Malcomb awoke Saturday morning believing he was a widower.
Then again, he’d held many beliefs in his seventy-two trips around the sun. Only three of them stuck. All drilled deep in the military and confirmed by decades of civilian life.
One is that preparation breeds success.
Second? You’re not guaranteed a next breath.
The third is that things always change.
Like, you think you’re a widower, and then, suddenly…
You’re standing in ankle-deep snow in your adult son’s yard under the huge oak tree where you once pushed your grandson on a rope swing on clear spring days. The oak’s branches creak out an audible omen that would’ve been better suited for All Hallow’s Eve than two days before Christmas.
A breeze kicks up, sending the icicle lights dancing from the eaves. Golden light from the picture window bounces off the snow. If one were in the position to take time and savor the moment, enjoy the feel of the season, one would have a cinematic glimpse of suburbia through the panes: a steaming turkey on the table surrounded by bowls of carbs and greens, the sparkling tree with streaming ribbon and ornate baubles, the oversized clock on the wall behind the table signaling seven o’clock.
Time for you to smooth your Santa-esque chest-length beard, ring the doorbell, and step into the warm foyer. Time to shake off your boots, shed the wool overcoat, and hand out the gift cards carefully tucked away in your right vest pocket.
No… wait. Left vest pocket. Not the right.
A living Norman Rockwell portrait playing out mere feet away—if you were in a position to savor the moment.
But there’s no time.
Because she’s standing in front of you with an armful of packages.
A stack of three boxes, wrapped in golds and greens and reds and tied up with blue bows. One box for each occupant of the house. Nolan, Diane, Todd.
You can’t savor the moment because she’s standing in front of you with these boxes, her leather-boot-clad feet nice and dry on the sidewalk you startle-stepped off of after you realized who she was.
Her. With her long, ivory coat and curly gray hair all pulled up in a bun. That changed. The hair. It was the color of maple syrup. Stress—and dying—does that to a person.
And you don’t have time to enjoy the feel of the season because you realize several things at once.
At least that’s how Malcomb’s mind worked. Lots of thoughts on lots of tracks all at once.
Mostly, he was an adept conductor and could keep things running smoothly. Sometimes, though, the tracks crossed and the trains wrecked. Seventy-two trips around the sun and a bit of early dementia tend to do that to the mental trainyard.
The three thoughts at that moment, there in the snow, looking at his not-dead wife, were these:
This whole time. Month after month. Birthdays. Holidays. She’s been alive the whole time.
She looks perturbed. Not shocked. Not like she got caught in some tangled mess. Just… put out. He knew that look well; a marriage of nearly forty years will sear that look into a man’s brain.
I’m a day early. Malcomb wasn’t supposed to be right here, right now. Not tonight. His invitation was for Sunday.
And this is Saturday.
Then that third track sprouted several more, and the train cars were piling up too fast. Malcomb became disoriented, his mind spinning like the snowflakes twirling in the night, and there was no time to sort it all out.
His ankles were cold. The breeze blew long strands of his gray hair across his face and into his mouth, threatening to tangle it with his beard. He sputtered his lips in an attempt to blow the hair away.
Penelope looked him up and down. She cocked her head sideways—another quirk he was all too familiar with. “Why do you look like Santa?” She never moved from her spot. Her face gave nothing away. Her eyes were darker than he remembered.
Maybe a dark soul does that… but is it his or hers that is the darkest?
“Why do you look alive?”
“Can’t keep me down, Malcomb. You know that.”
She turned toward the house. To savor the moment. Nolan. Diane. Todd.
“He’s grown up now. Glad I got to see it.” There was a hint of resignation in her voice. Like she knew what was coming.
He did, too.
“They never said a word, you know. All these years. I had no idea.”
“I know. I figured you’d had enough trouble with the mix-up. No need to drag in the authorities. And all the investigations. Can you imagine?”
He could.
Train cars amok.
His family knew she was alive and by the looks of it, Penelope had continued to visit on Christmas Eve Eve. That stung deeper than the realization that she was living and breathing right in front of him.
He frowned at the scene playing out behind the pane. Norman Rockwell would be so disappointed if he knew…
“Mixed up the days again, didn’t you Mal?” She squatted down on the sidewalk and placed the packages gingerly on the pavement.
Malcomb straightened. Despite the chill, he was getting hot under all his layers. He slipped out of the overcoat, folding it carefully and laid it at his feet. “Yeah. It happens sometimes.”
“Mixed up the plates ten years ago, too, right?”
“Starting right in with the naggin’, huh?” Malcomb dug around in his suit pants for his rubberband. He wrangled his mane away from the breeze and out of his beard and pulled it back in a long ponytail.
She was always nagging him to get in shape. To go to the doctor. Go to the clinic. So he could continue making a living for their family. So what if he couldn’t remember things quite like when he was younger? That didn’t warrant her up his grille every other day, did it?
“You gonna call out our son to referee?” The thought of Nolan knowing what he did for a living—even though a very good living at that—bit like the bitter wind through his core.
She gazed back at the bustle on the other side of the window. “Look at them. We did good, Mal.”
“We did?” Malcomb queued up the train cars as best he could, trying to assemble an entire set. After Penelope died, Nolan said it was too painful for the Eve Eve visit. Too many bittersweet memories of Mother. So Malcomb moved the yearly holiday visit to Christmas Eve.
Nolan knew.
And if Nolan knew, so did Diane.
They knew and never said, and since Malcomb lived a free man for these last ten years…
If Penelope and Malcomb did good, their son wouldn’t have to harbor his parents’ secrets.
Malcomb ran his fingers through his beard and let out a moan. If it gets out, the whole damn family will be in jail. Accomplices. “Todd. Does he know?”
“Know what, dear? That Grandpa has dementia? Or that Grandpa’s aim was off and he dosed Grandma’s plate instead of Mrs. Haversham’s cheating husband?”
“My aim wasn’t off. Wait! You knew about Mrs. Haversham?”
She looked him straight in his eyes, hand on her hip. He remembered hating that stance. His hand instinctively went to his right vest pocket. All these years, even when he didn’t have a client, he was still prepared. Preparation breeds success, after all.
“Of course, I knew about Mrs. Haversham. Wait! What do you mean your aim wasn’t off? Did you try to kill me on purpose?” Until now, her volume and tone had remained steady, quiet. But she was escalating. Going to draw attention out to the yard.
“You explain first,” Malcomb said.
“Where do you think your clients came from? The Yellow Pages? I didn’t rub shoulders with those whiny women with their rich husbands at all those prissy galas and resorts for my benefit.” She tilted her head toward the window. “I did it for us.”
“You knew?” More train cars off their tracks. “You knew and didn’t care?”
“Yes. I liked the money. And the thrill. Now. Your turn. On purpose or a moment of senility with the plates? Or did you get your rocks off playing Russian roulette with the linguini that night?”
Malcomb thought for a moment. He could lie to her. Or tell her the truth. Either way, she wouldn’t believe him. “It wasn’t linguini. It was ravioli.”
“Fine. Don’t tell me. I don’t want to know.” She bent back down to the packages and fished the one from the middle. The green one. “This is for Todd. He doesn’t know, not yet. He will tonight, though.” She rattled the box. “Time for the young man to make his own way. Or, I suppose, sink the ship.”
“Nolan? He doesn’t…”
“Nolan and Diane have been funneling clients to you, you moron. After you nearly killed me, they housed me up there.” She tossed the package back into the pile and pointed to the top corner of the house. A strand of icicle lights was coming undone around the spare bedroom window. “I taught them everything I knew and then moved on. Needed a break after that close call, you know?”
Malcomb’s core temp rose another degree. He unbuttoned his vest.
“But Todd doesn’t know… not yet?” He kept an eye on the window pane. His son and family remained oblivious to the presence of the parents.
All Malcomb had to do to reset things to how they were just moments ago—to pull the rotary switch on the tracks—was to get close enough to Penelope to touch her skin with a drop from the vial.
“Nolan wanted to tell him tonight. It’s best he knows where the family money comes from.”
Penelope saw Malcomb pat his vest pocket and stepped backward off the sidewalk. One boot was all the way in the snow. The other still on dry concrete.
He took a step forward, reaching into the left vest pocket and pulling out… gift cards.
“Oh, for crying out loud, Malcomb. Why are you even carrying tonight? You were only having dinner with the family, right? Why bring the vial?” She took another step back.
He tossed the cards into the pile of presents and reached into the right vest pocket.
Right vest pocket. Right, right, right.
“Always be prepared.”
“If you wanted to be prepared, you should’ve gone to the doctor.”
“Mrs. Glivery’s husband? Doc Glivery? I widowed her. Remember, Penelope?”
Her eyes widened. One more step back. “Oh, yeah. Well, there were other doctors not on your list.”
He moved forward onto the sidewalk, even with the packages. She took another step back. They both glanced at the window. No one there. No one peeking their heads out the front door. The only light from the house was that window and the icicle lights.
He kicked the packages with his foot. “What’s in the others? Nolan’s. Diane’s.”
“Why don’t we go inside and we can watch them open them.” Another step backward.
He took another step forward. Fully in the snow—both of them. Slowly, he began working the screw-top lid off the amber vial.
“I don’t think inside is best.”
“Fine. I figured this day would come.” She took a sharp inhale and stuffed her hands inside her coat pockets. Her exhaled breath crystalized and swirled around her. If the situation were not what it was, he would’ve savored the sight. His wife, he must admit, was still a looker. There in the snow, that coat. Those eyes—darker now, but still. Hair grayer now, but still.
She was his love at one point.
Until she was a weight.
“Nah. Nah. Hands out, Penelope.”
She did as he asked. Her left hand held a vial, much the size and shape of his own. He paused his forward progress.
She paused her retreat.
“Mutually assured destruction, right? Always be prepared.”
“That’s my belief.”
“What’s the rest of it?”
“Two others, Pen. You remember them. You’re not the one with dementia, yeah?”
“That next breath isn’t promised,” she whispered, barely audible over the breeze in the branches.
“That’s one. What’s the other?”
She paused. They locked eyes. Like when they were dating. Before things spiraled out of control. Before the money. Before the adrenaline rush of widowing the rich ladies.
In unison, husband and wife chanted, “Things always change.”
“Seriously, what’s in the other packages, Penelope?”
“Harmless things, really. Nolan wanted a Glock. Diane’s is a coat, like mine. With all the pockets.” Penelope opened up the flaps of her ivory coat to reveal multiple compartments. Lots of room for lots of vials or other tools of the trade. “Todd’s is the kicker, so…”
“Vials?”
“Yeah. And my diary. So he’ll get the full picture.”
Malcomb lowered his hands. Vial in his fingers by his side. Lid not quite off.
Penelope did the same.
He wriggled the vial back into his right vest pocket and let his fingers linger.
Penelope did the same. He could see her hand fiddling behind the cloth of the coat.
“Pass the baton, then?”
Malcomb backed up to the sidewalk next to the packages. He stacked them neatly and handed them to Penelope, his hand brushing hers as he did.
She balanced the packages in one hand and reached up to touch his cheek with her other.
No guarantee on that next breath.
He gathered his gift cards and tucked them in his left vest pocket.
“I figure we’ve got a couple of hours. Three max.”
“That should be enough time. For talk and turkey. Maybe not dessert.”
“No. Not dessert.”
“We can tell them we’ve reconciled.”
“A Christmas miracle.”
“We’ll bail and go… where?”
Malcomb thought for a moment. “The train yard. That’ll do. Defunct track on the north end of town.”
“The light at the end of the tunnel?”
“Something like that.”
The pair approached the front stoop. “Better not ring the bell with the wrong hand. We’ve gotta wash up.” He’d have forgotten.
A hitman with dementia wouldn’t last too much longer on his own.
He was glad she was there in that moment to remind him of this simple thing.
My, my. How things have changed.
