A work of fiction wherein revenge is a dish best served — fried…
by: Arvilla Fee
I run my finger around the rim of the porcelain bathtub. Quaint. Beautiful. Four claw feet. I used to love bathing in this tub, luxuriating in hot water and bubbles, a candle on the bathroom counter and a glass of chilled Rosé on the floor within reach. But that all changed the night he burst into the bathroom in a fit of rage. When he had held me beneath the water until I thought my lungs would burst. When he, at the last minute, dragged me from the tub and left me lying naked on the blue-tiled floor, shivering with fear and cold.
I shake myself out of my nightmarish reverie and pad quickly down the hall, my running shoes not making a sound as I step into the thickly-carpeted showroom. I choke back a bitter laugh as I think about how many times family members, acquaintances, advertisers, managers, and Conrad’s — The Storm’s — swanky friends had lounged in this room, which was, across every inch of it, an opulent tribute to The Storm’s illustrious ten-year boxing career. Glass-encased championship belts. Glass-encased boxing gloves. Framed news articles. Framed photos of The Storm with a myriad of famous people, some with him half naked and gritting his teeth like a sweaty neanderthal, fresh out of the ring, others with him dressed in a three-piece suit on the red carpet.
God, I’d been such a fool to fall for him. I must’ve been blind not to see the vanity. Not to see the cruel streak. Not to see it was his way or the highway. But I had been besotted like every other woman below the age of forty by his charm, his wit, his shaggy blond hair and dark green eyes. I’d thought his boxing career was just a part of who he was — not the entire picture. How wrong I’d been.
I look about the room, my eyes lighting upon his most treasured possession. The boxing gloves that led to the first championship belt that launched his career and stardom. A fight in which he, the underdog, had knocked out his opponent in just three rounds. I’d watched him as he’d placed those gloves inside the case, as if he were laying out the king’s crowned jewels in a museum. He didn’t know I stood just out of sight behind a partially closed door. Didn’t know I could hear him saying to himself in a hushed announcer’s voice: “And here he is, The Storrrrm! The new middleweight champion of the world!” I shake my head and slide my pick into the lock on the case. Don’t get me wrong. I’m not a thief. It’s not like I steal for a living, but I know people who…well, let’s just say they know things. And one person who knew things taught me how to pick locks. Any lock.
He’s gone for two weeks, Conrad. Overseas. Honeymoon, with his new wife. Wonder if she has bruises yet. If not, she will. I’d lost count of the number of bruises I’d had when I was with him, always followed by flowers, of course. I mean what good is a bruise without a sincere petaled apology? The day I decided to leave was the happiest day of my life! I’d planned it for more than a year. Had set aside cash in a number of secret bank accounts. Had an escape route. Had a new passport, new driver’s license, and new hair. I told you — I know people who know things. And, most importantly, I had death. A real death. With a casket. And funeral. Conrad attended. Bawled like a baby for the cameras. What an actor! The press ate up his tears like candy.
But it wasn’t me, Julia Adams, in the casket. It wasn’t anyone. You see, I’d had a horrible accident — struck by a bus as I was crossing the street. Didn’t even see it coming. Everyone said so. My parents, my brother, my closest friends, even the minister. They turned out to be quite the actors as well. It was all I could do to stay hidden in the darkness of the church balcony, and I understood the thrill Tom Sawyer and Huck Finn must have felt when they watched their funerals in Twain’s The Adventures of Tom Sawyer. I had, in fact, taken my inspiration from them.
So, you must be wondering why I’d take a chance in coming back to Conrad’s house. Why I’d be lifting his most precious possession out of its revered case. One word: revenge. Pure, spiteful revenge. I’d disabled every camera. I’d entered through a secret doorway — told you I could pick any lock. And I knew Sketch and Ram, the two bulldog security guards, would be more interested in the “lost” stranger (my friend) at the front door in her too-short glittery skirt and voluptuous, tube-top cleavage to bother patrolling the room at the regular intervals. I was nothing if not a fastidious planner!
I shove the gloves into my oversized bag and leave one thing behind in the glass case. A tiny framed picture of a perfect, golden French fry. I smile to myself, imagining Conrad’s face when he sees what’s in the case and wonder if he’ll remember slapping fries out of my hand at a restaurant because (he said) they’d make me fat. No matter. He’ll split heaven and earth looking for those gloves. He’ll rant and rave. He’ll accuse enemies, maybe even friends. He’ll never ever admit, even if he should suspect, they’ve been taken by a ghost. Bad press! But he’ll always wonder, and that’s all that matters.
Arvilla Fee lives in Dayton, Ohio, teaches English for Clark State College, and is the managing editor for the San Antonio Review. She has published poetry, photography, and short stories in numerous presses, including Calliope, North of Oxford, Rat’s Ass Review, Mudlark, Remington Review, and many others. Her poetry books, The Human Side and This is Life, are available on Amazon. Her third book, Mosaic: A Million Little Pieces is due to be released this December. Arvilla loves writing, photography and traveling and never leaves home without a snack and water (just in case of an apocalypse). Arvilla’s favorite quote in the whole word is: “It’s not what you look at that matters, it’s what you see.” ~ Henry David Thoreau. To learn more, visit her website: https://soulpoetry7.com/.
