Dying for Chocolate

I pressed my fingers down into the dirt around one of the geraniums waiting to be planted. It needed water. Then I brought out a paring knife I had slipped into my apron pocket and put it down next to the plant, where John Richard couldn’t see it. Just in case.

He said, “A female friend of mine is going to teach Arch a few magic tricks.”

I said, “Oh, please. Your last girlfriend tried to teach him geometry and he’s gotten D’s ever since.”

“Maybe that’s because someone’s too busy catering to help him with his homework.”

I closed my eyes. I did not want to get into a fight. When I opened my eyes, John Richard was giving me his toothy innocent smile.

He said, “So where are Marla’s sister and her famous husband? What’s his name—Rommel?”

“Don’t.”

He looked at the sky, then said, “Well, let me ask you this. Who’re you cooking for tonight?”

“The Harringtons.”

He laughed. He guffawed, started to say something, and then snickered and wouldn’t quit. I was not going to give him the satisfaction of asking what the joke was. He said, “This is just ironic as hell.”

“Why’s that?” This conversation was strange, but familiar. One subject, then another, laughing one minute, then. . . my neck snapped up involuntarily. Too late.

John Richard picked up a clay pot and threw it at the front door. The crack of the shatter reverberated in my ears. Then a second pot smashed against the house.

“Stop it, stop it,” I squealed and buried my face in my hands. My throat was raw, like in those nightmares when you call for help but have no voice. I looked up in time to see him kick a third pot. Fragments went spinning away from the porch steps.

“Okay! Okay!” My voice begged. I looked helplessly at the knife. What did I think I was going to do with it, anyway? “Whatever it is, you can have it,” I cried. “Just stop. Arch is on his way out here.”

John Richard glared at me. He spat out each word. “You’ve ruined my life. My family’s gone, my practice has lost business. All your fault, you bitch. So listen up. If I want my son to learn magic, he’s going to learn.”

“All right! Just calm down, for God’s sake! I’ve got a party to do tonight, and I don’t want trouble!”

He picked up another pot and threatened me with it. I could hear my heart beating in my chest. “Don’t want trouble?” he mimicked in a high voice. “Don’t want trouble?”

Before I could answer, there was General Bo suddenly behind John Richard. The general grabbed The Jerk’s neck with both hands. John Richard dropped to his knees like a rag doll. The clay pot fell out of his hands and rolled down the driveway.

“Oh, stop! Stop!” I cried as I jumped to my feet. A ball of nausea collected in my stomach.

General Bo Farquhar took no notice of me. He spoke down to John Richard’s head, which he had torqued around to force eye contact.

“Now you listen to me, you little son of a bitch,” said the general with such ferocity that my whole body broke out in a sweat. “There’s a law in this state called Make My Day. You set foot on this property again, I’ll use it. I’ll show you how the Special Forces can kill people without making any noise. Is that clear?”

John Richard made the throaty sound of a man about to be strangled. The front door opened. The general released John Richard into the freshly raked dirt at the side of the driveway just as Arch came out. Arch looked soundlessly from person to person, then pushed his glasses high up on his nose.

He said, “Should I go back inside, Mom?”

John Richard was wiping dirt from his nose. I wanted to say, Yes, yes, go back! But I could not. John Richard gave an almost imperceptible nod. I gestured to Arch to go. He plodded toward his father, who was brushing dirt off his polo shirt.

The general moved toward the porch. He said quietly, “Goldy, I’d like to see you inside.”

I nodded. But I could not take my eyes off John Richard, who was walking slowly with Arch toward his Jeep. John Richard whirled, and I cringed.

He yelled to me, “Philip Miller was fucking Weezie Harrington!”

9.

I trudged up the steps as the Jeep roared away. The general leaned over broken clay fragments and pressed his lips together. He motioned me inside. Behind us he firmly shut the front door with a no-nonsense, deliberate sound: chook.

I thought, At best I’ll get a lecture. At worst I’ll lose my job.

He gazed at me with those piercing blue eyes.

He said, “Don’t ever let that man through my gate again.”

I nodded vigorously.

“When he comes to pick up Arch,” he spoke the name delicately, as if Arch were his own son, “I will be the one to complete the transfer. Also,” he continued as he retrieved a short pole from a closet, “I want to show you this. It’s a portable door jam. If that man” (my mind supplied, the enemy) “somehow gets through the gate and tries to come through the front door, you expand it like this.” He clicked the steel rod open in his powerful hands. I had a sudden vision of Arch doing one of his magic tricks. “Then you wedge it under the doorknob.”