The Dead Wife

By Sky King

Clarissa was everyman’s wet dream: physically dramatic, witty, promiscuous and mostly drunk. To the dismay of his friends, Walter, the shy school teacher, married her. He told himself they didn’t know the Clarissa he knew. He kept telling himself that through the birth of their daughter Ellie, and right up until the moment he caught her chasing their four year old through the house with a cast iron fire poker. She broke his forearm before he took it away and threw her down.
Clarissa went to jail. Walter bailed her out and she disappeared for two years. She came back holding his father’s forty five, demanding their daughter and some money. Walter took the gun away and shot her until the gun was empty. He couldn’t call the cops. Ellie couldn’t have a vicious alcoholic for a mother and a murderer for a father. He sank her in the lake. He told his lies. Others were looking for Clarissa. If Clarissa was dead, they must have done it. No one could say otherwise.
Except Clarissa.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sky King
• Release date: Mar 5, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301444830

Sky King

Sky King lives in a winter swamp in New Hampshire.He makes his living taking care of a host of other swamp dwellers. He lives near the poverty line but seems to have all the money he needs forever. Mr. King truly believes there are two kinds of people in the world: Those who think there are two kinds of people in the world, and those who don't.

Book preview

Walter and Clarissa

By

Sky King

.

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2013 Sky King

License Notes: This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this ebook with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

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Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Epilogue: One Month Later

Chapter 1

Clarissa, Walter thought.

Every morning Walter woke up with her name in his head. In the first few months after her disappearance, he had an inner dialogue with her that he often ended up speaking out loud. When Walter caught himself at it he stopped. In his travels with their daughter, Ellie, he often thought: Wait until I tell Clarissa about this.

But Clarissa hadn't been around to tell anything to since the day he drove into the driveway and heard their little girl screaming. Ellie was screaming so loud that Clarissa didn't hear him come in. He caught her chasing Ellie through the house with a cast iron fire poker.

She had said it was the whiskey. Her breath smelled strongly of it. Walter knew she drank, but Clarissa had claimed she'd stopped during the pregnancy. Nine months without drinking and no withdrawal meant no problem, and the baby came out normal at seven pounds. A sober Clarissa with a baby had brought only joy.

Walter stared at the wood beams of the ceiling above his bed. All lies, Walter thought. She must have been drinking in maintenance doses during the pregnancy and stopped nursing sooner than she told me. But I wanted to believe so badly. The baby seemed happy. So did Clarissa. Were the first five years with my family all my illusion?

Ellie's screams still echoed in his mind. He grunted, breathed deep. The Chanel Clarissa favored lingered in the bedroom. It came to him far too strongly, as if a bottle had just spilled on the sheet. Walter's forearm ached: the one he had blocked the poker with that day.

Oddly, he remembered no pain, just fear. He had taken the poker away from Clarissa, defended his face against her fingernails, knocked her down hard, and called 911, all in one motion, it seemed to him now.

Walter closed his eyes and recalled the huge tears on Clarissa's face. He remembered the smell of whiskey and her mumbling, Sorry, over and over again.

Walter hadn't cared anymore. When he searched the house for Ellie he had found her in the hall closet clinging to his wool drover's coat. He scooped her up. Ellie had buried her head in his shoulder. He ran out of the house and sat in the car with her until the police and ambulance came. It wasn't until the cruiser pulled into the driveway that Walter's arm had begun to ache. Through the haze of pain he had made Ellie tell the young officer what had happened. Walter wouldn't relinquish Ellie until Clarissa was in the cruiser and Mildred, his older sister, had arrived. By then the pain had all but immobilized him.

The pain stayed distant now, a mere ghost. Walter sighed, threw back the covers, sat up and planted his bare feet on the cool wood plank floor. It's all still too vivid after two years, he thought, and rubbed his forearm absently. Will it ever fade?

Walter pushed up from the bed and wandered into Ellie's room. He hated that little empty bed. But it was good for her to visit with her Aunt Mildred in a settled old suburbia. This was Ellie's fun overnight with her cousins.

Clarissa, he thought again, and padded into the bathroom. The smell of her still lingered somehow. Walter took out his aftershave and sprinkled it on the sink. He resolved not think of Clarissa anymore.

Walter showered, shaved, ate scrambled eggs and toast, washed the dishes and set them to dry in the drainer. He pulled on muddy Columbias and went for a walk in the woods behind his old farmhouse. He let in May sunlight, chewed the leaf of a mint plant, stood still in a stand of graceful birches, and breathed deeply. The wind came up and brought back thoughts of firewood and the cold wind. He met no one and received the rare blessing of a moment's peace.

After two hours, Walter turned back. He had to go home. He thought of walking off into the wilderness, except for the fact he was in Western Massachusetts, and he'd only wind up in someone's back yard. And there was Ellie: his life now. He could no more leave her than he could cut off his right arm. No way around it.

It is what it is, he said to the trees. We will be okay.

He found the road, walked past the apple orchard spread out on the hillside, and up toward the top on the cracked paved road. Through gaps in the leaves of tall oaks, the roof of the old farmhouse became visible. That's all it took for that name to enter his mind. His forearm started aching again. He stepped up onto the porch, unlaced his boots and left them by the door. The foyer was as silent as it should have been. Even so, Walter strained his ears to hear what? He let out a long sigh. Tiredness penetrated his bones. He stretched out on the couch in the living room and put one hand under his head.

The smell returned: Chanel and whiskey this time. His heart sank. Why is this olfactory memory so persistent? Will it ever leave me alone? he wondered.

Walter heard a creak and dismissed it as warming floorboards. The next creak told him someone was moving down the stairs behind him. He sat up quickly. His eyes widened and his mouth fell open.

A figure stepped down the last two stairs. He knew who it was immediately despite the ragged sweatshirt, blue watch cap and worn jeans. Their gazes met and locked. For Walter, time stopped. Slate gray eyes, glassy and dark, repelled him, as if he had tried to walk through a mirror and bounced off. Questions poised, disintegrated. Walter moved his mouth. Clarissa spoke first.

"Where's Ellie?" she asked.

The husky booze voice woke him to sharp reality. He saw his father's forty-five in her right hand, pointing at him.

What are you doing back here? he asked. You skipped bail.

Shut up! Clarissa yelled. She jabbed the gun as if trying to poke him with a stick. Walter flinched, lurched off the couch, and took a step back. Where's my daughter, damn you!

Walter saw her fully at that moment: a rail thin body, patchy red skin over hollow cheeks. Her once mischievous, knowing lips twisted in a snarl. Premature gray streaked her hair. Her eyes had become bleak, impenetrable and street wild. This crazy woman will not spare my daughter, or me, Walter thought. I'm so sorry, Ellie. But Mildred loves you and will take care of you.

You will not find Ellie, he said. I sent her away to a residential treatment facility for disturbed children. She's been impossible to manage. Put away the gun, Clarissa. You're in enough trouble.

Clarissa spat like a cat. Still the same sanctimonious boyscout. I need money to get farther away. You'll have to get it for me.

No, Clarissa.

Walter spied the lamp stand out of the corner of his eye.

Ellie needs me, he thought. And I need Ellie. I can't die here.

All I have is the house. Clarissa, please don't do this. I can help you.

The hand holding the gun shook.

You bastard. You left me here all alone, day after day. Alone with her, your little darling. I needed to drink, Walter. I needed it. It's your fault.

Walter lowered his eyes to the floor. I'm so sorry, Clarissa, he said, and he truly was. Don't kill me. Ellie needs me.

Walter, with a sob into his voice, started to fall to his knees, reached to the lamp stand for support, then swept it up, into her face. Walter took two steps and jumped the couch as she stumbled backward. He grabbed her hand, twisted, swinging her toward the fieldstone fireplace. She fell toward the hearth and Walter held the gun. He turned it around and pulled the trigger. Walter heard a boom that seemed far away somewhere, another and another, and three more, then a click, another click, click. Silence. He stared down at the dead face of his wife. Blood soaked the blue sweatshirt. A ragged piece of flesh hung off one cheek. The eyes, half closed, no longer repelled or held anything.

He lowered the gun, turned his head toward the phone, then back to the corpse. He stood for some minutes staring at nothing. After a time, some breath of air or birdcall brought him back. Suddenly he remembered that he held a gun. Walter raised it up and examined it for a moment, as if trying to recall what it was, blinked furiously for a few seconds, and placed it on his wife's chest. He moved slowly, as if he wasn't sure his legs would work, and headed for the garage. The old tarp was right where he remembered it on top of the paint cans. He refolded it and knew that what he was doing had to be insane. Next, he found two wool blankets in the dresser by the bed, but didn't remember walking into the bedroom. It's like moving in a dream, he thought. Next came the carpet cutter in the toolbox in the closet, and then carrying it all back to the fireplace.

Chapter 2

Walter laid out the tarp methodically, smoothed the blankets on top, pushed Clarissa's body onto one end, and rolled her up quickly. He folded up the ends of the tarp and tucked them in. When he picked her up the neat ends came undone. He thought of putting her down for a moment to fix it, and realized, with a physical jerk, that the action would make no sense. What if someone came? He gritted his teeth and carried her to the garage with the ends flapping and set her down on the concrete floor. He opened the tailgate of his old Ford station wagon. It creaked loudly as it always did, and the thought he always had came with it: I need to oil the damn thing.

It stopped him. Cold. The mundane world would go on, grinding, no matter what. His mind would think, even so. Clarissa dead. Not a ripple in reality. But then I'm not in reality anymore, he thought, shaking his head and failing to clear it.

He bent down to pick up the corpse. She didn't weigh much, this once robust woman. Walter slid her in and closed the tailgate. The sound of the gate seemed too loud, too real, and far too normal.

I'm taking trash to the dump, he thought. It's Saturday. Trash day. Trash day. Walter stood holding his face in his hands. I've killed my wife. Ellie. I must think of Ellie. She must never know. Never. She's suffered enough.

Walter sucked in a deep breath, let it out, dropped his hands and walked back into the house to gather cleansers, rubber gloves, a bucket, rags, and a big, green leaf bag. He brought everything into the living room, set it all down away from the blood, and pulled on the pair of rubber gloves.

"Think, he said out loud. She fell toward the fireplace."

Walter forced his attention toward the blood pooled on the stone, and soaked into the carpet in front of the hearth.

Bullet fragments, bullet holes, he thought, and examined the white plaster walls, the fieldstone hearth and the granite mantle. Blood dotted the slab that held family photos and Ellie's baked clay, art projects. Walter traced the trajectory from the couch, tried to remember pulling the trigger and couldn't. He found no bullet holes and noticed no marks on any of the stones.

Six bullets and they all stayed in her? I didn't check for exit wounds. Exit wounds.

The phrase echoed in his mind. Walter searched the rest of the room quickly and found nothing. In disbelief, heart sinking, he came back the hearth and searched one more time, tracing the huge granite mantel with his gloved index finger, squinting closely at the walls nearest the mantle. Baffled at finding no damage or holes, he gave up, suddenly afraid about time.

Walter turned his attention to the mess and knew he had to clean it perfectly. No one is coming, he thought. Take time. He remembered from some forensic show that bleach destroyed blood samples. He gritted his teeth and narrowed his eyes. Concentrate, he whispered, although no one could overhear, and turned his attention to the black metal lamp stand. It was smeared with blood. Somehow, the shade had escaped the stain. The lamp lay there like a corpse. He washed the lamp stand, scrubbing it hard enough to hurt his arm, and placed it back by the couch. He cut out a rectangle of blood-soaked carpet in front of the fireplace and placed it in the leaf bag. He washed the mantle, the art projects, swept up the ashes from the fireplace, put them in the bag and washed the fieldstone hearth with heavy soap and sponge. He took out the carpet machine and washed the living room carpet. After that, he set about scrubbing all the plaster walls with TSP, the kitchen floor with diluted bleach, including the bathroom floor and sink. Every rag went into the plastic leaf bag. So did the gloves, the residue from the carpet machine and his clothes. Walter carried the big bag to the station wagon in the nude and put it in the back with Clarissa.

Walter walked back into the house and took a shower, cleaned the shower and bathtub with bleach while holding his breath against the fumes, dried off, bagged the soap, washcloth and towel, placing them in a smaller plastic bag. He dressed in an old jogging suit he found hanging on a drying rack. Walter forced himself to take a slow walk through the entire house.

Am I forgetting anything? he wondered, standing in the upstairs hall.

Unlooked for dizziness overwhelmed him. Walter put his forehead against the wall, closed his eyes. I've killed my wife. Clarissa. Dead. I killed her.

The thoughts echoed, gnawing at him; a wave of heat surged up his spine. Nausea rose and he swallowed bile. I don't remember pulling the trigger. She was going to kill me. Destroy Ellie. Destroy us both.

Walter forced a slow breath, fought off a stronger wave of nausea, pushed off the wall and started down the stairs. The dizziness came back like a wave and he nearly fell. His hand snatched at the rail, missed. He snatched with both hands and held it tightly, swaying. Walter focused on the far wall, breathing hard. Got to go! he thought and let go with one hand. He stepped down, using the rail to reach the first floor. He shook off the dizziness, pushed off for the garage at a quick walk, slamming doors and sliding quickly into the driver's seat of the station wagon. He inserted the key and pressed the button to open the garage door. The door creaked and rattled. A big rectangle of sunlight moved toward him, dazzling him. Walter squinted, hesitated, thought of the phone, his friend Pete, now a detective on the force, of Ellie.

My burden forever, he decided and drove out. This can never be shared. There is no absolution except to protect my daughter.

Walter drove into the day, green and cool; a windy May. The lake, he thought. It's too windy for anyone to be there. He drove carefully along the tree lined, back roads and up Route 23. It grew cooler and windier as he came through the Berkshire Mountain pass into the small town of Otis, Massachusetts. He passed the country store and the church, found the dirt turnoff.

A few more yards, he thought.

Walter spotted the brown, logs walls of the cabin, the slightly tilted porch. His V hulled speedboat, bought used, and painted the Seaspray by the former owner, bobbed at the end of the dock. He parked and got out of the car. The cold wind struck him like a slap. He saw the white caps foaming out in the Deeps. No car sat in his nearest neighbor's driveway. Walter fetched another plastic drop cloth from the walk out basement, along with two anchors. Moving quickly now, lest a neighbor drive came by in boat or car, he spread the cloth on the deck of the boat, ran back to the station wagon and moved as quickly as he could with his burden. He put the bags and Clarissa's corpse on the tarp, untied the boat and threw in the lines, jumped in, fumbled the key and dropped it. Walter took a deep breath, remembered that he didn't want to blow himself up and cleared the gas lines before starting up the boat. At full throttle, the boat roared toward the deepest part of the lake.

The wind numbed his face and tore through the jogging suit. The hull slammed against the small white caps. Walter shivered and came a full hundred yards upwind from the Deeps before cutting the motor. The boat drifted forward in