Breathe Easy (Delphiniums Version)

Roald Dahl-esque tale of murder and revenge, with the requisite twist ending or two. An elderly couple in an apartment meet with discouragement that leads to deaths...but not the right ones!

Persis Northcote Humbolt’s knees ached as she squatted low to prune her delphiniums. She was willing to endure the pain because of her affection for the blue flowers, the one spot of natural color on the whole floor of their apartment building. She could, of course, have brought out a stool to the doorway of #806, but that would have involved a different set of pains; better leave well enough alone, she thought. The blossoms brightened up the otherwise drab hallway; she even imagined that somehow they lent some steadiness to the flickering of the fluorescent light overhead. With her thin fingers she applied her shears to the dead and dying branches, and caressed some of the lovelier petals briefly as if to encourage and cheer them into thriving. Yes, keeping this bush looking neat and healthy was important to Persis. At least this was one thing she could keep some control over and claim as her own.

Persis’s head ached, as well. She had not slept well last night, which was hardly unusual anymore. Alistair"Professor Humbolt to his students"had a snore that one would, objectively, imagine to belong to a husky, energetic young man; ironically, the body the snore came from was far from intimidating. Thank goodness they had agreed years ago to sleep in separate rooms! Married for 36 years, they had nonetheless never been intimate very often, nor was Alistair affectionate, let alone romantically or sexually inclined. To Persis, these past years had started to feel like a prison sentence. Perhaps with good behavior, her confinement would be reduced to a briefer span. Persis sighed wearily, wiping sweat off her forehead.

Normally, a sentence of hard labor would be assigned to a younger inmate, she reflected, snipping off a branch with wilted, rust-colored petals and dried leaves. For her, though, her hard work had begun in earnest more than a decade before, when Alistair was first diagnosed as having life-threateningly bad asthma, coupled with dangerous allergic sensitivity to many things that were unfortunately hard to avoid in their city. Alistair, then 52 years old, had been warned quite sternly by the doctor that if her orders were not followed to the letter, she would not be held accountable for what happened. These orders included a ban against physical labor, the mandatory wearing of a mask whenever venturing outdoors, and the nightly use of a humidifier to guard against over-dry lungs. The humidifier also served to dispense a special inhaling medicine that Alistair needed to keep him breathing regularly; each night, before retiring, a small bottle of the medication was poured into the machine along with two gallons of clean, boiled water. The medication, mixed with the water, was released into the air of the professor’s bedroom gradually during the night, and since that began, he reported that it was much easier to breathe in the morning. He claimed that it felt as if a great burden had been lifted from off his chest.

Unfortunately for Persis, this burden was laid at her feet, along with all the household work. Just lugging the kettle of water from the kitchen to the humidifier in the master bedroom was backbreaking to her, now at the age of 67. She also had to clean and cook. With the unpleasant smell of the medication wafting around, and the arguably-worse smell of mildew that the humid air made it hard to avoid, Alistair’s bedroom was a place she hated to be"but there was no way to avoid it. At least it’s only for a few minutes a day.

The vacuuming and dusting were really at least as bad as filling the humidifier. Few people she had met were as fastidious and set in their ways as Alistair: he was a stickler for details, and insisted on a dust-free living space. He was an advocate of the slogan “An orderly mind in an orderly living space.” Sometimes he thought to thank her for her work, but usually he seemed to take it as something she owed him. It was unfair to her, of course, but it was certainly not fun for him to be next thing to an invalid, so she tried to be tolerant. Everything had to be just so for him to feel really at peace, and the littlest things upset him, bringing him close to an asthma attack.

Years ago, he had insisted on her taking her potted delphiniums out of the apartment, into the hallway, to reduce the likelihood of an allergic reaction to its pollen. That had led to a noisy row, one of the few she could remember, between them. He had wanted her to throw the potted plant away entirely, but she uncharacteristically had refused. She had not admitted why she had been so adamant; the truth was, she thought of her delphiniums as the only ‘children’ she had ever had. With no children of her own and no pets"she was allergic to pet dander herself, and of course Alistair’s allergies were worse"it was impossible. She could not stand to say goodbye to her flowers. At least they still smiled up at her when she passed, unlike her fussy husband.

She had never had a steady job, and they could not afford a nurse or helper to handle these chores, so it all fell to her. Once a month, their young neighbor, Mr Marosi, did some shopping for them, and helped Persis with any small jobs she needed done; he was single, a graduate student of 28 in Alistair’s department at the university. Gregori Marosi had had Alistair as a teacher once as an undergraduate, and had chosen Persis’s husband to be his academic and thesis adviser when he returned for graduate study. Gregori lived in the same building they did, up on the 14^th floor.

Surprised by a call from the hallway, Persis rose from her pruning. Gregori was approaching, carrying two plastic shopping bags and bearing a cardboard box. It was always such a comfort to see him coming with his friendly smile and courteous patience as he inquired about what she needed help with. She had forgotten that this was the first of the month, the day when he would bring groceries and the monthly supply of medication for Alistair’s humidifier.

Gregori, a native of Hungary, had always been amiably willing to provide the elderly couple with support and what companionship he could spare. He had a part time job as well, so his schedule was fairly crowded; nonetheless, Persis had grown to like and trust him, and rely on his assistance. She fancied that Gregori valued her friendship, as well, even though he had initially become their visitor on account of his thesis adviser.

Burdened though he was today, Gregori gave Persis an affectionate hug and a kiss on the cheek, and wouldn’t hear of her taking the bags and the carton from him, asking her only to open the door; he already knew where everything was to be put away. Persis followed him indoors, leaving the apartment door open for extra light. It was mid-morning, so there was some sunlight, but as usual, no electric lights were on, and the windows had the shades and curtains drawn; Alistair had sensitive eyes, and she had gotten used to a dimly lit living space as well.

On this occasion, Persis had a variety of mundane tasks she wanted help with: replacing a fallen curtain rod, changing a light bulb in the study, and filling the humidifier. Since she had forgotten Gregori would come today, she had to ask for his patience as she boiled the big kettle of water and waited for it to cool enough to fill the plastic tank of the machine. The young man puttered around the apartment, making himself useful with other tasks and voluntarily seeking out other little things to do, killing time.

When the water was boiled, Persis had Gregori pour two cups of tea for them"Darjeeling, for special guests"and move the kettle to a little stool that was kept just outside Alistair’s bedroom, close to the humidifier. She always boiled more than enough water for the machine, just in case it needed to be refilled; if not, she used the extra water for drinking and for ice. Now she dumped two trays of boiled-water ice into the kettle to help it cool faster, and turned on a fan to blow on it. Then they sat outside the bedroom, in the hall, on antique chairs that had once belonged to her mother, sipping tea and talking about Gregori’s studies.

When they had first met, communication had been awkward between them, but in time, she grew accustomed to his accent, and he swore that she had helped his understanding of grammar and helped him to speak English more idiomatically; by now, they could relax and catch up without stress. It was pleasant, Persis thought, for the both of them. She had come to accept him as part of her home life. She wasn’t sure just what sort of name to give their friendship; she had never had children, but doubted that this was the sort of feeling she would have for a son. She admired his looks rather too much for that. Listening to Gregori’s tales of scholarly research, she smiled at him and patted him on the arm, squeezing it affectionately...not for too long, she reminded herself. She had set a pile of Gregori’s favorite cookies, ginger snaps, on the hall table,which were never eaten by Alistair, who hated the flavor; it was improbable, she thought, that he even knew the box was in the apartment. Between the two friends, as the rhyme goes, they ate the platter clean.

Soon afterward, Gregori got to his feet, thanking her for the refreshments and conversation and apologizing for having to leave for a study session. Persis thanked him in turn for all his help, not all of which she had discovered yet. It would be, she said, like seeking out Easter eggs, finding Gregori’s little adjustments one by one. Then after another gentle hug, Gregori was off down the hall, trotting to the stairway and upstairs, passing by the elevator without a glance.

The apartment felt emptier again. Persis had no other regular visitors, and Alistair was not much of a companion; when he got home from teaching or research"he was overdue to retire, but too well known for the university to let him go easily"he had little to say to his wife, except to criticize her dusting and vacuuming work. He preferred to eat alone, in his room. Then he bathed and retired to his private bedroom, only allowing Persis inside briefly in the evenings to fill the humidifier with water and his medication, and activate it; sometimes she also had to rub in some liniment to his muscles if he felt sore, though that was always done in the kitchen rather than the bedroom. He never reciprocated. Persis was lonely and felt unappreciated.

At first, when they had become engaged, Persis had been overjoyed, flattered at having been asked to marry the handsome scholar; she had never before believed that anyone would ever love her, let alone wed her, and she had assumed at the age of 34 that she would end her days as a spinster. But even when they were newlyweds, Alistair, then 26 years old, had seldom wanted to spend time together, and she soon felt as if he took her for granted; marriage had not fulfilled her fondest wishes, after all. She wondered what she was doing wrong, or how she had failed, to garner such a lack of appreciation and a paucity of what she had always dreamed of as a youngster as “wedded bliss.” No longer single, she still felt alone, and Alistair had made it clear right away that he was unwilling that they should have any children; not that his behavior made the prospect likely. Persis felt abandoned.

Then, thirteen years ago, when Alistair’s medical problems made themselves known, she felt proud of herself for her patience and forbearance, her selfless support and service of an unfortunate and sickly, though famously learned, husband. For a while, this transitioned into a feeling of self-pity, and then into dull resentment. She felt more and more like an unpaid servant, as if she had been chosen as a graduate assistant to Alistair, rather than a spouse: a second Dorothea Brooke. By dint of marriage, he had avoided the nuisance of having to provide her with a fee. Indeed, aside from grocery money and the little she saved up for herself from whatever was left over after shopping, she had no money of her own to spend, really. Alistair had always insisted that she must not get a job, not even a part time one, and cited (in his scholarly way) her omissions in cleaning, and that she needed to spend her “free time” keeping the apartment properly free of allergens. It was the least she could do, he implied, seeing as he was the sole breadwinner of the couple, and besides, it was a matter of life and death, in a manner of speaking.

For others, cleanliness was next to godliness, but for Alistair, dustiness was perilous. He had almost died of an asthma attack five years earlier, one afternoon, after the vacuum bag Persis was toting to the trash chute in the building’s hallway burst in the apartment, releasing horrid clouds of dust everywhere. Alistair had not been at home at the time, and Persis had tried with all her energy to rid the apartment of the drifting bits of skin and cloth dust, growing nearer and nearer to a panic attack as the hour of his expected arrival had approached. She had thought herself fairly successful at restoring the apartment to pristine cleanliness just moments before seven o’clock; it annoyed her at the time to find that Alistair was late nearly an hour in coming home that day. She was relieved, though, when he had made no unusual comments on the house’s appearance aside from his usual grousing.

When he had asked, unusually, how her day had been, she enthusiastically related her adventure of the burst vacuum bag, in careful detail and in logical order, for she knew that he had little patience for people who could not tell a story in comprehensible fashion. As her story progressed, Alistair had started to glance around the apartment suspiciously, and then started to sniffle. She interrupted her narrative to bring him a box of tissues, and then went on. By the time she was finished, he had started to cough and blow his nose, and he had begun to wheeze. He excused himself just afterward, moving in his halting gait to the bathroom, and Persis could hear his sounds of spitting and panting. In a few minutes, the bathroom door opened, and he shuffled to his bedroom without a word, his breath loud and labored. He slammed the door shut. Soon afterward, Alistair had shouted through the closed bedroom door at her: she was to start the humidifier early and bring him a glass of water and his special medications, which he only took for emergencies. Once she had done these tasks, he had angrily bawled her out from the bed, in between coughing fits, blaming her for putting his life in danger. Then he stormed at her to get out and not return.

Taking a seat outside the door, close to tears of humiliation and remorse, Persis had reflected that Alistair had not offered any explanation for his late return home. She decided not to ask him about it, though, in his current state; better to leave well enough alone. His hacking and moaning lasted for hours. Finally, around 1 AM, he had called to her from the bedroom door. When she had entered meekly, he had demanded that she empty an additional bottle of his medication into the humidifier"something that his doctor had suggested he do only when his asthma attacks were especially acute. She had hastened to comply, pouring more water into the machine so that it was full, and then dumping the medicine in. She had forgotten to bring her wooden stirring spoon with her; rather than going back to the kitchen for it, she decided to stir it with her fingers, not wanting to make him wait a moment longer than necessary. Then she had crept out, feeling Alistair’s angry eyes upon her.

She had kept quiet and tiptoed around the apartment, trying to avoid angering him further; soon, his coughing and discomfort subsided; she assumed that he had fallen asleep, exhausted. She wanted to check on his breathing as he slept, but dared not enter a second time, for fear of waking him and being blamed all over again. She hated to feel as if anyone was angry at her for any reason, or that she had let anyone down. She vowed to herself that she would never be careless with a vacuum bag again, and surely could not risk letting Alistair handle a full one.

After that episode, she had been especially careful in her dusting and vacuuming. Gregori had reestablished contact with Alistair around that time, and having discovered that they were close neighbors, the youngster had visited, more and more often, until the current arrangement of monthly visits had been established. Gregori had understood her concern for Alistair’s health, and the importance of staying on his good side, and helped keep the place spotless with great conscientiousness.

As her joints became stiffer with age, she relied on the boy more heavily; by now, she thought, she could hardly manage without his assistance. At the age of 28, Gregori was hardly a child, but to Persis any student was just a youngster, subjectively, and thought of him as a particularly handsome angel. Bless him, Persis thought in a vaguely Heavenwards direction. She was not sure if she believed in God or not, but thought that, on the whole, it would be a sensible belief to foster, so she tried her best to keep some wisps of faith in her heart, despite Alistair’s scoffing every time she mentioned anything about it. That hadn’t happened for years, though; Persis, luckily for her, was capable of learning how to avoid conflicts.

Aware of her growing skill at preventing possible scoldings, Persis felt less tension. It’s good to be able to breathe easy for a change, she thought; then, she felt a twinge of guilt as she remembered her husband’s difficulty in breathing. One day, probably sooner rather than later, he would have to retire from teaching for real, and then he would likely be at home both day and night. She would have little time to herself then; she would have to guard her actions constantly to avoid aggravating Alistair’s temper, and his medical conditions as well.

It was after her regular lunchtime when Persis became aware of her reverie; she was still sitting in the hallway chair, an antique upon an antique, teaspoon still in her hand. She wearily stood and brought the tea set back to the kitchen for cleaning. She did not expect Alistair to come home for lunch, so her lateness was not a real problem; he never came back from the university till evening. She made herself a tuna sandwich and a glass of milk for lunch, from the groceries Gregori had just brought. Soon she was finished and the dishes were clean, the tuna fish can had swum down the recycling chute in the outer hallway, and she was left to her own devices again.

Having done little, there was very little cleaning around the apartment that was really needed, though of course she knew she would dust and vacuum the whole area anyway: Alistair expected it of her, and she knew he would inspect everything and give her grief if she had failed to “keep house” properly. Tired though she was, she figured she had better do the job properly, so instead of taking a nap, she began her process of tidying up the apartment early. The activity would aid her digestion, she thought.

The last step of this cleaning finally arrived two and a half hours later: she had to tip the kettle, still resting on the stool, into the tank of Alistair’s humidifier, and empty the first of the new bottles of medicine in, as well, stirring the mixture together and closing the machine up so it would be ready for her husband’s return. The water was no longer hot by that time, thank goodness. It took a steady hand to pour the kettle out in a steady way, as the water inside would slosh around at first, disturbing its balance. Persis was well used to this, however, and spilled nary a drop; she nodded with satisfaction in her work as she rose and returned the kettle to the kitchen, closing the bedroom door behind her. Easy when you know how, she thought to herself, in lieu of having anyone else to praise her efforts.

Now she was really getting groggy, but it would never do for her to be sleeping when Alistair got home. She decided to boil a small amount of water for tea: just one cup, as there was no sense in overdoing it; after her husband went to bed, not long after his return, she would be free to pursue her own course. The trouble was, she thought as she watched the blue flames leap up under the kettle, that she really had no hobbies or leisure activities to enjoy during her time off. When she wasn’t sleeping, she often felt herself at sixes and sevens. She had used to enjoy reading novels, but she found no satisfaction in that any more; she was too scattered, finding it hard to concentrate, and at any rate, Alistair was irritated by novels, calling them “frivolous, asinine nonsense.” She had no television set or radio, either. It was becoming harder and harder for her to pass the time.

She longed for a friend. She had thought that marriage would mean steady companionship, before she had actually experienced marriage for herself. Sometimes she thought of trying to befriend her neighbors, but most of these were young families with children, businesspeople, and the like, too busy and impatient to care much about the old woman down the hall. If Gregori had more time, she thought, she would like to get to know him better and spend more time together, perhaps hold hands...but then it occurred to her that perhaps he was merely humoring her, kind soul that he was. Nonetheless, she thought, she didn’t feel as if he came by regularly only for Alistair’s sake now. In fact, Alistair and Gregori hardly saw each other at their apartment anymore, as their schedules were different, and at any rate, Alistair was only awake at home for brief periods, so thesis discussions were conducted at school now.

The kettle sang, startling her. Her periods of abstraction, she realized, were becoming more frequent lately. Perhaps she could call daydreaming her hobby"though she knew that her husband would sneer if she ever said so to him. She was gradually moving, she thought, from living in a stuffy apartment to living in her own head. She idly wondered if her husband’s medication"that one she poured into his humidifier every day"were making her sleepy as she breathed in some measure of “second-hand mist,” as she might well call it. It was likely enough, as she knew: the bottle included sleeping formula as well as asthma medication. She reached for her jar of sugar on the kitchen counter, opening it and getting a spoonful of its contents, absentmindedly stirring the hot tea as she pictured herself lying comfortably amid a cloud of restful vapor, perhaps in a tropical rain forest by a tinkling waterfall, surrounded by toucans and dripping ferns. Smiling contentedly, she took her first sip of tea.

But it tasted awful. She made a face and spat it back into the cup, her daydream evaporating into nothingness. What was wrong? She looked at the jar of “sugar” that she had just been using, suspiciously, still trying to get the taste out of her mouth. Even before she read the word on the jar, she had figured out that in her moment of abstraction she had mistaken her jar of salt for the sugar. Chuckling to herself, she at first thought that she had an amusing story to share with Alistair tonight; her next thought was that telling him the story would be a bad idea. He would probably think that she was getting senile, and would no longer trust himself to her faulty care. She congratulated herself, nervously, on having preemptively avoided another scene. She wanted no more trouble from Alistair; just living with him"living for him, more like"was stressful enough already.

She felt in that moment that she had given her own life over to him, her husband, and had nothing special to live for aside from her duties. It was all for Alistair. She seemed to herself to be nothing but a bearer of burdens, a utility, a tool, with no value to anyone but him, and no pleasure in life but to get a hug and a kiss once a month from a nice young man who probably just tolerated her out of a sense of guilt or duty, and who would eventually find excuses to stop coming"justified excuses, no doubt, but at any rate, reasons that would prevent him from providing his much-needed support any more. What else was she to enjoy? Just thinking of her life of thankless servitude as a burden made her joints ache all the worse. The delphiniums? Yes, well, there was that. But it was really a meager sort of satisfaction, not enough of one to live for.

And in that turn of thought, she first began to consider death as a welcome spot of relief, her only likely release from the parade of meaningless trifles and trials that her life had become. Really, she mused, she needed either a positive joy in her life, or else a good, long break; death would serve very well in the latter capacity. She was so weary, really, that this morbid thought did not even give her pause for concern. Just the thought of real rest and freedom from worry was tantamount to liberation; and death, being final, would not be spoiled later by any renewal of her strife.

There was barely enough water in the teapot for one more cup. She hated to waste anything, so she dumped out her salty tea into the sink and rinsed the tea bag under the tap before pouring a fresh cup and adding, more attentively this time, the sugar she had meant to use all along. Honey was better tasting, but too dear, really.

As she savored her first sweet mouthful of orange pekoe tea, she had a sudden thought; made an unexpected connection. She was startled; she sat up, now feeling a surge of energy that was surely not due to the caffeine. She thought of her foolish mistake with the tea, and then of the humidifier, and its special function as a sort of censer. She thought about this even before the idea of Alistair’s death occurred to her as being a potential alternative path to liberation.

Then, she connected all these ideas together in her mind, and unexpectedly found that she had assembled the beginnings of a plan. The thought of being freed from her burden was so appealing to her that she hardly spared a moment of her time in being shocked at herself for such an audacious idea. The image of being unshackled from her husband’s grasp seemed to offer her, literally, the chance to have a new and better life, one that would be for her to enjoy on her own.

Not writing anything down, she sat at the kitchen table, moving her teacup to the side, and began to act out in pantomime the things she wanted to do to effect her escape. She was smiling. Her eyes shone with enthusiasm and excitement. She started to believe that God had given her a second chance at a good life, and she was thankful, in a somewhat odd way. The oddness didn’t bother her a bit.

*

A week later, Persis felt well prepared to put her plan into action at last. She had done her best to interact as little as possible with her surly husband, fearing that she might have a regrettable wave of pity or remorse that would lead her to abandon her intended course, and she did not intend to let that happen. Indeed, she could have acted sooner, but out of consideration for Gregori, she had delayed. She did not wish anybody to suspect that the young student had been responsible for anything that happened, even if it would have taken pressure off Persis herself; she had nothing but good will towards Gregori, and the wistful hope that the boy really did care for her, at least a little. Over the intervening days of the month, Persis had been longing for a more intimate companion, and she thought that perhaps Gregori would do nicely in that capacity.

Doctor Ancala had arranged it with Alistair to have one shipment of Alistair’s medication"the nightly bottle for the humidifier"arrive on the first of every month; today, there were still 24 bottles in the carton, in two individual boxes of 16 bottles each, in two layers; the bottom layer, for the seventeenth through the thirty-first of the month, with one extra, was still full, while the top layer was nearly half empty. Interwoven strips of cardboard kept each bottle in its designated position in the box, and each bottle’s place was numbered, for the sake of clarity. The next bottle to be used, then, was bottle #8. Due to there being a surplus of bottles every month, just in case of accidental breakage, Persis had taken to storing the spares under the kitchen sink on a shelf, nearby the colander and hard-boiled-egg slicer. She periodically threw out bottles that had passed their use-by dates.

Alistair had particularly approved of the way the bottles were shipped and arranged inside each carton, and had asked Persis to keep the current boxes of medication to be used each month to be kept on the kitchen counter, where he could see them. He regularly gave the bottles a looking over each night while inspecting the cleanliness of the apartment, though he did not pick up or examine individual bottles very often, without a special reason for doing so.

The day after she had had her brainstorm, she had gone out in the afternoon to do some research, taking the bus to and from the local library. She knew none of the neighbors, so nobody especially noticed the comings and goings of the elderly woman, and even if they did, they would not know who she was; Alistair had told her not to go out in the daytime, but he would be unlikely to discover this small transgression.

With the help of the reference librarian, she had been able to select the right kind of poison for her plan. Persis’s basic plan was simple: one night, she would substitute the poison for Alistair’s normal dose of medication in the humidifier. Overnight, the poison would be released into the damp air of her husband’s bedroom, allowing him to inhale large amounts of toxins in his sleep until a fatal dose had been taken in. Even if the bottle that had contained the poison were detected afterward by the authorities, it would be assumed that the poison had been put in the bottle at the factory or some such place by some malefactor; who would suspect a kindly old lady? She would not even have suspected herself, eight days earlier.

Well, with more research, Persis had learned about how to acquire the dangerous substance in a concentrated liquid form that, her research suggested, would at that dosage be strong enough to kill thirty people. There was nothing illegal about the compound’s contents, though. With persistence born of determination, Persis was able to obtain the poison by Friday. She was canny enough to avoid her name or appearance being connected with the purchases or preparation. She employed a number of aliases which she concocted from the names of characters from favorite novels she had enjoyed in her youth. She was so careful and so innocent looking that nobody who assisted her in this process had any suspicion of what she needed these things for. In fact, everyone involved was very kind and helpful to her. She wondered whether some of these people might be willing to make friends with her, after she had gained her liberty.

Persis knew that her husband was scrupulously careful to check the apartment every night: of course she knew that very well. She could hardly have left an odd glass bottle of poison in the apartment, for Alistair would surely find it and ask questions. Neither could she safely hide it in the hallway; nor, still less safe, leave it with Gregori. She decided that the only safe container would be one of the little brown bottles from the box of medication, obviously having first emptied it of medicine. It would look normal and in its right place to the casual observer, even to Alistair, assuming that he did not actually pick the bottle up. Even then, the difference was slight, and the weight was the same. The bottles all had airtight plastic caps that could be pushed or lifted off; they looked identical before and after they were opened.

Working over the kitchen sink, she used the same tin funnel she had used years ago for bottling homemade apple vinegar to pour the dangerous liquid into the little brown bottle, wearing the gloves she used for washing dishes. She spilled one drop into the sink, where it left a dark stain. Later, she scrubbed and soaped down the ceramic floor of the sink for more than twenty minutes to remove any trace of the mark. The funnel had to be discarded entirely, though she did not consider that much of a loss; she tossed it down the garbage chute down the hall, hidden in a paper bag.

She replaced the bottle of poison in the lower box’s spot labeled “#32,” in the bottom right hand corner of the box: the corner used for the extra or spare bottle. Since she personally handled the preparation of the humidifier every night, she could employ the special bottle’s contents at any time she deemed suitable. The actual medicine from that spare bottle had been poured down the sink, where it had left no stain at all. If she was careful, the poison would not cause any stain upon her future life of independence, either. Everything was left looking normal before Alistair came home that night.

She did not wish to rush into things; the next couple of nights were handled with a placid regularity. She kept her eye on her husband as he made his evening rounds, the first night, but he did not even lift the top box up to view the lower one containing the cornerful of poison. She began to breathe more easily. She bided her time, waiting, so as to arouse no suspicion at any time near the time the substitution was to be made. Everything went smoothly, except for the fact that Alistair announced on the twelfth of the month that he meant to retire at the end of the school semester, and become a homebody like her. She counted her blessings that she was already prepared to sidestep that eventuality; she need take no action now. She nodded her acceptance of the idea, and Alistair appeared to be satisfied that the he had broken the news well.

She decided that the 19^th would be the night. She considered simply putting the poisoned bottle into the “#19” slot ahead of time, but feared that her husband would be more likely to pay attention to the bottles that were coming up soon for consumption, so she left it in its corner, untouched; the bottle also was waiting for its moment to arrive. The empties started to accumulate in the bin by the doorway. Gregori would take the lot down the hallway to the recycling chute on the first of next month.

It was the afternoon of the eighteenth that found Persis relaxing in happy contemplation in the hallway chair when she heard the unexpected sound of a key in the lock. Alistair threw his hat to the floor in a fury, pacing around the room unsteadily: his chairperson had essentially denied him the right to retire until the following year because another professor was transferring and the department would be an expert short. It had put Alistair out of temper.

Persis did her best to soothe her husband’s feelings, but unsurprisingly, she had little effect on his tantrum. Some of his best insults and expletives were used in his tirade; they were not applied to her, of course, but on the “dunderheaded fuzzdutty” who ran his department and the “underintelligent muttonmind” associate professor who was transferring to a state school at the end of the term. Still agitated and beginning to wheeze, he set down his coffee cup"Persis never drank the brew herself"and strode in as dignified a fashion as he could into his study, kicking the door shut and then cursing at the pain that resulted in his big toe.

There must not be any connection between Alistair’s loud"audible to the neighbors"outbursts of temper and his death, Persis thought. She would delay the evitable if need be, until he was in a more quiescent mood. She stirred her sweet orange pekoe and smiled to herself, recalling her first moment of inspiration eighteen days earlier.

Then, quite early in the evening, as she sat building castles in the sky, he was there before her, pounding his hand on the table to get her attention. He shouted at her to prepare his humidifier at once; he was going to bed early. Meekly, she retrieved bottle #18 from its slot, barely glancing at the special spare in the corner, and mixed its contents into the humidifier’s tank, not daring to make a sound as Alistair grumbled and fumed to himself about idiots and bureaucracies. Wiping her old wooden spoon on her apron, Persis started the machine up, hearing its characteristic rumble, felt to make sure the moist air had commenced to emerge from the vents, and with a quiet “Good night, dear,” she left Alistair to himself. She hoped he felt better soon, and had no further trouble breathing. There was no need to be cruel to him, after all.

She was particularly tired that evening; recently, she had tried to act meek and docile and bland, but inside she was both excited and nervous; she had been so all month, and it had affected her own sleep. Indeed, she had intentionally breathed particularly deeply at the vent of the machine, hoping it would help her calm down and get better rest. She could use a bit of additional rest, anyway: she would need her wits about her the day after tomorrow. When she heard Alistair’s deep breathing and the early wave of snores, she put her fears at rest and lay her head on her own pillow in her own bedroom across the hallway, drifting to sleep with a smile on her face, living various dreams of her own retirement, which was approaching swiftly.

*

Persis had a lovely, long sleep, uninterrupted by any sounds of traffic or of snoring. The sleeping medication must have been wonderfully effective.

Day #19 dawned with the crowing of the traffic and a vivid blue sky. Sunlight came through the curtains and lit upon Persis’s feet with gentle, comforting warmth. She knew that her time was coming soon, and she was prepared. Evidently, the night had worked wonders on Alistair, for she had not heard him coughing at all this morning, thank goodness. All was in preparation for the evening’s activity, and by all signs, her plans were going to proceed on schedule. She had already invited Gregori to brunch with her tomorrow, so that she would have a witness with her when her tragedy was discovered. Alistair still had not noticed anything amiss, and he probably never would. The going had continued smoothly.

Today was a class day for Alistair, so as usual, he had made an early start. Persis imagined that he was going to give Professor Keaney a piece of his mind after class, but that would not concern her directly. She looked at the clock and was surprised at the lateness of the hour: it was half past ten. Goodness! Well, still, there was time to do all that was needed, and indeed there was nothing that was of any great importance to do, anyway. She hastily filled the big kettle for the evening, still making mental plans. She would not make a mess today, so a superficial sprucing up was all that would be needed. She might even take the bus to the library again, after lunch, to take out a few novels. She would soon have more leisure time to read, after all, as well as more peace of mind. When the kettle sang, she shut the gas off and, with a grunt of effort, hefted the kettle carefully to the stool outside Alistair’s bedroom, turning the fan on. She wiped her sweat away and emptied two trays of ice cubes into the water.

Taking up her dust cloth and a spray bottle of water, she rapidly dusted the apartment’s many knick knacks and books with an ease born of long practice. Her mind was on her future, as it often was these days: escapism, that was the word. But in her case, she would achieve a literal escape. Tomorrow! Yes, it was coming that soon. She breathed a quiet “Hallelujah” to herself and to God, grateful again for her long delayed, but still-valid, reprieve from obligatory service that had hampered her life for years.

After dusting was through, she returned to the kitchen. She was thirsty. In the act of filling a glass of water at the kitchen tap, she noticed that the box of medicine bottles was not in its place. Startled, she shut off the water and cast about for the container. There it was, on the floor, in the shadows, at the corner between the sink counter and the one perpendicular to it. It was upside down. Moving her foot away to see the area better, Persis saw her house slipper making a wet trail on the tiles.

She turned on the kitchen light and crouched by the mess of glass, medicine, and cardboard. The box was partly bent out of shape. Bottles were scattered about, nearly a dozen visible and probably more under the cabinet, and it looked like two or three had shattered. She tried to stay calm as she searched for a dark brown or black stain on the floor, but did not see any; the liquid on the floor was clear. The poison, as long as it stayed in the bottle, was also clear, but if it had spilled, it would have turned dark upon contact with any unsanitary surface. Thank Heaven, she thought. The poison had not spilled. It was still there.

But which bottle held the poison? She stared wildly for a moment, realizing that the bottle of poison looked no different from any of the others. She had to figure things out and clean the mess up. She was going to have to open every bottle until she found the one that would make a stain. She took out her old plastic mop bucket and, before worrying about the broken glass, she began to open bottles and pour a drop from each into the cup.

She had tested the contents of eleven bottles"the poison was not in any of them"when a sharp knock on the door frightened her and she spilled half of the sixth bottle over her fingers and the floor of the sink; luckily, this was not the bottle of poison. She quickly surmised that Gregori had come to brunch a day early, for she had no other visitors coming; that, or the postman had come with a package. Hastily she rinsed her hands under the faucet and put the bottles and bucket to one side, but she had not enough time to clean up the broken items on the floor. She wiped her hands on her apron and moved to the door a bit nervously.

Gregori had come just at 11:00, as promised, but on the 18^th, in error. He held a glass decanter of fresh orange juice, which was unexpected, though hardly disagreeable. Juice in hand, he gave Persis a loving hug and moved to set the decanter on the kitchen table. She apologized as they were cooking for the mess on the floor, but suggested they eat before cleaning up, as she was hungry. Together the friends prepared a hearty brunch of eggs, link sausages, and toast with raspberry jam"and the orange juice, of course.

As they finished eating and sat back in pleasure, Persis decided that it was time to tackle the serious questions she had in mind, which had been her main reason for asking Gregori over. She had already decided that she would make her own final decisions only after knowing how Gregori felt about her and about their situation. She did not want to be too impulsive; in her current state of mind she knew she was being overly emotional. It had been too long since she had really had a crush on anyone; long ago the romantic edge of her own marriage had become dull and tarnished. She needed to know if Gregori had any genuinely affectionate feelings for her.

She felt encouraged as she essayed into the topic. When she asked if she could ask a few personal questions, Gregori had called her ‘darling’ and taken her hand. She really did feel as if the young man could fit well into her own family. Feeling like a foolish schoolgirl, she asked Gregori if it were only for Alistair’s sake that he came to visit their apartment. He ardently declared that though of course at first he had come to visit Professor Humbolt, but now felt that Persis was a dear personal friend; he expressed concern at her having to ask such a question.

Persis, relieved, murmured that Gregori was very dear to her, as well: a cue that Gregori was not slow to act on. He moved to hug her, stooping over her chair in a gentle embrace. Persis clung to him as if being pulled out of the sea into a life raft. Giving in a little to her emotions, she gave Gregori a kiss on the chin. It would have been on his cheek, only Gregori had moved his head unexpectedly. When he hugged her again more firmly, Persis felt as if she had been accepted, and kissed him a second time, this time on his mouth.

Gregori was, above all, a kind person. He kissed her back, sweetly, mouth closed, and moved away to sit opposite Persis again. Both of them were full of feelings, confused and conflicted, neither really understanding the other. She reached out to him, hoping to bridge the gap, and he took her hand. Only when she moved his hand to her mouth to kiss it did he finally draw away, seeming to understand her wishes more clearly.

“Persis, you are a sweetheart, and I love our friendship, but I cannot...” He seemed unwilling to finish his thought, and it was probably better that way. “I respect you too much, dear. I hope you can understand what I mean. I can try to explain better if you want me to.” Gregori clasped his hands together and looked at Persis with a humble expression of concern, waiting for her to respond.

Persis was frightened to ask for more information. She realized that, after all, he did not desire her to be other than a close friend. Surely that was enough. He was a gentle soul, but to her it was still simply a rejection, no matter how he phrased it. But she had to say something; the silence was intimidating her. “Gregori, what do you mean when you say that you respect me too much? Why should your respect for me put you off?” She sniffed, not noticing that her nose had started to run.

Gregori hesitated, unwilling to verbalize the situation, knowing that expressing the obvious would make both of them feel more guilty. “I cannot act again to break up the home of my dear professor and his wife,” he explained reluctantly. “I know you may be upset already, darling, and I am sorry. But I cannot undo what has happened.”

Now Persis was genuinely bewildered. She tried to clear up the haze in her mind. “Again? Do you mean that you and Alistair are...close?” She was at a loss to express the idea more fully.

“Do you not know, Persis? I thought you had asked me here to talk about Professor Humbolt. You see, Alistair is my...” He hesitated, realizing too late that he had said too much. “My teacher,” Gregori finished weakly. “It is not right of me to interfere.”

“No, I suppose you’re right,” Persis said, feeling humiliated, knowing that Gregori had held back from her. She decided that it was best to try and reveal the missing pieces of the conversation today, rather than leave a barrier of shame between them. “Tell me more about what has happened, the thing that you cannot undo. How have you acted to ‘break up’ our home? Tell me, Gregori.”

The young man seemed to steel himself. “I did not mean to hurt you or Alistair in any way, I promise you. Alistair and I have been close friends for a few years, as you know. In the past few months, we have been especially close, closer than a student and teacher can normally be. We have talked about all sorts of things. In my country, it is not unusual for such good friends to hold each other’s hands or touch one another affectionately. It does not mean the same thing in Hungary as it means here, I think.”

“No, I understand, it’s a different culture,” Persis said impatiently. “Go on.”

“Recently, Alistair has been touching me more often. He has insisted on it. He has even wanted to touch me in ways that friends do not normally touch one another.”

The words were more a verification of what Persis had been guessing than a surprising revelation. She began to get angry. Alone so much of the time for so many years, she had been longing for a little affection. Now she realized that neither the man she married nor the person she was enamored of really wanted any part of her. “So, did you reject him?”

Gregori was mortified. “In a way, yes. I did not want to hurt Alistair.”

Persis stood up, eyes burning in hurt and rage. “No, I see: you’d rather hurt me! So you did not reject him, I gather.”

Gregori swallowed uncomfortably, pausing, before he answered. “That’s not so, Persis. I told him I didn’t want him to touch me like that. I’ve been avoiding him for several days. It’s a pity, but if he won’t back off, I shall have to find another professor to be my adviser.”

“Ah, I see. So he’s your...teacher, is that right?” Persis gave the word sarcastic emphasis. “Or your boyfriend, I guess.”

Gregori seemed to shrink in his chair. “No, not exactly...not really, but in a way, maybe...” He held his head in his hands at the kitchen table. “To me, we were always good friends. I did not want him sexually or romantically, but it seems that Alistair had other feelings. I didn’t know how he felt till this week.”

Persis was crushed, but did not have the heart to hate Gregori. She slumped back into her chair. “I understand, Gregori. It wasn’t your fault, I can see that. I guess Alistair just doesn’t want me at all anymore, and wanted someone else to love. I can understand that sort of feeling.”

Gregori unexpectedly got out of his chair and knelt humbly before her. She was taken aback. He took her hand and looked up at her with puppy-dog eyes. “I apologize, Persis. I did not mean to hurt you. I wanted to remain your friend, after we talked about this...if you are willing, of course.”

She felt defeated by circumstances, bitter and rejected and unwanted. “Damn it, Gregori.” She clenched her fists helplessly. “I don’t know what I want, now. But I trusted you, you know?” He nodded sadly, guiltily, and Persis was taken by surprise: she felt sorry for the boy.

Gregori looked close to tears. “I have already resolved to have it out with Alistair, Persis, and put an end to his behavior. I can’t hurt you, and I know it’s wrong. But I beg you to believe me, I always thought of Alistair as a friend. I did not understand what he really wanted.”

Persis seemed to wilt. She suddenly wished she hadn’t become angry; she blamed herself for overreacting, the Lord knew why. She sniffed to herself, bidding herself not to cry. She wiped her nose briefly with her handkerchief. Reaching out again and putting a hand on his arm, she said, “I don’t blame you, dear. Please be patient with me. I’m sorry that I misunderstood you, too.” Gregori lowered his head in mute acceptance of this apology, not wanting to discuss it. “Please just be my friend for today, would you? I need some support.”

Gregori was happy to be allowed to stay, but Persis was miserable. In the face of Gregori’s confession and her own humiliating failure at winning him as a lover, she felt like giving everything up. On top of that, she now was at a loss for something to say. Gregori was looking down at his knees, stealing brief glances at her. He seemed unlikely to be the one who would break their silence, and as his host, she felt an obscure obligation to make him more at ease.

She thought again of how alone she was. She hoped that in time she could think of Gregori again as a friend, rather than as a guest, but it would be difficult for a time. Though Gregori was as childless as Persis herself, he at least had a substitute that was capable of showing affection: a playful tabby cat that he had named Zoltan. She had sometimes visited Gregori’s apartment to visit the kitten, and Gregori had talked to his pet, referring to her as “Auntie Persis.” She wanted a pet of her own, perhaps a kitten that could keep “Zolti” company, but of course with Alistair’s allergies, it was not possible. Wistfully, she broke the ice. “So, Gregori, my friend...how is our little Zolti doing?
The boy seemed grateful for the change of subject. His eyes lit up again. “Ah, there is news on that front. Zolti has discovered the joys of catnip.” He let out a laugh. “I don’t let him play with it for long, but I bought him a little stuffed mouse that is stuffed with catnip. It drives him wild with excitement. He does the daffiest things under its influence. I don’t even think he knows what it is he is doing, at those times.” His smile faltered and he fell silent, seeming to become lost in thought.

Persis smiled, imagining how the kitten must be capering about in a catnip-induced frenzy. Again she had to bring out her handkerchief: she blew her nose gently and wiped her eyes. Gregori looked up and his eyes grew concerned. “Are you crying, my dear?” he asked solicitously.

“Who, me?” she asked ironically, with a rueful smile. “Of course not, Gregori. I’m all right. I only think I must have caught one of those summer colds I’ve heard about.”

“That’s too bad! That’s the worst kind,” the boy responded. “I can run to the drugstore for you, get you some medicine, if you need them.” He seemed eager to make amends for the damage he had caused, even if it was in an indirect way.

“Well, I’ll just have to see how it develops,” Persis said. “It has been going on for a few days, but after all, it may turn out to be nothing.” Gregori gestured helplessly, as if stymied when he had thought he would have made some progress.

Persis didn’t let herself be bothered by the boy’s awkwardness; another wave of feelings overcame her and she went into another of her brief daydreams. Her feeling was one of betrayal. Alistair had always pretended to be almost entirely uninterested in sex, and yet he been putting the moves on his graduate student! She tried to imagine her husband’s face in a fever of hormonal excitement, his gaze glazing over with desire. She had never seen it so. She could not imagine it. Could it be that Gregori was lying?

As if in Gregori’s defense, Persis’s imagination suddenly supplied an image that seemed to verify that his story was at least possibly true: an image that disturbed her less than she had expected it to. It was a vision of Alistair groping for Gregori’s half-dressed form, as both men lay in the bed just a door away from where she was sitting. It was not an image that appealed to her, but still, she felt cheated. Why had Alistair never longed for her touch in that way?

The old feeling of failure came over her once again, and a feeling of doom. But not for her, she thought. She had been ready to poison Alistair that morning, but now she mentally tossed that plan away. Poisoning is too good for him. A slow death would be more fitting, as it would parallel the slow, lingering death of her libido and her feelings of adoration that had long since dissipated for her. She sighed in frustration: all her preparation, her glorious dreams of freedom, would be for naught. At least, the yoke would have to be borne a while longer, and a new plan would have to be devised.

However, now was not the time to scheme, while a young man was sitting, she realized, gazing at her apprehensively, biting his lip. It appeared that another silence would fall, but Persis did not want the social pressure that would cause. She decided to obviate it by getting back to work, and putting Gregori to work, too. Now she had to behave as if she had no intentions of doing anybody in. In fact, it occurred to her that he could help her to discard the detritus of her previous plans, removing evidence, et cetera.

As her back hurt her, she asked Gregori to help her sweep up the broken glass and empty it into the recycling bin in the hallway. This would serve two functions, thought Persis, thinking quickly: first, it would make things easier for her, and second, she could dispose of the poison: an important consideration, helping prevent any sort of suspicion later. She felt as if she were going head to head with Miss Marple. You’ll never be any the wiser, she thought, with an ironic snarl of defiance at any possible crime-buster.

Gregori found the dustpan and broom easily, as he had used them before. He wordlessly gathered up the smashed bottles of medicine and then shuffled out to the recycling chute down the hallway. The front door closed by itself behind him. While he was gone, she hurriedly put all the remaining bottles that had spilled and put them next to the bucket, and replaced the bent cardboard box on the shelf, refilling spaces 19 through 32 with spare bottles from under the sink. The old switcheroo, she thought.

Then, half in fear of being caught in action, she used her thumb to pop off the plastic caps of the current bottles, and dumped them one by one into her old mop bucket, which was a brown Rubbermaid product from the ‘seventies. She thought she could tell when she had poured the poison in, because she thought she detected a change in the fluid’s color, but then as the bucket was brown already, she couldn’t be sure and she did not have time to make any sort of verification now. When the last bottle was emptied, she recapped them all and moved the bucket back to the floor, in the crook of the counters. It looked to her just like an ordinary bucket of water.

She finished just before Gregori returned with the cleaning gear. She told him that the bottles by the sink had passed their expiration dates, and asked him to help her dispose of them. “How?” he asked.

“Just dump them into the recycling chute just as you did with the broken glass, please,” she said, a bit irritated.

“There are too many for me to carry,” he remarked, casting about for a container. He saw the bucket there on the floor. He tapped it with the toe of his shoe. “What’s in this, Persis?”

Persis had a moment of fear, though she didn’t show it. “It’s ordinary tap water,” she said. “I don’t need it any more. You can just pour it out into the janitor’s sink in the hall, and come back for the bottles, if you want.” She felt proud of herself for this bit of fancy thinking. Since the medicine and the poison were alike odor-free, the bucket really did seem to be full of water. As a result of her improvised solution, the apartment’s sinks would remain unstained, the poison would be down the drain, and the apartment would be free of any evidence"even evidence of a crime that had never been committed.

“Meanwhile, let me start to vacuum up. Perhaps tonight we should all sit down together and talk about things, now that we understand better what’s going on, shall we?” Gregori seemed powerless now to disagree. He hefted the bucket and headed for the hallway, as Persis strode to the living room, trying to overcome her renewed irritation. As Persis moved away from the front of the apartment, she heard the front door click shut. She stood in the hall outside the hindmost room of the house, the dining room, by the vacuum cleaner, thinking and muttering to herself. Something was not right.

Her vacuum cleaner was of the upright variety, with a long handle and a head for vacuuming carpets; the vacuum bag was hung parallel to the handle, under the power switch. She was slightly disoriented for a moment: surely the bag was quite full yesterday, wasn’t it? But now it’s empty, she verified, holding her hand against the vacuum bag as if were the belly of a pregnant woman. She sighed to herself: age did that to people, she knew: one day of her unvarying routine had bled into another until time was melted into a mass of generalities. She must have changed bags the previous afternoon, and then forgotten about it. Oh, well, one fewer thing to worry about, she thought.

Then another problem came to light.

She stared at the floor, surprised to notice that there were footprints all around the vacuum cleaner. She knew they were not her footprints: they were too large, and besides, she had not set foot in the room at all since she last vacuumed. She was always careful to “vacuum out” of every room that had a carpet, so that there would be no unsightly footprints on the floor. It added a professional touch that was impressive and satisfying to view, she knew. Alistair must have visited the room during the night. Strange, she thought: Alistair’s allergist had warned him to avoid the vacuum cleaner, and all sources of dust. He wore a surgical mask whenever he went out, for the same reason: to avoid breathing in allergens that would aggravate his asthma.

Next, she realized that there was a ring of dust on the floor of the room, with a trail that tracked into the hallway. Looking more closely, she realized that the trail led on down the hall in the direction of the front door and the bedrooms. Now, why would Alistair be fooling around with the vacuum bag? Persis asked herself. He knows how hazardous that can be for him.

Leaving the vacuum behind, Persis pursued the dust trail down the hallway. Sure enough, it led down the hall to the door of Alistair’s bedroom. Whatever he wanted with the bag, I think he took the full one in here and replaced it with a new one, Persis thought. She still found the situation a weird one. With a hesitant hand, she turned the doorknob and pushed the door open just as Gregori was returning from his recycling task.

The door opened on a view of the queen sized bed. Alistair had not gone to work, after all; he had remained in his bedroom, and would not now get up again. He was lying on his side, feet on the edge of the bed closest to the door, with his head near the middle of the bed. Persis gave a gasp of shock and sudden realization.

Gregori’s footsteps approached at a run and he appeared at her shoulder, crying out in dismay as well. The room was in disarray, highly unusually for Alistair. Walking around the bed together, the friends were able to see the scholar’s face. It appeared as if he had returned to the bedroom in the middle of the night and collapsed against the full vacuum bag: his face was frosted with dander and dust. The filth was all over his hands and shirt, as well. A halo of dust, like the ring of spores around a puffball mushroom, surrounded the damaged vacuum bag.

One slipper was still on his foot, and the other lay upside down on the floor. The humidifier had switched itself off already, its supply of water depleted. Alistair was dead, and Persis had had no hand in the event. She need not have put forth such effort, after all.

Gregori, upon seeing his mentor’s face covered with a layer of dust, rushed out of the room to the bathroom, and Persis could hear him retching piteously. It appeared that there was no more need for an evening conference between the three of them.

Under the lampshade was a white plastic bag, opened, marked with the trademark of the same out-of-town chemist’s shop where she had bought her own poison. The bag was marked with a green “Mr. Yuk” sticker and a warning to keep the contents away from children, and though her eyes were not the best, she could still easily make out the word “POISON” written in black permanent marker, each letter in upper case. Not for human consumption, she thought. Only for rats. Alistair’s name was written upon the bag’s face. Three paper packets, which had been the white bag’s contents, had been ripped open, and traces of a burgundy-colored powder were still visible on the pouch’s edge; there was more powder like it on the floor.

It was a shame, she thought, that she had been cheated by his natural asthma from her revenge, but after all, it was one fewer thing to think about, and she was duly grateful.

She continued thinking and feeling, there by the foot of the bed, unable to look away from the scene of her husband’s death. The dust was like a hoary beard on his face, except for that portion that was on his nose and cheeks. Some had even been blown into his nostrils. He must have not had the energy to snort it out, she figured. Her gaze shifted to the other items: the slipper, the empty packets on the pillow, the plastic bag. She mentally cast her gaze to the empty vacuum bag she had felt installed in the vacuum cleaner. That was important, too.

She presently was interrupted by the return of Gregori. The touch of his hand on her shoulder made her start, and it shocked her out of her reverie. He was wiping his mouth and face with a towel. He stood with his arm still around her shoulders, looking down at their would-have-been lover. “He must have had an attack of asthma,” Gregori murmured. “Why didn’t he wear a mask this one key time?” Of course, Persis had no good answer to this question.

The stood together, Persis letting herself feel comforted by the man’s warm presence. “Don’t worry, darling,” said Gregori, his voice low. “The ambulance is already on its way; it will be here in a few minutes. This will all be over presently.”

“Ambulance?” Persis moved away from Gregori and faced him. What do you mean?

Gregori pulled out his cellular phone. “I called 911, of course,” he said. “There has been a disaster. It’s a tragedy.”

Persis’s heart began to beat rapidly. Someone would be here in moments. Her own poison was gone, of course, but an orderly would find this powder and start asking questions. Perhaps the police would also come! And then...was there any more poison in the plastic bag? She did not know. Her eyes grew wide as she looked at Gregori, thinking these thoughts. The boy had not noticed the bag yet.

Then the curtain moved slightly, out of Gregori’s sight. What was this? She stood staring at what seemed to her an apparition for several seconds. She noticed a bowl under the windowsill, and a large, half-empty bag beside it. She could not believe her eyes. Watching, she understood it all. And after a calming breath, she knew what to do.

She took Gregori’s hand and led him out. “Let’s just wait out here, then, Gregori,” she said, as calmly as possible. “Want some tea? I can use the little kettle, I guess, since...” her voice trailed off and she moved to the kitchen. Gregori sat at the kitchen table woodenly, staring into space, his hair blowing slightly in the breeze. Why is there a breeze? she wondered.

She turned. The door was still open to the hallway: when it was opened fully, the door stayed ajar: the boy must have stood it open so as to move the bucket out the door more easily. But just outside the door, something was missing. As the water heated, she moved towards the entrance. Then she froze in her tracks.

There should have been a happy blue shimmer in the corner from where her darling delphiniums stood in their vase, but there was none now. Approaching the planter, she realized that all the stalks were brown and dead. Some petals held a trace of blue, but mostly they had shriveled and dropped down to the moist soil beneath. My children! she thought in agony. What has happened to my children? And then she thought she knew. She half turned toward the kitchen. “Gregori, did you water my delphiniums?” she called, trying to sound casual.

“But of course,” he replied calmly. “It seemed such a waste to toss out the water in your bucket...and they looked dry and thirsty, anyway.”

“Yes, of course, Gregori,” she said. “I should have known.”

It was the last straw for her. Not content to leave her childless, not content to steal the man who would have been her lover, not content even to have a loving pet of his own when she could have none, he had poisoned her only loves that survived, her lovely thriving children, the smiles on their upturned faces now frozen and shattered in the wet dirt. She mourned for her loss. And then an odd thought occurred to her.

She had nothing more to lose. The realization was rather like a release from her burdens. She now had nothing else she needed to fear, nothing else to hope for or to live for. She could now do just as she pleased.

Smiling, she turned back from her murdered babies and found her way back to the kitchen. Her arms rested on the back of a wooden table and she looked at Gregori, almost mistaking him for Alistair for a moment. Then she looked beyond the boy to the hallway and the bedroom door, still ajar. Her eyes dropped to the floor and the trail of dust.

“Oh Gregori dear, it’s so distressing,” she began. “Alistair was always so fussy about the cleaning; he always insisted on a dust-free environment. Would you please help me vacuum for a moment?”

“But surely we should not disturb the...the scene.”

“Certainly I’ve seen enough Perry Mason and Nero Wolfe to know not to disturb the scene of a crime, Gregori,” Persis said, not caring if he missed the references. “But just please do me the favor of vacuuming up the trail of dust from there in the dining room out to the hall outside Alistair’s door, could you? I would do it myself, but...” she touched the small of her back as if it ached. In fact, her long rest the previous night had helped her recover from any small aches and pains, but she needed the excuse. And gallantly, Gregori complied, as she had known he would. “I’ll just tidy up a bit and lie down and get ready for our visitors,” Persis said as Gregori moved down the hallway, careful not to tread on the line of dust so as to avoid mashing it deeper into the pile.

Rapidly, Persis moved back into the bedroom, also moving gingerly. She picked up a few items: the plastic bag, the paper packets, the pillow that the powder had spilled on, and an opened box of condoms which she had found hidden under the pillow. She brought them out to the hallway and pitched them all into the trash chute, listening to them careening and resounding against the steel walls of the chute, and hurried back. When she got back, she could already hear the purr of the vacuum’s motor, and the treadles beating against the carpet. She had evidently missed a heavy thump by just a few seconds, but she felt reasonably sure that it had already occurred. She had read the plastic bag’s instructions carefully before throwing it away.

On her second trip, she picked up the food bowl, bag of cat food, and finally the kitten itself. Then she stooped again to retrieve the cat’s plaything: a pair of pale green surgical masks that by now were all tattered and ripped, the elastic headbands weakened by hours of frisky playing.

“Come along, Zolti,” she crooned to the animal. “I’ll remove the litter box from the sill later. First, we’ve got to dispose of a bit of trash.” 

Author's Note

I'd love for people to read both versions and make comments on the two. Which is more effective? I know the other one is shorter and may be 'punchier,' but I like the further complexity of this version, too.