In Laymon's Terms

She approached the front door and shifted the bottle of champagne under her arm. Then, as she reached for the doorknob, she stopped dead in her tracks, her hand freezing in midair as her mind processed what she had just realized. She didn’t have her keys!

If Patty couldn’t get inside the house, her plans would be ruined. She wasn’t even sure when or where she had lost the keys, but it had probably happened that dreadful day when she fled from the house, her mind full of confusion and anger.

Everything about those events was a painful blur, and Patty pushed the awful memories away again. She had to forgive and forget, she reminded herself. The past was the past and the only way to move on with her life was to accept the mistakes people sometimes make.

Patty suppressed the growing panic that threatened to ruin her plans, took a deep breath, and walked through the garden to the back of the house, her shoes leaving a trail in the brown mulch. A large hedge wrapped around the lawn, guarding the property line. A tall oak tree towered above her like a sentinel, the thick branches shaking in the breeze. The cool air felt good on such a warm summer day.

Just as Patty expected, the sliding glass door at the rear of the house wasn’t locked. She slid the door open and stepped into the house, the bottle of champagne gripped tightly in her hand. Cool air washed across her sweaty skin.

The white linoleum in the kitchen was spotless and the ceiling fan turned in slow, clockwise movements. Next to the microwave was a wooden block that held seven specialty knives. The knife set was new, which Patty found to be a curious development. Was it a surprise gift to her from Roger? Had he already come to the same conclusion she had about their future?

Patty had always wanted a knife set like that, had pointed them out to Roger a million times, but she quickly forgot about the knives when she noticed an even more dramatic change in the kitchen: the brand new Kenmore refrigerator!

Patty crossed the kitchen, hardly able to believe what she was seeing. She had wanted a new refrigerator since they first moved into the house so many years ago! But then Patty stopped again, a frown forming on her tired face and deepening the creases in her skin.

On the door of the refrigerator were comic strips and newspaper clippings and “honey do” lists held in place by a wide variety of magnets. Some of the magnets were shaped like animals, others like clouds, and still others like fruits and vegetables. One was from a grocery store chain she had never heard of before.

None of these magnets and collected pieces of paper belonged to Patty. “Who are you?” a woman asked from the doorway to the dining room. “What are you doing here?”

Patty spun around, the champagne bottle slipping from her hand, hitting the edge of the kitchen counter and shattering. Patty and the other woman both cried out in surprise as the liquid inside the bottle sprayed across the room like a foamy wave breaking on the beach. A long moment passed and neither woman moved, as if they were statues frozen in time.

“Who are you?” the woman asked again. Then she laughed nervously. She was much younger than Patty, with blonde hair and blue eyes and long legs barely concealed by a sexy red dress, as if she had been preparing for a night out on the town. The woman reminded Patty of the slutty girls she had known in her college days, back when she met Roger for the first time. She had seen how he looked at those girls.

“I think the question is, who are you?” Patty asked, glancing down at the pieces of glass shimmering in the bath of champagne. A cold block of ice filled her stomach, forming a tight knot of nervousness and anger.

“My name is Sally.” The woman’s voice was a little less harsh this time, showing a hint of concern. “Are you okay, hon? What are you doing here?”

“I live here with Roger. What are you doing here?”

“I’m sorry. You must be confused,” the woman said. “This is my house.”

Suddenly Patty realized who this woman was, who this woman had to be. The whore! The goddamned whore who had seduced her husband! Patty looked at the broken bottle and the spilled champagne pooling on the linoleum; the rage she had been suppressing for a lifetime boiled over, melting the block of ice in her gut. The nervous panic burned away, replaced by anger and bitterness.

Patty turned to the wooden block on the counter and selected the largest knife. Then she turned and took a step toward the woman, kicking the base of the broken champagne bottle across the kitchen with a loud thump.

“No, wait a minute,” the woman cried out as she backed into the dining room, raising her hands. “What are you doing?”