The Dead Husband Carter Wilson (autobiographies to read .TXT) 📖

break. A mental-health break, really. But you couldn’t even let me have that. Now that person is gone, and this one is here.” I drop the apron to the ground. “So fuck you, John. And fuck this job.”

“You’re quitting?”

His sublimely stupid remark makes me laugh out loud, pulling me back an inch from my anger.

“Yes, that’s what happening here. If you didn’t help spread those rumors, then no hard feelings, okay? But if you did, you’re a god-awful person.”

John turns and walks back inside, no other words spoken between us.

I look down at the apron on the ground.

Tuli’s Gourmet Grocer

Bury, NH

Est. 2008

Next to the words is a cartoonish rendering of the actual Tuli, the owner’s dog. Just the animal’s big, dopey face, wide-eyed, mouth open. I always thought that dog looked so happy in the company’s logo, but now I think it looks dead. Those eyes have no life in them, the mouth only open because the muscles to close it no longer function. I picture that dog with a slit throat. Or worse, headless.

The nausea is back, and this time, it wins. I double over and retch onto the apron. The little that comes up lands on the poor dog’s face.

I stand, wipe my mouth, and walk to my car. As I glance up and spy the menacing snow clouds closing in, my world has suddenly never felt so suffocating.

Forty-One

The snow begins an hour later as I wait in the school car line for Max. Heavy, wet flakes, melting as they hit my windshield. But if this pace keeps up, the roads will soon be a mess. It would be a perfect night to be cozy at home, maybe play a few board games with Max by the fire, do a little writing after he’s in bed, then go to sleep early. Those are all things a person not riddled with stress might do. Mine will be a different evening altogether, because I need to talk to Cora.

Two minutes until the school bell. A red blur to my right, and I look over and see Tasha Collins walking up along the car line sidewalk. She’s ensconced in a cardinal-red winter coat that extends to her knees, and thousands of snowflakes swirl about her, jostling as if they’re trying to avoid her path.

She never has a smile on her face, but her expression now is even more severe than usual. Eyes focused straight ahead, hands in pockets, head tilted forward.

I see her and shrink into my seat, thinking of her dog. What that must have looked like. The horror of finding such a thing. Of having to tell your child what happened to the family pet. I wonder if she—

Tasha suddenly stops just as she reaches the front of my car. She tilts her head, and that deathly gaze bores right into me. All awareness of the cold and snow has surely left her consciousness; the only thing that registers with her is my presence.

The way she looks at me.

She thinks I did it.

Of course she does. She spread rumors about me and thinks I killed her dog as some kind of retaliation. She killed her husband, Tasha is thinking, so it must be nothing to kill a dog.

This, of course, is what Cora wants.

Tasha finally breaks her glare and continues walking, leaving me with a chill that doesn’t warm. If she does think I did it, she must have shared that with the police. Is it just a matter of time before I get another knock on my front door?

A minute later, Max hops in the car. He’s big enough for the front seat, but ever since Riley’s death, he’s chosen the back. When I asked him about this, he said he just felt safer back there. I had no reason to argue the point. It’s always safer in back.

“You see the snow?” he asks.

“Hard to miss it,” I say. “How was your day?” I lean my head back, and he leans forward and gives me a kiss on the cheek.

“Okay. Can we go sledding?”

“Not today, sweetie. The sun sets early this time of year. Only going to be a couple of hours of light left today.”

“That’s plenty of time.”

“But it just started snowing,” I say, pointing at the patchwork of white and green on the nearby field. “Nothing to sled on yet.”

“Oh yeah,” he says, surveying the landscape. “I’m dumb.”

“No, you’re not,” I say. “You need to love yourself. All the time.”

“What? I am dumb, you know.”

“No, Max, you’re not.”

“With some things I am.”

This incessant argument. The low self-esteem has been particularly pronounced in the last couple of months. The kid will be reading Faulkner by age thirteen, and he can’t give himself a break.

I don’t respond. Instead, I pull away from the car line and from Tasha Collins, easing into the snowy afternoon.

At home, things turn ugly. After a quick snack, Max falls into a mood, and now instead of himself being the target, it’s me. We’re in the living room and he refuses to do his homework, even though he has all of five math problems to complete. Normally, that would take ten minutes. Now, he acts as though I’m asking him to explain string theory to me. I reason with him. You know this stuff, Max. It’ll take no time at all. I threaten him. No screens or books until you’ve finished. I promise a reward. We can play a game before dinner if you finish it.

After an hour, I plead with him. Can you just do this? I really need you to do this. Ninety minutes later, I give up on him. I don’t know what to do with you. I’m trying my best, but you’re not letting me help you, and I can’t do this anymore. Not tonight.

Perhaps this was the stage he was waiting for me to reach, because the moment I give up on him, the assault launches. And Max doesn’t fire warning shots. He goes straight to nuclear.

“Sometimes I