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hey had so much to do.
Thwump, thwump.
Helen had been on him all day.
Thwump, thwump.
Everything had to be perfect.
Thwump, thwump.
He wiped the sweat from his brow.
Almost done. This would be her best party ever.
The stately house never looked better. Every room smelled of the heady scent of gardenias; their dark waxy leaves and strong white blooms stood out against the polished dark wood of the house. The help had worked overtime days before to prepare the house. It gleamed from their efforts. Although Tim felt a slight headache from the strong-smelling flowers, it was agreed that they were the best option as they grew in abundance on the property. There was still much to do. So much preparation even for a party as small as this.
He hummed as he prepped for the evening’s menu, which he had decided to cook himself. The hors d’oeuvres would include baby clams steamed with butter and cilantro, he felt they were the perfect start before his main course. Juicy prime rib with au jus and truffle risotto.
Helen was taking her usual before-party nap which was good because he thought she looked a little pale when he had looked in on her earlier.
In the the smoked glass of the old mirror, Tim adjusted his tie. He thought of the old black and white celluloids where the wife lovingly fixed her husband’s tie, patting his chest and whispering words of encouragement like “Go out and get ’em, tiger.” His Helen had never been that kind of wife.
She had always been high maintenance, but he had never dreamed she would be such a bitch. Her drive to keep her country club set of friends (who he had never cared for) had cost plenty over the years, and they still looked down at his humble beginnings—even as they let him take the check, even as they lounged at his pool, or after playing on his tennis court. Many times he had pleaded for her to say no to a black tie fund raiser where he stood alone, often next to the bar, and often before a scheduled surgery. After twenty years of nothing ever being enough for her or her fancy friends, he was finally done; tonight was it. Maybe her constant nagging and screaming in his ear would stop and he could rest.
Taking a final look in the mirror, he combed back his silver hair that had become longish as of late, reminding him that he should have gotten a haircut. Tucking in his pocket square, he sighed and stared back at the bloodshot eyes of his mirror self and went to help Helen with her preparations.
“Darling.” said one of the first guests to arrive. “It’s been too long.” Danielle Harrison looked like an anorexic mermaid in her turquoise sequined gown that was far too much for an evening such as this. She was well past middle age, and on the hunt for a new husband. Danielle had never missed the opportunity to let him know that Helen could have done better. He looked at her bright lipstick which had bled into the tiny wrinkles around her lips caused by years of chain smoking and decided not to tell her that her teeth were now the same shade of primrose peach. Tim watched her walk over to the bar knowing she would help herself, and quickly wiped the sticky orange off his cheek, stopping himself from wretching, as he greeted his next guest, Martin Kinkaid, who was always early.
Martin had been banging Helen every Thursday for the last ten years, making him one of her all-time favorite dinner guests. He wished he could snatch Martin’s toupee off his gloating head. It made him look like a middle-aged Ken doll, and wasn’t fooling anybody. His teeth, impossibly white, smiled through an orange, Oompa-Loompa-like tan. “Not seen you on the golf course lately Timothy—careful, your getting a little paunchy.” He didn’t bother to remind Martin that he preferred Tim; instead he smiled and took his coat, and nodded at Gerald who was fussing nervously behind Martin with a stain on his tie.
Of course Gerald Sanford had been invited. He had never missed a party and never missed an opportunity to mooch off Tim and Helen. “He is one of us,” she would say. “A few bad investments.” Now Tim shook hands with the compulsive gambler, taking in the same pinstriped suit the man had worn for the last six parties. He almost felt sorry for Gerald. The snobs would notice and snicker behind his back, despite the fact that he was one of their own. The man was a lazy waste of skin which had worn Tim’s sympathy rice-paper thin. He quickly forgot Gerald and smiled wide for Colette Norton.
She looked over him towards the others. She always had Helen on some new kick, be it expensive spas, retreats, Roman holidays, and back for some Kabbalah. Once, a better look at a stint with the Scientologists. All things that were expensive and fleeting, and never once did Helen seem spiritually connected or relaxed. If he only had a dime for every time he had to hear her yap about this or that with hours of passion, only to listen to her yap about the next new fad, or religion that contradicted the favorite before. “Timothy,” Collette drawled, “I have met the most fabulous yogi, and I think he could do wonders for you.” He took her coat, previously worn by another species, and he knew her company with PETA was over. He watched as she joined the others, her heavily bangled arms attending to her painfully tight, bleach-blonde bun.
The last guest to arrive was Edmund Blake. His oversized head and neck were straining against the starched collar of his white shirt. He looked at Tim with faded blue, piggish eyes. As Helen’s father, he was her most favorite guest of all, and also the biggest bully Tim had ever had to endure. There had never been one friendly moment between the two, and he certainly never forgave Tim for marrying his little girl in spite of his threats. Sadly, if Tim had known then what he knew now, he would have have taken the payoff, and left Miss Helen to her own kind. “Hope you pulled out the good scotch Timmy, got to get through this evening with you somehow.” Tim took the man’s coat knowing better than to try to shake his father-in-law’s sweaty hand.
After serving the five guests drinks and hors d’oeuvres in the parlor, Tim excused himself to the kitchen. No help tonight; this was a small, intimate party. Helen’s fave five. He poured the wine toast making sure each glass was filled according to her strict preference. The prime rib had rested and could now be served. The rissoto couldn’t rest, and had to be served immediately. He cast one more critical gance at the table, then smiled wide, perfect.
When dinner was announced, everyone filed into the dimly lit dining room to be seated. The long, polished oak dining table was Helen’s pride, set with her favorite Noriaki china, a touch appreciated by her more discriminating guests. The soft light from the crystal chandelier bounced off the wine glasses casting both rainbows and shadows on to the white silk tablecloth. Everyone oohed and ahhed over the silver serving dishes, steaming with the tantalizing smell of beef and black truffles.
When all were seated, he stood and cleared his throat, directing all eyes his way. He acknowledged each guest, his smile so wide now that his face hurt. Finally, he raised his glass. “To my wife Helen.” All the guests murmured thier approval and drank to the toast.
As dinner went on, they drank more wine, and Tim couldn’t help feel a little nauseated watching Danielle resting her dragon lady like red fingernails on Martin’s arm, and whispering into his his ear. Martin actually had the good grace to look a little embarrassed by her attentions.
Edmund Blake ate and drank massive quantities, but said little. Tim had deliberately sat him between Colette and Gordon: one trying to talk him into getting his fat sucked out by her new doctor, the other trying to suck money out of his wallet. Tim had to control himself or would burst out laughing at the scene, hand-crafted by him.
When dinner was over, he excused himself from the table, removing plates, putting them on the cart, promising to be back with dessert and coffee. They barely noticed him, as if he were simply a server hired for the evening. He returned with with coffee and a tray of assorted cakes which he had ordered earlier in the day, as baking was not his strongest talent in the kitchen. As they were enjoying their coffee and dessert selections, Tim stood up, tapping his cup to gain their attention.
“I have a special surprise and if you will all remain seated, I will return momentarily.” As he left the room, he could hear the murmurs of curiousity from the guests, and his heart beat with excitement.
“It’s showtime,” Tim said and took hold of the wheelchair handles. As he wheeled her in, all eyes were on Helen. Colette screamed. The others looked stunned, but Tim kept wheeling Helen into the room, pushing her to the end of the long table. It had always been her rightful place, after all.
Helen’s father Edmund stood up and pointed a finger at Tim. “I am going to kill you, you shit.” He moved his chair back with all intentions of killing Tim, then froze. He looked suprised, clutched his chest, then fell, his heavy body shaking the table as it hit the floor.
Danielle was crying and managed to get her cell phone out of her purse, but she also stiffened, her face falling into a perfectly good piece of chocolate cheesecake.
“You’re sick,” Martin said, trying to help Danielle, but he already was feeling sick himself, and slumped sideways into his chair, then slid to the floor.
When Tim looked over to Colette. She was already dead, her head resting near Gordon’s. They had tried to leave and had at least made it to the door.
The drug had been in the first toast. Everyone was sure to drink it at the same time, ensuring the party’s success.
Helen kept her poise and did not leave her seat, confident as she was that the guests would now be staying.
He looked down the long table. Her eyeless sockets stared back at him, but he was not put off by their darkness. Her hair dull and thin. Despite his efforts, after he dug her up, her petrifying scalp peeked through. Her black velvet evening gown with the diamond brooch at her breast did not do her justice; rather, vice versa. She simply did not fill it out. All that Chanel had not done her the favor he had hoped either—he was starting to smell her from where he sat.
As a heart surgeon, no one had questioned him after she died of a heart attack, and for a little while, things were wonderfully quiet in the house. No parties, or fundraisers, or any other country club, wine tasting, elbow rubbing, name dropping events as she used to make him participate in. No, he had retired, and had spent his evenings with his books and the occasional movie alone.
Helen had rested in peace for six months, when she started to scream. She screamed until his ears and nose bled. She kept screaming until she got what she wanted: a party. Helen had always needed to be the center of attention, the perfect hostess with the mostest, even now. But this was his last party, and he felt oddly content. Helen had her perfect guest list and would need him no more. Savoring his last bite of truffle flaked risotto, he finished his wine and dabbed his lips with his napkin.
“Mind if I smoke?” He cocked his head as if waiting for an answer. “No? Good.” He grinned at his decaying wife in a companionable way, happy she offered no objections, as he knew how much she had always hated his smoking.
He got up and rifled through Edmund’s jacket, producing a Cuban cigar. “Thank you, Ed, I just don’t have these jewels lying around.” Edmund’s eyes were staring, and his mouth was still open as if to protest, but of course he did not. Tim picked his way around the motionless bodies, and sat back down.
As he played with the cigar, he flashed Helen a toothy smile now and then. He was enjoying the quiet. There was a sound, very faint in the backround and for a minute he couldn’t place it. Then he remembered. It was the sound of gas hissing from the industrial size stove in the kitchen. He had let the gas fill the house for a time now, and he sighed with relief that the evening would soon end.
“Well Helen, I do say, this was the party to end all parties.”
He put the cigar into his teeth and smiled as he lit the match. |
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