The themes
of peeing on churches and spurting will show up in next week’s blog post
(although working those in just now fulfills my two technical obligations for
this week). I got a good start on Dave and Mattie’s story, had a heart-to-heart
with my muse (who is a real bitch) and we agreed where to go from there.
Then, true
to form for me these days, crap got in the way of what I wanted to do. Today’s crap came in the form of a natural gas leak. At my house. I was hunting stink bug
nymphs in my herb garden. They like the mint and oregano, the little fuckers.
Instead of ripping out the entire garden (like I did two years ago), I’m trying
a more surgical approach this year. As I was cutting out nymph-ridden herbs, I
got close enough to the natural gas connection to smell it. Kudos to whoever
decided to add the rotten egg odor to the natural gas product. Kudos to the gas
company, Atmos, for sending someone right away. I do not fear an explosion
tonight, but I don’t have time now to do justice to Dave and Mattie’s story.
I like Dave
and Mattie. They’re good boys. They don’t mean to be bad, I’ve just drawn them
that way. They deserve a few more hours of my undivided attention, and I will
honor that.
In the
meantime, deadlines loom, and I have promises to keep that will consume the rest of this weekend's writing time. So in honor of a gas leak, I present the short story, "Matchbook."
I wrote "Matchbook" in 1998 as a fictional work by a fictional character within a work of fiction, a murder
mystery, which I also wrote. The victim in my murder mystery (called Litmus) is a writer; Reese Goddard has penned a
collection of short stories that may hold the key to who killed her and tried
to make it look like suicide…
“Matchbook”
is one of Reese Goddard’s stories. I know at some level, it is also mine, but
as I wrote this story, I wasn’t trying to write as Kim, I was trying to write
as the fictional Reese… She’s a better writer than I -- fearless. Crazy like me, many
of her fictional characters are writers…poets. She features their poems in her
stories the way I feature her stories in my novel; the murder mystery contains
the full body of her works. “Matchbook” is unique for Reese. It has no poems,
but it was one of her favorite stories, and it is one of mine.
I love writing fiction. It’s like standing between two facing mirrors. It goes on and on.
It pleases me to give this one a venue while I spend a bit more time on the new piece, sorting out why Dave is spurting pee on the church and whether or not Mattie will get the nerve to call him out for it (" 'cause Hell might be real, dickhead!")
#52Weeks (KHN)
Matchbook
A short
story by Reese Goddard
I will not
be called these things, thinks Emaline Rizotti as her shaking hand dives into
the pocket of her husband’s trousers. I will not be called adulterate, jilted,
scorned.
But I am these things, she realizes, sitting
back and dropping her hands in a motion that resembles surrender. The wool
slacks slide soundlessly to the floor. What would another matchbook amount to?
More names
come to mind for the mistress than for wronged wife. Emaline counts them like
rosary beads: bitch, chippy, homewrecker, Jezebel, slut, strumpet, tramp, tart,
whore. Emaline has a matchbook collection, which will number 59 when she
retrieves the one she knows is in his right back pocket. And it, like each one
of them, has pressed on the paper behind the matches, the print of her
husband’s lover’s painted lips. Emaline now considers herself an expert at
reading lip prints.
These are
all identical.
Emaline
detests this brazen woman who leaves her lips on these matches, like a brief
fiery instance, a whiff of sulfur. She knows her husband, Roman Rizotti, does
not realize these matchbooks are being slipped into his pocket. With the sureness
of fifteen years of marriage, Emaline believes that Roman has never, will never
empty his own trouser pockets before giving them to Emaline to be laundered. In
this way, he will always need her.
“He may be
an asshole,” Emaline says resolutely, “but he’s my asshole.” She nods with determination to her own reflection.
***
The next
day, Gwen, Emaline’s therapist, says “Revenge is a perfectly natural response,
but it would be more proactive for you to work through this anger to the next
logical stage.”
“Murder?”
Emaline feels murderous.
“No. And I
wish you wouldn’t joke like that.” Gwen is a nervous, middle-aged, overweight
woman with an unfortunate skin condition that leaves her face pocked and
flushed like a ripe, bird-pecked cherry.
“I have 59
matchbooks now.”
“I thought
we resolved your obsession with the matchbooks. Obviously, this mistress knows
it is you who finds them. She’s goading you. You give her power....
Emaline
interrupts, “I give her power over me when I obsess over her. I just thought it
was interesting. I keep a journal every day that I started the day I married
Roman. In fifteen years of marriage, he has taken me to exactly twenty
restaurants on the occasion of fifteen wedding anniversaries, three children
and two apologies for two love affairs. Lips is up to 59 different restaurants.
Six are from Hawaii!
Gwen looks
at her watch. “We’ll talk more about that next week.”
As the
polished walnut door of her therapist’s office closes, Emaline says, “I want to
go to Hawaii.” But no one hears her.
Somewhere in
the darkest center of Emaline’s cerebral cortex, a rebellious cluster of
neurotransmitters refuses to do its part in the production of critical brain
chemicals. Emaline has no knowledge of it as she numbly boards the crowded
elevator and descends to the marble lobby in the office building of her
expensive and unhelpful shrink. Her thoughts at this moment are occupied with
anger, frustration, rejection, and most frightening of all, indifference.
She says
aloud, “What do you want to do today?” and ignores the others in the elevator
who turn to stare. She refrains from answering herself out loud, deciding in
silence to go across town and have lunch at the new Italian restaurant she had
seen written up in the Living section of last Sunday’s paper. Then she’ll go to
the travel agency that she thinks is near the restaurant and look into the
price of a trip to Hawaii.
***
At the new
Italian restaurant, across town from the office of Emaline’s therapist, Roman
Rizotti sits and fiddles with the complimentary matchbook, poised open and
ready to strike in the cut-glass ashtray. He untucks the matchbook cover from
behind the matches and reads “Anthony’s Bistro” on the front. The
color choice, olive green, fails to impress him, but the typeface is nice. His
lunch date, Esereé, will want this one for her collection.
Roman does
not understand collections. They accumulate. Roman’s family is the closest
thing he has to a collection. Roman admits, as he twirls the corner of the
matchbook on the tip of his finger, that he doesn’t understand Esereé either.
She appears sincere in her claims that she does not want a commitment. Roman
understands that he needs this most from Esereé, her lack of need for him.
***
Two blocks
from Anthony’s Bistro, in the walk-in bedroom closet of Apartment 37, Parkview
Heights, Esereé O’Leary chooses the red satin dress, sleeveless, backless, well
above the knee. She’ll wear it with the open-toed leather stilettos dyed the
color of maraschino cherries to match the dress. It is her lover’s favorite
outfit. Her hair, a more intense shade of red, is pulled back; her blue eyes
gleam back at her in the bathroom mirror. Esereé is going to be late for her
lunch date, but her entrance will be worth the wait.
As Esereé
applies lipstick, red as her dress, her shoes, her hair, she visualizes kissing
his soft lips not so full, but not thin either and leaving her lip prints
around his nipples, his belly button. Esereé knows that wherever she leaves her
mark, a part of him stays with her forever.
***
Roman stands
to greet Esereé as she winds through the tables. The red satin dress with the
dyed leather shoes attracts Roman more than anything else on the planet. Like a
living flame, Esereé flickers and undulates towards him. She greets him with her
usual soft handshake, her rule — no kissing in public. Instead, he pulls out
her chair, softly murmuring, “you look beautiful,” as he seats her.
They dine on
a salad of shrimp and roasted red pepper, seasoned Italian risotto with fresh
lobster, and broiled eggplant, savory with garlic and fresh oregano. Roman
selects for them a Sonoma county Chardonnay. For dessert they share sweet pears
in wine and lemon sauce. Esereé says, “The typeface on the matchbook is
attractive,” as she delicately extracts the pack from beneath his napkin.
“Olive would not have been my first color choice, though.” Roman smiles and
takes her hand. “I knew you would say that.”
“Have I
become so predictable then?” Her smirk excites him. He detects in her voice the
tone of an unspoken challenge now accepted. “We’ll just see about that. Excuse
me.” She slips the matches into her purse as she rises and glides off in the
direction of the women’s lounge.
***
Emaline
Rizotti feels better by the time she finds the restaurant, and to her delight
the travel agency is situated right next door. She smiles as a parking space
opens in front of her in the lot next to the travel agency. Everything,
she thinks, is going to be just fine.
In Anthony’s
Bistro, Emaline spots Roman immediately, always the pin to his magnet. He
sits staring at an empty chair, but the place servings clearly tell her that
her husband sits at a table for two. The maitre d’ is taking her in that
direction, to tables further back in the room.
Roman sees
her, too, as she draws nearer. He stands, fumbles with the napkin that has
fallen off his plate and onto the ground in front of him.
“What are
you doing here, Emaline?” He sounds defensive.
“I’ve come
for lunch. Same as you, I imagine.” She glances at the nearly empty wine glass,
a companion to the empty chair. She notes the lipstick, cheap slut red, and she
recognizes the lip prints immediately. She can only hope that her reaction
isn’t really the color draining from her face, even though that is how she
feels.
Roman follows
his wife’s glance. “I’m here on a business lunch.”
“Business,
professor? During the summer?”
“I’m meeting
with a journal editor about publishing a paper.”
“A paper?”
“It’s one
I’ve just started.” Roman feels like he is ten years old again. He hates
explaining himself to her. The guilt, he decides, is undeserved.
“I don’t
tell you everything I’m working on.”
“I see.”
Emaline takes a long look at her husband. After fifteen years, his eyes are
still her first attraction. Sea colors always, today they gleam green and
amused. In stormy times, his eyes flash gray, cold, the muted reflection of
sullen inner skies. He still steals her breath, makes her stomach flip flop. “I
won’t keep you then.” Emaline turns and resumes following the maitre d’ to her
own table.
***
Esereé dries
her hands carefully, working the towel around the rings on her fingers to avoid
spotting the satin dress. She scrutinizes her bared teeth, checking for pink
strips of lobster claw, the red pepper strands of shrimp salad, oregano flakes.
Her snarl becomes a smile as she takes out the bistro’s matchbook and sets it
carefully beside the open tube of lipstick. Esereé O’Leary has a fire to start.
She purses
her lips and blows herself a reflected kiss before she picks up the shiny
gold-tone tube. The pristine red point, called Beyond Blaze, emerges perfectly
angled. This angle, Esereé is careful to preserve as she slowly presses the
colored cream stick to her lower lip. Smooth, the makeup slides like satin on
skin. She applies the same even coating to her upper lip, and presses both lips
together. Then she smiles again.
Taking up
the matchbook, she bends the cover open, exposing its whitest interior. This
she presses firmly to her own kiss. After she pulls her lips away, she notes
the even imprint with satisfaction. Softly, she blows cool air across the mark
so that it will dry before she closes the matchbook cover.
Roman is
paying cash for the lunch tab as she approaches the table. His hand shakes as
he counts the bills onto the small silver tray. They leave the restaurant not
touching, but Esereé loops her arm through his as they start down the sidewalk,
past the window that looks into Anthony’s Bistro, not seeing the angry red face
of Emaline as she forks lobster risotto into her pinched, furious mouth.
Esereé
decides to be unpredictable today, so she kisses Roman full on the lips as they
wait for the “walk” sign to flash. He groans as she presses her full length
against his, brushing against him, there, on the corner of Sixth Ave. and Westover
St. She slides her left hand into his right back pocket, depositing her
matchbook into the deepest corner.
***
Roman drops
with exhaustion onto the queen-sized bed in his and Emaline’s master bedroom.
Emaline is not home which surprises Roman. It is 5:30 p.m. He is punctual, as
usual. His wife has never been unpredictable. It’s just as well Emaline is
elsewhere, he muses. It saves the trouble of having to fake sincerity.
The lobster
risotto is still with Roman, bulging uncomfortably into the waistband of his
trousers. All this eating out in pursuit of a woman’s matchbook collection is
making him fat. Funny, he giggles, he would have thought the sex would have
worked it off of him. He loosens the button of his pants then decides to
shower. He tosses the trousers onto the top of the laundry pile, removing his
shirt and depositing it on the floor before stepping into the steamy spray.
Emaline is
home by the time Roman emerges dripping and reaching for a towel. Emaline
watches from the hallway, mentally brushing his wavy, dark hair, kept short —
finger deep, the way she likes it. The hair that runs across his chest, down
his stomach, is no less dark or wavy but sparser. It, too, is finger deep, the
way she likes it. She hates how attractive she finds him, even now. She goes to
the bedroom to retrieve what she knows will be in his right back trouser
pocket. Her hand shakes as she slides the matchbook in her own pocket, and she
attempts nonchalance, sorting laundry when Roman strolls in naked but dry.
“You’re
behind on laundry,” Roman says as he reaches for briefs.
“I’ll put a
load in now.” Emaline’s voice is glacial.
Roman does
not think much about his wife’s tone. His mind is still on the third floor of
the Parkview Heights apartment building slowly unzipping a red satin dress. The
sound of Emaline’s car pulling out of the driveway gets his attention, however.
Now where is she going? Who the hell is going to cook dinner?
***
Esereé
checks the peephole carefully, recognizes Roman’s signature bouquet of perfect red
rose buds and opens her apartment door. The FTD delivery person’s forceful
shove into Apartment 37 surprises Esereé at first, but then she recognizes
Emaline. She also recognizes insanity shining in the woman’s eyes. Astonishing,
though, is the pipe wrench that connects with Esereé’s temple.
Emaline
gazes on the prone mistress. More names come to mind: banshee, body, corpse,
ghost, haunt, phantom, specter, worm chow; suddenly, Emaline likes her.
She removes
the slender juice jug of gasoline from her deep coat pocket and pours out the
contents, tossing the empty jug. It bounces off Chippy’s taut bottom. Emaline
smiles and removes the matchbook from Anthony’s Bistro. Pulling off one match,
Emaline strikes and lights the rest of the book with it. Before the torch can
burn her fingers, she flings it in the same direction as the gasoline and the
jug.
Things catch
quickly. Soon Chippy’s scarlet locks begin to smoke. On her way out, Emaline
pulls the building fire alarm, but she rides the elevator downstairs. She
doesn’t stay to watch the arrival of the fire department. Later, she will
regret that she missed seeing the kitchen window spew flames fifteen feet over
the avenue, but right now, Emaline Rizotti has a plane to catch.
The End
#52weeks
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