50 Ways to Kill Your Husband
by
Laura Payeur
Copyright 2011 by Laura Payeur
Published by Laura Payeur at Smashwords
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and events either are products of the author's imagination are used fictitiously. Any resemblances to actual persons living or dead, businesses, places or events is entirely coincidental.
One
Albert Finney liked to have a cigar and a brandy after a long, hard day. Phyllis Finney liked her her husband to shut the hell up and leave her alone after a long, hard day. Unfortunately for Phyllis, Al was the only one who ever got things his way.
The clock beeped twice before Al slapped his thick, meaty hand over the top of it. Phyllis laid silently, keeping her eyes closed, listening as he groaned and he rolled onto his side. She didn't have to look at him to know he was putting on his slippers before shuffling into the bathroom. When she heard the click of the bathroom door across the hall, she quickly tugged on her robe and hurried downstairs.
As she entered the kitchen, the coffee maker beeped, signaling it had finished brewing. Al's cup sat on the counter beside the coffee maker, waiting to be filled. Cream and two sugars, just the way Al liked it. She heard his heavy footsteps coming down the stairs and hastily placed his cup on the table in front of his chair.
Al shoved the kitchen door open, looked at his cup on the kitchen table and frowned at Phyllis. Kiki, Phyllis' Chihuahua, scurried into the corner behind a potted palm. She didn't care much for Al either. Kiki was Al's substitute to Phyllis in lieu of children. Once upon a time, Phyllis found the idea of Al substituting any other living thing for a child was preposterous, now she was grateful. It wouldn't have been fair to a child.
"Did you forget something?" he demanded.
"I...um..." Phyllis was confused.
"My God damn paper, Phyllis!" he shouted. "Where is my God damn paper?"
"Sorry, Al," she muttered and rushed through the house to the front door. She dropped to her knees on the front porch. The paperboy had left Al a newspaper with a slightly muddy print, only Al wasn't going to blame the paperboy.
"Well, I guess I can see how my day is going to go," Al said as he snatched the paper from her trembling hand and snapped it off the back of her head. Phyllis cringed. That makes two of us, she thought.
She would have liked to stuff the paper down his throat, but knew that was never going to happen. Al would be sure of that. He sat down at the table and flicked open the newspaper. Phyllis filled a coffee cup for herself and sat down across from him. All she could do was sit quietly and hope he would forget she was there. Al took a large mouthful of his coffee and then spit it out on the table.
"What the hell is this? Are you trying to poison me?" He slammed the cup down, sloshing coffee on the table. “I'll get a descent cup of coffee on my way to work.”
Al crumpled the newspaper and tossed it on the table. She was grateful to hear the door slam behind him as he left. A typical morning at the Finney house.
Fifteen years and she was still putting up with his shit. She didn't know how much longer she could take it. She had tried to leave once, but Al had been quick to cancel her bank account and credit cards. It had been easy, everything was in his name. An attorney she had once consulted informed her the prenuptial agreement she had signed, back when Al had nothing, would keep her from getting anything. Al had covered all of his bases long ago. There was only one way she was getting out of this with what she deserved, a tiny portion of what used to be her dignity.
Not long after her visit to the attorney, Phyllis had started making a list of ways she could get rid of Al. So far, she had fifty, hopefully one of them would work. Her list was kept safely in a place Al never dared to go, her underwear drawer. He hadn't touched them while they were on in over five years, the idea of him going those those delicates while the were in a drawer were impossible.
Two
The next morning, Al sat contently, as content as he ever got, reading his paper while he waited for his coffee to cool. It had to be lukewarm, never hot, never cold, and absolutely never perfect. Not the way she made it, anyway. When he noticed Phyllis preparing breakfast, he frowned.
"What the hell are you doing, Phyllis?" He snapped his paper down, glaring at her.
"I thought you might enjoy a nice hearty breakfast this morning, Al." Phyllis forced a smile as she slid a steaming plate of scrambled eggs and sausage in front of him.
"You know I don't eat breakfast here, you cow!" Al shoved the plate away from him. Sausage and eggs rolled onto the table. "And change that damn dye you're using. You look like a clown."
Al, fat and balding, demanded that Phyllis keep her hair looking as close to her natural red as possible. A man of his stature, according to Al he was high above the rest, should not have to be seen with some frumpy old broad. She knew she was far from old and frumpy, but most days she didn't feel it. Al made sure of that.
"Yes, Al," she said.
Phyllis watched as Al snatched up his cup and quickly gulped down his lukewarm coffee. It didn't take long for him to grab his throat, gurgling. The small piece of frozen sausage she had dropped in his cup was stuck. His body shook violently back and forth, rocking the chair he was sitting on. In one swift movement, the chair fell backwards, spilling Al onto the floor. Slowly, she crept around the table to where he lay silently.
"Al? Al? Are you okay?" The smile that spread across her face came easily.
However, she reminded herself, I must control my joy when they come to take his body away. I wouldn't want any to go getting the wrong idea. Or the right one for that matter.
Cautiously, she leaned over him to check his breathing, hoping against hope that he wasn't. His chest didn't appear to be moving at all. Phyllis leaned in closer. His body lurched. The piece of now semi-frozen sausage that had been lodged in his throat bounced off of her forehead. The coffee he had attempted to consume quickly followed it. Phyllis fell back onto her rear, coffee dripping from her face.
"Phyllis? What the fuck?" Al choked as he struggled to a sitting position.
"I don't know what happened, Al. You took a bite of sausage and then fell over. I thought you were dead." Phyllis tried to hide her disappointment. Al stood, looking down as his sopping wet shirt. That coffee stain is never going to come out, she thought.
"Well, since I'm not, how about you take your lazy ass upstairs and find me a clean suit?" he grumbled.
"Yes, Al." Phyllis gained her composure, as she got to her feet.
"Oh, and, Phyllis," he said.
"Yes, Al?"
"No more breakfast."
"Yes, Al."
Well, she thought as she watched him pull out of the driveway, that could have backfired on anyone. There has to be something that will work.
Phyllis had enough time to shower and dress before the phone began to ring. She checked the caller ID, one of the few luxuries Al allowed her to have, although she was sure it was one thing that was more for himself than for her. It was her mother calling, definitely one person she wasn't in the mood to talk to.
"Hello?"
"Phyllis, dear." Her mother's cold voice was shuddering, as always.
"Mother, how are you?" she asked.
"Fine, fine," her mother snapped. "I didn't call for chit-chat."
"No, I didn't think you had," Phyllis said. Her mother never called to chit-chat. Normally she had some sort of demands or complaints. Mother was charming in her world, but she'd done her best to save her charm for anyone and everyone who not her child, or her husband, for that matter.
"Your father's birthday is next week, Phyllis," her mother said. "You are planning to attend his party, aren't you?"
"Of course I am, Mother." As her mother went on, Phyllis' thoughts drifted off.
Al was never going to let her go easily. He had accused her of trying to poison him, but even she knew he'd never believe she was actually capable of doing it. Poison worked well in many of the crime novels she read. Where would she find poison, though?
She glanced around the room, stopping when he eyes fell upon Al's box of cheap cigars. He wasn't particular about where they came from, only that they didn't cost much. Anyone could get a bad batch of cheap cigars. Couldn't they? The trick was going to be finding the right substance to use.
"I need to go, Mother," she said. "Al has chores for me to do."
"Then I suggest you get to work, dear," her mother said. "We'll talk later."
Not if I can help it, Phyllis thought.
Three
Phyllis dressed in a pair of jeans and a tattered sweater and then trudged out to the front yard to start the mowing, a petty job that was beneath Al, according to him. Most household chores were beneath him, certainly anything that required manual labor. He didn't like to sweat.
She ran the mower back and forth across the lawn, over the leaves and small twigs. As the mess spit out the side of the mower her heart sunk a bit more. When she was done with all this mowing, she was going to have to rake all that crap into a pile. Al expected her to do it this way. She would need to gather all this and pack it around the trees and bushes later.
While she worked, she noticed a great deal of foot traffic going in and out of the Baxter's house across the street. Many of them were teenage boys, dropping by for a few moments and then were off again. After several kids came and went, Phyllis realized where she was going to get that substance she was going to need to taint Al's cigar. Pushing the mower under the big maple tree, she hurried into the house to clean up.
She chose a lacy black bra to wear under her white silk button-up blouse and navy blue slacks. The bra was a find, she hadn't realized she still owned anything like it. Admiring herself in the closet's full-length mirror, Phyllis was rather impressed. Despite all of Al's jawing, she looked damn good for her age. Not that forty-two was old by any means.
"Good afternoon, Tommy," she said, smiling, when the Baxter's eighteen year old son answered the door.
"Hello, Mrs. Finney. Can I help you? Um...my mom's not home right now." He ran his hand through his short, dark hair nervously.
"I know she's not," Phyllis said. "I actually came to talk to you."
"Oh?" Beads of sweat formed on his pimply forehead. "Did I do something, ma'am? If I did, I'm sure I can fix it."
"No, no, Tommy. Nothing like that." She folded her hands behind her back, her blouse parted, revealing her bra and ample cleavage. Tommy's eyes instantly fell.
"Oh?" he whispered.
"Yes, Tommy. I noticed you had a lot of frequent visitors."
His eyes nervously darted back up to her face. "Oh, well, I uh..." A deep red crept up his neck and into his cheeks.
"Not to worry, Tommy." Phyllis leaned forward slightly, trying to return his attention to her breasts. "I'm actually here to make a purchase."
"Ma'am?" The redness drained from his face, taking the rest of his normal pasty color with it.
"Look, I don't want to cause you any trouble," she said. "I'm just looking for something to help me forget about my troubles for a while. Have you got something like that? A little something I can put in my tea maybe?"
"Um..." Tommy began frantically looking up and down the street. The neighborhood was clear. One of the advantages of being a lonely housewife, you know everybody's business, even if you don't want to. Lucky for her she was the only one on their block.
"This is a serious buy, Tommy. You keep it quiet, I'll keep it quiet. No one has to know." She leaned forward, revealing the edge of her black lace bra.
"Okay, come inside." He gave one last look up and down the street and then closed the door behind her.
Phyllis waited patiently in the Baxter's foyer, admiring their artwork, while Tommy ran upstairs. The Baxter's had a lot of nice things, things she would like to own someday. Not their stuff, of course, but some of her own. Al didn't care for artwork, he considered it a waste of money. A lot of things were a waste of money to Al, where others thought them modern conveniences. Things like a cordless phone or a hand-mixer.
When he returned, Tommy was holding a small glass vial containing a pale blue liquid and an eyedropper. He held the bottle up between his thumb and forefinger, smiling proudly.
"A drop or two of this in your tea should be enough to calm your nerves," he told her. "But just a drop or two. You don't want to overdo it. This stuff could knock you on your ass."
"What is it?" she asked.
"My own special recipe," he said. "Trust me, it'll work."
"Thanks, Tommy. How much do I owe you?"
"Nothing, Mrs. Finney." He took one last look at her smooth white breasts. "This one's on the house."
"Well, thank you." Phyllis hurried home to prepare for Al's impending arrival.
Four
Phyllis clipped the end from one of Al's cheap, smelly cigars and slid the thin glass dropper in as far into the tobacco as she could, dispensing the full amount of vial. When she was finished, she wrapped the vial and dropper in toilet paper and flushed them down the toilet. She laid the cigar on the table beside Al's recliner, right where he would be happy to find it when he came home.
"Phyllis?!" Al shouted from the front door, slamming it behind him.
"Yes, Al?" she said. "I'm in the kitchen."
"It's been a rough day, Phyllis. I don't want any shit. Bring me a brandy and -" Al stopped. He must have noticed his cigar. She heard him drop his briefcase on the floor in the living room, and waited for the familiar sound of his recliner.
"Yes, Al," she said, quickly fetching his brandy.
"Make it snappy."
Phyllis took a glass from the freezer, dropped in two ice cubes and poured the gold liquid in. Al had to have two ice cubes, no more, no less.
"Here you go, Al." She handed him his slightly chilled glass of brandy.
"Looking a bit sloppy this evening, aren't you, Phyllis?" He eyed her angrily in her perfectly pressed blouse and slacks.
"Yes, Al." At that moment, she wanted to stuff the cigar his mouth and wash it down with the brandy.
"Why don't you button up that shit and go get my dinner," he grumbled.
"Yes, Al." Phyllis buttoned her blouse as she walked away toward the kitchen, stopping to watch him light his nasty cigar.
Hope you enjoy that as much as I will, she thought.
In the kitchen, Kiki cowered behind the palm.
"It won't be long now," Phyllis whispered. She began thinly slicing the pot roast, just the way Al liked it. Onto the plate she piled mashed potatoes and carrots, topping the potatoes and pot roast with homemade gravy. What a perfect last meal, she thought.