A Brilliant Early June Day

It was a beautifully brilliant early June day, 79 degrees, and Jack was out back having an anxiety attack.

Actually he was doing nothing of the sort. He was burying his wife. She had been a thorn in his side for many years now and, inspired by the exquisite weather,  a few short moments ago he took a shovel to her head while she reached into the cupboard for another box of Bonbons. Then he injected her with a large dose of pure heroin as she lay on the kitchen floor and waited for her breathing to stop.

He was convinced that at one point the expression on her unconscious face made her look happier than he had ever seen her.

Heroin will do that to you.

Digging the grave was more work than he expected. Six feet long, six feet deep - that's a lot of earth to move. We're talking good NH soil but still it was pretty damn rocky. They don't call it the Granite State for nothing.

Still he had a few pounds he'd been meaning to lose for a while now and the exercise felt pretty good. The iPod was crooning and there was a nice pitcher of lemonade to keep him hydrated.

Jack was worried about his pants. They were a pair that were broken in, comfortable, his favorites. The execution was spur of the moment and he had not planned ahead wardrobe wise. The pants were soaked through with sweat and some of the soil was ground in as well. He wasn't so worried about that but there was some blood spatter on them too.

The random pattern of the blood stains suggested modern art. Every once in a while, between shovel-fulls, Jack would admire them with wonder and awe. He dabbled in painting for relief, release and surcease from the torture of life. If he could duplicate the patterns on canvas he stood a chance of becoming the next Jaxon Pollack. Maybe he could actually incorporate the blood right in with the paint.

That's what he was thinking off and on as he meditated on the repetitive nature of digging a grave. Jam the shovel into the dirt, step on the upper edge and force it down deeper, life the dirt up and out. The rhythm felt good once he got the hang of it. And filling in the grave was so easy it was like a reward for a job well done.

Still, he wasn't sure about the pants. He really liked them, he really wanted to keep them. The dirt and sweat were nothing, it was the blood he was worried about. He would have to watch a couple of episodes of The Sopranos for cleaning tips.

That might be a pleasant way to pass the evening. Maybe he would barbecue a massive Delmonico steak on his meager grill, crack open a bottle of cheap wine and settle in for a Sopranos marathon.

He liked On Demand better than sex.

At one point during this pleasant reverie, images of his wife leaked into his brain. He could see her standing in the kitchen with chocolate running down her chins. When she cracked open a new box of Bonbons she couldn't wait to get it back to her chair. The overstuffed chair with the obnoxious floral pattern that reminded Jack of nursing homes. Her favorite chair.

No, she had to stuff a couple into her mouth immediately and slurp noisily until the gooey concoction hit her stomach. Then and only then would she make her way to her chair, in which she would consume handfuls of candy while looking at the TV.

She hadn't been a bad wife. She stuck around, had a job and brought in some money. Sometimes she cooked, sometimes she cleaned. They would go out to Friendly's for dinner every third or fourth month. Maybe a movie.

It was a slow moving life but it was a life.

Jack was just looking for a change. Not a change of women, just a change of emotion. Of circumstance. He thought, apropos of nothing, that killing his wife might shake things up. The thought came to him like lightening and he acted upon it without hesitation.

Turns out it was cathartic. He felt light, inspired. He felt different. He felt like he looked different.

He thought "She was a good woman" and simultaneously, " the hell with her." Not in any vicious way. It was more of an offhand dismissal.

Burgle, Jack's stupid neighbor, came over with two cold beers just as Jack was buttoning up the grave.

Burgle handed him a PBR and asked "Whattya doin'?"

"Burying my wife, " Jack responded. They had a good laugh over that one.

"Whadja think of LeBron the other night. Being carried off the court and all," said Burgle.

Jack said "He's a goddamn wimp, a poseur. For that kind of money he should have integrity enough to play through the pain. At least limp off the court like a man."

The conversation took on a head of steam and before you knew it they were having the familiar discussion of how overpaid these goddamn professional athletes are.

Jack was thinking to himself that it was amazing how stimulating a conversation could be, how satisfying.

On a brilliant, early June day in the back yard.