Pest control

It was like a game of Clue – Lynette in the living room with the brass lamp. Except this wasn’t a board game, and this wasn’t Mr. Boddie laying in my living room floor. I, Lynette Whitesmith, just killed Craig, the pest control man.



It had been so long since I’d slept this well. The knocking on the front door came faint at first and I thought I was dreaming. As it became louder, I became more aware, opening my eyes, seeing the break of morning light through my bedroom blinds. The babies would be up soon.

The sound came again – a push on the door, the rattle of the knob.

Someone was breaking in to my home. I was here by myself with two kids and someone was trying to come in my house. In less than a second, my mind conjured up the idea of someone coming in here, in broad daylight, murdering all three of us. No one would know until my husband, Dan, came home and found his family slaughtered.

What if the person doesn’t kill us right away? What if he or she just kills me and then the kids are up by themselves waiting on me to get up? What if he hurts the babies and I can’t help them because I’m dead?

I quickly jumped to my feet, suddenly wide awake, and bee-lined to the living room. I jerked my solid brass lamp off the end table, forcing the plug out of the wall, and then I stood in front of the door and waited.

The door opened suddenly and I was face to face with the man who planned to murder my children and me. I didn’t think, I didn’t feel. I pulled my arm back, and as fast and as hard as I could, I thrust the lamp at his head.

He fell hard, and quick.

I looked at him, crumpled in a heap on my floor, blood oozing from the blow. His shirt was dark green, but in bright yellow letters, it said, “Crossroads County Pest Control.” Underneath that was his name – Craig.

 “Oh shit. Oh no. No, no, no, no, no, no,” I said as I leaned down, my hands trembling as I felt for a pulse. I could feel bile rising up in my throat, threatening to come out all over this man’s dark green shirt.

I glanced into the bedroom where my babies were sleeping – no, wait, were supposed to be sleeping. That’s right. They’re gone. They stayed the night with my in-laws. I was so tired and was sleeping so soundly that I forgot.

I sighed, relieved, that at least if I have a man unconscious in my living room, my children aren’t here to see it.

I knew I should call 911. I leaned over the heap of a man, tall, but thin, and I noticed the rise and fall of his chest had stopped.

This man – this man is dead, I thought. I should call 911.

But I can’t. If I call, they may take the kids away. If I call, they may send me to prison.

I stopped, just briefly.

They do give you books in prison and I love to read. They feed you too, and you get 23 solid hours to do nothing except lay there. There are no kids screaming, no fighting, no whining. There’s just quiet solitude in a room with a bed. Prison kind of sounds like a vacation.

I shook my head. No. No, no no, no no, no. I did the only thing I could think to do – the only logical thing.

I called my best friend.

As I dialed Shelly’s number, my hands were shaking. I couldn’t breathe. Don’t pass out. Don’t pass out. Don’t pass out.

“Hello?” She answered and I could hear her babies in the background. One was crying and a loud bang let me know the other wasn’t far away.

“Hi. OK, so, um, you know how, like, in that medical show on TV where they say their person is the one they would call to help move a dead body across the living room floor?” I said, my voice shaking at the same pace as my body, my body on the verge of hyperventilation.

“Yes?” Shelly said, sounding equally confused and worried.

“OK. Well, I need you to be my person.”

When Shelly arrived five minutes later, she parked her white SUV in front of my house, like always. I watched her though the blinds walk up the steps to my front porch and knock on the door.

I swung it open, letting the Alabama summer air hit me in the face – kind of like I did to Craig. My eyes, wild, focused on her, hair in a bun on the top of her head, a loose T-shirt on and black yoga pants – the typical mom uniform. She could tell something was more than wrong.

My mouth gaped open but nothing came out.

“I brought a bottle of vodka,” she said as she held up one arm, then lifted the other, “and a bag of donuts. I didn’t know what kind of emergency this was.”

“Just come in and shut the door. Quick. Lock it,” I said hastily in a shushed tone.

When she walked in the living room and saw Craig lying on the floor, presumably dead, she sucked in a deep breath and said, “OK, vodka it is!”

“Shell, I can explain. Kind of.”

“Is he dead?” She asked, nudging him with her foot. “Did he try to hurt you? Wait; is that the pest control man?”

“Yes,” I said, my voice even for the first time since I’d been awake. “I think he is dead. Stop kicking him!” I took the vodka, unscrewed it, took a sip and immediately regretted it. My stomach was already churning and the alcohol made it worse. “No, he didn’t try to hurt me. I thought he was breaking into the house. I freaked out and I hit him,” I looked over at the lamp, “with that.”

“Lynette! You have to call 911! You have to report this!”

“No!” I nearly yelled. “I can’t. I can’t risk having the kids taken, and I really, really don’t want to go to prison.”

The room was starting to spin and I moved over to my beige couch to sit down. Shelly went to the kitchen and found a dishrag in the drawer next to the sink, wet it, and brought it back to me.

“So you’re just going to leave the body in here for Dan to find when he comes home? How do you plan on explaining that? ‘Hey babe, glad you’re home. I killed a man. Meet,” she peered down at his name tag and looked back up at me, her eyes wide, head cocked to the side, “Craig.”

“Um, that’s exactly what I had planned to do, Shelly,” I said dryly. “No, you twat. We are not going to let Dan or your husband or anyone else know about this. We are going to get rid of him, preferably before he goes stiff.”

 She took a deep breath, in through her nose and out through her mouth, before she spoke again. “Is the body disposal center open today?”

“I can’t deal with you right now,” I said and rolled my eyes, begging my brain to wake me up from this awful dream. “Shelly, I don’t know what to do. I am a good, Southern, Christian woman. I make casseroles, babies, and a mean egg salad, and I am not a cold-blooded killer!”

“What about his job? Don’t you think they know where he is? Don’t you think they’re going to come looking for him? He has a van outside, Lynette! What do you plan to do with that?”

We sat for four hours on my couch, trying to decide on our next move. Time was flying and both of our husbands would be home soon, not to mention, Shelly’s mother would need her back to get the kids.

“Go to the Home Depot and rent a wood chipper,” Shelly said, serious.

“Yes, because Dan wouldn’t wonder why we had a wood chipper,” I said sarcastically, narrowing my eyes at her. “And anyway, I use Lowe’s. I have a credit card there.”

I groaned. My stomach was burning and my head was pounding. I reached for the bottle of vodka and forced another sip down. “Do you remember when we were young and your mom said she knew of a pond no one would ever find?”

“That was just a story, Lynette. She wasn’t serious.”

About that time, we heard a car door slam. I jumped up and ran to the window facing the driveway. Outside, I saw the white pest control van, Shelly’s SUV, my red minivan, and an unfamiliar clunker of a car.

I spotted a woman I had never seen before marching up my sidewalk to my porch. She was tall, at least 6-feet and she was nearly as wide, dressed in and ankle-length nightgown – the kind I’d only ever seen my grandmother wear, and her thin hair was in pink rollers. She had high top house shoes on.

When she got to the door, the woman began banging her fist against the wood so hard that I thought she was going to beat a hole through it.

“Come on out, Craig! I know you’re in there whorin’ around,” She screamed, her boisterous voice deep and gravely. “You’ve been there for five hours! I watched you on the phone.”

I turned around and looked at Shelly, my eyes wide, my face white, my breath gone. I mouthed, “What do I do?”

Shelly looked back at me with the same expression and shrugged her shoulders. “If you don’t let her in, she’s going to cause a scene,” she whispered.

Slowly, slowly, I unlocked the door and turned the knob. I carefully opened the door and poked my head through the crack. “Hi, I’m Lynette whitesmith. Can I help you?”

“I know my husband is in there and I know he’s been cheatin,’ and I know you better open this door before I open it for you and whoop your ass,” she said.

Point taken.

I opened the door the rest of the way, still standing in the doorway, thinking of all the ways I could explain, but ultimately knowing that this was how it ended – this was how I didn’t get away with murder.

 “Where’s he at?” She asked, forcing her way beside me and looking around at my home. She spied his body, still crumpled in the floor next to the TV.

I stood there, waiting, waiting for the bottom to fall out. I could already hear the police sirens, feel the metal handcuffs on my wrists.

But then she surprised me.

She ran over to him, stared for a second before pulling her arm back and slapping him as hard as she could in the face. When he didn’t move, she turned her head and looked at us, a light shining from within her that was not there just 60 seconds ago.

“Praise God and Hallelujah!” She shouted. “The man is finally dead!”

I continued standing there, staring at her like a deer in headlights. Finally, I caught my breath enough to speak. “Are – Are you going to call the police?” I asked, nearly handing my cell phone to her.

“Heavens no,” She said as she clasped her hands, and then put one over her heart. “Sugar, I’ve been waiting for this for nearly 15 years, but I couldn’t ever figure out what to do about it.”

I glanced over at Shelly, who was still sitting on my couch, mouth agape, eyes so wide they nearly burst out of the sockets. Neither of us spoke a word.

               The strange woman began talking again, looking from him to us. “He’s what they call a ‘functioning alcoholic,’” she said, her fingers making air quotations. “He goes to work every day, but he comes home every night and drinks until he thinks he’s bulletproof. That’s when he wants to square up with me or go over to Sherry May’s house – like she has that many cockroaches.”

As she spoke, she rolled her eyes and reached into the breast pocket of her nightgown and pulled out a pack of This red cigarettes. “Hon, you don’t mind me smoking in here, do you?”

I absolutely minded, but I wasn’t about to tell that to the wife of the man I had just murdered.

“No. By all means,” I said and motioned my arm for her to keep going.

With permission landed, she flicked her lighter, lit up, and took a long drag off her cigarette. She chuckled once before she spoke again. “Well, Sugar, we’ve got to get him out of here.”

I looked at her, both expressionless and speechless. “I – uh – yeah, OK, any – um – idea – where we could do that? And also, what’s your name?”

The look that came across her face was one I have never seen on a person. It was pure, unbridled joy that spread across her wide, pink face and radiated within my living room. “I’m Barbara Joy, and Baby,” she said and lowered her voice, nearly to a whisper. “We have pigs.”