CHAPTER 12 NORMAN HEATON

12

Norman Heaton

NORMAN HEATON FELT DIZZY, then he didn't. Came on like a breeze through the crack of a window left open, swept over him, then vanished. As with most aches, pains, spells, and general fuckery that visited a man's body after breaking seventy, he acknowledged its presence, remained still until it passed, then confirmed he was still breathing on the other end of the ride.

"You gonna want more eggs?"

Eisa Heaton was standing at the kitchen sink in her favorite threadbare muumuu, her back to him when she spoke, but her voice sounded much farther away than it probably should, more like she was in the other room rather than five feet from him. Like he had water in his ears or was on an airplane dipping down toward its destination.

"Eggs?"

Norman noted his own voice sounded off, too.

"Yeah. Those things from chickens that you're not supposed to be eating, like all that bacon and the half gallon of syrup you drowned your pancakes under. Eggs."

Her voice came back full steam about halfway through that sentence, and all was right again with whatever came over him. No longer dizzy. Hearing all good. His ticker … Norman paused as if he could mentally assess his heart pumping away, found nothing abnormal, and decided that was all good, too. He'd been reading the Hollows Bend Gazette when it started, and the corner of the sports page was now nothing but a crumpled mess in his sweaty palm. He unfurled his fingers, flexed, and smoothed the paper back out. His wife hadn't seen any of it, and that was all right by him—any time Eisa sniffed even the hint of a health problem, she insisted he make a trip over to Doc Billets for a once-over, and he had no intention of missing the Patriots trounce the Raiders this afternoon.

"Norman?"

"Huh?"

"You done with breakfast or you want more? You didn't answer."

Before he could respond, she returned to the table, loaded up the length of her arm with leftover food and dirty dishes, and carried everything over to the sink.

"Yeah, I suppose I'm done," he told her.

Before the dizzy spell, Eisa had been going off about the women in her bridge club. Something about Bernadette cheating again and Julie wanting to drop her from the group or suspend her, or some nonsense. Norman heard about every fifth word and tuned out the rest. He learned long ago the key to staying married for forty-seven-plus years wasn't necessarily listening but knowing when to listen and when to not listen because hearing all of it would drive a man batshit crazy.

" … even if she agrees to put an end to it," Eisa said, taking his half-empty coffee mug away. "Does that make sense?"

"Yep," he replied, finishing off his juice before she ripped the glass from his hand and carted that away, too.

Eisa was a talker. Always had been. She had no trouble carrying their conversations, and most days he had no trouble letting her. It was all fine when she did the talking, but sometimes she felt the need to rope him into the conversation, and today was one of those days. Usually about every three or four sentences she'd poke him, force him to answer before she'd go on. Norman had taken to calling them her needy days, and he downright hated the needy days.

Norman made a show of shaking out the creases from the newspaper and burying his face in the sports page again. He started the article about Jackie Bradley Jr. for the third time. No way the Red Sox would take him back, but the hack who wrote up the story was making a half-assed case.

Still blabbing away, Eisa crossed over to the refrigerator, took out two steaks, and carried them over to her cutting board. She tore away the packaging and began beating on them with a mallet. She was a good three minutes in before she stopped long enough to ask him, "You're okay with steak tonight, right?"

Norman cleared his throat, shook the paper again, and gave a solid five-count before replying. "Yep."

She did that all the time, too—asked him for his opinion when his opinion didn't much matter anymore. He had half a mind to tell her he didn't want steak just to see what she'd do with the two hunks of meat already beaten to death and the packaging in the trash. Norman knew they were having steak tonight whether he wanted it or not, so did Eisa, so why bother asking?

Talk. Talk. Talk.

Whatever happened to silence is golden ?

Norman looked down at his hand. When had he picked up a butter knife? He was squeezing it hard enough to leave a red line across the bridge of his thumb, not hard enough to break the skin (good luck doing that with a butter knife), but still.

" … I suppose I could ride down with Julie if they ban Bernadette, but I'd rather not. Would you believe she's still smoking? She thinks her husband doesn't know. Her car smells like an ashtray, and she smells like an ashtray that's been dipped in watered-down Estée Lauder. Two minutes in her Prius, and I feel like my lungs are coated with tar and my clothes need to go in the trash heap. Mary said she'd pick me up, but she lives on the opposite side of town, so she'd have to go out of her way to get me and …"

Norman did the math. Hollows Bend was maybe seven square miles soaking wet. You could walk one end to the other in less than an hour, so was a mile or so in the opposite direction really such a deal-breaker? More bullshit. More of Eisa spouting out words for the sake of spouting out words.

He squeezed the butter knife again, pressed his thumb down on the blade with all the force his arthritic hand could muster. He found himself looking up at Eisa as he did it, at the tender spot on the side of her neck. No need to beat that with a mallet to soften it up, a knife would cut right through like …

He looked at the butter knife in his hand and grinned.

Just like butter.

"Norman? I asked you a question."

He almost hid the knife, which was stupid. She was still facing away from him. Also stupid, because it was just a goddamn butter knife and there was nothing wrong about handling it at the kitchen table. Not like he was holding one of his chisels from the garage or his bowie knife. Now that would do some damage. He loved that bowie knife. If he pressed his thumb on that blade like he was the butter knife, his thumb would be on the floor right now. He could cut Eisa's head clean off with the bowie and probably not even work up much of a huff. Start by burying it in that soft spot right above her shoulder, give it a good twist and a yank, and he'd be off to the races. Bet he'd be done in less than—

"Norman? Are you wandering again?" Eisa asked before bringing the hammer down on the steaks. "You think I tell you these things because I like the sound of my own voice? I want your opinion."

Oh, you love the sound of your own voice. You can't kid a kidder, you cackling old—

Norman cleared his throat and gave the sports page another rattle. "I'm trying to get up on the game before it starts."

"Sure, because that's important." Eisa smacked the hammer down again. She put some oomph behind it; the cabinets rattled with that one.

Norman felt a tickle at his temple and realized he was sweating. He wiped it away with the back of his hand, caught his reflection in the butter knife as he did. For a brief second, he didn't recognize himself. It was his eyes. Not like looking in a mirror, the blade distorted his features slightly, stretched them out, he got that, but those eyes were not his own.

"Maybe you should drive me," Eisa said, breaking the momentary silence.

"Drive you where?"

Smack!

Christ, those poor steaks.

She said something under her breath, all he caught was " … never listen."

Why the hell was it so hot in here? Did Eisa forget to shut the oven down? Norman's shirt was sticking to his back and chest. "Can you open the window?"

If Eisa heard him

and she most certainly did

she made no move for the window behind the sink. Instead, she beat the steaks with three quick hits— Smack! Smack! Smack! —in rapid succession.

Norman found himself staring at that soft spot on her neck as she did it. The loose flesh bobbed and quivered like a—what was that dog called?—a Shar-Pei, that was it. A fucking Shar-Pei. He remembered what that neck looked like forty-seven years ago, and it certainly wasn't that. No loose, flabby skin back then. No cackle. No blah, blah, blah, run-off-at-the-mouth. Then a crazy thought entered his head—well, not that crazy; it actually made a lot of sense—if he cut deep enough, if he got under that flabby skin and sliced it away, would he find the woman he married?

A butter knife had no will of its own, no thoughts or feelings, but Norman was fairly certain the knife grew warm in his hand, became excited, anxious. The knife sent him some kind of signal, as if saying, I like where your head's at, Norman. Not only do I think you're right, I think you're a goddamn genius for figuring it out. Count me in. Let's do this. I know I'm not sharp, but I'll do my part, just put some elbow grease behind it.

"The window, Eisa," Norman heard himself say in a voice that wasn't his anymore, this one belonged to the eyes he saw in that reflection.

This time, she did reach for the window. She unlocked it, tried to lift the sash, but the window didn't budge. "I think the wood is swollen again. It's stuck." She grunted.

Norman set the newspaper down carefully, avoiding the dirty and wet spots on the table. He fully intended to finish that story about Jackie Bradley Jr. later, and there was no reason to muck it up more than it already was. He rose and felt a strength rush through his limbs he hadn't felt in a long time, maybe half a lifetime ago.

The knife firmly in his grip, Norman eased up behind Eisa, both eyes on her neck as he reached around her for the window. "Let me give it a try."