MAX

Mrs. Evans watched as Max, the cat slinked out of the darkness and hopped onto Mr. Evan's favorite recliner. He circled twice, and then curled up in the corner of the armchair and stared at her. After giving her a short meow, he nestled against the chair arm and the cushion. 

Mrs. Evans chuckled as she thought. "I've never seen you sit in Mr. Evans's chair unless you were in his lap."

Max hissed.

"Don't let look at me like that, Max. I had to get rid of him."

Mrs. Evans glanced down at her knitting, avoiding his piercing striking yellow eyes.

"You know, I'm making Mr. Evans this red sweater as a gift for our fortieth anniversary. Won't Mr. Evans be surprised?"

Proud of what she's done, she smiled and held up the half knitted sweater, 

"Why a red sweater, you ask, Max? Because Mr. Evan's favorite color is or should I say was, red, Silly."

Mrs. Evan looked down at the sweater and smoothed it out with her hand. She became distracted. 

"Where is my other knitting needle?" she thought to her self as she did a visual search. Moving her hands around the sofa, in between the cushions, she didn't find it. Mrs. Evans stood up and looked around the floor.

"Now, where is that needle, Max?"

"Isn't that the darndest thing? I just had it a minute ago."

Mrs. Evan's eyes darted along the edge of the sofa. Squinting, she saw the tip of the needle sticking out from under the couch. Pleased with herself, she plopped back down and resumed her knitting. As she gathered her needles, she glanced up at Max. 

"Max, there's no need to have an attitude. Mr. Evans is probably happy and content in the Hereafter. Now, he can watch his old Western movie and TV programs to his heart's content. Imagine, Max. He can read his comics until Judgment day. No more yelling at me to be quiet. 

No more complaining about me continually nagging him.

No more throwing shoes at you, Max, when you chirp, chirrup, or trill. "

Mrs. Evans sat back and smiled to herself. Her newfound freedom gave her a sense of power. She never thought she would experience this again in her lifetime. 

Mrs. Evans closed her eyes and remembered.

Mrs. Evans, from an early age, had no delusions about her appearance. Thanks to her parents.

She didn't have the body nor the features that men preferred. Her parents told her repeatedly that her only hope to get a man was to get a good education. Not having the distraction of suitors like her friends, Mrs. Evans pursued her education. 

  In her twenties, Mrs. Evans knew she could take on the world and win. At least her part of the world. Enrolled at Brooklyn College as a Junior, her future appeared bright. An English major with a three-point nine GPA. On the Dean's List every semester. Happy to be student teaching at the same progressive elementary school for 3 years. The school Principal, Mr. Myers, assured her he would do everything in his power to get her hired as a teacher in the school after her graduation. She was well on her way. 

The goal of one day driving her convertible sports car to her newly purchased Fort Greene, Brooklyn Brownstone, became her passion.

  And then she met Mr. Evans. 

Mr. Evans swore he was only ten years older than Mrs. Evans. In fact, to her dismay, Mrs. Evans later discovered he was considerably older than he claimed.

A simple lie born out of vanity, perhaps but a lie nonetheless. A lie Mrs. Evans chose to ignore.

 Mr. Evans seemed to be suave and sophisticated. Mrs. Evan grinned as she heard the voice of her Southern-born mother, echo in her head. She'd size him up and say, "He thinks he's highfalutin." 

Her mother might have been right, but Mrs. Evans had never known a man like Mr. Evans. And in moments of self-doubt and insecurity, she wondered, "Why would he desire me?"

For months she resisted the never-ending barrage of flowers, candy, and texts. The more she resisted, the harder he pursued. Convincing her his love was unswerving, Mrs. Evans gave in to Mr. Evans' advances.

Three months later, they were married. Two months later, the honeymoon was over. 

"Oh, I'm sorry, Max. Sometimes I drift..."

Max interrupted his tongue bath and purred.

"Well, if I'm going to explain to you why we're alone now, I'll need a cup of tea, Max."

Mrs. Evans disappeared into the kitchen. Minutes later, she returned with her cup of tea.

"You know, Max, Mr. Evans sure loved his tea, didn't he?" 

She placed the steaming cup of liquid on the end table next to her. Watching the steam swirl above her cup, she thought, "What will I do with Mr. Evans dozens of Earl Grey teabags?"

Mrs. Evans looked over at Max. 

"No, Max. I"m not trying to beat about the bush. But you were here every day. How could Mr. Evans's strange behavior go unnoticed by you? No matter. I'll state it plainly."

Mrs. Evans sipped a spoonful of tea and then continued.

  "My first inkling that Mr. Evans's was going to become a problem was our first year of marriage. He insisted on having his dinner at exactly 6 o'clock. I explained to Mr. Evan that my last class ended at 5 o'clock. The trip home, even on the best night, was forty-five minutes. It would be physically impossible for me to prepare dinner and have it ready by 6 o'clock dinner. My explanation was in vain. Mr. Evans proceeded to make my life a living hell. Every night we fought over something. I began to mentally and physically breakdown. As a result, I had to leave school." 

She paused and whispered, "Dreams lost..."

A tear-filled Mrs. Evans took two sips of her tea.

"Then it got worse, Max. I was cut off from my friends while he hosted weekly poker games for his buddies. He accused my friends of plotting to destroy our marriage. How ridiculous, Max. He was doing an excellent job of that on his own."

Max's expression never changed. He stood and repositioned himself on the other side of the chair.

Mrs. Evans resumed her knitting. 

"I hate to tell you this, Max, but the worse thing he did was trying to get rid of you. You don't remember because you were just a kitten."

Mrs. Evans kept her head bowed and worked on her knitting. Ashamed, she continued.

"I was unhappy and lonely during those years, and my friend gave me you as a birthday present. You know, in an attempt to lift my spirits. Mr.Evans hated you from the first moment he saw you. In fact, he poisoned your milk twice, that I know of. I think his poisoning your milk is the reason why you don't like milk. So, don't go feeling sorry for Mr. Evans's sudden departure."

"Oh, darn, Max. Look what you made me do. Not paying attention to my knitting, I dropped a stitch."

Max growled.

"Don't get upset, Max. I'll tell you how I polished him off."

Mrs. Evans leaned forward as if to share a secret.

"You know how fond Mr. Evans was of reading the cartoons in the paper, I smeared arsenic on the edges of some of the pages. Arsenic is a contact poison, you know. Little by little, the poison seeped through his fingertips into his body. It took a while, but it did the job. God bless the internet."

Mrs. Evan wiggled back in the chair, picked up her teacup, and took a long drink. It felt good to tell someone about what she had done. Relaxed, she looked over at Max.

"Who are you?"

"Remember, I'm Detective Laura Johnson from the NYPD Missing Persons Unit. I'm following up on the Missing Person report you filed last week regarding your husband, Mr. Ernest Evans."

Mrs. Evans heard the voice but only saw Max.

   As Detective Johnson stood up to remove her handcuffs, Max leaped from her lap and disappeared into the darkness.