Conjugal Toxicology

Unease descended upon Dolores, who as a child looked up at the looming apartments of New York City. Behind those windows, people lived very disparate lives, hidden from each other and the world outside. It’s one of those emotions children are adept at perceiving but not at putting into words and that adults are apt to forget before they try. That feeling didn’t return to her anew until she saw Alfred Hitchcock’s Rope in a college film class.

Seeing on screen what might’ve lurked within those high-rises brought back the uneasiness she’d first felt as a child. However, the despair that slid down her spine dissipated quickly, displaced by a strange placidity. She decided that if she lived next to a Leopold and Loeb, she’d rather not know. Never had she imagined that her life would bear such a close resemblance to that film.

Years after seeing Rope, and many more since her youthful epiphany, she strode about the kitchen of her loft apartment. She was comfortable with where she lived, but her husband, Sheldon, was now quite unlike the young man she’d first met in that film class.

Once, he was young, confident, and bursting with joie de vivre. As they struggled through their undergrad years together, his creative spark and professional ambition dimmed. They were so enamored with each other, she didn’t perceive his erratic periods of creativity dissipating until after graduation. Funding and producing his own work, meeting the harsh realities of sacrificing for art, facing doubts about whether his dream was really worth risking everything for—in short, the typically precarious journey of an independent artist—paralyzed him. He discovered unwittingly that he thrived more in routine than in uncertainty. He threw himself into his day job waiting tables at a local gastropub, which was supposed to earn him money between video editing projects; instead, he let it consume him. Even after they moved in together, got married, and Dolores earned her degrees, things never seemed secure enough for Sheldon to take a chance artistically. He’d tinker every so often but never again with the single-minded focus he exhibited in college.

Sheldon managed to get a promotion at work, becoming the lunch manager and solidifying his comfortable routine. But the promotion and raise came with a loss of something Sheldon hadn’t realized he’d needed. Unlike when he first started, when late nights and double-shifts were immovable obstacles to achieving his dream, he no longer had the excuse of lack of time or late nights leaving him too exhausted.

Once Dolores noticed Sheldon pulling away from his true passion, she attempted indirect lines of inquiry.

“Was brunch busy?”

(He hated slow services.)

“Did so-and-so finally quit?”

(As he hoped.)

On the surface, the answers remained the same, only becoming terser until he finally snapped.

“Look, stop asking me what happened! Nothing ever happens! When it does, I’ll let you know.”

Months went by, and she inquired a few more times, but he only became touchier the more subtly she pried. She had given up entirely until he decided to sell the laptop reserved for his editing projects.

“Why sell the laptop?” she questioned for the first time since his last outburst.

“Because…we need the money!” he shouted, slamming his fist down on the tabletop. She knew he was lying—she handled the household finances, which bothered him, but he also didn’t want to do it himself—another infuriating enigma, but she didn’t call him out on it. That would be counterproductive.

“We have enough money. You know that. Why not experiment with a cameraless film?”

“OK, well, maybe I need the money. Besides, I’m not going to spend months painting and splicing film to have it seen by no one but sarcastic college kids.”

He stood from the dinner table; he couldn’t bear to be near her. At first, he didn’t go anywhere, ashamed to be seen retreating. Then he saw the mail sitting on the kitchen island. He shuffled through it and discovered a brochure from the New York Film Academy. It was the last thing he needed to see on the heels of their conversation about the laptop.

“Stop bringing me this shit!” he shouted suddenly.

“I was just trying to bring things to your attention.”

“Stay out of my business.”

If he had just said, “Stay out of my mail,” Dolores would have let it go, but she saw he was miserable, and she wanted to do what she could to encourage him not to give up on something that might bring him joy.

“I miss seeing you happy,” she said.

“What?”

“When you were cutting something together, even if it was just for yourself, you were happy. I miss that.”

“It won’t go anywhere.”

“You don’t know that.”

“It’s pointless. You wouldn’t get it. And I don’t know why you care.”

That stilled her. She was both thoroughly confused and hurt by his attitude.

“You don’t know why I care?” She glared at him in pained disbelief. “Sheldon…of course I care.”

At that, she fled into the bedroom and started crying. It was the kind of scene she vowed to never make when she was young and naive, and she had yet to even come close, but she had never been so hurt by anyone, and Sheldon had been the last man she expected to make her feel that way.

He followed her in, making excuses, saying how sorry he was. They eventually made up, but it was superficial. A rift persisted. Things were never the same.

Shortly after, Sheldon decided to sell the laptop. Dolores insisted he didn’t have to, that money wasn’t tight. She monitored the budget, if that’s what he was worried about. That only caused the relationship to necrotize faster. Until that point, Sheldon hadn’t actively worked to atrophy their marriage. Afterward, he made a concerted effort, avoiding Dolores so completely that she became accustomed to days-long stretches of silence. Then suddenly his attitude improved despite that their relationship hadn’t. In fact, they’d become more distant. Before she could convince herself she was imagining things, the evidence mounted such that she didn’t need to be Miss Marple to figure it out. It could only mean one thing. Reflecting on the path to this repast, she channeled her rage into slicing tomatoes, mashing potatoes, and harrowingly meticulous plating.

Sheldon the Philanderer—as she thought of him now—didn’t deserve a meal like the one she was currently preparing: Caprese salad bruschetta, New York strip steaks, and purple mashed potatoes (his favorite). This was a special meal, though; she wanted to be sure she nailed it. She’d made a small test batch of the potatoes. The taste-testing had replaced her lunch.

Gelato awaited in the freezer for her dessert, despite the fact that Sheldon always made nasty comments when she ate sweets.

You’re my husband, not my father. I’ll have dessert if I want. Especially if I’m cooking after a fifteen-hour shift yesterday. Besides, I’m not the one scarfing down bar food every day.

Meal prep complete, she set their places, lit candles, drew curtains, picked a wine and arranged flowers in a vase.

When Sheldon got home, she was nearly done plating. He was so surprised that he asked, “What’s the occasion?”

Despite the decay of their relationship, Dolores had not changed her habit of giving Sheldon space to unwind upon returning from work. She’d say hello and return a cursory kiss if one was offered. Anything more than that was likely to start a fight, unless he spoke first.

“Nothing. It was a light day, so I decided to get some things for dinner. Why? Did you have something in mind?” she asked, doing her best to be accommodating.

“No.”

Slowly, he removed his jacket as if the shock of Dolores playing Suzy Homemaker arrested his central nervous system. He kicked off his shoes, still a bit dazed. She poured them wine.

He went to the bathroom without a word. When he returned, he loosened his tie and gave Dolores a chaste peck on the cheek. She was less than exhilarated but hid it well.

“Sorry…crappy day.”

His apology and confession of bitterness with his workplace was an unusual occurrence. Then again, this was a special dinner, so Dolores took it in stride and served the most delectable dish of her life.

#

Dolores first met Detective Wachowiak in a formal capacity many years ago when the latter received a postmortem toxicology report from a medical examiner whose findings were, in her opinion, suspect. After having been stonewalled when she followed up on the results, Wachowiak asked around for a trustworthy, discreet second opinion. Dolores Braga was a nearly unanimous suggestion.

Wachowiak knew she liked Dolores within seconds of glancing at the report.

“Oh…him,” Dolores said.

“You know him?”

“He used to be my boss. I can just imagine how he responded when you asked follow-up questions.”

In short order, Dolores isolated the error in her mentor’s assessment and confirmed Detective Wachowiak’s hypothesis.

“I thought I’d gone crazy,” Wachowiak said, feeling relieved.

“Nope. He’s a stubborn one, but I’m surprised he didn’t realize his mistake.”

They commiserated about having to deal with men like him in the workplace. Then the detective apologized for taking up her time for such a trivial matter.

“Don’t mention it.”

Dolores was more than grateful for any change in her routine either at home or at work. Too often, she felt like she was perpetually going through the motions: the job she pursued, in which she once thought she could make a difference, had turned procedural; a relationship that had excited her became banal, then resentful.

So, when Wachowiak closed the case and invited Dolores out for drinks, she agreed. They were on a first-name basis after that. Kathleen was Wachowiak’s first name, but they preferred referring to each other by their titles, almost tongue-in-cheek.

Work kept them both occupied a lot of the time, but Wachowiak occasionally came across a case that prompted a visit, even if only to rule out some highly improbable theory. It had been a few years since Dolores had last seen Detective Wachowiak—until she appeared on her doorstep a week before the dinner.

#

Dolores and Sheldon sat down and ate their bruschetta in silence. Sheldon sipped his water, discernibly disappointed that the wine wasn’t paired with the appetizer but the main course, so they moved on without delay.

The longer he stayed quiet, the more she committed to winning their game of chicken. The silence kept him suspicious. Dolores wasn’t sure what he suspected yet, if anything. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of tipping her hand.

They both took a sip of wine.

“How was your day?” he asked, defeated by the silence.

“Light, remember?”

“Oh, right.”

He took a sip of water.

“What earned me this meal exactly?”

“It’s…to celebrate, I guess.”

“What’s there to celebrate?”

“The end of us.”

“What?”

Dolores was actually surprised by the confusion and hurt on his face, like the kind of pain a spoiled child displays when met with consequences.

“Sheldon, I don’t think you realize how exhausting it’s been to be the only one in our relationship who’s cared if the other is happy.”

“But you didn’t need to feel that way. I’ve been fine.”

“Please, enough lying.”

“What am I lying about?”

“I was directing that at myself also.”

“Oh, what, you’re not happy now? You’ve gotten everything you wanted!”

“Not after I lost you.”

“I apologized. We fixed things.”

“Does this feel fixed, Sheldon? Maybe your needs changed and I couldn’t meet them. But you didn’t talk to me about it like an adult. Maybe you can’t even admit the truth to yourself. You certainly can’t to me.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Instead,” she continued, undeterred. “You’ve shut me out more and more, gone out of your way to be miserable, and you’ve rutted yourself all over Manhattan.”

“Bullshit.”

“C’mon. You might’ve hidden it well for six months. Good work, but I had suspicions before Cameron called looking for you.”

He blanched.

“Thank you for having the decency not to respond. She called and acted like I was the other woman. I believe most of your sidepieces since then have at least known I existed. Then there was Elizabeth, who came over here thinking we should be friends because she was dumb enough to believe your open marriage bit. Oh! Now, I know that face. You feel betrayed.”

“Don’t psychoanalyze me.”

“I knew you were cheating and didn’t bring it up, so that makes me the liar, right? What did you think happened with Elizabeth and Cameron?”

“What about them? That was years ago.” He cleared his throat. “Why wait until now, Dolores?”

“I’d hoped your flings might get you to face reality, to stop trying to have it both ways.” She paused, gazing with him into his wine glass since his eyes would rise no higher. “I tried, Sheldon. And now I need to move on.”

“You’re leaving,” he said, full of derision.

“Yes.”

“I’m not granting you a divorce.”

Of course not, she thought. Too expensive.

“I never said divorce.”

He was quiet.

“Did you do something to the food?”

“Honestly, Sheldon, look at my steak,”—nearly gone—“And I’ve almost finished my potatoes.”

He looked at her wine glass. She’d downed it. Still, he was unconvinced. Something seemed wrong to him, only he couldn’t pin it down until his body slackened. Whatever was amiss pinned him instead, suppressing his impulse to stand as if he were bound by the rope in Hitchcock’s thriller.

He tried to raise his hands but found them fixed to the tabletop.

“What did you do to me?” His voice went from deliberate to slurred.

“You’ll be fine.”

“Wha’d you do?”

“Don’t worry.”

Panic penetrated his incipient slurring. “Answer me!”

“I’m making you watch.”

“What?”

“What good would killing you do? Your suffering would be so short-lived.”

“You poisoned me.”

“I anesthetized you.”

“I can’t move.”

“It’s called conscious sedation. I’d never poison you, but I’ll poison myself. If you were able to move, you’d stop me to spare yourself from watching, not because you care but because then you’d have one fewer excuse for your miserable life.”

“Lie-ur.” Sheldon started to cry. “How?”

“Me or you?”

He scowled at her.

“Your drugs were in your wine glass.”

Rage reddened his face.

“Remember when we’d go to the movies?” Dolores said, ignoring his anger. “We didn’t go much. You stopped wanting to after a while. When we did, you went overboard to show you still understood cinema, and I sat there and listened so you could feel significant, special, like you were teaching me all the secrets.” She smiled. “The plating was a little different. I finished half my potatoes. Those closer to me are safe. Those on the other side are filled with monkshood. When I eat them—”

“Nooo.”

“My mouth will tingle…”

“Stah!”

“Burn and go numb.”

“Yer sick!”

“In an hour, I’ll start vomiting.”

She finished her steak.

“My pulse and my breathing will slow.”

Sheldon uttered unintelligible profanities as she poured herself more wine.

“Then I’ll asphyxiate. By the time I’m dead, you’ll soon be able to get up and see how Kathleen looks.”

He groaned a wordless protest.

“What?”

“She came over. Imagine her surprise to find me here after what you said.”

#

Detective Wachowiak saw herself as a closer. She didn’t rush to conclusions like some of her colleagues, but being slower meant that she was right more often than most of them. She liked to think she carried that finely honed instinct into her personal life, but sometimes—especially since she’d surrendered her hope of any kind of long-term relationship—she slipped. When it was just that, a slip, she could learn from and get over it. But when she was deliberately deceived, conned from the beginning of a night to its end, that was intolerable.

Looking back, she should have known, and that intensified her resolve, her desire for retribution.

When Wachowiak examined the wallet her lover-boy had left behind, she assumed he must be some other Sheldon. That he might be Dolores’—that seemed highly unlikely. So, when Wachowiak arrived at the apartment building listed on his driver’s license only to find her friend, her rage redoubled.

“Wachowiak, what brings you here?”

“Dolores…”

The detective using her first name immediately told her something was wrong.

“We need to talk.”

They went inside, where Dolores was deeply wounded to discover that the only true friend she’d made in years had been tricked into becoming another notch in Sheldon’s bedpost.

Now, Dolores could no longer be sated by a clean break. She thirsted for revenge. With Wachowiak in her apartment, she knew just how she would exact it, too.

#

Dolores poured herself a glass of wine, and held it up, toasting him.

“She said you wore your wedding ring to honor my memory. How sweet.”

She took a swig.

A tear slid down Sheldon’s face as Dolores ate a forkful of purple potatoes and smiled. Sheldon’s terror was a triptych: one part immobility, one part a spectator to suicide, and one part fearful of what Dolores did to Kathleen.

He didn’t know how much time had elapsed. Each second felt like an eternity as his heart galumphed and his breath shallowed and his mind departed reality. He thought he saw Kathleen. She grinned just like Dolores.

Is she an angel? was his final wonderment as nothingness consumed him.

#

Nearly two hours later, the cocktail of methohexital, pentobarbital, and vecuronium wore off, but Sheldon wasn’t going anywhere. He couldn’t move, but there was sensation. When the vomitus came, Sheldon knew she’d lied. Anesthetized, his vitals slowed—so one involuntary heave was enough to asphyxiate him. He was incapable of clearing his airway in such a state.

Those were the two most agonizing hours of Sheldon’s life.

Before she and Kathleen started cleaning up, Dolores got an additional wine glass for her guest.

“He bought everything, right?” Kathleen said. She took her badge out of her overcoat pocket, not wanting it on her person at the moment.

“Had it not been for his lie, I don’t think he would have,” Dolores responded.

“People believe what they want to believe. I fell for his story because I was looking for a one-night stand. If I were serious, I would’ve noted his mistakes,” Kathleen said.

“Agreed, Detective Wachowiak.”

They toasted to their success. Dolores got the softened gelato off the kitchen counter and scooped out bowlfuls for both her and her friend. They ate, smirked, and enjoyed the silence.