Slice

BUCKHEAD SPRINGS

Donna and Jack Eichord and Tuffy were playing on the living-room floor of their house. That is, Donna and Jack were laughing; Tuffy was doing the playing. He had a little crumpled ball of paper that was his favorite toy of the moment.

“A month ago,” Eichord said when he got control again, “somebody says, You're gonna be buying cat toys, I woulda found it a little hard to swallow.” He'd just gone into a store and purchased a fake mouse.

“I know. But the little guy is so much fun to watch. What a mess,” as if Tuffy had heard her he attacked the paper with renewed ferocity, and as it skittered away across the rug, he went with it, end over end in a mad scramble. “Look at him!"

“Tuffy, you're gonna kill yourself."

“If you live that long."

“That's why I named him that. When I saw him playing in that cardboard box Shari brought down to work, he was running at the walls like a kamikaze pilot. He looked like a daredevil cat to me."

“I hate that word."

“Cat?"

“I hate words like ‘daredevil.’ I don't even like the guy's name—Mr. Kuhneeval. The first name. I don't like that word."

“Yeah?"

“I don't like spooky words. Tuffy doesn't like ‘em either. However, we DO like the word ‘spooky.’”

“Good name for a little black cat.” Eichord looked the way he did when he was only there with the surface of his mind. “I know what you mean, though, about words. I have some words I don't like to hear either.” His face grew serious. “A few proper nouns I'd just as soon never hear again.” He had that look in his eyes she'd learned to recognize in Dallas, and she smiled and quickly changed the subject.

“Hey."

“Yeah?"

“Sex aside,” she said, snuggling close as Tuffy watched them, his tiny pink tongue hanging out after all the rambunctious activity, “I want to know which of your official birthday goodies you liked the best. Tell me."

“Sex aside, you say?” he said, snuggling next to her. “Well, that's number one shot down. I guess my favorite was the quick game of catch. I thought you were dynamite in that shirt and cap. Cute stuff."

“You liked ole Dad, did you?"

“Posilutely."

“You liked burnin’ ‘em in to old Dad?"

“A regular Bob Feller."

“Who's Bob Feller?"

“Who is BOB FELLER? You jest, surely.” She shook her head no. “Even a youngster like you shoulda heard of Bob Feller. Hmmm. Well. Bob Feller. He was a pitcher. They used to say Feller only had three pitches, a fast ball, a burner, and a high hard one."

“That's all any man needs."

“Yeah?"

“Sure. You guys can do just fine as long as you got a couple of balls and a hard one.” She said it very seriously.

“Uh huh."

“Be right back,” she said, getting up off the floor. “Don't you two go away."

“We won't,” he promised.

“I'll be right back,” she repeated as she bounced off down the hall. A few moments later she reappeared. The sweatshirt and jeans were gone. She had on his shirt again, and the Mets cap.

“Hello there,” he said, checking her out. “That was a quick costume change."

“Like you always say, I aims to please."

“Uh."

She was bare legged and wore no shoes. And the shirt was open in front and he could see the beautiful swells of those proud twin globes. She pulled the shirt apart a little farther and said, “You wanna come inside and play?"

“Right,” he said hoarsely. He got up and followed her down the hall toward the bedroom to inspect her fast-breaking curves.

Tuffy was busily batting his crumpled ball of paper all over the living room, his little fur ball of a body flying at top speed until he chased left when he should have chased right and ran right smack dab into a wall. The little kitten got back up, dazed, shook it off, and looked around.

Where the heck did everybody go?

When Jack snuggled against her something was changed. She could tell immediately, even as he was touching her, that her husband was just going through the motions, and to Donna Eichord it was a confusing irritation. This time she couldn't hold her tongue and said, “I can tell I'm driving you insane with desire,” in a tone that made him draw back from her and he smiled a little and kept touching her but he didn't try to fake a response.

“It isn't you, love."

“That's good news,” she said.

“Come on,” he said very softly, feeling her draw away from his touch. “You know better."

“I thought I did, but...” She knew how she must sound. She let it trail off into space.

“Really,” Jack said, sighing, “it's work. You know. Sometimes it just doesn't shake off at the front door."

“That's okay. But you know, before, we've always talked about it if something is bothering one of us."

“I know."

“I'm starting to wonder if I'm doing something wrong."

“Hey. Don't be silly."

“I don't think it's being silly. Obviously something is out of kilter all of a sudden,” she said.

“Nothing about us. I just have a lot on my mind."

“It hasn't been a problem before.” (Let UP for crissakes—what is your problem?)

“I love ya a lot, you know that.” He touched her lightly on the tip of her nose. “I'm just having an off week."

“Okay.” She smiled. “If you feel like talking about it...” Jeez, kid, she thought to herself, why can't you shut your trap? But she couldn't. It was too important not to let anything ever wedge itself between them. “You know I'm here to listen. Whatever it is."

“Some things are just better left unsaid.” He sat up against the headboard. “If you really want to hear about it I don't mind telling you about it. It's no mysterious thing. You really want me to tell you the details?” He could no more stop himself now than she could.

“It might make YOU, you know"—long pause—"feel better to have, uh, to be able to talk about it. I don't mind.” Her voice very quiet.

“A multiple homicide and robbery in a Chicago butcher shop. It was something got called to my attention. Just one of those awful killings where the sickness of the perpetrators keeps screaming at you. So we make bad jokes. We do this and that. Usually we can let it all drop at the front door. This one's just been harder to shake. Somebody butchered the butchers, you might say. Cut their throats in a very cold-blooded way the same way you might slaughter something for food.” She seemed to shrivel as he told her about it. And the more Donna recoiled from it, the more it irritated him that she'd goaded him into telling her about it. And the more he told her of the gory details, the more he felt like he did when he was trying to gross out some woman reporter in the squad room, or some TV schmuck at a crime scene. And when he'd finished she was still irritated, and he was irritated, and nobody was feeling very loved, and something awful and sick and horrible had inserted itself into the intimacy of their warm marriage bed.

“It has NOTHING to do with us,” he said, knowing even then that what he'd just said couldn't be further from the truth.