Author Bio
      

TARA LASKOWSKI

DEATH WISH

Sandra’s manager sent people home early because of the murder. He told everyone that the in-house therapist was available for counseling sessions, but Sandra left at noon. She sat in her car in the parking lot of her apartment building, not really wanting to go inside. A young woman with short red hair walked a small beagle past Sandra’s car. The woman smiled at her, her hand full of mail. The dog was sniffing snow. It seemed so ordinary, so disrespectful.
       It was hot in her apartment and the air smelled of meat and something else, maybe mold. Amy was playing Christian rock music loudly, and as Sandra walked past the kitchen, she turned around, spatula to her mouth.
       “Do you want some meatloaf?” Amy held out the pan like a prize, a brownish lump inside.
       “No thanks.” Sandra went to her room and closed the door. Amy was quiet and mousy, her thinning hair always greasy and tangled. She was thirty-two-years old and looked like she was fifty. Sandra had met her through craigslist when she moved to town, and the rent was cheap so she’d said what the hell. Amy was nice enough, but the religious thing kind of got to Sandra. Through the walls Sandra could hear little children singing on Amy’s stereo, “Call me if you need me, I’ll be doing work for the Lord.” It reminded her of a cult, of little kids with chains around their feet digging in unison.
       Sandra got undressed and turned the shower water as hot as she could stand it, letting the water crash into her hair and down to her feet. She kept thinking of Debbie, who had been at work on Friday, doing her job as usual, and now was just a grainy picture in the newspaper, a covered body being carried away by officials, a right arm hanging limply off a stretcher. They hadn’t been friends, had only talked a few times, exchanged office jokes and occasionally took messages for each other, but now that Debbie was dead, it seemed that Sandra could only think of nice things about her. Debbie had sat in the cubicle right across from Sandra and had shared her portable heater. She bought Sandra a potted plant for Christmas last year. She had a nice smile and she always ordered candy from the PTA moms in the office.
       They both had boyfriends named Dave, and when Debbie’s Dave came to pick her up for lunch sometimes, Debbie would point to the photo of Sandra’s Dave on her desk and joke about how their boyfriends even looked alike. They were the Doublemint Daves, like the twins on that silly gum commercial. Two Daves, both tall with brown hair and glasses. Debbie’s Dave was funnier than Sandra’s Dave, who usually only joked out of sullenness. Debbie’s Dave was funny and sweet. He brought Debbie things, fast food kid’s meal toys and candy that cluttered her desk. Debbie’s Dave had once told her she looked like Sandra Bullock. “Why, that’s her first name!” Debbie had said, and Sandra had blushed.
       “See, there you go. It was meant to be.” Debbie’s Dave had laughed and winked at Sandra, pulling his hand through his already-ruffled hair.
       Sandra rinsed the conditioner from her hair and stepped out, wrapping a robe around herself. In the kitchen, she got a glass of ice water and drank it quickly. Amy stood near the front door watching Sandra, hands shoved in the pockets of the hunting coat that was too big for her. She never carried a purse.
       “Why are you home so early?” she asked.
       Sandra sat down at the kitchen table and began combing through the knots in her hair, spraying water across the table and the newspaper. “Someone died,” Sandra said, staring straight at Amy.
       “Oh.” Amy stepped back awkwardly, pressing against the door. “I’m sorry.”
       “It wasn’t really anyone I knew,” she said so that her roommate would leave. Amy nodded and turned, closed the door behind her without locking it. When she was gone, Sandra threw the deadbolt, pressing her cheek against the cold door. She could hear the wind whistling through the stairwell of the apartment complex like a spirit.

* * *

Her Dave called at work the next day to ask if she wanted to see a hockey game. “I got extra tickets from work for this Friday. Isn’t that great?” He got extremely excited over free stuff. He was disturbingly frugal, driving all around to find the best gas prices and stacking neatly clipped coupons, divided into categories, on the kitchen counter. She knew she would have to smuggle bags of candy in her purse.
       “I’ve never been to a hockey game before,” she told him.
       “Well, then all the more reason to be excited. It’s a great game. The fights are the best part.”
       Dave lived on the other side of town, alone, so they often spent time there. She enjoyed his apartment because it was always so warm. “You have good heat,” she told him the first time she spent the night, a few months after they started dating. They’d met through an online dating service and she’d been relieved at how easy he was to talk to. She needed someone. It was hard being alone in a new city.
       Sandra liked to take naps in Dave’s bed, but didn’t like it when he tried to cuddle up next to her for a kiss. Once the first kiss happened, he’d immediately start taking off her shirt. It was like clockwork—she could time it. It disgusted her, really, and one time when she’d pulled away and asked him, “Haven’t you heard of foreplay?” he’d looked at her blankly and nipped at her ear.
       This was the problem, she knew. She wanted Dave for the companionship. When she spent time with him she wanted to watch a movie or put a puzzle together—not fuck him silly. He was nice, if a bit immature, and when he looked at her with those glazed-over, desiring eyes, she didn’t know whether to giggle or gag.
       Without Dave, there was only Amy and her coworker Beth, who she went out with occasionally but didn’t feel close to. Once they went to a small, country line dancing bar where everyone threw peanut shells on the floor. Beth wore a tight, button-down shirt with fringe, a miniskirt, and big boots, and yee-hawed to every song. No, Dave was better than being lonely. He was a stick in a big puddle of mud.

* * *

The gossip was in full swing at work. Sandra couldn’t walk down the halls without seeing people in huddles, whispering. At lunch, Beth told Sandra they’d arrested Debbie’s Dave. “I heard they found him in her house, that they took him out in handcuffs,” Beth said. “He was going through her stuff. Pictures and things. I think he was trying to cover his tracks.”
       “I don’t really believe that. I don’t think it was someone she knew.” Sandra paused. She stabbed at her salad and remembered Debbie’s Dave’s laugh. “He was such a nice guy.”
       “They might come in to investigate her cube—look at files on her computer. They do that, you know. They have all these ways of figuring out stuff.”
       Sandra poured over the articles in the paper and examined the pictures of him as though they held a clue to what really happened. The Doublemint Dave—a murderer? She’d have known. She would have been able to see it in his eyes.
       During the day, Sandra would look up and stare at the desk where Debbie used to work. The management had taken all her stuff away and cleaned it off. It was like they wanted to wash away the terribleness, sweep it under the plastic mat Debbie wheeled her computer chair on to keep the carpet from getting ruined. Only one trace of her remained—a small, circular green sticker she’d stuck in the corner of her computer monitor that read, “Love Me, I’m a Vegetarian!” the “i” dotted with a little red tomato. Sandra picked at it with her fingernail, but it was too sticky to come off without ripping so she left it there.

* * *

As expected, Dave wanted to eat dinner before the hockey game. “Eight bucks for a hotdog? Don’t think so. Want some leftover steak?” He pulled out a dinner plate, covered tightly with sunken-in plastic wrap, and placed it in the microwave.
       “I told you I’m not eating meat anymore,” she reminded him with a glare.
       “Oh, that’s right,” he said. “That’s this week’s decision.”
       “What do you mean, this week’s decision?” She backed away from him and hit her head on the knob of one of his cabinet drawers.
       “Ah, come here.” Dave hugged her, trapping her arms. He rubbed her head and kissed her hairline. “Do you need ice? I think you’ll live.”
       “You’re making fun of me.”
       “Oh, come on.”
       “I hate it when you patronize me.”
       He shook his head. “You know I like you too much for that.”
       “Yeah, Debbie’s Dave used to say that to her and look what happened.”
       He snorted. She picked the lumps of fat from his meat off the countertop and tossed them in the sink in disgust, flipping on the garbage disposal. It made a dull humming noise, like a sick bird, and she could smell metal burning.
       “Oh, it’s broken,” Dave said over his shoulder.
       She peered down the drain. “Why don’t you fix it?”
       “I don’t know how,” he said, licking his fingers.
       “Wasn’t there a movie where this guy killed his girlfriend, chopped up her body, and fed it to the garbage disposal?” She wanted to irritate him. Had Debbie and her Dave been standing in the kitchen like this? Debbie, fixing a drink, while Dave came up behind her with a kitchen knife? Was it jealousy? Did he think she was sleeping with another man? Sandra remembered Debbie telling her something once about him not liking when she went out with her friends.
       “I think there was the one where he killed her, burned her body in the industrial sized oven, and then vacuumed up her ashes,” Dave said, laughing. He grinned and she felt like flicking his nose, imagining his expression. She wished that they fought, screamed at each other, threw plates or something, anything to chip away at the level landscape of sameness. He leaned over the table and punched her shoulder softly. “Come on, Sandy. What’s going on with you? Are you still upset about that girl at work?”

* * *

Their seats for the game were two rows from the top. They had to shuffle past two people already seated in the aisle. Sandra and Dave had seats three and four, but Dave shifted over two so that they left a few seats between them and the other couple.
       “But what if these people come?” she asked.
       “Then we’ll move,” he said.
       The national anthem played and the game began. Dave tried to explain it all to her, but she just saw a bunch of men skating around. It was too fast to keep up, and she wasn’t sure where she was supposed to look. A few minutes into the game, a couple came up to their row, held up their tickets, and looked at Sandra.
       “We have seats five and six,” the woman told Sandra coldly, as people around them shuffled in their seats to see the game.
       “That’s fine,” Sandra said weakly, glaring at Dave. The two of them shifted over.
       Sandra sat down glumly next to Dave, who was completely oblivious.
       “Get off yer knees, ref, and stop blowing the game!”
       Sandra felt her cheeks get hot. The couple that had just arrived were quiet and well-dressed, probably coming straight from some important work meeting. And now she was sure they did not like her, thanks to Dave.
       When the team scored, Dave jumped up and pumped his fists. He started singing along to the fight song and clapping his hands in unison with the guy in front of him. The two of them slapped a high five, as if they personally had something to do with the goal. When the other team came back and scored two goals in a matter of seven minutes to pull ahead, Dave began cursing. “Stop playing like a bunch of pansies and make it entertaining for us!”
       Their seats were so high up that if she stood to leave Sandra thought she might pitch forward and fall, banging limbs as she gained momentum. She studied Dave’s profile, his slack chin, the hair behind his ear. His hands were clenched, his eyes focused on the action. It would be easy for him to kill her. He could do it with his bare hands. Snap her neck, like that.
       The guy in front of them stood up suddenly, and then Dave did, and everyone tensed. Sandra watched as one of the players grabbed an opponent by the head. His helmet was off, his hair wild and sticky from sweat, and he punched the other guy in the stomach repeatedly. The crowd was cheering.
       “Fuckin’ A! Yeah! Yeah!” Dave yelled. The referee came to break up the fight, but not before the helmetless guy spit on his opponent’s face. He skated into the penalty box and the crowd booed.
       She turned to Dave to ask him if they could leave, but he grabbed some popcorn and winked at her. “Now we’re ready for some hockey, right, babe?” He pumped his fist.
       The woman next to her looked over, smiling tensely. “Your boyfriend’s funny,” she said. “He really gets into it, doesn’t he?”

* * *

They went most of the way home in silence. Amy was awake, watching television in the dark, her glasses reflecting the late night dating show. She clutched her pillow, eating Doritos from the bag between her legs. They walked past her and into Sandra’s room, shutting the door.
       Dave threw himself on her bed, making the wall shake. “Come here, sweetheart.”
       She curled next to him and faced the wall. He snaked his arm around her and under her shirt. He would go for the nipple immediately—ah, yes, there it was. His breathing got heavy. She wiggled away.
       “Dave, I…”
       He kissed her, hard. She could taste the beer and the salt from the popcorn as his tongue explored her mouth. He pressed harder and slid on top of her, covering her body. He was tall, his weight smothered her, and she tried to push him off. But he grabbed her arms, pulling them above her head, and smiled at her. She thought she saw something cold behind his eyes. She felt her heart beating as she stared into his face, this man she didn’t really know at all.
       “Oh, baby,” he moaned, nipping at her ear. It amazed her that two people could be in the same room and have completely different ideas about what was going on. She couldn’t breathe and she struggled against him. He grabbed her arms tighter, held both of her wrists with his one hand, his other moving south, tugging on the button of her jeans. She thought about Debbie. She wondered if it was worse to be dead or completely alone, or if the two were even all that different.
       “No,” she said again, louder. She twisted, pulling her knee upwards into his crotch. He screeched and rolled over.
       “Sandy, what the hell?” She pushed herself off the bed and stood up, breathing heavily. He looked at her, still doubled over, his eyes confused. “What the hell is wrong with you?”
       “I said I didn’t want to.”
       “Yeah. Painfully.”
       “I’m sorry. I guess I’m just still thinking about what happened at work.” She couldn’t look at him. “I think you should leave.”
       He reached for her and she recoiled. She saw him flinch. “I don’t understand what just happened,” he said, holding out his hands, palms up, like a peace offering.
       He followed her out into the living room, where Amy still sat pinching her lower lip. Dave put his coat on. “I’ll call you,” he said tersely, and left, slamming the door.
       Amy looked up from the show, a slight smile on her face. “Everything all right?”

* * *

Eventually they hired someone else to sit at Debbie’s old desk—a blonde woman, tall and lean, who had a little maple leaf pin on her coat and always wore dark brown lipstick. Her name was Nelly and Sandra made sure to introduce herself the first day. Nelly was married with three children and her husband’s name was Frank. She had pictures of her kids tacked on the walls of her cubicle, and she covered the “I’m a Vegetarian!” sticker with a laminated copy of the poem “Footprints.”
       At lunch, Beth and Sandra still obsessed over Debbie’s murder trial. Beth remembered things she hadn’t thought of before—how one time he told her he’d stolen a pack of cigarettes, how she thought she might have seen him once on America’s Most Wanted. “Should I say something to the police? Do you think they’d want to know?”
       Sandra watched Debbie’s Dave on television while Amy cooked in the kitchen. If the reception was fuzzy, he looked almost exactly like her Dave, only now with a beard. She used to dream about him sometimes, before Debbie had been killed. She used to think maybe she could take him away from Debbie and have him all to herself.

* * *

Sandra stopped calling her Dave and made excuses when he asked her to go out. Sometimes they ran into each other in the city, and she would feel a stab of guilt and have lunch with him. She spent the nights she would’ve been out with him watching Debbie’s Dave’s trial on television, sometimes even sharing a bowl of popcorn with Amy, who was convinced he was going to get the death penalty. Spring turned into summer. Her Dave put his profile back up on the dating site. Hockey season ended.
       One night, several months after Debbie’s Dave was convicted, Sandra came home from being out with Beth and couldn’t sleep. She heard an ambulance siren and sat up to peer out of her window at the parking lot. The young woman with short red hair was walking her dog, headed for the wooded path that snaked behind the complex. She disappeared behind the trees alone. It was so late at night.
       She began writing a letter on yellow legal paper. She wrote about the young woman and her dog, about fear, about how it was odd that something so small could seem so horrifying. She wrote about the way Beth danced with strangers in bars, her hips pressed forward, lips against their necks. She was writing to Debbie’s Dave. She could picture him opening the letter in his cell, running his hand through his hair like she remembered. The thought was like biting into chalk. She told him about Amy, how she ordered chocolate milk in restaurants and sprayed Lysol on the phone after she used it. She told him about her Dave, how he had never seemed to understand what it was she was feeling, how their relationship would’ve been a long, sturdy rectangle with no bumps or grooves. She filled five pages with her handwriting, feeling reckless.
       When she was finished, she folded the letter into thirds, sealed it in an envelope without re-reading it, and went online to find the address of the prison. She thought again of the young woman walking her dog as she put on her sneakers and robe and grabbed her keys off the dresser, feeling slightly crazy as she quietly closed the apartment door. She knew if she thought about it too long she would lose her nerve. The mailbox was at the end of the parking lot. The night was sticky, the cicadas loud in their unrelenting buzzing, and Sandra ran, her heart thumping, imagining she was going to be grabbed from behind at any point. The mailbox pulled open with a creak, and she fed it the letter. Racing back to the apartment, robe billowing behind her, Sandra wondered, briefly, elatedly, how she must look, and hoped there was someone watching her run.