Charlie, Dear

On the white oak floor of Charlie and Janna’s new home, Charlie stands stupefied. He stabbed his wife. She lays at his feet now, and a river of red flows along the polished planks from under her neck. She’s on her stomach, and her big brown eyes are closed. Charlie drops the knife.

He grabs a wad of kitchen towels sitting on top of an unpacked box. It’s labeled “hosting essentials” in Janna’s artistic print, the ink faded, waiting to sit inside another closet, not to be used. Charlie collapses to his knees and dabs the towels against her throat. He can’t see the wound, and he’s afraid to move her. The hospital. He has to call. No, he can’t call. She’s dead on the floor. He’s finally gone and done it. Janna told him he’d eventually kill her. She said so with every fear-struck gaze and bone-rattling bruise. 

Impossible. That's why they moved. Such a house as this wouldn't allow it. It was built on a clean slate of forgiveness. No anachronisms of the past would spoil any room. To Charlie, the old house is a musty memory. The new house is a shiny opportunity. But not to his wife. The knife on the floor glints up at him, mocking him. So why'd he do it? It was an accident, yes. She got him all worked up. Because she hated the house. Because she knew they couldn’t afford it. Because he didn’t tell her he lost his job three months before the move. And because she just had to use a giant knife to butter a blasted piece of bread. He slipped. She slipped. The knife slipped. 

Charlie swallows back down the port wine he drank earlier that day, when he and Janna were taking a break from unpacking. He’s a horrible husband, a putrefying plague. He knows it. And now he’s going to be a coward. So he stands up and goes to the laundry room. He tears apart the boxes until he finds his oversized gym bag. Another item he hasn't used in years. Now he plans to fit his wife’s petite body into this bag. He’s lost weight. Would he even be able to carry her out? Charlie walks back into the kitchen with it. The western sun is shining through the wall of glass windows in the living room. He blinks, and sweat flicks off his eyelashes. He promised her that the open view would help with her anxiety. Heart wrenching, he looks down at his wife. His heart stops. 

Janna isn’t there. Charlie drops the bag and stares at the spot he left his wife’s body. It isn’t there. The blood isn't there. The towels aren’t there. The knife isn’t there. Putting his eyes against the heels of his hands, he rubs them. How much of that wine did he have? Two generous glasses. Suddenly, Charlie’s afraid to open his eyes. But, with a shuddering breath, he does.

Janna is still missing.

“Janna?” he calls. When Charlie bought the house, he wanted it for its high ceilings and bare walls. For the canyon effect. It works wonderfully now as his voice echoes through the main floor and up to the second. “Dear?” 

There’s a sound beyond the kitchen. His wife walks around the corner, like she’s coming from the back library where he put her new piano. “Yes, Dear?” she says.

Charlie stares at her, afraid to breathe. Only the sweat trailing down his neck moves. She’s alive, and she's not bleeding. A crushing relief envelops him. He imagined the whole thing. Charlie goes and hugs his wife. Did she always feel this small in his arms?

“What were we just doing?” he asks her.

“Finishing up the last boxes, Dear.”

“Right, right.” His brain is fuzzy. Hefting the boxes for the study, Charlie chuckles. “I think maybe our neighbors put something in that wine they gave us.” He's never been good with wine.

“Maybe, Dear.”

Walking into the study, Charlie purses his lips. Janna never calls him "Dear." Is she teasing him? The last time she poked fun at him was at her parents’ place. Two things happened that day. First, he slapped her. Second, he blocked her parents’ number. 

A shiver courses up his spine. Charlie shakes the memory from his mind. The movement makes him ill. Maybe he needs to lie down for a bit. The hallucinations of killing his wife, though, that’s too much.

“I’m gonna head upstairs for a bit,” Charlie calls, turning. 

But Janna is right there, smiling in the doorway. He starts, holding his chest. Her big brown eyes watch him so aggressively that Charlie has to look away. Slipping by her, he heads up the stairs. “You can take a break if you want. Don’t push yourself.”

“Okay, Dear.”

Charlie flops on their bed. He will like it here. He has a new job and a new house. He’ll even go see a therapist. Like Janna suggested he should, before he pushed her down a flight of stairs. He’ll definitely see a shrink, and even take an anger management class. Charlie loves his wife. He loves her so much his chest hurts. She hated the move, but he’ll make it all better.

Notes of Debussy’s "Claire De Lune" drift through the air. It lulls him off, and he’s dreaming about when they met. Janna was playing the same song on a tiny upright piano in a tiny café. He fell in love, promised her everything, and married her.

Charlie frowns. The absence of the melody pulls him back from the edge of sleep. Janna probably went back to work. She’s always so industrious. He should help her. And when was the last time he paid his wife a compliment?

Rolling onto his back, Charlie opens his eyes. His wife is standing at his bedside. 

Eyes wide, Charlie shrinks away from her as he takes her in. Janna is looking at him, head oddly cocked, a chef’s knife in her hand. Ice shoots through his veins, picking up the hairs on the back of his neck. In silence she looms, and a foreign fear crushes him into the bed. Janna is unnerving in her smile, making her husband feel like the mouse before a poised trap.

“Is everything okay?” he asks.

“I was going to make some sandwiches, Dear. I know you’ve said PB and J isn’t dinner, but I’ve been craving one.”

“Yeah, that’s fine. I don’t mind a PB and J at all,” Charlie says. Then he glances at the knife. He wants to ask her about it, that variable that disturbs his sanity. But he's too afraid, and she turns and walks downstairs. After a splash of water on his face and the hamper in hand, Charlie follows. There she is, in silent contentment, spreading slices with that giant knife of hers. This time, her grateful husband doesn’t scold, doesn’t shout, and certainly doesn’t try to wrestle the condiment-covered cutlery from her hands. 

“Thanks, Janna,” Charlie says. He walks into the laundry room and sets the hamper down. He spies the duffle bag he pulled out not an hour ago to dispose of his wife's body. Sitting bulky against a wall, Janna must have found something to fill it. He feels ridiculous and guilty. As frightening as it was, Charlie is certain his hallucination is a warning, a metaphysical hint. How it came to be, he doesn’t know and doesn’t care.

Opening the washer, Charlie looks inside. Janna already threw some kitchen towels in. About to wash some whites, he pulls them out. They unfold. Charlie sucks in a breath. Splotches of deep red stain the cloth. The blood is still spongy. It colors his nails and trails down his tightening fingers. The room is deathly still, Charlie unaware of the racketing of his heart against his ribs or the shaking in his limbs. Nor does he hear the footsteps behind him.

“Oh, dear. I thought I got rid of those.”

Charlie doesn't turn around. Instead, he stares at the gym bag. He stares and stares, vision stretching through a dark tunnel. Stupefied, in an empty, empty house. The knife is in his hand.