my good Tupperware for this), and placed them in a cardboard shoe box. I went to the fridge and grabbed the soy sauce, and headed off to meet Donna.
I drove to Donna’s house, making a quick stop in the alley behind the Smiling Dragon Chinese restaurant and disposed of Bootsie’s remains in their dumpster (let them explain that to the health department, I thought, and giggled. When I arrived at seven, she still wasn’t home. I waited fifteen minutes before I saw the familiar white Mustang (which I had picked out) coming down the street. She pulled in and climbed slowly out of the car, not looking my way. I saw her long, straw-blonde hair and thought immediately of all the times I had run my fingers through it, caressing her neck, and—and what? It was all a joke, wasn’t it? She’d have been just as happy if I’d have been someone else; hell, she’d probably imagined it. “Hi, Hon- I mean Donna, how was work?” She walked to the door and turned the key, still not looking at me. “Fine.” I shrugged and carried the box inside and set it on the counter. Donna went without a word to her room and I could hear her drawers rustling as she changed clothes. “Bootsie, where are you, baby” she called once, and I shuddered. I took the clear containers out of the box and placed the rice container in the microwave. Donna came out of her room. She was dressed in a beautiful white blouse that I hadn’t seen before. Her hair lay perfectly against her shoulders. “Hi,” she said, but the delivery implied a certain friendliness that I hadn’t heard in her voice for some time. “Have you seen Bootsie?” she asked. “He was outside when I got here,” I said. “I called him, but he didn’t want anything to do with me.” “I think there’s a cat in heat around here. He’s been gone a lot this week.” I took two of the plates that my grandmother had given us from the cupboard and got ready to serve the food. I took the rice out of the microwave and replaced it with the main entrée. “What do you call this?”
She smiled the pretty, friendly smile that I had fallen in love with years before. Her hazel eyes sparkled. “It sounds delicious.” Again, that tone.. I took the cat out of the microwave and began portioning it out. I set Donna’s plate in front of her, and as she looked up at me, tears began to well in her eyes. “I’m so sorry,” she began. “I’ve treated you so badly, and I’ve cheated on you, and now I miss you.” The tears were coming in great rivers now, and her makeup began to run. “I love you, Paul. Do you forgive me?” I lied. “I’m not mad at you anymore, if that’s what you mean.” “But,” she sobbed, “will you come back?” My heart jumped. She wanted me back! But that wasn’t what I wanted anymore, I remembered. I’d suffered with her enough for one lifetime. “What about what’s-his-name? And Savannah?”
Never had I felt so like laughing. This bitch expected me to take her back because the man with whom she had cheated on me was screwing around with her best friend. It’s like those commercials say: priceless.. “I’m sorry, baby.” I held her against my chest, glad that she couldn’t see my smile. After a few minutes, she stopped crying. “We can talk about everything else in a few,” I suggested. “Right now the cat’s getting cold; let’s eat.” I cringed as soon as the words left my mouth, but she didn’t hear what I said. She took her fork and stirred around the food on her plate. I watched anxiously for her to take her first bite. “I don’t understand,” she said. “I mean, I thought I had a good relationship finally. I don’t know what I did to deserve this.” She wiped her eyes with a tissue. “Well, you know. Sometimes things just happen.”
She opened her mouth. I waited for what seemed an eternity. Then, something furled her brow. She set the fork back on her plate. She looked down at her plate, then she looked at me. “What is this?”
“Not the food. I mean, what is all this? You bring me a meal like this the day after I bust my boyfriend and best friend, and now you’re being sweet to me? Did you already know about them?”” “How could I? I asked you to see me before you busted them.” “Oh. It just seems suspicious.” You have no idea, I thought. She picked up the fork and stuffed the first bite into her mouth. I tensed. If it didn’t taste good, I’d never be able to keep up the ruse. “This is good, Paul,” she said with her mouth still half full. “Where did you come up with this recipe?” “The internet.” “Well? Aren’t you going to taste it?”
We continued our meal mostly in silence. I stopped myself after one small plate, but Donna had seconds; she finished off the food. “So what do you say,” she said while dabbing a bit of red sauce from her blouse, “do you want to give us another go?” I looked into her hazel eyes. There was no love there; there never had been. She was just as selfish as she had ever been. “I came over here to say goodbye.” Tears returned to her eyes as if on cue. Damn, she was good. “But I thought you missed me…” “I did, but that doesn’t mean I want to go through another day with you, let alone another three years or so. You were bad to me in even more ways than you realize.” I stood up and walked to the door. “Don’t forget, I made you a fortune cookie. It’s on the counter.” I left the room and the house, not waiting to see her reaction to the cookie. When she picked it up, it would jingle faintly. There would be no paper fortune inside. She wouldn’t need one to understand.
I didn’t really care.
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