A Deadly Lullaby for Mother
#4 of Pretty Stories for Ugly Children
When Walter's rich but domineering mother tries to deflate his relationship with a pretty florist,
Walter cooks up a plan to rid himself of his meddling mother once and for all - while inheriting her millions.
Take a deep breath and immerse yourself in a world, where murder can be such a gas.
A Deadly Lullaby for Mother.
Walter's mother was drunk, again.
She sat, slumped over the coffee table like a rag-doll made from sagging skin and shiny jewels and, like so many times before, with an empty tumbler clutched in her hand. A solitary ice cube slowly merging into a sea of sloe gin.
Walter lit a filterless cigarette and listened to her breathing.
"Mom?"
As always, the only answer was a faint snoring.
Twelve and a half million dollars worth of alcoholic, breathing flesh, this was once a caring creature he used to know and love.
But now, mother had degenerated into this snoring, hateful creature, fueled by drink and foul temper. God! How he loathed her, and he loathed himself even more for putting up with her. But he'd stayed with mom in their millionaire home after dad left. And he'd stayed with her when she married Augustus Broc, a rich but uncaring entrepeneur who, despite his many failings, had the common decency of leaving millions behind when losing the battle with cancer. Now, the only thing separating Walter from wealth was this bloated being that once meant something to him. But that was many moons ago.
You're pathetic, he whispered, not daring to raise his voice, in case mother woke up from her stupor.
Walter was thirty six; unmarried, unhappy, uneducated and unlikely to succeed without the millions stashed away in the family account. Sadly, that fortune was deposited in mother's name, out of reach and melting into the hands of Doctor Gin by the month.
He reached for his Iphone and dialled Rosetta's number.
"Hey, I managed to get reservations at_Le Cette_ tonight, seven thirty." Walter's voice was scarcely more than a whisper.
"That's wonderful, Walter - but that's in... one hour?"
"Yeah I know, but mother's not feeling well. She's been depressed lately."
"You're a darling for caring so much about your mother, you know that?"
Walter had met Rosetta Stone on a Tuesday night in the singles bar. She was a petite florist who smelled of peat and made a funny grunting noise when she laughed. She had not rejected his advances when he approached her, which made her special. She was one of a kind: the kind mother would warn you about. To mother, Rosetta was just another lay person below their standards, another romantic interest to be ashamed of -but so was every other girl he had ever met.
I need to start over and live my own life.
Walter was reluctant to admit it, but a sinister seed had taken root in his mind the day Augustus Broc installed an Olympic size AGA gas cooker in their family kitchen at great expense. That day had coincided with the news of the lead singer of "Boston" taking his own life by carbon monoxide. "I'm a lonely soul" read the suicide note. The idea had taken root, and grew with mother's every word of critiscism, sprouted with her eternal snooping into his private affairs and blossomed with her every measure taken to control his life. If suicide by gas was good enough for a rock god like Brad Delb, surely... Walter had never consciously formed the words to finish that sentence; instead he trusted her liver to surrender to the daily consumption of hard liquor. But after seven years of waiting, he finally conceded: Mother had a cast-iron liver.
Walter looked at the gas cooker; the distance between mother and freedom was only twenty feet. He stubbed out the cigarette and grabbed mother by the armpits. Mother was heavy, and dragging her unwielding body across the floor was like dragging lead and loathsome memories. Halfway across the floor, Mother awoke by the handling and looked around, still dazed from consumption.
"What? What are you doing?"
"I'm putting you to sleep, mother," comforted Walter. "You need to rest."
"You're such a good boy," slurred mother. "You'll always take good care of me, won't you?"
"Sure mother, I'll take care of you."
She dozed off again and Walter wiped a drop of sweat from his forehead. It had been a close call, but there was no turning back now. He dragged her sleeping body into the conversation kitchen. Suicide by gas was once a popular means of relieving the world of your presence, back when gas was coal based and carbon monoxide was the quiet Charon. But modern butane is pungent and regrettably, non toxic. Death occurs from oxygen depletion within thirty minutes, give or take, but mother was an old fashioned sort and suicide by a tried and tested method would be her obvious choice.
Walter placed mother on her knees. She swayed unsteadily from side to side, while Walter stood across her with one leg on each side to support her. He opened the twin oven door and pushed her head and shoulders inside. It was a good fit, with only a minimum of gas leaking out. She was unconscious and dreaming of spending dollars on drinks and jewels, while Walter unscrewed the pilot light; a gas explosion would only ruin the mansion and lead to expensive redecorations. He sat down by the mahogany desk and tried to compose a suitable suicide note to the soundtrack of hissing butane. After three failed attempts, he crumbled up the paper and wrote: "I'm a lonely soul. Goodbye."
Walter checked the setup before he left the house. The lights were on, there were drinks on the table next to the suicide note, the gas hissed its lethal lullaby. "Goodnight mother." The words stuck in his mouth like molasses and he waited by the door to reconsider, but only for a second. A pang of guilt washed through his brain. "You're killing your own mother?" But the killing had already been done years ago by the hands of Martin Miller, Old Tom and Hendricks. Walter checked his watch; the time was 18:55, it was still light outside and he had thirty minutes to meet his reservation.
"Why do you keep checking your watch?" asked Rosetta, looking up from the wine list.
Walter laughed. "Bit of a bad habit. I guess you could call it a nervous tic."
Rosetta blushed. "Aw! I have a few strange habits of my own."
"Such as?"
Rosetta poked her homard a_'la reve_with the tip of her fork. "I don't want to seem... you know, odd. But I always check that I've turned off the gas before I leave my apartment."
"There's nothing odd about checking the gas."
"When you keep going back six times, it's a bit odd."
Walter waved his credit card to get the waiter's attention. In the dim light, no one could see how badly overdrawn it was.
"Did you check six times before coming here?"
"Of course not," laughed Rosetta. "Tonight I didn't have to check. Tonight is special."
The_maitre d_' was originally from Brooklyn, but had been trained to address every male customer as Monsieur, which made Walter feel important as he ordered a bottle of Chateau Latour with the pheasant. "I'm closing an important deal tonight," said Walter. "When my investment comes through, I'll be making a killing."
Rosetta blushed. "I don't know the first thing about long term investments. I've spent all day in the shop arranging bouquets for funerals."
Walter leaned over and kissed Rosetta on the cheek. "There's a first for everything," he said. It was eight thirty and Walter had fallen in love with a remarkable woman. She didn't flinch when he kissed her in the doorway, she didn't turn him away when he asked if he could come with her upstairs, but most importantly, she didn't correct him when he couldn't perform."
"First time?"
Walter nodded and hated the limp piece of flesh that had betrayed him.
Rosetta neither laughed nor berated Walter. Instead she kissed and stroked his lifeless member.
"There's a first for everything."
Walter returned shortly past midnight. He parked the Lexus Sedan in the driveway and prepared himself for the sight that would greet him. He made a stop by the mailbox; better bring in the mail, just to act normal. The walkway to the front door was illuminated and Walter opened the mail as he strolled up the path to the family mansion.
"Dear customer," read the top letter.
Due to service maintenance, your gas supply will be cut off from seven PM to twelve PM tonight.
We apologize for any inconvenience this interruption may cause you.
Regards,
the Oakenford Natural Gas Company.
_ _
Walter froze midstep. He watched the light pouring out through the curtains, and the lonely shadow moving back and forth, blocking the light as it passed. Someone was alive in the house; pacing the floor and waiting.
Waiting for Walter.
-... -