The War of the Roses

Rabbit pate had struck her as a novel idea and she had persuaded the French Market to try it. She was thankful that the work temporarily diverted her attention from the weekend's disaster. She had gotten Thurmont's call on Sunday. Everything had gone wrong. The detective was upset and threatening. He had demanded payment immediately, alleging that Oliver had stolen some of his equipment, the remains of which she had already seen in the trash cans.

She hadn't been at all comfortable in what she had done. But, she told herself, she'd had no choice. If only he would understand and move out once and for all. She was surprised, too, that the episode had given her a twinge of jealousy. She considered the perils of male celibacy and knew that, under the right circumstances, Oliver would react. Often when he came home after a long trip, he had fallen on her like a horny beast. She had dutifully submitted, of course, less out of sexual enjoyment than of validating her role as wife again. It was all part of the programming and gave her more reason to detest her former self.

In a way, she felt relieved that she would not have to confront the detective's evidence. But that softness in herself angered her and she hacked away at the rabbits as if they were tangible enemies. Who was the real enemy? Herself? Oliver? Ann? She wanted to apologize to Ann. She was not being her true self. Her behavior was merely a device, a tactic. In war, people did things out of character, suspended compassion, kindness, consideration.

Thurmont had forbidden any discussion of the subject.

'Leave it alone. We blew it,' he had barked into the phone, forestalling any protests on her part by hanging lip abruptly.

The evidence in the trash cans testified to Oliver's wrath. That, too, seemed completely out of character. Oliver had always been cerebral, nonviolent, and rarely had he lost his temper. He was never out of control. It was another trait that she had grown to despise, his cool-headedness.

'Show me an emotion out of control and I'll show you certain defeat.' He had burned that lesson into her and she was trying her best to follow his advice.

She had, she thought, pulled off her first meeting with Ann that morning with expert acting prowess. Not that they had exchanged any more than the most prosaic words about the weather, the weekend. She had begun a long, one-sided account of their trip, as if nothing had occurred between them. Ann had been remarkably cool, although little lip tremors and nervously shifting eyes revealed the tension between them. It was only when Ann went off to school that Barbara's real anger surfaced. The little bitch fucked Oliver under my roof, in the room next to my daughter's bed. She ran up a full steam of rancor, which somehow increased the speed with which she hacked apart the rabbits.

The unusual circumstances had interfered with her morning routine and it wasn't until she put the rabbit livers and the other meat in the grinder that she realized that she hadn't seen or fed Mercedes. Barbara searched in the usual bunks around the kitchen, then poked around the cat's favorite haunts in the garden and the rafters of the garage.

'Mercedes,' she called, offering familiar signals. She gave up in frustration and went back into the kitchen. Perhaps Ann had forgotten about Mercedes, considering how busy the girl had been, Barbara thought with a smirk.

After she had ground the rabbit meat, along with veal and pork, and added the onion and garlic to the mix, she called the animal pound, carefully describing the cat to the attendant.

'Call animal removal. She may have been run over.'

Getting through to them was a bureaucratic nightmare, and when she did finally, it was futile. She was thankful that no dead animals had been reported. But it wasn't like Mercedes to disappear. She had raised her from a kitten; she had rarely strayed in the daytime, sometimes making a pest of herself as she clawed her way about the kitchen shelves. She would have to ask Ann when she returned. After all, Mercedes had been entrusted to her care. The irony disturbed Barbara. She felt more compassion for the missing Mercedes than for Oliver. If only he had disappeared.

She mixed wine, cognac, salt, pepper, thyme, parsley, and oil in a small bowl, then added the mixture to the meat bowl, covered it, and put it in the refrigerator. Cold took the gaminess out of the meat. Before she closed the door, her eyes lingered a moment on the mixture and she thought again of the incident with the meat pastry on Christmas Day. 'Bastard,' she cried.