For Him You Slaughter: a short story

The valet parked their car along the third hedgerow while Tim watched with his lip between his teeth as the boy coaxed the vehicle between two others into what he’d have qualified a compact space—that is, if there had been lines painted on the freshly mowed grass to separate the cars along the fringes of the property.

“I dunno Tim, are you sure this is the address?”

“Liz, I put in the address. Of course I’m sure.” He took her arm and escorted her toward the door, the gravel rasping under their feet.

It opened before either could raise a hand to it, the doorman surprisingly warm in his greeting of “Hello there old fellow!” and “My dear it’s a pleasure to see you!” He abruptly bid them remove their shoes and coats, which he took with a smile and a click of his heels.

“This house is unbelievable,” said Liz, her breath uncaught. “Tim, do you see this paneling? And the colors up above! Are you looking?”

“I’m looking at you, my darling,” said Tim with a peck at her cheek. “It’s about time for something like this, don’t you think? You’ve suffered so much to be here. We’ve suffered.”

“Oh please don’t say it that way,” she murmured, a shiver walking her spine. 

But then the light and din embraced them into the celebration, and the booming voice of the Master of Ceremonies met them like a thunderclap. “Timothy and Elizabeth!” he exclaimed, wrapping them both in his tremendous arms. “By my heart it is good that you are here.” They found themselves drawn and pushed forward at the same time toward the revelers standing about the room at cocktail tables, their grins welcoming and homelike among the vaulted cathedral ceiling and paintings swimming along the walls.

“They’re about to move into the dining room for the feast,” said the M.C. “The open bar is there below Water Lilies, if you’d care for a refreshment beforehand. And there’s the hors d'oeuvres over by Starry Night. And of course you’ll want to see your host—he’s most eager to greet you as well! Let me show you to him.” With a wave of his hand and without a backward glance their guide delved into the throng.

“My goodness,” said Liz, trailing behind Tim as they struggled their way into the press. “There are a lot of people here, aren’t there?”

“Yes, but it’s us the host is greeting,” her husband said, squeezing her hand reassuringly and to hurry her on. Then he abruptly stopped and stared like a hound spotting its quarry. Liz stumbled and nearly collided with him.

“What is it, Timmy?” 

“Son of a bitch,” he said as blood rushed into his cheeks and his fingers twitched into fists. “Son of a bitch.”

“Why, Timothy! What’s the matter?”

He turned to her with the darkest, most pained look on his face she had seen on it in a long time. “Look over there by the meat. Those rotten sons of bitches.”

Liz strained to see what had furied her husband, and when she saw her blood curdled and she shrank behind him. “We—we can’t go in there,” she stammered, a chill sweeping over her like a host of devils walking over her grave.

“I’ll say we can’t. The host had better explain himself! A man like him allowing such dirty sons of bitches in here!” He stamped his feet. Liz had never seen him stamp his feet in his life, nor heard him swear in front of strangers, who turned their heads at them.

“Let’s just go, Tim, please,” she pleaded with her hands tugging at his arm, her eyes on the two picking over the platters of beef. “I can’t be in the same house as them.”

“I’m going to see the host about this,” Tim insisted, his voice climbing by the syllable, each punctuated by a stamp. “Where’d the M.C. get to? Damn these people looking at us! I bet not a single one of these assholes has been through one bloody bit of what we have. Not one!”

Suddenly the M.C. materialized with his hands around Tim’s other arm. “Timothy! The words you’re using are disturbing the guests. Will you tell me what’s the matter?”

“They can all go to hell. Especially those two over there. Where’s the host? I demand that he explain himself. I mean, I understand his policies, but this? This is too far. Has he no decency, no respect for my wife or myself?”

“Alright, alright,” said the M.C., his great voice subdued yet hovering like a heavy blanket above Tim’s. “I will bring you to him and you may ask whatever is on your heart.”

“I’m not stepping another damn inch into this doghouse. And neither is my wife. We’re waiting here until he kicks those monsters out.” They stood like stones in the center of the floor and the crowd rippled away.

“Tim, let’s just go to him. We don’t need to ruin the party for everyone.”

He shrugged his wife’s placating hands away. “Some party! I don’t want to be any place they are.”

The M.C. swiveled his gaze between the two of them and the pair bent over their plates. “Ah, I see,” he said with a strange look that paused Tim’s tirade. “I can answer that. Perhaps you would like to speak with them? Perhaps you would know their stories?”

“What about my wife’s story? Do you know what they did to her? Do you know what it did to me? To the rest of our lives?”

“Tim, Tim,” said Liz, her hands back again on his jacket sleeve as she stared at the men sipping their bubbly by the great fireplace. “There were three of them. But I see only two.”

“Yes, there were three,” the M.C. agreed. “The one you do not see, like the others, felt remorse for the act. The guilt far surpassed any virtue he could ever achieve. Or so he believed. Unlike the others you see before you, he did not move past it. He thought he was worse than any of his goodnesses could be good. He let, he even wanted, the darkness to be stronger.”

“So what happened to him?” Tim drawled. “Did he blow his brains out or what?”

The Master of Ceremonies tightened his lips and folded his arms. “That is more than you must know.”

“What about those two? Why are they here? They’ve got enough darkness to cross a whole country off the guest list, or I’ll be damned.”

The other followed his gaze and nodded. “They ran the other direction with their remorse. But they are here to tell their own story, and it is one of great pain like your own.” He motioned toward them, moved his body aside like a gate.

“They should be groveling at my wife’s feet right now, not us going to them. They should be clawing at the door to get in and being turned away with a hefty boot, not being served from silver platters and swilling the host’s champagne.”

The M.C. stared at him with far away eyes that pierced through him, and Tim looked away with a sneer. “They’ll apologize, but you must allow them. Elizabeth, go to them.”

“Nothing doing,” said Tim, grabbing Liz’s hand.

“Elizabeth,” the M.C. insisted.

Liz hesitated, her arms held on either side as though she were a wishbone, her eyes trancelike. “How can they ever hope to face me or the host after what they’ve done?”

“Hope is all they have. It was their ticket to the banquet tonight.”

“They’re not fit for the mold in the back of the fridge!” Tim roared. “If you won’t kick ‘em out, we’ll leave. Liz, we’re going. Come on.”

“The host is coming out to see you. Don’t leave before you have a chance to—”

“I don’t want to see him anymore. If that’s the kind of guest he invites, I don’t want to be here. Liz, I’m getting the car, if I can find the guy who took my keys.”

She shivered and looked at the two men by the table. They looked far happier than they deserved to be. But they were far smaller than she remembered, not at all frightening. They were not looking at her, had not yet noticed her and Tim despite the commotion, were cutting their veal and eating it as though they didn't want even their chewing to be overheard, and talking in low voices to each other. When she looked closely at their faces, she saw wells of pain that they teetered above constantly, vertigo of despair clawing ever upward at them. And she remembered her own well.

“I want to hear what the host has to say,” she murmured, pressing the goosebumps back into her arms and straightening her gown. “And I think I want to hear what they have to say, too.”

Tim might have heard a pin drop in his soul. “Are you out of your fucking mind?” 

“Go with her,” the M.C. nodded to him. “It will soothe you. This is the last you must ever suffer.”

“Don’t talk to me. Liz! Liz, you get over here. Don’t you forget what they did to you. What they did to us!”

“The host is coming out. You may want to talk to him first.” The M.C. reached out a hand to pat his shoulder and Tim stepped away. “He wants to talk to you.”

“Here’s his invitation.” Tim flicked it onto the floor and left a heel print on it. “You can tell him to give it to some pedophile or psychopath. I’m going to the party down the road. Liz! Let’s go, damn it!”

He watched his wife glide among the guests toward the men that had wronged them, saw as they died to themselves when they saw her for the first time. And he looked on, with an emotion like disappointment, as the two fell at her feet.