arrowood

Confessions of Sneaky Sam

Entry 600

I like to think of my houses as concentration camps, but I don’t use gas. Here is my wife of one hundred days. Like my previous five women, she is a neo-naturalist. When painting, she claims to depend on her emotions, especially her instincts, but she doesn’t have enough instinct to know what a threat I am. I chuckle with glee every time she talks about her great perception of people, her artistic sensibility, but I don’t laugh aloud, of course. I agree with her, not just about that, but everything she says. She thinks I’m as wonderful as chocolate cake and ice cream. I am fantastic, except for my little problem.

I’m sneaky Sam. That’s what I call myself, not what others call me. This time around, I’m Max Ferber, parts department technician at a local Auto dealership. Already, I have my next ID ordered. I’m prepared to leave with a suitcase and my computer, the only items I take with me when they’re dead.

I always play Chopin during meals and in my car right after they’re dead when I get the hell out of town for good. I’ve traveled a lot, leaving burning houses behind me. Moreover, I talk non-stop.

Here I am at Entry 600 already. The other women took exactly 100 entries, and then died. I’m terrified. I’ve never been scared before, never I tell you, my precious journal, never. I am writing this furiously. Usually, I’m so calm and methodical. I hate changes like this. When around her, I must smile and pretend I’m happy. I’m on the edge of something, and dear journal, you won’t reveal your secret to me like you usually do. I crush a page with my right hand, and blood oozes from the paper cuts and flows onto the journal. It doesn’t matter. I’m ambidextrous. I’ll start entry 600 all over again, using my left hand.

Mrs. Ferber, the sixth, sits across from me at the breakfast table, drinks her orange juice and stares into space. She always thinks about her next painting. It galls me that she doesn’t listen to me, like a good wife should.

She hasn’t been able to keep anything down in the last couple of months. Don’t know what I’m going to do with her. She’s lasted longer than any of them. They always kept the food down. She doesn’t.

She’s finished half the glass of juice already and has eaten her favorite breakfast, scrambled eggs and bacon, which I fondly fixed for her. I made myself pancakes. (I only do the household chores that could lead to her death. I’m so considerate of her because she has to die my way, the way the others did.)

She abruptly puts the glass on the table, races into the bathroom, and all my excellent preparations go down the toilet. She’s always in there at least ten minutes, so I find my good ole jar in the back of the cupboard where she never goes. I measure out one tablespoon of a green liquid. I’m going for broke now. None of it seems to get into her system. But I keep trying and trying.

I keep thinking of using another method, like an on-purpose accident. For some reason, I must use one teaspoon to one tablespoon of anti-freeze even though it galls me that she doesn’t die. Maybe with my tripling the amount of this odorless, sweet-tasting stuff, I can at last be successful. This time, enough will get into her system before she throws up again. I just know it. I mean, the glass is only half-full.

Finally, the tablespoon of poison falls into her glass. I quickly replace the cap and put the jar back into the cupboard. I’m in my chair before she’s back in the kitchen.

When she’s sitting across from the kitchen table again, she says, “your food has always been sweet, very sweet like you, but I think it would be better if you left that sweetener out. It may be causing my vomiting. “

“You might see a doctor. I can’t imagine that a little sweet and low mixed with brown sugar could cause this,” I said. “I’ve never had complaints before. Everyone devours my food.”

Without detecting my mocking tone, she waved her hand at me as if she could put off the suggestion forever. “Oh no, I don’t need a doctor, just some rest. I have been doing some fantastic paintings lately. It’s left me exhausted. That’s all. I’m just so tired. These paintings are wearing me down.”

“But darling, please, what would I do without you?” I said.

“Honey, let me finish! I don’t have time for a hospital. Not when I’m on a roll. Let’s see what happens at lunch. I might be better.” She pushes the glass away and gets up from her chair. She leans over and kisses my cheek. Her brown straggly hair brushes my ear. “You are sweet to support and take care of me, so I can be an artist full time.” She runs her fingers over my bald spot. Then ruffles the crown of my head.

As she walks into the garage, her painting studio, her anorexia body easily slips through the door, and it quietly shuts on its own.

My vision turns white, like a piece of clean toilet paper. I must repeat the whole thing at lunch. Something’s not right, but I can’t figure out what it is. I’m obsessed with anti-freeze. What happened to my self-control, my free choice? All I can do is repeat what worked with the other women. I’m stuck. Damn! Damn that bitch! I slam my fist on the table, and rage chokes me.