by Amber Hogue

 

One side of the bed was cold; there was a hollow space where Phillip usually slept. Claudia Gordon stretched out her arm, reaching for her husband, but he was absent from his embedded impression. Claudia yearned for him, she longed for his arms that had grown weaker with age, but were still strong enough to wrap around her body and keep her safe. Claudia’s arms searched for her husband, but she only felt Phillip’s bitter absence. Her body tossed and turned with energy, although she had taken one of Phillip’s sedatives just an hour earlier. The goose down blanket was kicked to the bottom of the portly mahogany frame and Claudia’s legs slithered down the bed to be placed delicately on the chilly floor.

Headlights glimmered through Claudia’s bedroom window; she pulled back the chiffon curtains as if to spot Phillip pulling into the driveway but knew that was absurd. Claudia knew she would not see his rustic Mercedes until the following afternoon when he returned home from the sizzling redhead Ms. VanDecar’s home across the bridge.

The affair between Phillip and Jacqueline VanDecar was well known in the Gordon house, but Claudia no longer had the energy to fight her husband on the matter. Just as she did every night that Phillip was absent from their bed Claudia tiptoed into his study, carefully unlocked the door, and whisked away a bottle of his most precious wine. In the kitchen, next to the blender and toaster lay the corkscrew, which Claudia pilfered from its rightful home. As she sauntered out of kitchen, she grabbed the last pristine wine glass from its rack.

Upstairs, steam spilled out of the bathroom. The bathtub was almost ready, just a few more minutes. The smell of lavender wafted through the hallways, down to Claudia. She entered the cloudy room, turned the silver handle on the bathtub to stop the frothy water from boiling over. The mirror squeaked as Claudia’s hand grazed over it to reveal her tired frame. She looked into the mirror and saw the well defined lines that surfaced on her face, the gray hairs sprouting from her scalp, and her blue eyes that excreted exhaustion.

Claudia uncorked the wine, and held it delicately as she watched the rich, red liquid gush into the crystal wine glass. Setting the bottle down, she brought the glass to her mouth, breathed in the sweet aroma, and took a sip, closing her eyes. She undressed and slid into the bathtub, resting her head against the colossal porcelain rim. She raised the glass to her wine-stained lips and took another sip, swishing the wine around her mouth to catch every robust flavor. When she finally swallowed, the gulp reverberated against the walls of the moist bathroom.

 

Every morning for the past three years, the neighbor boy Pete, who was breaching adolescence, came over to deliver the newspaper to Mr. Gordon (who paid him generously). On this particular morning, Pete arrived earlier than usual, knocked lightly on the door and it nudged open. He called out for Mr. and Mrs. Gordon, but only wind answered his cry. He pushed the door completely open and it let out a high pitched whimper. The halls were dark, cold, and abandoned. One single light ricocheted down the stairs from the second story and beckoned Pete. He grabbed the banister and began to climb the staircase all the while calling for the Gordons.  Each step he mounted let out a creaking sigh.

All the doors upstairs were closed, except for one, down the hall to the right. It was slightly open. Pete reluctantly pushed it open with his foot and heard a crunch. He had stepped on one of the many pieces of glass scattered on the floor. An empty olive colored wine bottle rocked back and forth; tiny drops of deep red fluid dribbled from the uncorked top.

A red lacquered hand hung limply from the side of the bathtub, attached to a thin, freckled arm. Pete took a few more steps towards the tub, struggling to be completely silent as he held his breath. The damp, naked corpse of Mrs. Gordon stared back at him. He stumbled backwards out of the bathroom, turned to run down the stairs but tripped and bounced off of every step. Spread out on all fours like a newborn fawn, Pete struggled to his feet and ran out the door. He jammed his hand deep into his corduroy pocket, grabbed his phone, and cleared his vision to dial 9-1-1.

 

 Phillip pulled into the driveway and slammed the door of his rickety Mercedes. He walked towards the door, but before turning the knob he smelled the collar if his blue oxford shirt. He breathed in the sweet perfume of Ms. VanDecar and stepped into the house, with no care of his wife. All the lights were off, Phillip headed towards the television. He assumed Claudia was out, but knew she would be back soon it was getting dark out. The sound of the television blared throughout the house rumbling down the halls and every nook and cranny within the house.

Phillip heard the door swing open and the shuffle of feet. Thinking it was Claudia; he didn’t bother to detach his eyes that were glued to the evening news. A deep, growl penetrated Phillip’s ears. He turned around to see an egg shaped police officer staring back at him. In shock he leapt form his seat and began shouting aggressively at the policeman. When he was through, the police officer pulled a clear, plastic bag out containing what Phillip saw to be his sleeping pills. The typed letters of PHILLIP GORDON burned through his corneas. The officer then led him up the stairs to the crime scene, completely puzzled Phillip followed obediently.

In the bathroom Phillip saw sharp particles of glass spread across the floor, one of his fine wine bottles completely empty and the large claw foot tub encircled within crime scene tape. Cold, murky water filled the tub and a rough outline of a body was drawn on the sides of it. Phillip stared in shock at the site of his bathroom. The faint smell of lavender drifted into his nose. The thought of Claudia filled his head. He remembered how much he used to love her. How he used to enclose her tiny body with his burly arms. His day daydream was cut off and he was brought back into reality; the officer was tugging on his belt, struggling to secure his pants around his large belly. Small beads of sweat built up behind Phillips ears. He stared blankly at the cop.

            “Did you murder your wife, Mr. Gordon?”