by Linda McMullen
My mother wanted me to marry Hector, my deceased father’s godson. He was stolid and phlegmatic — and, I think, a little in love with me. While a trainee policeman, he came around twice a week… ostensibly to play bridge with my
mother, her superstitious old aunt, and me. Auntie Myrtle told our fortunes in cards, and everyone enjoyed a sip of port.
But I was determined to wed Mentor. A nobleman, older, thrice-married — ludicrously wealthy. He disdained cards. He took me to ballets, concerts, and the opera — “only the finest performances.” If it wasn’t love, it was more than
satisfactory.
Hector didn’t attend the ceremony. Mama kissed me, sighing.
Our honeymoon was at a private resort. He had the maid present me bare and pink as an oyster. Then he consumed me.
We retreated to his chateau.
We were enisled.
Mentor had to leave on business soon after. He left me his keys, warning me not to use the smallest (for a disused study, he said) under any circumstances.
Before his boat’s wake ceased to leave traces, I was at the study door.
I opened it.
The mouth of Hell! There — his three wives — their bodies! — carefully preserved, lovingly arranged…
Now Mentor’s shadow falls on me. I doubt he ever meant to go.
“You didn’t trust me.”
“Rightly. Now… I suggest saying your prayers — before I takeoff your head.”
“I think that’s a limiting option,” I replied.
Superbly amused: “Indeed?”
“You would narrow your indulgences shamefully.” Hefrowns. “Would it not be an exquisite pleasure to create a protégé, and watch her enact an intimatebetrayal?”
I hold my breath.
“With whom?”
“Hector.”
I have bought myself another month.
There is much to learn. Mentor says I have the benefit of surprise, but no strength, no cunning. He offers lessons in anatomy, knife skills, and embalming; the scenario is mine to devise.
Under Mentor’s eye, I write Hector a letter, saying I am returning to the capital, hinting at my misery. I invite him to dine with me in my hotel room.
We travel east.
Hector arrives. Mentor disappears behind the curtain; he burns a cigarette hole at eye level.
I tell Hector that my marriage has failed. I say I have spent my lonely hours developing a variant of bridge for two.
“Can we play?”
He nods.
I set the North arrow to point toward myself. I deal. My special deck includes standard and tarot cards: Hector receives the queen of spades, the hanged man, and the tower.
Expressions of confusion, then intense concentration, flit across his face. Then, finally, our old standard: “Four no trumps.”
“Same. For my game to succeed,” I continue. “One would have to change the arrow every hand.” I point it toward the window and re-deal. Hector receives the ace of spaces, the king of clubs, and the devil. His hand drifts casually toward his waist. I nod.
Then he fires his service revolver into the curtain.
A year later, we married.
Linda McMullen is a wife, mother, diplomat, and homesick Wisconsinite. Her short stories and the occasional poem have appeared in over sixty literary magazines, including Drunk Monkeys, Storgy, and Newfound.
