Jane Hates Dick

Jane Hates Dick from JointVentureLightning on Vimeo.

By
Geoffrey Zimmerman

The afternoon was turning out to be just perfect for Dick Lewinski. The fellas at the plant had volunteered to finish up his filing, so now, after dropping Timmy off at his little buddy’s birthday party Dick found he had three hours to himself.

When happy, Dick liked to jangle the loose change in his Dickies pocket. It jingled and jangled like a three cherry winner at a Vegas slot machine, and Dick whistled a few happy tunes through his pursed lips.

He flung open the front door to his brand new brick rancher and stood still for just half a mo. He slowly scanned the comfy place. But then his keys hit the floor. Hmmm, he thought to himself, as his whistling lips turned to the o shaped mouth of a blow up doll and his forehead became a fleshy washboard. He stooped to get the keys and with his head upside down, cocked his head sideways and said hmmm again. Then he stood upright and jangled his change and the odd feeling flew away like butterflies blasted by a fan.

Dick took the keys from the lock and hung them on a shiny new hook on the wall. He closed the door, turned the dead bolt and headed for his brand new, sparkly clean kitchen. I know what I want, he whispered to himself. Some of that sleepy time tea. He filled the chrome teapot with water, placed it on a burner and turned the gas knob. Wavering flame surrounded the kettle and small spikes of blue fire danced around its sides. He plopped the tea bag into his Number One Dad mug, his favorite. H

He picked up his fancy universal remote, aimed it at his brand new flat screen tv and pushed power. He sat on his couch, undid his shoe-laces and pulled off his shoes. As he leaned back against his new couch’s cushions and wriggled his toes, he scrunched up his nose again. That smell, he thought to himself, sat up and turned toward the kitchen. Something in the trash? No. That new cleaner I used this morning? Hmmm, he thought again and stood up. He reached a hand into his pocket and shoved those coins against each other, tink a tink.

…”For watching news 60 at 3. Back after these messages”. He loved that tv, but turned to the card table by the bay window – his WWI Fokker biplane – the Red Baron’s plane – maybe he’d glue a wing or two on today.

Dick blew a sigh through his lips as he shuffled to the card table, reveling in the soft caress of the carpet on his feet. He gazed down at his red plastic beauty and undid his necktie. Like unwinding his ex-wife’s fingers from around his neck, he allowed the tie to take with it those last three years of his insane marriage. How could she have transformed from a loving, devoted housewife to a screaming thrashing terror? Some people you just never knew, he thought and sighed once more. “That smell again, dammit,” he said then flushed at his own fear and lack of restraint. “Jane,” he said to the house, feeling the memory of that woman permeate its walls and turn shiny gloss trim to rotten falling boards. …”escaped from Youngstown High Security Institute for The Criminally Insane…” “What?” he said and snapped his head at the TV. “In a daring and deadly escape, three female inmates repeatedly stabbed one guard and dismembered another. Two have been captured and the third is still at large. More detail and photos after these messages.” He hadn’t breathed. Not once. Now he gasped.

Hot needles penetrated his face from within. Ice water laced through his heart and his bowels boiled and turned to black water. He dropped the Fokker, grabbed his gut and covered his mouth.

Then it came to him. That smell! Jane’s perfume, orange blossom. She’d come back. She swore she would.

A gurgling whine emanated from the stove then a wail became a shriek as the kettle boiled, screaming to be taken from the flames.

Dick spun around, threw his gaze at the stove and then peered down the long hall just off the kitchen.

Squealing like an impaled cat, the kettle blubbered and gurgled as water spit from its small whistle hole.

A freezing steel stiffness held Dick’s muscles. Then he breathed and let his hand fall from his mouth.

A sliver of sunlight appeared on the hallway’s Berber carpet and broadened to a three-foot wide band. The bedroom. She’s in the bedroom. And then a shadow slowly moved across the swath of light. The kettle wailed and spewed water and steam.

Then she moved into the hallway like the materialized Boogey Man of a bad dream, one hand wrapped around a red and glistening 12- inch knife, the other balled into a quivering fist, dangling at her side.

“Hello, Dick,” she said, far away, under water.

The kettle- her voice- she moved- he lunged toward the kitchen and she was on him like attached by a spring. Both hands to her side- the knife rusty red with dried blood – her eyes – like a dead fish – no blink.

“Just the kettle – we can talk – let me… .” He reached up and burned his hand on the steamy spit. Would a smack across her temple do it? Blue hot metal? Scalding water? She’d bounce back up like a bobble head. The knife would fly up in a second, swipe across his pale, pink throbbing neck like a cat’s claw at a mouse.

The sides were coming in –soft gray on the edge of his vision pulsed and progressed, closing – then the sound of sand in the veins of his ears.

She reached past him and twisted the stove’s knob. A thick silence drew in. He tried to swallow, but his throat was a slit, so he coughed and choked.

“I told you I’d be back,” she said.

“Jane,” he squeaked, like a squirrel.

She breathed deep then exhaled long. “Dick, Dick, Dick.”

“Yes, Jane?” She was in his face, puffy hot breath on his nose, hard eyes driving through his. Any second that blade would plunge right through his rib cage and split his throbbing lung.

“I’m back.”

“I know. I see you here.”

He looked past her. “Blah blah blah” on the big shiny flat screen TV.- the broken Fokker on the carpet – his red and blue tie draped across the leather couch. Flap, bang, a tinny sound as the mail slot door flung open and a small bundle of envelopes slapped against the tiled foyer floor. She turned away, her ears pricked like a bat’s and he sensed his chance. He shoved her hard. Sent her down. Splat on the vinyl, her hip smacking the floor, her head bouncing back. He threw himself away from the stove with both hands, stepped over her. Why not kick? Why don’t I kick her? The kettle? He ran toward the door, socked feet slipping out behind him, both knees cracking against the floor, two palms on the vinyl.

“Dick!” she yelled, as if he would come back and help her up. She grabbed his ankle, the knife still in her hand. It cut his calf as he kicked out his leg. He turned to sitting, and she rolled to her side.

“Diiiiick!” He grabbed a cabinet door- knob and the door flung open. He went back down, and she rose up, squeezing the knife, slashing, picking where on his body to cleave. He rolled to his knees then lunged forward, heading to the foyer. He bashed into the door, brought a hand to the dead bolt and had to turn to see. She was flying toward him, three feet and closing. He lunged over the couch and grabbed his necktie. She skidded into the door, shook her head and turned to him. Ding-dong. The chime box above her head played a happy tune. Doo da doo da doo doo doo, la la la la la la laaaa. She tilted her body and glared up at the little plastic tune-maker. Dick stood by the coffee table and stretched his necktie, gauging its potential to strangle. He used the second and a half to scan the place. The kitchen- knives, pans. The windows – closed and locked. Could he crash through one? Their eyes met. If he ran she’d chase, if she lunged he’d flee. “Break the door down. Break a window,” he yelled, and Jane was on him in a blink. He flung himself over the armrest, scampered across the end table and sent his brand new lamp crashing. Ding-dong went the bell and some muffled words penetrated the door.

Down the hall. Oh fuck, no way out, she trailed an arm’s swipe behind. The bedroom door. No time to close it, she slammed it against the wall. Over the bed. An open window. He ducked and lunged.

Soft new grass seven feet down. A dislocated shoulder. Knees up, feet pedaling. Around to the front.
—-
Stupid crazy people. Stop yelling and answer the door she thought, glaring at the freshly painted front door. This stupid bag of cookies is getting heavy. She set it down on the stoop. One more sale. All I need is one more big sale. She decided to give the doorbell one more try, then would call it quits. She pulled her skirt straight, forced a smile and readied herself to deliver the pitch. Ding-dong.

The frantic dashing strange man emerged from around the bushes, hell on his heels, death in his eyes. He spied the little girl and made straight for her.
—-
What the fuck! He thought as he skittered around the corner, running close to the house and setting free seven lovely forsythia blooms. She’s gonna’ die, that girl in green, and he didn’t even think about putting the brakes on. His left arm came out, his wrist bent like a wrench, and as an empty coffee cup caught in a tornado, the little girl’s feet left the stoop in a twitch, and she lifted away from the Lewinski front door like so much detritus. “Ooh,” she croaked.

His goal – who knows. His purpose – survival. But the cruiser slamming its brakes to a squealing halt spelled finish line for Dick. And another wailing cop car screeched in behind that one – and a third and forth slid to a springy stop on the road at the front lawn.

A herald of blue and black bedecked minions converged on Dick like gnats in a swamp and he paused beside a cruiser, with driver kneeling, gun aimed, pulsing blue lights blinding in blinks – and he stopped – let down the wriggling, scratching wailing little girl he had drawn away from the porch and threw up his arms.

“It’s not me,” he said to the ½ inch black hole that was the barrel of a 9mm cannon aimed at his sternum. “She’s inside. Trying to kill me with a knife.”

“Simmer down Mister Lewinski. We’re on a case, here to investigate.” Turning to his side, Dick saw at least ten heavily armed men dash past him, take positions at the porch, knock, yell, and blast through his front door. Soon, he knew, his crazy ex-wife would be paraded out, over the floored door, her hands up, a look of submission on her face…
or
She would make a break for it, dash through the door, zig zag across the front lawn and wind up face down, eye to eye with the ants, twelve hollow-point bullets in her back.

He drew some breaths and turned to face a lad of at most 21.

“We’ve been through the house. There’s no one there,” the big boy in a cop’s hat said.

Dick’s jaw dropped.

“We’ll get ‘em next time,” he said.

“Yeah, next time,” Dick echoed and dropped to the grass.