Making a Scene

Mauve grabs my face between well lotioned hands. “You’ve got this, Rebecca.” 

Her doe eyes swim with innocence. My dream is to be a great actress, but Mauve is the one who was truly made for the stage. I’ve spent two years burning out the marks of middle class suburbia to embody this highbrow alter ego. Mauve tosses her head, flipping one perfectly curled bang out of her eye. The picture of coiffed perfection, her demeanor never betrays the truth. She’s so good, sometimes I even forget that she’s the leader of an anarchist environmental organization.

Mauve’s been my designated gal pal since I’ve known Freddy. And although I know I’m only a pawn in a game she inherited, she’s convincing. I’ve always wondered at her willingness to be involved in this plot, but claiming she’s my best friend is the most plausible cover for all the time we spend scheming. 

Since the moment I sat strategically perched on Freddy’s favorite bar stool at his usual Friday night haunt, my backstory has been solid. To him, I was a shiny toy, long legs swirling around clouds of cigar smoke. I remember that night as a cat and mouse game of profuse apologies, aperol spritzes, and blatant refusal to see him again. Deny a rich man something and it’s destined to be game, set, match. I don’t know how he got my cell number but I picked up the call when he rang two days later and it was all aces from there. 

Back to the matter at hand; I most certainly do not feel that I’ve got this as deeply as Mauve does. But I nod anyway, years of practice pretending to be someone else slowing down my heart rate. I breathe evenly, keeping the vial from shaking in my hands. 

I never thought it would be this hard to assassinate my brother-in-law, even if Daryl is a slimeball. Sure, he’s the head of a major gas company that deceives shareholders and covers up leaking pipelines. Yes, his main motivation is money at the expense of human life (Mauve has provided enough evidence to make that clear). And I’m fairly sure that he forced his wife, Sherry, to get a boob job. But it’s still murder. 

I try to wish away my hesitation by thinking of those fucking teeth. Daryl’s got the most infuriating white chiclets set into a very punchable face. It’s what I’ve decided I’ll focus on to carry out his execution.

The warmth disappears as Mauve’s hands drop. “Now, go get rid of the bad guy.” She pats the hand that’s holding the poison. I know it’s time for me to exit the car, to go inside and get ready for tonight’s dinner party. That’s what the script requires. But part of me wishes this friendship was real and the lie is my role in destroying Freddy’s family. 

The next thing I know I am in the entryway of my townhouse, unwrapping a scarf sticking to the sweat on my neck. Time passes like that lately, in blacked out chunks. One scene ends, the set is remade, and I’m thrown back under the lights. 

Maybe I should worry, but I can’t seem to find time to care. Thankfully, it never takes me much time to recover my lines. I shake my hair out and head upstairs to my bedroom to stash the vial.

The last two years of my life will all come down to this night. 

The thing about vengeance is it’s driven by the stories we tell ourselves. I can paint Daryl out to be the villain, easy peasy. It’s harder to know that his wife will take the brunt of this loss. That Freddy (who I was never supposed to love but whose caresses and words carved into me slowly, like rain) will feel the loss of his only sibling. I think Daryl’s teeth again, luminescent pearls he hoards in a world that is slowly burning. I’ve got this.

I’ve just finished blowing out my hair into cotton candy soft waves when Freddy gets home. His footsteps echo up the stairs until they land behind me, seated at the vanity.

“Heya honey.” He kisses my cheek, lays a feather-light hand on my shoulder. I stare at his shadow form through the mirror, the lights around my face centering me. 

“Why, hello handsome.” I put a hand atop his. It’s like this, with us. Natural. It could be so easy to stay this way. “How was work?”

“Ah, same ol’. Looking forward to getting out of the house tonight. You look lovely already, sweetheart.” He means it, too. “Let me hop in the shower so we can get a move on.”

He withdraws his hand and heads for the bathroom. I stare at my reflection, wondering which layer of me is real.

I come to again with Bob Dylan on the radio.”But don’t think twice, it’s alright…” Freddy croons. We’re on the way to Daryl’s, and somehow I’ve managed to put on red lipstick and a black long sleeved dress. I wonder if Freddy helped me do up the buttons in the back. I wonder if he recognizes that the last time I wore this dress was to a funeral. I think of the gas our Range Rover burns up as we fly on the freeway and let Mauve’s fossil-fuel driven anger fill me up. It’s easier to borrow feelings when I feel nothing at all. Freddy takes my hand and kisses the back of it. I feel the corners of my lips tug up obediently to smile at him.

Daryl’s house is a perfect row house, decorated by interior designers to feel cool and sleek but never to put you at ease. I think this is a fitting set, a place staged for uncomfortable reckonings. The long windows at the front abutt the street, but I know there are security cameras everywhere. I mingle with Daryl’s wife, Sherry. A Christmas tree sparkles in the window, blinding me to the outside world. I fade in the reflection of lights.

  When I wake again, I’m seated to the right of Daryl. He’s at the head of the table, with Freddy to my right.  

“More butter, Rebecca?” Daryl smiles and hands me the butter, putting the ceramic dish and his porcelain teeth right in my face. I butter my bread, refraining from panic. Did I already slip the poison into his French 757? How much time do I have left? What will Mauve think of me if I fail to accomplish this task tonight? What act are we in now?

I pretend to have a tickle in my throat and feel for the vial between my cleavage. My heart flutters; it’s still there. 

“Can I refresh anyone’s beverage?” I tap red nails on my own empty glass, making it sing.

“Oh, let me help you!” Sherry chimes in.

“You don’t have to trouble yourself.”

“No, I insist!” Sherry stands and accompanies me to the kitchen. Sherry’s kindness is a wrench in the plans, but I tell myself it’s nothing I can’t handle. Her shoes click on the hardwood, and I use the absurdity of wearing heels in her own home to put Sherry’s kindness at arm’s length.

When we reach the kitchen, Sherry strolls over to the bar cart.

“Listen, Rebecca.” Sherry rinses out our glasses and refreshes the ice. “I have something uncomfortable to talk to you about.” The cubes clang noisily.

My heart gallops, but I keep my smile placid. Did she see me reach for the vial? Does she know that her husband is my target? I can feel the darkness try and swoop in but I fight to stay in character.

“What’s that, Sherry?”

“It’s about your friend, Mauve.” 

“Mhm?” I didn’t expect Mauve to be brought into this, and it raises little warning bells. I think of her comforting hands, her faith in me. I will protect her at all costs.

“I saw her and Freddy.” Sherry’s voice is a whisper, not much louder than the slow drip of gin she’s filling glasses with. She’s staring down at her hands, avoiding my eyes so she doesn’t see me flinch. I straighten my spine. I truly wasn’t prepared for improv.

“Saw them? When?” My voice sounds foreign to my own ears.

“I only glimpsed her getting out of his car. It was by the park by your house, in the middle of the day last week. They were both in the back seat. And when she left she look a bit… disheveled.” I can feel my heartbeat thunder. This must be a test. This has to be part of the plan.

“I’m so sorry I didn’t tell you sooner I just… it’s such an awkward position to be in. Daryl wouldn’t want me to say anything but I just felt like I’d want to know.”

When Sherry looks up at me, I know she’s being honest. Coming from anyone else, this wouldn’t be incriminating. But I know Sherry is a terrible actress with a mind like taffy. Her thoughts only stick on what’s obvious, and I know she isn’t creative enough to see anything for what it isn’t. For a moment, I hate her. Why did she have to go and rip back the curtain enough for me to glean the truth?

Because that’s what this is; the truth. It’s Mauve who will take my place. Mauve who orchestrated this while keeping herself removed enough in the ways that matter. Whenever I pictured all the ways this script would end, I didn’t see this one coming. This will end with myself incriminated and Mauve as my dutiful understudy, stepping in to fill the role of grieving friend turned Freddy’s wife.

For once, I do not black out. I am beyond feeling anyway; there is no need for my mind to override and shut down my system. She’s a fabulous screenwriter, really, and I’ve been positioned so this ends with her getting everything. Mauve and Freddy, in love without me knowing. Stealing kisses behind my back and a family fortune through my actions. I’ve been living someone else’s life for so long, I can imagine how satisfying it would be to be Mauve, for getting so close to pulling this off.

“Thank you for telling me, Sherry.” I try to keep my voice even. She nods, like that means something to me. Before she leaves, she places a gentle hand on my arm.

“Sorry to tell you like this. Take a minute if you need it, I’ll tell them you’ve got a stain on your dress.” She picks up her drink and Freddy’s, leaving me with my glass and Daryl’s.

It’s almost too perfect. I waste no time feeling sorry for myself; I dump in the contents of the vial, crush the glass under my foot, and then sweep it gracelessly under the rug with my delicate shoes. 

The scene has been set, and I am set to give the performance of my life. I won’t let them down.

I carry the glasses back in, placing them on the table. I make a toastl to family and friendship, and our very bright futures. Daryl drinks heartily. I do the same.

This time, the darkness creeps up rather than coming all at once. I smile as I feel my organs burn, as my body begins to slump over the table. I keep smiling, even as Daryl’s teeth disappear into a frown. Even as I hear Freddy’s voice raise into a call for an ambulance. I continue to smile as Sherry looks on in horror. Mauve is a wonderful actress, but she should have known better than to let someone see her out of character.

I picture my lips uttering one last word: Bravo.

It’s a gift, to be given this chance to be the master of my own fate.

In the end, vengeance requires us to make choices. Given the choice, I would rather write the script than play my assigned part. 

I sigh, my last breath a relief. Even if the show goes on without me, I’ve always loved a tragedy.