The Wine Cellar Women

Trigger Warning: Gore, abuse, sexual violence.

Sliding her hands over the severed skin, Novalee revered the warm, thick blood pooling from the wound between her fingers. The flesh of his neck seemed to pull apart like torn fabric at even the slightest pressure she applied in either direction. This was no longer a man beneath her grip. This was no longer a murder at her hands. This was kismet justice, like a drunk driver accidentally missing a child only to strike and kill her abusive step-father. Her two thumbs met at the center of the hard chin, pushing just a little upward. He was already dead, and the tearing skin sounded like blowing bubbles in a fountain drink through a straw. The red was blackberry ripe.

A hand formed firmly around her shoulder. “It’s easier once you know, right?”

Karoline, Kay, for short, had tried to tell Novalee this when the man beneath her was still crying for mercy. Novalee was, and always had been – arguably, always will be – opposed to violence. Murder, bad. Forgiveness, good. It was the basic foundation of her Catholic education, and evidently, the only thing she took with her after graduation. Novalee had metaphorically and literally covered her ears to any justification for such a crime. Kay had only held her arms behind her back, but hadn’t tried to pry her eyes open when the other women explained, presented the evidence. Once Novalee had heard enough, she had to see it with her eyes. And once her eyes were open, God was never going to make sense again.

There was no good forgiveness under these circumstances.

Novalee understood that now, as she dipped two fingers into the hole of his neck and drew red crosses over the eyelids. Then, she decided it was too much like an anointment and smeared them, covering his face with messy, ugly smudges. Life and death are the same, she thought: unorganized, fiery dances that only need a slight breeze to change their direction. Both existed in a person at once.

“There are more like this?” Novalee finally spoke. There was a chalkiness in her voice that suited who she was now. She was still straddling the man, reveling in her work. How strange that remorse never came.

“Unfortunately, too many for us to handle.”

This voice came from behind Novalee. It was aged, tired. Sad? It was the old woman; the one Novalee was surprised to see when she first stepped into this crypt-like wine cellar. Marley. She had yet to speak, hiding in the shadows of the younger, fiercer members of this…collection of women. Novalee spun around to look at her.

“It’s why we need you to join us.” Marley added, pleadingly.

“I think it’s pretty obvious she’s with us,” said the women with braids, wearing a high-waisted skirt. The librarian. “She’s practically Hannibal Lector’s sister.”

Though Novalee was certain there was no turning back; certain she’d need to do this again, she shot back, “I didn’t say that.”

“Amalia,” Kay warned. Then, looking down at Novalee: “Not one of us will force you to join us. And none of us will tell a soul about this.”

“I’m just saying, my first one was not that violent.”

“Hush, Amalia.” This time it was Marley who quieted her, but it did little to placate Novalee. She jumped to her feet.

“Any man who does that to children,” she yelled, pointing to the computer where Kay had shown her all the files, “deserves nothing but violence!”

Amalia put her hands up in defense. She was smiling. “You don’t have to tell me. You’re preaching to the God damn choir. I’m only saying… Girl, you found your people.”

Her words were a feeling Novalee had had when the knife made contact with the man. A feeling of fate, of finally finding her place in a world that had never quite made sense. Her grandmother would be so disappointed it wasn’t in a seminary. But in some small way, this felt like more honorable work than becoming a nun.

Still, Novalee wasn’t a murderer.

“Are you sure of their guilt before you…do anything to them?”

“Positive,” Amalia said.

It was a sufficient answer, but Kay seemed to know Novalee needed a bit more. “We vet them thoroughly. We have a lawyer friend who works SVU cases. Our candidates come from her. Only the ones who are acquitted, for obvious reasons. Even then, we take careful measures. In some cases, we talk to the victims ourselves or their families.” She paused, casting her gaze at the body beside them. “In every case, we are certain.”

For some reason, this made Novalee’s fists tighten. She could have killed the man again. What was that theory she learned in philosophy? Dialethism. The idea that a statement and its opposite could be true at the same time. That was Novalee in this moment: A murderer. Not a murderer.

A predator. A victim.

But the man. He was no Schrödinger’s cat. He was dead. He was a pedophile.

“Are they always priests?” Novalee asked.

“No,” Marley said.

“But a lot of them are,” Amalia said. “Sometimes, nuns, too.”

Novalee’s reaction was physical. Women killing women. That was a much different pill to swallow. But up until ten minutes ago, Novalee hadn’t really known what made her thresholds crumble.

Kay’s hand slid into Novalee’s, the man’s blood cold and slippery between their palms. “Not all of them.”

Marley stepped forward then, and Novalee could see the age spots and wrinkles on her hands clearly now. The old woman was turning a ring on her finger, and Novalee tried to imagine how this elderly person was capable of doing what she’d just done. How she stood there now, with a blood-soaked corpse in front of her, and still managed to look at Novalee with such compassion. How much flesh held onto the prongs of that ring?

“We know about your father,” Marley said.

The word sent rage down Novalee’s spine.

“We know why your grandmother raised you, Novalee.” An expression of sympathy suddenly spread across the faces of the other five women who stood behind Marley, including Amalia. It was an expression she’d only seen on people who’d believed her. “Believe it or not, I was at your father’s trial all those years ago.”

Novalee had been running from that day for what felt like her entire life. The sensation to run now was the strongest it had been since the judge banged his gavel. All the women seemed to sense this, too, their limbs jerking, prepared to catch her if she fled. It only took the tightening of Kay’s grip to stop her.

Her father had killed her mother first, for questioning him. Which gave him more nights alone with her. And with her mother "tragically succumbing to a mysterious illness," there was not enough evidence for a conviction. Fortunately, Novalee’s grandmother had her suspicions, and an off-grid cottage in the Montana mountains. She also had a passion for Catholicism and an endless capacity for lectures on forgiveness.

“I want to join the group,” Novalee said, trembling. Rage. Exhilaration. Purpose. It was enough to make someone vibrate.

The entire cellar seemed to sigh with relief, and Novalee got the sense that all initiations were a risk these women took.

“I like to call us the Executioners,” Amalia said, amused.

“Don’t listen to her. She’s obsessed with John D. MacDonald,” Kay said.

“We don’t have a name,” Marley said. “But, occasionally, we like to offer up ideas. It helps distract us from the dirty work and focus on the important work. So, if you have any…”

Kay was still holding onto Novalee’s hand, and it occurred to her then that there was still the issue of the body. And the stained hands, the soaked clothing. But before Novalee could form the words, she was struck by the unexpected familiarity of Marley’s smile, one she was seeing for the first time since she’d been here. Suddenly, she was certain she had seen it somewhere. A long time ago, maybe, when she was just a little girl. She remembered being so frightened by all the appraising faces staring at her in that brightly lit courtroom, waiting for her to speak. Novalee knew she wouldn’t find her mother in the crowd, but she scanned it anyways for some sign of solace. What she found was an unfamiliarly warm woman, sitting in the very back pew, smiling at her.

Marley locked eyes with Novalee. There was just a slight nod before she said, “Look around,” gesturing to all the large barrels. “There’s a reason our little winery only makes red wine.”