Off Season - Jack Ketchum [12]
The shower did what it was supposed to do. It soothed and refreshed her. It also made her a little horny. It was only when she was clean that she really liked to make love. She could never understand those people who liked to do it first thing in the morning. Obviously morning was your dirtiest time of day. You’d been wrapped in covers and maybe sweating all night, your mouth smelled like a sewer, your hair was limp and ratty. Really, it was a disgusting idea.
Not so after a shower. The flesh tingled. Too bad Jim wasn’t around. She thought she was never so committed to Jim as when she considered never being able to ball him again. And by now it seemed as if it had been a long time. Tomorrow night, she thought. I can wait.
She dried herself off and then wrapped her long dark hair in the towel. She pulled on a bathrobe and made some coffee in the kitchen. She decided to keep dinner simple—just fry up some chicken and sauté a few vegetables. To hell with the cholesterol. Mushrooms, onions, and peppers would be nice. Add a little garlic and soy sauce, maybe. She felt much better after that shower. Ready to start cleaning all over again, if she’d had to. Praise God she didn’t have to. She sipped the coffee.
She was washing the peppers when the mouse ran over her bare foot.
It made her jump. The bold little bastard! She watched it stop a moment, trembling, a few feet away. She laughed. She guessed that a warm foot was probably just as big a surprise to the mouse as the mouse had been to her. It disappeared into a corner cupboard. Exactly where she was keeping the bread, flour, and sugar, naturally. She guessed that meant war. Too bad. It was kind of a cute little thing. But then you had the droppings. She remembered the condition of the attic. She had seen some traps under the sink. She’d set a few tonight in the drawers and cupboards. It was a shame there was no cat around. She hated traps. But you had to claim what you needed, she supposed. That was life. And she needed her flour and sugar. With a little luck, by morning it would all be over for the mouse.
9:30 P.M.
He watched a long time through the kitchen window. She sat at the table with her back to him, a book open in front of her. She didn’t move much but he liked to watch anyway, knowing that in the dark she could not possibly suspect he was there. He was patient. He liked to see her when she shifted in the chair. He watched her hips move. He could almost tell by now when she was ready to turn the page. He liked it when she removed the towel from her head and shook the long, damp hair. She was pretty. He would have liked to make a noise and spook her, watch her jump. But no.
His broad hand slid down the axe handle and slid back up again.
Inside the house Carla heard a light snapping sound. The trap! she thought. She put down the book and went to the cabinet, opened it, and looked inside. But the trap had not been sprung. She closed the cabinet and opened the drawer. Not there, either. She opened the drawer next to it.
There it was. It was a clean kill, thank God. A small gray mouse, its back broken across the shoulders, its eyes open wide and mouth still crammed with Gouda cheese, one front paw extended and the other barely visible beneath its body, a tiny pool of dark piss below its haunches. She stood there a moment in front of the window, fascinated and uncomfortable. If she touched the body it would still be warm.
She did not touch it. Instead she picked up the trap and brought it to the back door. She opened the door and gazed into the moonless dark outside. What an amazing, profound darkness once you left the city, she thought. She could not even see the end of the porch or the woodshed door. Good she’d brought the logs in.
She paused a moment, enjoying the night, the sounds of frogs croaking in the distance, crickets nearby, the feel of the cool moist air. Overcast tonight, she thought. She tossed the trap as far as she could into the field of goldenrod, wondering what kind of animal would