Dick and Jane

** This is an ending to a story starter from "On Writing" by Stephen King **


The moment I mute the over-tanned, hairsprayed reporter on the afternoon news, my ears pick up a movement in the stairwell around the corner. "Scout?" Silence. Did that dog run outside when I got home? Even so, he would bark his fool head off if anything was wrong. Then another soft noise, and I realize why I haven't heard him bark. Mommy's home. That's when I catch a whiff of the unmistakeable scent of Joy perfume. There's no more denying the confrontation that's bound to happen. I sit as calmly as I can at the kitchen island and wait. She'll come. She always did. She always will.

When she does round the corner moments later, scratching the dog's ears while he pants in bliss (some watchdog), I try not to let my face register the shock that's sent me reeling. Jane. My painfully beautiful, deceptively elegant ex-wife is someone I can barely recognize. Before the trial, she was a shapely, curvaceous woman, golden-skinned and bright-eyed. It wasn't until you really got to know her that those things were merely a shell for the Terminator-like coldness underneath. Now, though, her exterior has caught up. In the short year since she's been locked up, her curves are no longer delicately feminine, but chiseled and taut. Her peaches-and-cream complexion is ruddy and lightly wrinkled from working in the sun. Her honey-soft waves of hair are yanked back, severe and dull. But those eyes. Jane's eyes. Still as frosty and forbidding as always.

"You've redecorated."
"Hello, Janey."
"I like it."
"Why'd you come, Jane?"
"Pretty curtains." She ran her fingertips along the smooth counter, finally resting her calloused palm on my trembling hand. "Nice paint, too. Kudos to your decorator. Your taste has always been for shit."
"Jane...they'll know you're here."
"I might have gone with different appliances, though."
"JANE."
She finally looked at me. "Oh. He shouts now." She gave me the smile that I fell in love with so long ago. The smile that convinced me to say "I do."
"Dick. Love. Do you really think I'd come back here to hurt you?" Yes, you crazy bitch. "I imagine I'm in enough trouble already. That poor guard..."
"What the hell do you want, Jane? I don't think you stopped by for a chat about curtains and countertops."
"You always were a smart one. Smart enough to change the code on the safe, too."
"That's why you're here? Cash?"
"You bet your sweet ass it is. So. March on up there, crack that safe, and I'll be out of your hair for good."

I started to shake my head "No," but then my eyes fell on the portrait of Cindy, our - no, my - daughter, grinning her lopsided grin from the refrigerator.

"Okay. You win. I'll give you every penny if you give me your word you're gone forever."
"Tell you what, sugar." The Georgia drawl I once found so charming crept into her voice. "I'll even shake on it."
"Fine."

For the first time in 19 months, I took her hand. My traitorous fingers still wrapped around hers in spite of the pain, the insults, the stitches, the manipulation... I shook my head slightly, clearing the dangerous thoughts, and focused myself. I hooked my fingers around the drawer pull, noting their trembling and that I still saw a white band on the ring finger of my tanned left hand. Her sharp eyes caught my movement.

"What are you doing?"
"Relax. It's not like I dig in the safe on a daily basis. I just need to get the card where I wrote the new combination."
"Awww...aren't you the good little cub scout? Maybe I can stay a few extra minutes? Turn you into a tiger?" She winked as she sashayed to the stairs.
Sliding the drawer shut, I walked softly behind her. I laid a gentle hand on her bare neck, considering her invitation. She leaned into my touch and giggled. "I have missed you," I sighed. I raised my left hand, again seeing the telltale evidence of our former union, and plunged the syringe deep into her jugular.



The medics pulled the white sheet over her inert body and gave me the forms for my signature. Under "Cause of Death," they had written "Myocardial Infarction." Heart attack.
I never thought I would be grateful for the drugs in the kitchen drawer.
The insulin shots I needed to keep around for my daughter.
Too bad Jane never knew Cindy was diabetic.

Too bad.