Deadfall
by Ali Bryan
Desdemona, wet-haired, sat inside her boxy car with a breakfast sandwich and the cat formerly known as Prince. The trapping had been humane. Desdemona had put a whole salmon in the flower bed and when the cat finally scaled the fence and goose stepped across her yard like a Prussian diplomat, she threw a sheet over his head and wrestled him into a cage. She then removed his collar and tags and the cat mewed as if he knew he’d been stripped of his cathood, cast-off, homed. The declawing would have to wait.
The view from the cliff was spectacular despite the smoke from a distant wild fire that had been raging for weeks. Desdemona’s doctor had advised her to stay inside to protect her lungs, which were inflamed and uncooperative, not unlike her husband in the backseat. He’d been captured a few hours ago much the same way as the cat, except with a ribeye on the patio and his college football jersey—the horrible teal one he used to sport for home games—in lieu of a sheet. He went along with it of course, the jersey over his head, because he was macabre, curious, and German. But now he was getting squirmy.
“Can I take it off, yet?”
She killed the engine and got out of the car. She’d marked the spot where the ground was loose. Where a little scuff scuff of her flip flop could break off a piece of the geological record, chunks of story, entire eras. She kicked the edge with her heel and a section of rock detached and disappeared with a beautiful poof! It had a cinematic feel, a tang of danger.
Desdemona clutched her stomach. The breakfast sandwich was a bad choice. Just because the drive-thru offered all-day-breakfast, didn’t mean she had to order it. It was late. But she ordered the sandwich, because people would otherwise notice. She was a regular. News would get out and reporters would interview McDonald’s and McDonald’s would say, yes, it was odd, she ordered nuggets! She stared down at the beach below with its Toblerone rocks, spitty water and deadfall, and felt—for the first time since this adventure began—and it had been over six months—fear.
From the car, Helmut hollered. “Des, get this thing off my head.”
He’d have done it himself, but his arms were bound. He’d been willing of that too because she used pantyhose and he was a fan. They weren’t even clean. She’d fished them out of the hamper. The smoke was going to clear tomorrow and visibility would be improved. She didn’t have time to wash them. She wanted the haze. She wanted the air to be thick as a net.
“Whatever you’re up to, can we talk about it?”
Could they? Did anything ever get resolved by talking? Sex, maybe. Or violence. Never talking. In fact, talking is what brought her to the edge of this unstable cliff with an empty bank account, nameless cat and hooded husband. Desdemona could talk herself into anything. Just one more game. The casino was a generous listener.
“I smell a cat,” Helmut called.
Why hadn’t she given him a gag? He also had a problem with talking. Too much. His was ruining the mood with his questions and suggestions and cat-sniffing.
“I’ve arranged a picnic,” she said, opening the trunk.
“Are we eating cat?” he asked.
She did love this about him. He was boyish that way. Up for anything. Cruising, playing Mah Jong, eating cats.
“Dessert,” she replied. “I’m getting everything set-up.”
“For our anniversary?”
“Yes.”
“But it’s tomorrow.”
“We’ll be here past midnight.”
“But I have to work at six.”
Pity.
Desdemona spread a blanket at the edge of the cliff. She slipped off her pants, bum to the red moon, and pulled on a pair of shorts. The cat scratches were still fresh. She could smell the blood. She etched a few more with a stick, and then tossed the stick into the sea.
“Why’d you put this jersey on my head?” he called.
“I wanted to surprise you,” she replied. “You wore it on our first date.”
“Right,” he said. “Is the picnic ready? Will there be cupcakes?”
Desdemona had just finished placing the cupcakes on a paper plate. She opened a tin of tuna. Poured a shallow dish of milk. She’d always wanted to give a cat milk.
“Almost ready,” she said. The cupcakes had been a last-minute idea. She’d posed for a selfie with them, tagged it happy anniversary and posted it on Facebook. She reached into the front seat and grabbed the cat.
“I’m sorry I have to do this,” she whispered. “We’ll make it look like an accident.” She squeezed him between her arms.
“Okay, you can come out now.”
“I can’t see.”
She set the cat by the milk and watched it lap beautiful laps before helping her husband to his feet. What was she going to do with the panty hose? Her swim bag was still in the trunk. She stuffed the hose inside.
“Put your jersey on!” she coaxed, showing him the blanket where the cat was choking down tuna. “Happy anniversary.”
He chose a cupcake with chocolate frosting. “You got me a cat?”
“Yes,” she replied, “He’s a bad cat, but he will keep you company.”
He glanced at her legs. “Why is he bad?”
“Because he killed me.”
Desdemona leaned back. She wasn’t as close to the edge as she thought, so it took some effort. Some real thrust. She hadn’t practiced thrust. You couldn’t from a pool deck. Not when the lifeguard was watching.
The wind shook her cheeks on the way down. Her body folded. She imagined she heard her husband scream, the cat meow. She could smell the smoke on the way down.
Ali Bryan is an award-winning novelist and creative nonfiction writer who explores the what-ifs, the wtfs, and the wait-a-minutes of every day. She lives in the foothills of the Rocky Mountains where she has a wrestling room in her garage and regularly gets choked out by her family. She can be found on Instagram @alikbryan, Twitter @AliBryan, and at www.alibryan.com.