IT TAKES TWO

After a good dinner one can forgive anybody, even one’s own relatives—Oscar Wilde

No one that knew them expected the Kowalski’s’—Jeremy and Candace’s marriage to last. Least of all, Jeremy and Candace. They’d both decided to settle down in a small suburban town in Maryland, just inside the Bay Bridge. That was one of the few things they could agree. As with many couples today, they were incompatible. After nine years of marriage, separated within the last four of those years left Jeremy residing in the basement, refusing to leave for no other reason than spite.

He’d grown to despise her and was sure she felt the same. So, after she called it quits, their taste for each other grew in bitterness with each passing day.

And there was one other thing they both shared. One thing neither of them was aware of the other: both had psychotic tendencies.

July 3

Jeremy spent a majority of his time avoiding Candace. Most days, it was easy. He’d listen from the basement at her footsteps above him until he heard the chime of the alarm system beep, signally her departure. This morning, he would have no reprise. The princess (as he called her) strutted around the kitchen like a horse at a showing. Why is she still here? He thought as he paced back and forth.

Errupp! The hunger pangs became louder than her footsteps. After a night of binge drinking, bourbon, he needed food to settle the disruption in his stomach. “Fuck it,” he said to the cold, stucco walls that were fast becoming a prison barrier. If she wants to hang around, she’ll have to deal with me. Her hatred for him kept her roaming the rest of the house to destroy his happiness. He was certain of that. She didn’t work, choosing to live off her father’s money. Her only job was to be a bitch. To make him pay every chance she got—to stick it to him for his roving eye and habitual infidelity. “If that’s the game you want to play, I play along,” he said. Each syllable complemented his feet stomping on the way up the basement steps.

When he reached the kitchen, she was already seated at the breakfast nook. Her mouth was preparing for a bite of eggs. Then she cut her eyes at him and opened the morning paper.

Jeremy took what was left in the skillet, toasted two slices of bread and sat across from her.

Just before his first bite, Candace lowered the paper and glanced over at the man she agreed to marry nine-years previous. “We’re almost at the ten-year mark,” she said.

“Yep,” he said.

“When will you be able to move out?”

Jeremy never took his eyes off the newspaper. Doing so would prove that he was listening.

“You can’t stay here forever,” she said continued before returning to her paper.

He knew she would say that. Whenever they were alone, she’d ask the same question, (when will you be moving out?) How about never, bitch. The thought amused him so much his face broke into a smile. Then, he looked around the kitchen. His eyes darted about what he could see of the rest of the house. The place was gorgeous. Four-thousand-square-feet of wasted space built from the ground up, because, the princess could never live in a house once owned by someone else. Jeremy grew up in a rambler in the mid-west, and this thing could easily hold five of those houses. He never wanted it. Still, he couldn’t bring himself to leave. Not even when it was agreed, they separate.

The thought of her living with another man in his home wasn’t going to happen. He’d kill her before that took place.

That night as Jeremy plowed through a half bottle of Jack Daniels, watching the dim light break through the vertical blinds of the basement’s walk-out door, casting shadows that simulated jail-cell bars on the wall behind the couch he called a bed, thoughts of his soon-to-be ex-wife consumed his pre-sleep routine.

The princess was sitting on top of a gold mine. Actually, he was sitting on top of a small fortune: one with the sum of one million dollars. That’s the amount he remembered when they signed the life insurance papers a week after tying the knot.

She was worth something, after all. That is if she somehow kicked the bucket before he did.

For the first time in a while, Jeremy put down the bottle, pressed himself deep into the cushions of the couch, and grinned himself to sleep.

July 4

Like clockwork, Candace awoke with the sun and a smile on her face. She yawned and stretched her body within the plushness of the king-sized bed as it hugged every inch of her robust frame.

She was nowhere the size the day she was married, gaining two pounds a year since. But it was America’s birthday after all, and she would continue the tradition started by her late father in her hometown of Louisiana. For as long as she remembered, every fourth of July, friends, and relatives would come by with dishes of food to commemorate. And every year since moving away, her friends did the same.

A chef at heart, there was nothing more she enjoyed than making good food—exotic food. This year she chose a rich steak, smothered in a Béarnaise Sauce. A painstaking process that’s difficult to master: getting the right eggs, the clarified butter, the vinegar, the shallots, and herbs just right. She spent most of the morning obsessing over it, remembering to slow cook it at a low temperature, less she scrambled the eggs as she’d done twice before.

Bang-Bang-Bang! She knocked on the basement door, hoping that would jolt Jeremy awake. “What are you going to do today?” She yelled. Jeremy, sitting shirtless on the armrest of the sofa, said nothing. “Are you up? She again spoke.

“Yeah.”

“What are you doing today?”

What she meant was when would he be leaving. He was certain of that. Can’t have you around scaring my guests. I’ve got an image to uphold. He bit his lip to keep from yelling what he wanted to say. “Give me an hour.”

“An hour? It’s nearly one now. People will be here shortly,” she said.

“Look, I said an hour. The longer you stand there badgering me, the longer I’ll be in your hair.”

“You always do this to me. I’m beginning to believe it’s on purpose.”

“I don’t give a damn what you believe. Now, will you get away from the door so I can get dressed?”

Candace stood at the door for a few moments before walking away. And, Jeremy listened for her footsteps as they clopped in the direction of the kitchen.

That’s right, feed that fat fuckin’ face of yours, he thought, or did he say it out loud?

By one o’clock, guests began arriving, starting with Maggie, Candace’s friend and food critic. By two o’clock, the guests were sampling a spread that was fit for royalty: Beef Bourgeon, Coq Au Vin, Crawfish Etouffee. “You have to bite the head off and suck it,” Candace said to the guests.

“I’m not sucking the head of anything,” Maggie joked. “That sounds like grounds for a divorce.”

Everyone found the humor in that.

“But you must,” Candace assured. “That’s the only way to do it in Louisiana.”

Just then, Jeremy entered the kitchen.

“Jeremy. I didn’t know you were still here,” Maggie said before stuffing the body of a prawn into her mouth. Then she sucked it, throwing the carcass into a basket.

“I’m just getting ready to leave,” he said.

No one said a word, not even Candace who only rolled her eyes.

“You’re not staying? Maggie asked. “There’s so much food.” Candace shot Maggie a look that could cut her in half.

“There’s a bar he goes to. Isn’t that right?” Candace said, but she couldn’t look at him.

The room went silent. Everyone knew why the marriage didn’t last. There was no secret concerning Jeremy’s tendency to cheat. How it lasted so long was the puzzle no one could understand — most of all, Jeremy.

He was a man’s, man: a blue-collar, midwestern guy with a talent for fixing European automobiles. Traveling east for work, he ended up starting his own mechanics business, opening an Indie garage, not far from the home they now shared. And, that was how they met on a cold day in March when the suspension of her Land Rover failed.

“It’s probably nothing more than a height sensor gone astray,” he told her — an all-American smile billboarded across his face.

“Gone astray? They can do that?” She said, not knowing what else to say.

“You have no idea what I’m talking about, do you?”

Her body instinctively backed away as her face filled with blood. “I’m pretty obvious, huh?”

“No worries. You’d be surprised how many people have no idea of how their autos work. Mostly men and men are the worst to get through.”

Candace smiled. It was apparent that she found Jeremy attractive. “Do I detect an accent?” She said.

“Accent? I’m American, born and raised in Illinois.”

“That’s it! I knew I could hear some Midwest coming through.”

“What about you?” He said, grabbing a towel to wipe nothing from his hands. “Do I hear a southern drawl?

“Excuse me? I don’t drawl,” she said. Her smile grew larger.

It was just the reaction he was hoping to get. The moment she smiled; he knew his James Dean looks had won him over.

“Don’t get your panties in a bunch. I like women who drawl.”

“Oh, you do?” She crossed her arms and raised an eyebrow. “You’re sure of yourself, aren’t you?”

“Not really. I know what I like. Right now, I’m liking you in the worst way.”

Candace’s smile faded. “Is that so?”

Jeremy winked. It was the kind of gesture that meant: she wouldn’t be sorry. “Now why don’t you let me take you out for drinks.”

“What makes you think I drink?”

The cat and mouse game excited him. “Hell, everyone drinks something. How about a coffee then?”

“I’ll tell you what. If you can guess where I’m from, I’ll let you take me out for dinner.”

“That’s a deal,” he said. Circling her like an eagle sizing up prey, he looked her up and down. The long overcoat that must’ve been either camel of cashmere did not indicate how her body looked. It didn’t matter because everything about her added up to one thing: this was a woman with a few bucks.

Her face was round but not fat and displayed little make-up. When Jeremy was behind her, he leaned in and took a whiff of her hair dyed blonde hair that resembled the Gibson Girl of the Victorian era. It smelled fruity with floral notes: another indication of a woman with a nice bank account. Soon, he was standing in front of her again, inches from her nose.

“O.k. I think I got it,” Jeremy said.

“Well, let’s have it.”

“I’m guessing Louisiana. No, wait. I’ll bet New Orleans.”

Candace’s mouth dropped. “How’d ya know that? Are you psychic or something?”

“Nah, I saw the small sticker on the back of your window.”

Then, she remembered. “Oh, right. The NOLA sticker…” Both of them said the acronym in unison.

“Yeah. Plus, you introduced yourself as Ms. LaRue. The only LaRue I know is the tycoon, Chuck LaRue from Louisiana.

“He’s no tycoon,” she said as a matter of fact.

“You know him. Don’t tell me; you’re related to him.”

“He’s my daddy,” Candace said, pride clearly shown on her face.

And that was the beginning of their romance. A little over a year and they were married. But that never stopped Jeremy’s extra-marital activities. Nothing—not morality or the creole princess, could stop his wanting to sleep with other women, and he’d slept with two women that Candace was aware.

After the second, a nineteen-year-old who called the house constantly, Candace filed for divorce. And, she kept no secret from anyone. She broadcasted it as if her image meant nothing. What mattered to her was not some man but her passion—food.

“Yeah, I better get out of here,” Jeremy said to the whole of the group. “Good people, good booze, good food, real Americans unlike the pretentious fucks in my house, eating my food,” he said.

“Your house?” Candace pointed a fat finger in the direction of the front door. “You can leave now. No one wants to hear your bullshit.”

Jeremy stormed out, slamming the front door behind him. Fuck you. So, you want to embarrass me in front of your hoity-toity friends, eh. When this is all over, I’ll fix your bloated ass; he promised the universe.

As he’d done every fourth of July since the marriage’s demise, Jeremy drove to a local bar—a sports bar that was only minutes away.

He loathed going there but detested staying home, more, listening to the pretentious laughter of the guests, and most of all, the perceived happiness of his ex-wife.

Entering, Jeremy noticed the bar had fewer patrons than previous years. A few couples huddled in booths just off the entrance, a rambunctious boy running around unattended (probably the offspring of one of the couples), a regular, Timothy—a Vietnam vet, who sat in his favorite stool in front of the oversized flat-screen as it broadcasted a previously aired Orioles against the Red Sox game.

“Hey Tim,” Jeremy yelled out as soon as the smell of cold air and chicken wings attacked his face. Tim raised a shot glass and downed it in one gulp, his dirty blonde hair following his movements.

Jeremy stood at the door, engulfed in the last play—a double play by the Orioles that ended the third inning. “It’s about time we kick some ass,” he continued.

Tim smirked.

Then, his eyes found her—a lonely woman nursing a drink at the far end of the bar. He was aware of the regulars, and she was no regular. A woman with Jodie Foster looks. No, it was more like Jessica Chastain—the two women that gave him an instant erection, and this woman screamed sexiness.

He watched her from the door as she pushed a shot glass to her lips and chased it with a beer—a dark beer—his type of woman.

Candace would never do such a thing. Her cultured life dictated nothing less than French wine or Champagne to accompany a meal.

Would you look at that? This woman didn’t need a meal to imbibe.

Jeremy watched her as she downed two more shots. This was a woman after his heart. He had to know about her. But first, he would get the rundown from Tim.

Tim’s ass must’ve been made of lead because he never left the stool once he sat down. Not even to pee. And, moreover, the bastard knew everything about anybody who sat at the bar.

“Tim, my man,” Jeremy said before slithering up next to the veteran.

“What’s up, brother?” Tim spoke before finishing up the beer’s backwash left in his glass.

“How about that sweet piece,” Jeremy motioned.

Tim turned to the solitary woman as if she were untouchable. “Yeah,” he said in a croaky tone. “I wouldn’t mess with that one if I was you.”

“What are you saying? Don’t tell me you wouldn’t mind slipping her the stiff one.”

“Allz I’m saying is there’s something dangerous about that one. She’s already shot down two dumbasses.”

“So what? She’s picky. You’re not going to tell me you are afraid of that.”

“Damn right. There’s something in her eyes. I’ve seen it before on tour. And believe you, me, it ain’t nothing you want to deal with.”

Jeremy prized the veteran’s wisdom. Having an uncle who’d served and died in Vietnam, Tim had become a surrogate.

But this woman was too delicious to look away. So, when she’d finished her beer, Jeremy ordered two more whiskeys and carried them over.

“That’s what I like to see,” he said, setting both glasses down, one in front of her. “A woman who can down a shot without blinking.”

She turned her gaze toward him with eyes as clear and grey as rain clouds about to break.

“This is nothing,” she said. “I can swallow more than whiskey and beer.”

“You don’t say,” Jeremy said. His attention dangled on her every word.

“Of course. Alcohol isn’t the only thing I can swallow,” she said before gulping the shot glass of whiskey. Then, she bit her lower lip. Its fullness swelled between her teeth.

A flirt—another attribute he loved in his women. Not to mention, she was easy on the eyes. So easy that when he saw the pink heels of her bare sandaled feet resting on the bar stools footrest; he became aroused.

There was no misunderstanding as to what he was thinking, and she chuckled.

But there was something else that caused his heart to beat uncontrollably within his chest: she had an accent.

“Do I detect an accent?” He said, trying to nail it down. Spanish? French-ish? No, it was something far more exotic than that.

“I’m Brazilian,” she said while resting her chin in her palm.

Top of the fifth inning and Jeremy watched the lonely woman as she watched the Orioles bring home another man.

“This one will be over if the Red Sox don’t wake up, soon,” she said.

Not knowing what else to keep her interest, Jeremy said the first thing that came to mind. “How do you know so much about baseball? I thought volleyball was supreme in Brazil,” he said.

“Then, you are as stupid as you look.” She turned to him and raised one eyebrow.

It was a challenge, and Jeremy accepted it. Another checkmark as to what he loved in his women—sarcasm.

“You are a breath of fresh air,” he said. “My…” he said as he slipped his left hand under the bar.

“Wife,” she said, letting him know she’d seen his ring finger.

“Well, yes.” There was no use in trying to hide it. “She would never be interested in anything I hold dear.”

Then, the woman said something that only Jeremy could understand. “That means you’re with the wrong woman.” Those words dropped upon him as if the bar’s ceiling had caved in on him. “And for the record,” she continued. “Making love is the only thing that’s supreme in Brazil.”

“What’s your name, if you don’t mind me asking”? Jeremy said before raising a finger for another round of shots.

“Samantha,” she said.

“Jeremy,” he said, and that was the beginning of their introduction.

Within a few hours, the two had talked until there wasn’t much to say until fireworks exploded off in the distance until Jeremy noticed that Tim had left.

Jeremy and Samantha sat in the parking lot, talking and randomly kissing, watching fireworks light up the night for their new union.

Just after 2:30 AM, head spinning from beer and coughing from the half pack of cigarettes that he’d smoked throughout the night, Jeremy fumbled with his keys at the front door. Once inside, he saw the light from the kitchen, followed by soft music.

“Jeremy,” Candace called out as soon as his hand landed on the brass knob of the basement door.

Reluctantly, he went to see what she wanted.

There, behind the island, she stood, a glass of wine in one hand, a rounded hip in the other.

Jeremy propped himself against the wall and pretended not to notice the silk robe as it fell open across her chest. She almost looked sexy to him. If it wasn’t for the disgust every time, he lay eyes on her rotund frame; he would have tried to take her to bed.

“I need to talk to you about something,” she said before taking a sip.

Belch! Jeremy said nothing. He rested his head against the wall and let his eyes wander the ceiling.

“Did you hear what I said? Candace continued. “We need to talk. Or are you too drunk, again?”

“So, talk,” he said, finally.

“I’m going away for a couple of weeks,” she said.

Jeremy dropped his head and trained his eyes on her. “And where would you go for a couple of weeks?” He shot back.

“France.” For a moment, Candace forgot who she was talking to and allowed a smile to display.

“What the hell for?”

“To learn cooking the French way,” she said. “I’ll be studying at the Atelier des Sens in Paris. Well, the Atelier Bastille, in the 11th arrondissement, to be exact. I applied and was accepted.”

“I’m gonna be sick,” he mumbled when she giggled with excitement. “By yourself? You can never do anything by yourself.”

“Not true, but no. I won’t be going by myself. There’s Maggie, of course…”

“Of course.”

“There’s Sue and Freddy. Fred will be my partner.”

Maggie went everywhere with Candace. The two were inseparable. (The metastasis of cancer is how Jeremy referred to her.)

And Sue, bless her heart, was nothing more than a carbon copy of Maggie, only with the personality of a slug. But Fred. Jeremy had never heard the name, Fred.

“Freddy?” Jeremy spoke before realizing. “I don’t remember him.”

Candace took a final swig of wine before putting the glass in the dishwasher. “That’s because you’ve never met Fred,” she said. A grin and sigh followed.

Jeremy knew better than to go in-depth. It would only fuel what he wished to be non-apparent—that jealousy was the root of the question.

He knew the signs: the starry look in her eyes; the smile on her lips, the olive skin that took on a reddish hue. “Is this for the food or…?”

“Oh, come on. You can’t be jealous,” Candace said while adjusting her breasts beneath the robe. Jeremy said nothing. “I don’t believe it; you’re jealous.”

“Don’t be a bitch. Why would I be jealous?”

Suddenly, sobriety began to overtake him.

“I don’t know; you tell me.”

It was that type of comment that infuriated him. And the smug look on her face only powered what he was already thinking—get rid of her for good.

“When are you leaving and why are you telling me?” He pretended not to care.

“August 1st. As much as want you out of here, I’ll need you to look after my place.”

There it is again—the sly comment; the smug look. “Your place? The last I looked; my name was also on the—”

“I don’t have time for this,” she said before rushing past him, bumping his arm in the process. “When I return, we’ll settle the living arrangements, once and for all.”

You’ve got that right if you leave at all.

For the remainder of the early morning hours, Jeremy sat awake in his bed, fantasizing on two things: the woman he’d met and different ways to kill his ex-wife.

August 1

Wicked intentions flooded Jeremy’s brain the day Candace left for France. Mostly on the companion, he knew the least about—Fred. He and Candace’s life was a billboard for those that knew them—everyone knew of his womanizing. It was a fact, guaranteed like the daily funnies, expected from a blue-collar, mid-western guy, such as himself. But this man—fourth wheel Fred, who Candace gushed upon the same way she did when the two began dating—he wouldn’t allow this stranger to take his place.

Jeremy pondered such a man. A soft-boiled pansy with a penchant for spices. A looser from a Master Chef episode. Lord knows, Jeremy had seen more than his share of that show. Still, what if he was wrong? What if this sonofabitch was smart? Smooth enough to come in and steal everything he’d spent years investing blood, sweat, and tears. Well, that wasn’t going to happen on his watch.

But there was something else pressing him. Something that nearly escaped his lecherous mind—another encounter with Samantha.

Five minutes later, he dialed her number and five minutes after that; she was in route to see him.

He would cook for her a blackened trout, seasoned rice, and a lemon pepper asparagus. It was the only dish he’d learned from Candace and one he’d never made for his soon-to-be ex-wife.

They would talk and drink, and if everything went according to plan; he would bed her. Well, things went better than expected. Samantha spent the majority of the first week as Jeremy’s love slave in the bed he once shared with Candace. (It serves the fatty right. If she’d only behaved as a good wife should.)

Sam (as Jeremy called her) asked one day during the second week. “Why haven’t you accepted the divorce and left?”

“Because,” he said as if a child had hijacked his body. “That’s exactly what she wants.”

“It sounds like you care for her more than you’re willing to admit,” Sam shot back.

It was true; he did care for her. The short time they had together created something unnamable in his veins. “You don’t know her. Nah, that ship sailed a long time ago,” he assured. Then, he looked into the darkest eyes he’d ever seen. “You know,” he elbowed her. “I could be rolling in a lot of money.”

Samantha glanced his way but said nothing. Jeremy found her smirk and short chuckle challenging.

“I’m serious,” he said. “If something were to happen to her, millions would come to me tout de suite.”

Samantha pursed her lips and sighed as if she’d heard it all before.

The tea house she’d chosen for them to meet was eerily quiet, but Jeremy didn’t care unlike her.

“Shouldn’t we be more discreet?” She said, turning to the two other patrons sprinkled at tables.

“Why? Do you think I care what anybody thinks of me?” He said.

“No. But you sound as though you were planning something.”

A feeling of annoyance began to burn within his lower abdomen. “Maybe I am,” he said once the burning had reached its boiling point.

Samantha’s eyes grew two sizes larger. “Careful lover. I may think you’re—”

“Serious?” He finished her sentence. “I am.” She attached both arms around one of his and leaned in closer. “I’ve been thinking about it for some time,” he continued. “The things we could do with that money—my money.”

“Are you saying you want to be with me?” She said.

Jeremy weighed the question for a moment. He’d spent years getting what he wanted by telling women the things they’d wanted to hear, but this woman was different. There was something about her that made him ache, made him long for her. And for the first time since Candace, he could see himself with her, forever.

“You’re all I think about,” he said, a slight grimace formed on his face after he said it.

“I think about you as well,” she said. “I think I love you.”

The weight of uncertainty had lifted. “Then it’s settled. The bitch has got to go.”

“But how?” Samantha loosened her arms and threw an elbow on the table and listened with undying attention. “How will you do it?”

“I don’t know, yet,” he said. The fact that Samantha never raised an eyebrow left him feeling one thing: this woman was his perfect match.

August 25

It had been two weeks since Candace’s return, and Jeremy had yet to succeed in implementing a way to kill his ex-wife, let alone, bypassing the Slayer Rule. First, he tried oiling the steps that led out onto the patio. Being nearly two-hundred and fifty pounds, twenty of those pounds being in her breasts, Candace hadn’t seen her feet for much of their marriage. But she was agile and sure-footed, tiptoeing across the slippery trap as if her feet were treading on sandpaper.

Jeremy thought of pushing her down the steps but because she once fell as a child, developed a phobia that left her death-gripping any banister ever since.

Then it came to him. A few months prior, she was given oxycodone after oral surgery for a rotten wisdom tooth. Refusing to take it, she kept it in a locked box in the medicine cabinet. All he would have to do is retrieve the key kept in a drawer of her nightstand.

So, he waited until she made her weekly run to the grocery store for ingredients for her latest dish.

“The bitch finally left.” He called Samantha to let her know of his progress. Then, off he ran up the stairs, two paperclips in hand. Jeremy knew Candace didn’t trust him, kept her boudoir locked like fort Knox. He chuckled as he picked it, the way he’d picked it when Samantha and he, fucked on Candace’s bed.

Once inside, he went to work, hitting the notorious nightstand and the key to his salvation.

Where the fuck is it, he thought. The fat bitch moved it. Now, he was forced to find the damn thing, get the opioid and retrace his steps, making sure to cover his tracks.

The bed. Thank the Gods. The key was between the mattress. Where else would a lazy, fat woman put it? Jeremy opened the lockbox and snatched the small brown container filled with the pastel blue pills when he heard the garage door open.

Shit. She’s back early.

Jeremy quickly closed the box, place the key back, lock the door, and rush to the kitchen by the time Candace lowered the garage door. Thank the Gods she’s slow as fuck.

It left him enough time to paper towel a handful of pills, crushed by a spoon and scooped in a glass of wine he’d picked up—an obscure merlot, stirring the potion with a finger.

His heart nearly stopped when she waddled through the door connected to the garage.

“What’s going on here? Why are you breathing so heavy?” She said when she saw him rocking back and forth like a child waiting to use the bathroom.

“I was waiting for you,” he said. “Got you some wine.”

“Really,” she said. “How uncanny. I picked you up some beer. I didn’t know which one to get, but the guy behind the counter suggested this.” She lifted a six-pack from a brown paper bag. That’s when she noticed beads of sweat forming along his temples. “You’re sweating. What have you been doing? Never mind. It looks like you need one of these now.”

Jeremy reached a nervous hand toward her, and she lowered the bottles back into their paper wrapper. “I don’t think so,” she said. “Some of us have culture.”

Candace brushed his shoulders as she waddled past him, into the kitchen. And after putting everything away, poured the beer in a pilsner glass. The gesture was the nicest thing she’d ever done, and it almost made him feel sorry for what he was about to do, almost.

“A truce,” Jeremy said, at the same time, sliding the wine glass across the marble counter toward Candace. She smiled.

“Is that what this is? A truce?” She said. A smile broke out on her otherwise solemn face. Jeremy nodded. “Does that mean you’re finally leaving without a fight?”

It means you should’ve shut up. If Candace could see what he was thinking, she would never pick up that wine glass. Instead, it was in her grasp on its way up to her lips.

Now, Jeremy was fisting the pilsner, feeling the condensation forming between his fingers. “A toast,” he raised his glass. “To the future.”

“To the future,” Candace agreed.

As Jeremy pushed the glass up, he kept one eye on Candace, listening until he heard her swallow before downing the beer in one go.

Clink! Candace sat the glass down after one swallow.

“Hey! Finish that!” Jeremy said.

“I will, but before I forget, I need to take out my cannoli. I have someone coming in a few,” she said.

“You’re kidding, right? I’ve just made a toast and you won’t—”

“I will but first things first,” she said with a glimmer of amusement.

Jeremy slammed the glass down. “Is it that Fred guy?” Candace said nothing. She went about her business, laying her precious dessert on a laced-lined platter. “What’s he to you?” Again, Candace kept silent. “Did you hear what I said.” She not only didn’t answer; she began to hum. Fury welled up from the hops in Jeremy’s belly until he couldn’t stand it any longer and he lunged at her, grabbing her arm. “I asked you a question.”

Unexpectedly, his anger subsided, replaced with another feeling—a warm and euphoric sensation that buckled his knees. It was the most severe high he’d ever experienced, like he’d taken mushrooms or LSD, only without the trip. His body stumbled backward until the edge of the granite countertop met his back—his right kidney, dropping him to the wooden floor with a thud. The blinding light from the recessed bulbs was only thing his eyes found to focus. He felt numb but aware, and the fear that he might actually swallow his tongue became his only thought.

“Jeremy! Jeremy! Candace yelled. To him, her voice sounded as if it were off in the distance. “You don’t look well,” she continued. “I better get you down to the basement.”

The woman put both arms under his and hoisted him up in one quick motion. She was strong, more than strong. A slight woman in height, all the weight she’d acquired over the years gave her superhuman strength.

The last thing Jeremy remembered was the void look in her eyes when she looked at him and her rhythmic breathing that resembled a train leaving a station. Then, everything went black.

When Jeremy’s eyes opened, the basement was dark, save the small light that sat on his nightstand. His shadow in between its illumination cast an eerie mural on the wall across the room.

I don’t remember turning on the light. It was possible, considering his disoriented state, along with the buzzing in his head that synced with the pounding beating in his chest.

He-he-he! The sound of giggling sprung from the dark hallway that led to his converted bedroom. Sitting up, he wiped the film from his eyes, squinted in that direction and waited.

He-he! There it was again, from deep within the darkness — a sound like women snickering loud enough to be noticed.

“Who’s that?” Jeremy yelled out.

“It’s me, Jeremy,” Candace’s voice reached out from the void.

“What the hell are you doing? And what the fuck did you put in my beer?”

“You needed to be out of the way while we prepared everything,” she said. Her disembodied voice was echoing.

“Prepared everything? Who’s we? And why are you creeping around in the dark?”

“I’m not creeping, and I’m not alone.”

“Yeah? Who’s with you?”

At that moment, he pulled himself to his feet.

“Don’t get up,” she said. “Have a seat. It’s better that way.”

“I’m not sitting down until you and whoever’s with you come out. I know you’re not alone because I can hear breathing.”

“Very well,” she said.

Jeremy waited, still struggling with blurred vision.

Squeak! Squeak! Squeak! A sound akin to the toy wagon he had as a child, a stroller, or a grocery cart was coming closer to him. Soon enough, he saw it—a cart like the ones used by chefs’, on top, a butler’s serving tray, complete with lid and all.

Pushing it along with a grin as wide as a jack-o-lantern was Candace, her teeth gleaming like the moon bouncing off a wolf’s teeth as it howled at it. From the dimness of the hallway, she placed the cart a few feet from Jeremy’s bed.

“Who are you?” He asked, turning his attention to the figure emerging from the shadows.

“You remember me,” the voice spoke.

When his eyes finally came into focus, there in front of him was Samantha, her face equally unnerving.

“Sam?” What are you doing here?” He asked as if he refused to believe that something was not as it seemed.

“I’m here to do the impossible,” she said. The cryptic statement ran his blood cold.

“What is this?” he asked.

Candace placed her hand on the lid of the server and lifted it. “You know Freddy, already,” she said. The grin on her face grew wider.

“Freddy?” Jeremy said, just above a whisper. “You told me your name was Samantha.”

“It is,” she said, placing towels on the remainder of the serving tray.

Then, Candace lifted the lid, revealing what looked like saws, knives, and an assortment of meat trimming tools.

Samantha turned to Candace. “I’ll bet that liver is good and pickled by now,” she said, a matter of fact.

“Candace responded curtly. “Hmm, by a few beers, I’ll bet. A nice sherry would’ve been better.”

Jeremy watched the two talk as if they were concocting the perfect dish. That was when Samantha glared at him.

“You’re still confused?” She said. Looking up from the polished steel, she answered the question that was front and center in his mind. “Samantha is my first name. Stupid little man. You’ve forgotten; I’m Brazilian. My full name is Samantha Frederico Antonio Souza. I’m named after both of my grandfathers.

Surprisingly, it all made sense, but it was much too weird. And all Jeremy could think about was an escape.

The back door, he thought. If I could make it there…And like a thief caught in the act, he ran for the locked back door.

The Key. The goddamn key that Candace had refused to give him.

Candace chuckled, again. “You want to leave? That’s funny when you wouldn’t leave before.”

“You can’t leave now,” Sam or Freddy said as she pulled a small object from the top and back of her tight skinny jeans.

What’s that? He wasn’t going to hang around to find out. But the second he jumped into motion, a jolt struck him like liquid magma that caused each cell in his body to fall into submission, leaving him bouncing and heaving on the basement floor.

The sound of cutlery clinking, no, more like being sharpened, fibrillated Jeremy from unconsciousness.

Above him stood Samantha, smiling and waving a chrome device that resembled Luke Skywalker’s lightsaber. And with the pain that sat like a crown on his nerve endings, he wasn’t sure it wasn’t a laser that entered his body.

“I’m having trouble breathing,” Jeremy said in a whisper.

“Samantha tilted her head in confirmation. “That’s because I use more volts than necessary. You’ll be incapacitated for some time,” she assured.

The two women talked as if they were forming a Tupperware party.

“We’ll need to get him to the tub to finish,” Candace said after sharpening a what looked like a cleaver.

“Don’t forget the fat,” Samantha stated. “Fat adds flavor.”

Jeremy listened as the two women conversed. None of what they were saying was good. It was as if they were compiling the perfect recipe.

“What’s happening?” He barely spoke the words together.

Pluck! Samantha struck his face with her middle finger. “You will do just fine.”

Then, Candace stood over him. Her stout body straddled his face, reminding Jeremy of what he’d come to despise.

“Did you think I wouldn’t know what you were thinking?” Candace said. Jeremy thought long and hard before he realized that she was referring to the oxycodone he’d been putting in her wine. “You were always so cheap. Did you think I would drink the cheap merlot that you’d bring in this house? You were always so stupid. Wine has to fit the meal.” Then, she straddled his face; her private area sat flush with his mouth. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do this,” she continued. “You have no idea the trouble I’ve had trying to get rid of you. I could care less about the insurance; it was the idea that you should continue to be a thorn in my ass.” Jeremy listened, mouth agape and in disbelief. “This was Freddy’s idea, you know. I wanted a delicious Pâté, but she convinced me that we could also get a heart stew out of you.”

They’re trying to scare me, he thought.

“You will make for a good dish,” Samantha said. Her excitement burst from every pore.

Jeremy tilted his head in Samantha’s direction. “congrats,” he said, as much as his voice would allow. “To think I thought we would have a life together.”

Samantha laughed in a haughtily. “You are what we say in Brazil, a pateta.”

If his life didn’t depend on it, Jeremy would’ve inquired as to the definition. But the way she said it meant nothing good.

His mind bounced back and forth on how to rid himself. “Help,” was the only thing his vocal cords vibrated.

“To the bathroom?” Candace yelled over her shoulders.

“Yes,” Samantha yelled back. “Much cleaner that way.”

“I’m so excited,” said Candace before grabbing Jeremy’s limp body his shirt collar. When his body refused to budge, she slapped him across the face. “Don’t be difficult,” she told him. Tears formed in the corner of his eyes caused by the sting of her hand.

“Is he giving you trouble?” Samantha asked. “Grab his feet.”

When she said that, Jeremy knew all jokes seized. It was that, and the smell of paprika, cumin, onions, and other spices that filled the room with culinary aromas.

He tried to move his body without luck as they drug him to the bathroom.

“Help,” he again uttered, more like a guttural whisper, this time. The numb yet electrifying feeling that had locked his muscles down remained in charge. “Helllp.”

But it was too late. Very soon, dinner would be ready.

End