His Wounds Green

  "It's not your fault." Court put his naked arm around her naked shoulders, kissed the soft skin on her long, naked neck.

   Really, Windsor thought, watching them through his electronic peephole, not your fault, then who's is it? Not mine, that's for damn sure, looking down at his wife and his best friend, lying there, together, tangled up in his blankets, sweating in his bed, their tanned skin on his white sheets, framed by the dark wood floor in his bedroom, an overhead shot through the hidden camera lens from inside the ceiling fan he had recently installed so as to capture them in the act.

  "Well, I feel like it was my fault," Ulva said. 

  "Equally mine, then," Court said. "His best friend, and all. But here we are."

  "Yes," Ulva said, snuggling closer. "Here we are."

  Yes, there you are, shameless, unfaithful, cheating, betraying. Well I caught you. I catch you in the act every day. If you have no shame now, you soon will. I'll shame you. 

   "One thing I always meant to ask. Why didn't he want you to take his name?"

   "What's wrong with Hepinstall?"

   "It's a beautiful name, Ulva Hepinstall, but I want you to be mine."

   "You want to own me, brand me with your last name? You want me to be Ulva Carpenter, is that it?" She smiled as she said it. Windsor zoomed in, saw her eyes close as they kissed, the flutter of her lashes.

   Is that it, if I'd insisted on you taking my name, becoming Ulva Maxwell, would everything have been different, is that what you wanted from me? 

   Revenge. That was his whole existence now.

  "Yes," Court said. "I want you to be Ulva Carpenter."

   "So, wait a minute," Ulva said. "Was that a proposal, Court Carpenter? Did you just ask me to take you name? Are we getting that serious, this fast?"

   "I am," said Court. "Are you?"

   "Ask me again," said Ulva, "when ... well, when some more time has passed. I need to get things in order. Settle things properly, you know."

   Do you think I'll let you divorce me? Think again. I have a surprise for you.  

   "I will," Court said, "ask you again, when the time is right. I understand. Believe me, this doesn't feel right to me either. But I can't help the way I feel about you. I can at least say how I feel. I love you, Ulva."

   "I love you, Court."

   Love?

   Did he love Ulva still? No, Windsor realized, he hadn't loved her for a long time. Maybe he never did. But she was his. No-one took anything that was his away from Windsor Maxwell. There would be retribution.

   I'll settle things. I will give you both what you deserve. 

   Windsor reviewed his plan, all the angles. Literally, all the angles, checking the monitor, the sixty-four high-definition images streaming from the cameras he had installed throughout the bedroom, in the shower, above the couch in the living room, above the center island in the kitchen, above the whirlpool on the patio, all the places he captured them. They were living in the Panopticon of his making, and they didn't know it.

   He licked his lips, thinking about his next editing session. He didn't sleep much these days. When he wasn't watching, he was assembling the footage into his masterpiece of revenge, the movies, so many movies. Stockpiling.

   When he was ready, he would upload them, all at once, to every dirty website in the world. He thought of the emails he would send to all their family, friends, coworkers, church members, with the links, the links, the links.

  I'll make you famous.

  "I think someone's watching," Ulva said, pulling away from Court.

  Windsor froze. Had he made a sound? No, this place was soundproof. And besides, he wasn't even anywhere near. Only his electronic eyes were watching them, and those eyes were quiet as the grave.

   "What I mean is: sometimes I wonder," Ulva said, "whether he can see us."

   "You mean — "

   "From up there." Ulva pointed towards the ceiling fan, almost directly into the camera lens, as if somehow she could sense the roving eye watching her, watching them.

   Court hugged her tighter. "Really, you need to stop."

   "I know," she said. "But ... maybe I could have — "

   "Changed things?" Court ran his long, thick fingers through her hair.

   "Yeah."

   "Most men lead lives of quiet desperation."

   Thoreau, Windsor thought, how typical, Court, casually dropping the semi-intellectual quote. Well, your life will soon scream desperation.

   "You don't really believe that, though," Court said.

   "About desperate men?"

   "No, that he's watching us," Court pointed up towards the camera lens in the ceiling fan, "from up there."

   "No ... yes ... I don't know. Who knows, right? I mean, anything is possible." 

   "I don't believe in — well, then, who else is watching, your parents, my grandma?"

   She laughed. "I know, it's stupid. It's just a feeling."

   "I think he was selfish."

   "That's not fair."

   "Maybe not," Court said. "I guess it's not fair. But honestly that's how I feel. I feel shitty for him. But I hate even more to see what it does to you."

   "I feel guilty."

   As you should, Windsor though. You should feel guilty. Both of you. And you'll be sorry.

   "But I do like having a man about the house," she said, snuggling up to him again. "It's ... handy."

   "That's me, I'm your handyman."

   She giggled.

   "Hey," she said. "Mr. Handyman. This weekend, do you think you could install the ceiling fan?" She pointed up. "I'm tired of seeing those loose wires dangling down. It was the last thing Windsor did, buying that new ceiling fan, taking down the old one, the last thing he did before he —."

   Her face suddenly contorted into a grimace, tears streaming down, then she buried her head into Court's neck, her shoulders shaking with heavy sobs.

***

  Windsor remembers now, the oiled-metal taste of the gun barrel in his mouth, the cold trigger under his index finger.

***

   The monitor dissolves and with it all the camera angles, including the one of the couple on the bed.

   What remains of Windsor is left in cold darkness.

   So, being dead, I won't be able to get back at them in that way. 

   But isn't this better, after all?

   He has eternity now to plot and exact his revenge. All he has to figure out is how they do it: the ghosts, the poltergeists.

   How to do the haunting.