The Monolith Murders (39 page)

When they entered their house, Maureen was the first to spring her surprise. She directed Fred to the guest bedroom closet where a large wrapped package was waiting for him.
 

Fred was like a child when it came to gifts; he brought the package into the living room, eagerly ripping its wrapping paper. When he finally pulled the object from his box he was surprised, unpleasantly so.
 

“Wow, Maureen, you got me, ah, you got me a large coffee maker.”

“Fred, please don’t underestimate it; it’s not just a coffee maker. You can program it to have it start brewing before you wake up in the morning, and it will be waiting for you when you first go downstairs. Also, you can set the level from weak to very strong. In fact, I’m sure the aroma alone will pull you downstairs. And best of all, it makes up to ten cups, you can have coffee all day when it’s your day off from work. And, guess what—I got another just like it for your office. And I also got you twenty pounds of flavored coffee.”

“Maureen, I just don’t know how to put it in words, it’s, it’s, it’s just so great.”

Maureen started laughing and continued to laugh until tears formed in her eyes.

“I don’t get it, hon, what’s the joke?”

“Fred, you big dummy! I know how much you hate coffee, do you really think I have a doctorate in psychology for nothing?”

“How long have you known?”

“For a long time but I must admit I loved to watch your facial calisthenics when I served you the first cup of coffee in the morning. But don’t worry, you’ll never have to drink it again. And your real present is in our bedroom. Go get it.”

This time Fred returned dragging a large box whose markings indicated it contained a large 3D LCD television set.
 

“You can return the coffee maker, Fred; I kept the receipt. And now you and your friends can watch professional football in three dimension anytime you want. I understand that it’s so clear you can practically touch the sweat dripping from the player’s bodies, as if anyone would ever want to do that. I wish I could purchase an added aroma device, so you could enjoy the smells emitted from the player’s locker room as well. I’m sure that then you would be in hog heaven.”

“Maureen, it’s a great gift and I really appreciate it; but now I want you to go into the garage to find yours.”

In a minute Maureen returned. “Fred, I can’t believe it! You bought me a new Ford hybrid!”

“Yes, I drove your car once, and although I wasn’t in a great frame of mind, I knew immediately that it was overdue to be moved to the junk heap. And, oh, by the way, the answer is they were musicians in a band.”

“Fred that’s quite a non sequitur, what on earth are you talking about?”
 

“You recall awhile back during our dinner party when the nightmare first begin, you gave me a puzzle about four guys playing for hours for money, there was a separate score for each and no one lost any cash? I never got a chance to tell you the answer.”

“Fred, you’re a total nut! But I love you so much, I really do.”

“So do I, babe, and its not just my mental neurotransmitter speaking. Damn straight, I love you!”

Postscript

Six months had passed and Fred had observed that for the past few weeks Maureen was no longer behaving as she normally did. She had been so upbeat, almost euphoric, about the baby being due in a few weeks. But for some reason, lately she had become highly reflective and distant.
 

One of Maureen’s associates told Fred that the change might be the result of a delayed reaction to the extreme trauma that she had suffered. She explained that often trauma lies buried for a period of time, and then the person might experience some triggering device which releases an explosion of emotions. She compared it to soldiers returning home from the war; their psychological coping device often can’t deal with the horrible sights and sounds that they had to endure.
 

Fred perceived that might well be the cause, so he invited a few guests to his house to celebrate Maureen’s birthday. He knew that Maureen was normally an extrovert and a social being; having people around her tended to both cheer her up and energize her.
 

The evening of the party, after she had opened all of her presents, the guests were invited to browse through a stack of Maureen’s birthday cards, including those that were from the party guests, as well as some that had been received in the mail. The theme of a few focused on enduring love and friendship, but most were highly comical, emphasizing Maureen’s advancing age. One of the guests picked up a card and said, “This is a cute card, but I guess this person doesn’t know you very well, or maybe it’s an inside joke. It’s addressed to Theresa Harris.”

Maureen glanced at the card. “Oh, he’s not really incorrect; that’s my given name but I prefer to be called by my middle name Maureen. The card was sent by one of my high school friends who back then knew me only by Theresa.”

Later that night after the guests had left, Maureen and Fred turned the lights down, played some elevator music from the 70’s, and relaxed on the sofa. Fred said, “I’m exhausted but I thought it was a great party and it was great that a lot of your old friends showed up. But at times like this, I guess you really miss your parents.”
 

“Yes, They were wonderful, never letting me feel different because I was adopted. I never could find out who my real parents were. Maybe I’ll never know.”
 

Maureen looked long and hard into the glass of soda she was holding, as if the answer might have been contained somewhere within it.

Fred smiled. “Maybe it’s just as well, who knows, perhaps you’re part of some dysfunctional family with genetic homicidal tendencies—the sort of information that you wouldn’t ever want to know.”

Maureen looked strangely at Fred. It was a look that Fred had never observed before in all the years they had been married.
 

“Yes, wouldn’t that be something, Fred. With such a hidden genetic code just fighting to be activated, I could change at any minute.”
 

Maureen paused, then with a strange smile, she said, “Have a delicious piece of cake Fred. It’s a special recipe from my childhood—and the flavor is to die for!”

– THE END –

Lorne L. Bentley holds a bachelor’s degree in Economics and a Masters in Public Administration. He worked several years as a systems analyst for the Navy Department in Arlington, Virginia. He and his wife Iris live during the winter months in sunny Sarasota, Florida and in North Carolina’s cool western mountains during the summer. In both areas, he plays softball and raises their needy but lovable small dogs.