Dishonor Thy Wife (25 page)

JAYDEN

The funeral home was a brown, one-story brick building on
First Street, west of Congress Avenue. How a devil like Brad O’Boyle ended up
at a mortuary named
Angel Funeral Home
was beyond my comprehension. The funeral
home blasted organ music from a speaker mounted on a painting of heaven’s pearly
gates and I imagined Brad with a shovel, wearing a
Canucks
baseball hat,
digging a hole under the fence so he could sneak into heaven.

The white French paneling and living room decor was supposed
to make a mourner feel at home while inhaling the smell of death—formaldehyde
mixed with orange furniture oil, and antiseptic.

I signed the guest book of Brad’s viewing and took a seat at
the back in the shadows. No one paid any attention to me, even the news media.
I was a stranger with a fedora hat tilted low on my forehead and wearing black
shades. My invisibility was comforting while at the same time uncomfortable, as
if I did not belong here.

I had as much right as anyone to be at Brad’s viewing, more
than most!

Ronni sat with the woman who hung out with her that night at
Lovejoys when we played pool.

Across the aisle from Ronni sat Brad’s mother crying on her
husband’s shoulder. There were others seated behind Viola and Ethan who may
have been members of Brad’s adoptive family, aunts, uncles, second cousins, etc.

Ronni turned her head slightly and I pushed my hat lower on my
forehead, sliding my rear down the seat.

Ronni seemed transfixed by the black coffin.

What must she be feeling about Barbie murdering Brad? She must
know about her husband marrying another woman, a wife he killed in Canada. The
morning news revealed that Frisco and Lead-Belly found the murder weapon and
closed the case, excluding any mention of me. Frisco had told me they already
did enough to tarnish my reputation.

Even so, my own trial was just beginning. It felt as if a
noose was tightening around my neck every time I glanced at Ronni.

When the women from Brad’s office stood up to leave, I placed
my face in my hands
pretending
to cry.

Do not look at them.
Be invisible. They are
grieving. Fade into the pew.

It was harder to avoid Ronni. I rolled my eyes to the right
when she walked by with her friend. Luckily, she was distraught and did not
look my way. Her friend supported her arm. Ronni sniffled and I fought the urge
to go to her.

And do exactly what?
I thought.
She would think Brad’s
corpse climbed from his coffin.

Traci was not at the funeral.

Everyone trickled out and the room emptied.

I walked with slow deliberate steps towards the coffin decorated
with gold-colored trim. White lilies draped the lower half.

A white satin pillow supported Brad’s head. The mortician
had closed his eyes, of course, and made up his cheeks and lips with pinkish
makeup. Powder lightly dusted his face. His hair was combed perfectly and appeared
plastic. His hands were stiff, the skin stretched, and folded serenely on his
chest. A small Bible rested between his hands.

Same old Brad, even in death his smile was mischievous as if
he was playing a joke and would rise any moment from his coffin.

It was morbid to see what my own corpse would look like. I
cursed myself for coming to the funeral home but had to see for myself that
Brad was dead. I cringed and poked his ribs just to make sure he would not
chuckle in his devilish, charming way.

Unexpectedly, I broke down and wept at the coffin of my
twin. We had once been one a fertilized egg in our mother’s womb, and then split
in half. A part of me had always been missing and then I found Brad and was
whole for a few months, sort of. Brad was mentally ill. Given the same
circumstances and raised in the same environment, it could have been me in the
coffin instead of my brother. Every man had a propensity for evil because along
with the good, evil was in our nature. Humans were a mix of opposites. I both
loved Brad and hated him at the same time.

“He’s my brother,” Brad had bragged to the flight attendants
on the planes from Philly, as if we were the best of friends, as if we had been
raised together as brothers.

Oh, God, I did not want to remember the good times with his
corpse in his coffin, making me feel vulnerable and guilty.

My chest tightened as if rubber bands dug into my ribs and I
could not breathe. It was ironic, given the circumstances, that I felt closer
to Brad in death than I did in life. It was as if the coffin was our mother’s
womb and I lay beside Brad’s corpse, hugging my brother.

“Twins have this unexplainable bond,” Brad once said. “It’s
telepathic, as if our minds and hearts are joined since our minds and hearts
are duplicates. Think of it, brother. You and I were one zygote, the same, you
and me, me and you, even in death.”

Brad was sucking me into the coffin.
Join me, Jayden. We
can spend eternity together.

I took a step back, spun on my heel, and ran.

I could have sworn Brad was nipping at my heels and I
crashed out the back door of the funeral home.

I leaned against the building with my eyes closed, breathing
heavily. Oh, God, oh, God! I had to confess to someone!

Shall I tell you how I killed Brad O’Boyle, my nemesis,
my archenemy, my beloved twin brother, my other half?

Yeah, I framed Barbie Simpson for Brad’s murder. After
all, I am like my brother, my identical twin.

JAYDEN

Once upon a time, I saved the life of the sister of a man
who had the skills to make me a fake passport. The forger only needed a small
photo and a few hours. He, also, gave me a disposable credit card with the same
fake name as my phony American passport. He, also, printed me a pilot’s license
under the assumed name.

I once gave a man a steep discount on his wife’s medical
bills. This man operated a ferry between Victoria and Seattle. He took me
across the water to Seattle alone, late at night when the other ferries were
not running.

Whereas Brad played golf, I flew as a sport and rented a
plane at Paine Field Airport under my fraudulent passport name. Just like my
passport photo, I wore a blonde wig and glasses. I paid cash giving the bogus
credit card number as a deposit for any overcharge.

I flew into Lakeway Airpark located in Lakeway, Texas near
Lake Travis. The airport was so small that picnic tables were located outside.
There was only one runway.

When I returned to Canada after stashing Barbie’s gun in a
storage facility, everything blew up, what with Brad really being married to
Vanessa and us having to switch again, and then Brad returned to Canada and
killed her.

Yeah, it was extreme stupidity to trust Brad again, but he
was my identical twin so I never in a million years thought he would murder
anyone, since I would not kill another human being for any reason, well, except
for my brother.

The police then arrested me so I never got the chance to
mail Barbie the key to the storage unit and inform her that she left her gun at
Brad’s office.

It now took me about 40 minutes to drive up 71 to
Austin-Bergstrom International Airport to retrieve Barbie’s gun at the nearby
storage facility. I wiped any previous prints off the storage unit and wore
surgical gloves so as not to leave any new fingerprints on anything.

I then drove 14 miles back on 71 to Mopac, exiting to Barton
Springs Pool at Zilker Park.

The Indians once considered Barton Springs sacred and used the
water for purification. Trees surrounded the pool, and the park was deserted in
the wee morning hours.

I dialed a number on my cell phone. “Hello, bro, it’s me,” I
said in a neutral voice.

Brad, of course, would refuse to meet me since he framed me
for Vanessa’s murder. He would figure I was out for blood, but Brad had an
Achilles’ heel.

 “I’m here in Austin because Barbie can’t get enough of me. Yeah,
I did have your soul mate, bro, ten different ways. In fact, I’m waiting for her
here at Barton Springs Pool.” I hung up the phone and Brad screaming at me.

We had a connection that only identical twins have. He was hotheaded
while I usually remained cool, but I could feel my head exploding because Brad
was in a temper.

It took him about 20 minutes to drive to Zilker Park.

His tires screeched and the car door slammed.

He limped down a long set of steps leading down to the pool.
“Where is she?” he screeched. “I’m going to kill the two of you!”

There was a lamp pole close by so I hid the gun behind my
back.

He came closer, his face enraged and his fists out.

I swung the gun around and for a flicker of a moment he appeared
scared.

I fired, emptying the gun.

Brad jerked with each bullet that hit him and I felt his
pain and his shock.

I stood over my dying brother.

Brad rasped out the last words he would ever say to me: “I am
your other half.
You
are my soul mate. How could you let a woman come
between us?”

“I’m sorry, Brad, but I just couldn’t let you murder your
wife. Ronni is
my
soul mate and Barbie is simply collateral damage.”

“Like Vanessa,” he mewed, blood bubbling from his lips.

I aimed the gun at his forehead and fired the last bullet.

I dropped Barbie’s gun, which still had her fingerprints all
over the metal.

I ran towards the rental car, drove the 30 minutes to
Lakeway Airpark, and flew back to Seattle.

I waited a day and then drove to Oregon where I called the Austin
police and tipped them off about Brad beating up Barbie Simpson and her husband
threatening to kill him. “Just thought you’d like to know that both Simpsons,
husband and wife, had a motive for wanting to kill Dr. O’Boyle.”

By the calmness of my voice, you would think I have framed
someone for murder before when I myself am the killer. The secret to my
serenity is in the zygote, a shared experience with my identical twin. I once
believed Brad to be much different from me due to the environments we were
raised in. It turned out everything about spooky similarities between identical
twins not raised together was true. Brad and I both became murderers and both
framed other people, but it takes more than shared genes to make a brother, more
than the tie in a mother’s womb, an egg split apart like an atom creating a nuclear
explosion of shattered lives.

Mine was a righteous kill.

RONNI

I recognize everyone at Brad’s funeral except for a man dressed
in a trench coat holding a large black umbrella above his head. He wears a
black fedora hat shading his face and sunglasses even though it is a dreary,
rainy day at Oakwood Cemetery. The man stands at the back by himself and seems
to be trying his best to blend in with the fringes of the crowd. The man watches
me, giving me a creepy feeling, but then many of the mourners are staring so I
am trying to seem like a grieving widow.

There is a canopy reserved for family, and I insist that
Riley sit beside me since I have no family to keep me company. Traci is with a
sitter because she still insists her father is not dead. My child needs to see
a psychologist and it is all Brad’s fault.

It is terrible to think ill of the dead, which is why I wear
sunglasses so no one can make out my real feelings. Let them think my eyes are
swollen with tears. I do cry at the drop of a hat when thinking about the poor
woman in Canada Brad married and then murdered. I sometimes blame myself for
her death. I should have talked to Brad’s folks about his mental illness, his split
personality, and tried to get him some help. Then I think,
Ronnie, it is not
your fault. Brad was Brad, and no one, not even Viola, could have talked him
into seeing a psychiatrist.
I should have at least tried though. Maybe that
poor woman would be alive. I turned over the bloody knife to the police.

I grieve for the couple of months of wedded bliss when Brad
acted so different. I cry into my pillow every night for Brad number two.

I twirl a white rose in my hand. Ha! A devil like Brad
should have black roses at his funeral, but my mother-in-law elbowed her way in,
like always, and made all of the arrangements. If it was up to me, there would
have been no funeral, just Brad’s body burned to a crisp in an incinerator and
his ashes scattered around a landfill.

The priest recites the usual garbage about the loving wife
and all the loved ones Brad left behind. My face tenses, feeling as if pins and
needles are pricking my skin. Oh, God, surely we will not all be together some
day, as he claims. Where, in Hades?

Brad’s parents are not even civil at a funeral. Viola grabs
Ethan’s arm and pulls him away from me so they are leaning as far away as
possible without falling off their seats. Brad’s uncles, aunts, and cousins
group together with black umbrellas held high looking like crows.

The guest of honor lies in front of the canopy, ta-da! Brad’s
coffin is sealed shut and I never have to see that man’s face again.

Like a dutiful wife, I drop the white rose on Brad’s coffin.

I plop down on a red velvet chair to receive condolences.

“Sorry.”

Yeah. Yeah. Next!

“I’m so sorry.”

Do not be.

“I’m sorry for your loss.”

Why? I’m happy for my loss.

“He was a wonderful man.”

He was? Are we talking about the same man?

“Brad was a wonderful father.”

Think again, Sherlock.

“He was a great husband.”

How would you know? Did Brad marry you, too? Oh, perhaps he
murdered you as he did his second wife.

Not one person has the balls to say, “Brad was a girlfriend
beater, a wife abuser, a bigamist, and a murderer.”

“I’m sorry about your husband,” a man says in a deep timbre
resonating in my chest.

Someone is walking over my grave. I know that voice!
He
sounds exactly like Brad but without the Texas twang. I manage to remain calm and
murmur, “Thank you, sir, for your condolences.”

The man pushes his fedora hat lower on his face. He lowers his
umbrella, hiding his face even more. He reaches out and takes my hand.

A bolt of electricity shoots through me. Something about him
seems creepy familiar.

He seems reluctant to let go of my fingers and I yank my
hand away.

He is the last of the receiving line so believes we have
time for small talk. “How is your daughter doing?”

“Traci is all right, considering.”

Perhaps he is a reporter from
City Confidential
snooping
around. I tilt my head to get a better look at him but he turns away so his
face is still in shadows.

 Apparently, he cannot think of anything else to say and
walks away. He is as broad as Brad was and just as tall. In fact, he is a dead
ringer for Brad from behind.

Dead ringer?
I sigh at my silliness. I am seeing
ghosts. I, also, mistook him for a nosy reporter when all along the man was
just being polite and concerned. He simply mouthed the same questions everyone does
to the widow of a murdered man left with a small daughter who must miss her
daddy.

“How did  Brad know the mysterious man?” Riley asks.

“Who? The tall one?” I whisper back.

“He looks familiar but I can’t quite place him.”

“The man is probably a friend of Brad’s or an acquaintance. He
didn’t say anything about him and Brad being close though.”

“Maybe a colleague,” she adds.

“Probably. His hands felt like Brad’s, a doctor’s hands. And
he had that clean doctor smell about him, like antiseptic, as if he just washed
his hands of something.”

“A guilty conscience?”

“Whatever do you mean?”

“The way he said,
I’m sorry about your husband
. The
man sounded so tortured, almost as if he killed Brad.”

My eyes follow the man to the cemetery exit. He does not
look so much guilty as torn to pieces with grief. Maybe he had been close to
Brad. His shoulders are rounded, and his back caved in. The man stumbles to his
car as if utterly defeated.

Then again, this is a funeral and funerals are always sad,
even a funeral for Brad O’Boyle.