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Crystal cracks open the phone. Speed dials. Even before the first ring, someone answers, a raspy, crackly, indistinct voice that might as easily have said "Hell" as "Hello".
Bad connection. Crystal glances through the window above the kitchen sink. It's dark outside. She can't think straight. She has no one else to call.
"Mom?"
A hissing sound that might be yessss.
"Mom, can you hear me? I think--"
Laughter snaps into focus. Suddenly the connection is perfect. "...to me with your childish concerns, your dimpled demons and sheet-draped ghosts." The voice grates into her ear. "True nightmares puddle like antifreeze on asphalt. Lap them up and you die."
Antifreeze? It's Spring, not Winter. "Mom?"
The connection crackles, waiting.
"Rusty's late, Mom, he's been late every day this week." A pause. "I think he's cheat--"
"Cheating?"
"Yes." The word comes out a sigh.
"Is this middle school? Have you caught him whispering to the prom queen?"
"No, I... I... It's our anniversary. He didn't come home--"
"He's your husband, girl. He's not cheating on you, he's screwing another woman. That bubble-butted blonde court stenographer, the one with the tits out to here."
Crystal holds her hands out from her chest, a sympathetic gesture. She remembers Rusty chatting with the blonde at the company Christmas party, her silicone-enhanced cleavage protruding like a love seat between them.
"Should I... leave him? Is that what you would do?"
"There are better ways."
Crystal frowns.
"Look around you! Are you blind?"
Crystal obediently scans the kitchen counter, a Formica plain littered with leftovers from the meal she made earlier when it was clear Rusty had no plans to take her out. She spies the white cutting board, the butcher knife beside it.
"Cut him," the voice suggests.
"What?" Crystal's fingers go white on the phone. She forces her grip to relax, hears a thump and looks down, but sees only the static of the close-napped carpet in need of vacuuming.
"Think of him, girl, ramming himself into her while you stand here sobbing. Think of it."
"I am." Crystal can't stop thinking, wondering what that bimbo does for him that Crystal cannot, what he needs that she does not have to offer. Is it her hair? I can dye my hair.
"Cut him," the voice insists. Crystal imagines a cigarette bobbing in darkness, the glowing tip leaving halo afterimages against the peach-tone receiver pressed to her mother's cheek.
"Cut him!" The voice pushes through Crystal's ear, harshly insistent. Why can't my voice be like that? Why can't I be strong?
Crystal's throat clenches. "Yes," she manages, tears faceting her vision.
She lifts the knife.
"That's the spirit," the voice congratulates.
A grating noise comes from the garage, the automatic door opening. Crystal feels the blood drain from her face. Her legs tremble. The knife shakes. She steadies it with both hands.
A car door opens, slams. Another. Has he brought her home? The bastard! Fire replaces ice. Crystal turns, knife extended, as Rusty opens the door, carrying something in his hands, an oversized binder trimmed in yellow and orange.
"Sweetie?" His gaze fixes on the blade.
"You've been with her, haven't you."
"What?" Rusty frowns. "Who?"
Crystal advances. "Don't play coy with me. I know she's out there."
"Put that down, won't you?" Rusty looks nervous, eyes shifting between the knife and Crystal's face.
Crystal thrusts. Rusty lifts the binder between them like a shield. The photo laminated on its cover is of their wedding, Rusty in his tux pushing white-frosted cake into Crystal's mouth. In the photo, he's on the verge of laughing. She remembers laughing too, the sweet taste of the frosting on her tongue and lips.
An audible snap sounds; Crystal's certainty crumbles into dust. Her hands tremble, then her arms and shoulders. She can't seem to catch her breath.
The knife falls, clattering to the floor.
"It's a scrapbook," Rusty says, setting the binder onto the table. "You know, like the one you made for my birthday." He touches her shoulder. She leans into him, then catches herself and pulls away.
"What about her?" she says, looking through the open doorway to the garage. There's no one there.
Rusty opens the scrapbook. Two naked babies lie on throw rugs, staring across the plastic binder between pages, seemingly into each other's blue eyes. "Rusty" tops the left page, "Crystal" the right. At the bottom, "It was meant to be."
Tears bulge in Crystal's eyes. Pity wells through her. She came so close to hurting him this time. Will she never learn? Mother's been dead almost a year.
The phone trills at her feet. She kneels, picks it up, lifts it to her ear.
Static cackles. "Never mind."
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