Notes on an Execution(56)

When the food arrived, they set up on the floor between the two beds, cross-legged around the plates. The mashed potatoes had been scooped into an undeniably phallic shape, and when Jenny pointed it out, they both burst into laughter—the heaviness of the day seemed to shrug and skulk away.

Jenny ate ravenously, grease coating her lips.

“You think he’ll call?” she asked. “Before I change my number?”

“If he does, you won’t answer,” Hazel said.

“Right.”

A pause.

“It wasn’t always like that,” Jenny said. “We had some good nights, after I started going to the meetings. He’s the one who suggested AA in the first place. I know what it looked like today, but . . . you should know that Ansel never hurt me. Not physically.”

“What’s the deal with the philosophy stuff?” Hazel said.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, his ‘theory’ or whatever. He sounds like a freshman philosophy student. Like, he really wants to be smart but he’s maybe not that smart.”

Jenny laughed, breathy and barbed. “I don’t know. I’ve only read bits and pieces of the manuscript. It’s more like a list of questions than a book, if I’m being honest. And you’re right—none of his ideas are particularly new or interesting. But I think he’s trying to make meaning, and that’s admirable enough. He’s trying to figure out who he is and how to exist. He’s trying to justify himself. Aren’t we all doing some version of that?”

She stabbed a piece of lettuce with her fork.

“There were so many things he never told me,” she said. “About his family, his childhood. He got so quiet when I asked. He’d ice me out for days. After I let go of the drinking, I woke up one morning, looked over, and realized he was practically a stranger. Did I ever tell you . . . did I ever tell you about the detective?”

Hazel shook her head no. The pasta lurched in her stomach, oily and dense.

“It was years ago,” Jenny said. She put down her fork. Pulled her knees to her chest. “I mean, years. I was still in training at the hospital; we weren’t even married yet. This detective, this woman, found my number. I didn’t believe she was a cop at first. She seemed too young. She came to the hospital, showed me her badge, asked if I would answer some questions. She wanted to know about Ansel. I’ll never forget her name, because I’d never heard it before. Saffron. Like the flower. Anyway, I’ve noticed her since, Hazel. For years now, though I never told Ansel. She’ll pop up every few months, sitting in her car on our street. Just watching. I even saw her a few weeks ago. She’s like a shadow.”

“What was she looking for?” Hazel asked. “Did she tell you?”

Jenny mustered her fake smile. It was the smile she used to direct at less popular girls in the locker room, the one Hazel recognized from when teenage Jenny lied to their mother. It was an alarm, bursting. It didn’t feel right.

“It’s so dumb,” Jenny said. “I mean, he would never.”

“What was it?”

“I can’t even say it,” Jenny said. “It seems so . . . I don’t know. I found the case online, when I Googled her. She’s been investigating the deaths of three girls. They died over in New York, before I even met Ansel, when he was in high school. Homicide. How ridiculous is that?”

In the dim greenish light, Jenny was baring an approximation of a smile, her teeth intentionally exposed. Hazel knew that she too was thinking of Ansel’s face this afternoon. The word was a knife, slashing violently between them. Homicide. Hazel did not think she had ever spoken it aloud; the very possibility felt like a foreign creature, thrashing uncomfortable on her tongue.

“How can you be sure?” Hazel asked slowly. “I mean . . . how do you know he didn’t?”

The false smile melted down. A storm rolled across Jenny’s face, so sudden that Hazel filled with a liquid regret.

“Oh my God,” Jenny said. “This is so classic.”

“What?”

Jenny smirked. Let out a phony little laugh.

“Come on, Hazel,” Jenny said, her tone incredulous now, almost amused. “You love this.”

“I don’t understand,” Hazel said, cheeks burning like panic.

“You’re actually enjoying this, aren’t you? You cling to anything that makes me weaker than you.”

“That’s not fair, Jenny.”

“You know it’s true. Ansel would never do anything like that—but you actually wish that he had, don’t you? You would go as far as wishing my husband had murdered people, because it would make you better than me.”

“Jenny, please.”

“I remember how it used to be. How you used to look at me, at Ansel, at everything I had.” Jenny gestured to the starched hotel sheets, the sloppy plates, the puddles of grease. “I know a part of you is happy. You only feel content, Hazel, because I’ve ended up here.”

“That’s not true,” Hazel said. Meek, shamed.

“You won, okay?” Jenny said. “You got everything you wanted.”

Jenny’s words hovered in the air. An infection. As the tears bubbled, scorching in Hazel’s throat, as Jenny rolled her eyes and flicked on the television, Hazel felt like a human swamp, stewing in her own vulgarity. The TV played a rerun of Real Housewives—Hazel did not look at Jenny, and Jenny did not speak again. They passed an hour like that before Hazel noticed that her sister had slumped against the bed, her head nodding along her chest, that Jenny had fallen asleep.