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Mayonnaise, The Bastard
by Andrew Davie Year 1 He passed away before she and I met. An inoperable tumor left him cognizant but crippled. Slowly, it metastasized into his soft tissue stripping him of his dignity. An imposing man, before the disease ravaged him, he was bone and sinew at the end. While the final papers were drawn, he included a provision in his will, on her birthday, for the rest of her life, a local florist would provide her flowers; marigolds, her favorite. We’d met when she was emerging from her hiatus. A frightened animal, being released from captivity, the slightest misstep would trigger an alarm. It started with coffee then dinner. I found myself drawn to her. We had only been dating for a few months before the flowers arrived. The card undid all of the work she’d put into constructing her new life, and she retreated. It was a precarious position; I wanted to remind her of the irreversible nature of death but kept my distance. Year 2 She’d purged herself of their mutual possessions, but his aura shone in the reflection of the new appliances. We had grown closer to the point where discussions often turned toward what the future might hold. The flowers arrived as I was making her breakfast. She placed them in a vase on a ledge above the kitchen sink. This time, she’d held it together, but later I heard her dissolve under the strain. While her reaction had become less extreme, the sense of loss still resonated deep within. We talked about it; she was open about her feelings of guilt and longing and wondered if they’d ever go away. Year 3 She didn’t outwardly change when the flowers arrived, but I didn’t want to stick around. I came home black out drunk and incoherent. The following morning I was met with silence, shame, and a crippling hangover. The remnants of the flowers were escaping from the mouth of the garbage disposal. Year 4 I got angry and unleashed long winded diatribes. He was Machiavellian, a rogue, who even in death served to strip her of any autonomy and castrate me, a man he never met. I tried to switch perspectives and understand this was in no way a threat to our existence; what harm was it if she continued to reserve a small piece of her life to him? The thoughts would slowly turn as the anger infused with reasoning until I could no longer rationally consider any other side to it than my own. Year 5 I have forgotten. Year 6 I threatened the delivery boy; beat him to death and replace his organs with marigolds like the ancient Egyptians would. An eight iron in my hands, I stood on the lawn and parted the air with swift cuts. Half crazed, mouthing profane threats, my bathrobe parted to reveal my shame. The kid froze. He couldn’t reconcile the enormity of what was happening staring at some deranged customer who harbored a vendetta. The kid collapsed to the ground; an infantile response. The police arrived. Sanity rescued me before it could escalate beyond reproach. Cooler heads later prevailed, and my contribution to the kid’s college fund did wonders for allowing everyone to forget. Year 7 Without her knowledge, I sought to have an injunction to overturn “The Marigold Provision” on grounds of cruelty and mental anguish. The judge saw me because of an old family connection and admonished me for wasting his time but finally relented. Shame was not the right word, but it was close. However, the flowers were delivered once again; gold reminiscent of the sun. Later, I was to learn he’d had a private investigator on the payroll, a friend of twenty odd years. They’d served together, had sworn blood oaths, the whole nine. Days after were spent stewing, spiraling, looking for a target for my rage. What could I do, exhume and desecrate the body? How do you enact revenge against someone who no longer exists? I found him at his office. Overweight, he was popping antacid tablets like Tic-Tacs. A two-bit skip tracer, most of his work was done on the information superhighway. In the movies, PI’s always look like Robert Mitchum. He was seasoned enough; didn’t flinch when I produced the gun. He’d done matrimonial work before, adultery. It wasn’t the first time a weapon had been brandished. I was advised to take serious consideration of what I was doing. His calmness only seemed to unnerve me further, and I doubted whether I had the fortitude to see it through. Swinging a golf club at an adolescent was one thing. He sensed my mission would be futile and relaxed. Go home. Reconcile that nothing is going to be perfect. The flowers will continue to be there. There are worse things. He picked up the phone, dialed the number, and continued with his day as if I ceased to exist. I put the piece away and sat back down in his chair. I can’t, I told him. Hold on he said into the phone, then put it down as if he was just seeing me for the first time. What? There’s no home to go back to anymore. She left me three years ago. My body began to tremble as the thoughts manifested themselves into emotion. The PI sucked his teeth and paused for a moment. Perhaps, he’d offer up some infinite wisdom he’d pooled from years of seeing the worst in people; some philosophical tenets I could hold onto as I began the rest of my life. We stared at each other for a moment before he returned to the call. Nothing, he finally said into the receiver. Some guy messed up. Heh, yeah, man is a bastard. |
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