SWEET REVENGE

SWEET REVENGE

Shawnda stared at the bruised and battered face looking back at her in the bathroom mirror.

“That was the last time, Milton,” she said through gritted teeth, applying another layer of concealer to her husband’s handiwork.

She could hear him downstairs; a loud gurgling sound told her that he was making coffee in his new percolator. Time to take action, she thought, closing and locking the bathroom door. She turned on the shower—not to bathe, but as a smoke screen for her devious plot of revenge.

On the last shelf of the linen cabinet was a secret jewelry compartment. Aside from the couple’s realtor, Shawnda was the only one who knew of its existence. She released the latch, which unlocked and revealed the little secret cubital. She pulled out a tray containing a pair of white cotton gloves, an unused tube of Milton’s special Earthly-blend toothpaste, naturally and conveniently tan in color, and one of his already used toothbrushes. Also in the tray was a small bottle of pure honey and a syringe. Before touching the items, Shawnda applied the gloves, then strategically aspirated honey from the bottle into the syringe, then injected the sweet nectar substance into the mouth of the new tube of toothpaste, replacing both the toothpaste and toothbrush into the toothbrush holder labeled HIS while catching a glimpse of her mischievous grin in the mirror. She replaced the gloves, honey, and syringe in the tray and slid it back into the secret compartment.

Shawnda replayed her husband’s receptionist’s slip in her mind, the way she had mentioned that he didn’t usually arrive until ten on Tuesdays. But he always left their house at the same time he did the rest of the week — seven-thirty on the button. The first time she had decided to follow him, she didn’t have to go far — just down and across the street. That was when the pattern became undeniable: the late returns, the Tuesday visits, and Marline’s unmistakable role in the routine.

Shawnda turned off the shower, placed a terrycloth turban on her dry head, and tiptoed barefoot downstairs to prepare breakfast for him one last time. But before entering the kitchen, she paused in the foyer. First things first.

Like many people, Milton was a creature of habit. He always left the suit coat he would be wearing for the day hanging on a hook by the front or back door. Today, it happened to be hanging by the front door. Always and without fail, he placed an emergency EpiPen in the pocket for easy access. Sorry, not today, Milton, Shawnda thought, carefully removing it with a tissue. Only his prints—and perhaps the pharmacist’s—would be found, in the unlikely event anyone suspected foul play.

“Coffee’s ready!” Milton yelled, hostilely.

Feeling rushed, Shawnda placed the tissue-wrapped EpiPen in the pocket of her pastel robe and made her way into the kitchen, stretching and yawning upon entry.

“What took you so long?” he snapped, staring at her over his cup.

“What do you mean?” Shawnda asked innocently.

“You must have been in the shower for half an hour or more. Hope you’re planning on paying the utilities this month,” he said, loudly slurping his coffee.

“Sorry, honey,” she said, pun intended, giggling under her breath. “I can make you some scrambled eggs to go with your toast if you like,” she offered, pouring herself a cup of the freshly perked brew. Your last meal, she thought, hiding a mischievous smile. Milton shook his head, his eyes on her face and the damage he caused.

“Don’t have time now,” he snapped, taking another look at her bruised face. “I thought you were going to put something on that.”

“I did, but makeup can only hide so much—,” Shawnda said, turning her face so he couldn’t see tears welling up in her bruised and swollen eyes.

“I am sorry,” he said softly.

“I know. You always are.”

Two pieces of toast popped up, brown and hot. Shawnda retrieved butter and jam from the refrigerator, smeared them on the toast, and placed it on the table in front of him. Milton, doing what Milton does, inspected the toast carefully.

“That jam better not have honey in it, you know how allergic I am.”

“I sure do,” she said, putting two more pieces of bread in the toaster. “You sure you don’t want any eggs to go with that?”

“No, I’ll just eat this,” he said, taking a big bite of toast—then another—his eyes leaving the newspaper in his hands and landing on the Rolex on his wrist.

“Got to finish getting ready,” he said, pushing the plate aside and rising from his chair. Shawnda, knowing his routine, knew that was code for brushing his teeth.

After a few minutes, Milton returned downstairs, stopped by the hat rack, grabbed his suit coat, then went back into the kitchen. Although he didn’t speak, his guilty eyes reflected a glimmer of remorse. Maybe I should abort the plan and give him back his EpiPen. I could tell him I found it in the foyer, she thought, but her husband turned away without a word.

“See you this evening—about five-thirty?” she called out, hoping he’d return, take her in his arms, and kiss her passionately like he used to, but her words went unheard, her hopes crushed by the slamming of the front door. Can't say I didn't try.

With coffee cup in hand, Shawnda ran upstairs to her craft room and peered out the front window to get a good view. She watched her husband’s car back out of their drive and head toward the Interstate, but she knew today was Tuesday, and he always took a detour on Tuesday. She watched and waited, and sure enough, there was Milton’s silver Mercedes pulling in Widow Marline’s driveway across the street and down a few doors until it disappeared into the abyss of the widow’s four-car garage.

I must hurry, Shawnda thought. She ran into the master bath, opened the secret compartment, pulled out the tray, and, using a washcloth, removed the honey-tainted toothpaste and toothbrush and put them in the tray, securing the tray and syringe back into the secret compartment. After returning Milton’s untainted toothpaste and toothbrush to HIS holder, she went downstairs to wait for her plan to come to fruition. She removed the tissue-covered EpiPen from her robe pocket and searched for a spot where her husband could have likely left his “life saver” by accident.

His office—he always checks his calendar before he has coffee, Shawnda thought, taking a seat in his leather executive office chair. She laid her head back and twirled around and around until her eyes zeroed in on the Grandfather clock, the time in particular.

“It’s been seventeen minutes; he doesn’t have much time left. I don’t have much time left,” she said, looking at the EpiPen, laying on the tissue on the desk in front of her. Yes, that’s it. He was probably sitting right here, checking his calendar and accidentally left his EpiPen. Shawnda thought, carefully removing the tissue from underneath it.

It wasn’t long before sirens in the distance came to a crescendo. She looked out the window and saw neighbors gathering in their yards on Willowbrook Way. She went into the kitchen and poured herself another cup of coffee, put on her sunglasses, and joined them.

“What’s going on?” she asked, approaching her next-door neighbor, Mrs. Martin.

“I think someone must have died. They rolled someone out on a gurney—with their head covered up. You don’t think it was Widow Reynolds, do you?” whispered Mrs. Martin.

“Marline? No, she’ll be around ’til hell freezes over,” Shawnda said.

After a respectable amount of time, she returned to the solitude of her house. Need to rehearse for a visit by the police—notifying me of my husband’s tragic and untimely death. Those acting classes I took in college may pay off after all, she thought.

Shawnda ran upstairs to her craft room window for one last look at the death scene as it wrapped up… “Marline, looks like you’re not the only widow on the block.”

THE END