Chapter 17 starts with Margie Grenk waiting for her husband to arrive home.
Many Cones is a podcast novel based on true crime. The murders inspiring this crime fiction took place 30 miles from Chicago in Northwest Indiana, and captivated the area from the initial brutal crime scene all the way through and beyond discovery of a shockingly bizarre motive.
At midnight, Margie broke down and cried. It came all of a sudden, like a huge dam crumbling. Warning signs present, but not recognized.
From nine to ten thirty, she had soaked in a lilac scented bubble bath. Then called her sister for the fourth time to make sure everything was okay with the kids. Her sister told her not to call again.
First make-up, then start getting dressed. If you can call it getting dressed. Red, frilly, almost see through, silk bra. As she snapped it in place and scanned the reflection in the mirror, she thought, I should have bought a push-up bra. Goddamn men, why do they have to make such a big deal over stupid lumps of skin. Still, they are nice and pert.
Slowly slip on the crimson garter belt. Next, same color and material panties. As she scanned again, she half blushed at the obvious dark imprint of her black, matted pubic hair. Then, nude nylons and black high heels. Scan, once again. My God, I look like a hooker. She smiled at her reflection. But a goddamn world class hooker. Jay honey, you deserve this.
She was glad she didn’t tell him about her little masquerade. He would fall on his knees when he saw the goods. The grin turned to a frown, as she realized she’d have to wait idly in the house for another fifteen minutes, in her heels. Well, at least it will add definition to my legs.
Satisfied with the undergarments, she donned a sheer white, voile peignoir. Costume complete, she returned to the mirror one more time. She waved goodbye to herself, as she left to pine for her absent knight.
Margie took a chilled bottle of a mid range claret from the refrigerator, and opened it with a winged corkscrew. She poured herself a glass, and put the bottle in an ice bucket on the dining room table. ‘To breathe,” she laughed to herself.
When buying the wine, Margie had second thoughts about plying her husband, but decided he was getting it under control. One bottle of good wine between two people wasn’t really drinking, anyway. It was healthy.
Margie paired her wine with a Frank Sinatra album. She stood, took a sip of wine, and tried to figure out where a person, dressed or undressed as she was, would sit. Dining room chair or couch? Dining room chair was out, she decided. The prostitute’s union would picket my house, if they saw me in a dining room chair. That left the couch. She eased onto the soft cushions, careful not to spill the wine, and wondered if there was a lady-like way to rise when the time came.
The first glass was polished off by 11:15. She leaned forward, watched her pert breasts rub against her knees, and struggled to rise from the soft concave of the couch. Christ, that won’t do. I wonder if my tits hit my knees every time I get up. I’ll have to pay better attention next time I’m fully clothed.
Chapter 17
At midnight, Margie broke down and cried. It came all of a sudden, like a huge dam crumbling. Warning signs present, but not recognized.
From nine to ten thirty, she had soaked in a lilac scented bubble bath. Then called her sister for the fourth time to make sure everything was okay with the kids. Her sister told her not to call again.
First make-up, then start getting dressed. If you can call it getting dressed. Red, frilly, almost see through, silk bra. As she snapped it in place and scanned the reflection in the mirror, she thought, I should have bought a push-up bra. Goddamn men, why do they have to make such a big deal over stupid lumps of skin. Still, they are nice and pert.
Slowly slip on the crimson garter belt. Next, same color and material panties. As she scanned again, she half blushed at the obvious dark imprint of her black, matted pubic hair. Then, nude nylons and black high heels. Scan, once again. My God, I look like a hooker. She smiled at her reflection. But a goddamn world class hooker. Jay honey, you deserve this.
She was glad she didn’t tell him about her little masquerade. He would fall on his knees when he saw the goods. The grin turned to a frown, as she realized she’d have to wait idly in the house for another fifteen minutes, in her heels. Well, at least it will add definition to my legs.
Satisfied with the undergarments, she donned a sheer white, voile peignoir. Costume complete, she returned to the mirror one more time. She waved goodbye to herself, as she left to pine for her absent knight.
Margie took a chilled bottle of a mid range claret from the refrigerator, and opened it with a winged corkscrew. She poured herself a glass, and put the bottle in an ice bucket on the dining room table. ‘To breathe,” she laughed to herself.
When buying the wine, Margie had second thoughts about plying her husband, but decided he was getting it under control. One bottle of good wine between two people wasn’t really drinking, anyway. It was healthy.
Margie paired her wine with a Frank Sinatra album. She stood, took a sip of wine, and tried to figure out where a person, dressed or undressed as she was, would sit. Dining room chair or couch? Dining room chair was out, she decided. The prostitute’s union would picket my house, if they saw me in a dining room chair. That left the couch. She eased onto the soft cushions, careful not to spill the wine, and wondered if there was a lady-like way to rise when the time came.
The first glass was polished off by 11:15. She leaned forward, watched her pert breasts rub against her knees, and struggled to rise from the soft concave of the couch. Christ, that won’t do. I wonder if my tits hit my knees every time I get up. I’ll have to pay better attention next time I’m fully clothed.
Margie poured a second glass of wine just as ‘Ol Blue Eyes finished crooning. Next was Johnny Mathis, and a discouraged transfer to the dining room chair. The second glass was finished quicker than the first. She debated a third glass and decided what the hell, he’s not sharing his with me. She finished the bottle while standing at the window looking out at the striated blackness. Johnny Mathis had stopped singing. He wasn’t replaced.
She slouched slowly back to the couch. I hope the bastard’s dick is good and hard when he comes in. I wouldn’t let him touch me if he was the last man on earth.
Margie decided to remain in her bra and panties until he got home, to show him what could have been. To show him what he would never see again. The bastard. All he had to do was stand up, at that stupid bar, after five goddamn drinks, five, and come home.
None of it meant anything to him; not the kids, not her, not their family, nothing. Maybe I should go see a lawyer tomorrow. Ray knew lawyers. She would ask Ray about lawyers, and then go see one. Goddamn him. Making me dress up like a whore.
And then the tears started. Huge sobs. It lasted for fifteen minutes. Cried out and aching to be touched and caressed, by anyone, she went into the bathroom and repaired the salt water damage to her face. She noticed her breasts didn’t seem pert anymore.
Margie went back to the kitchen in search of more wine. Damn, she thought. I should have bought two bottles. She returned to the dining room to wait for the bastard. A disgusting thought started creeping up from her bowels. If he’s killed in a car accident, we’d all be better off...
Margie heard the car pull in the driveway, after what seemed like an eternity. The clock in the kitchen said 12:30. Please, just hug me and tell me the car broke down. She stood and faced the side entrance off the kitchen, not sure if she was going to spit at him or put his arms around her waist and screw him on the kitchen floor. Then she knew. She would not be cheated tonight. Tonight she was a sexual being. Not mother. Not cop. Not wife.
The knock at the front door threw her. But wait. He did have car trouble. Somebody brought him home. She adjusted the bra, panties, and garter belt, and opened the front door. Ray Grandisha stood on the stoop.
Synapses were not connecting. Margie was speechless, motionless. A slight breeze blew in through the open door and quietly ruffled her peignoir. She regained enough composure to say, “Ray, what... why are you here?”
Ray stepped through the door in salesman fashion, and said, “Margie, can I come in? I have to talk to you.” She still couldn’t fathom why he would be at her front door but answered, “Yes, sure.”
Grandisha came all the way into the residence. Margie’s hand was still on the doorknob. He removed her hand from the brass colored anchor, closed the door, and led her to the dining room table. “Is there a robe or housecoat somewhere I can get you?” Margie looked down at her red lingerie and closed the white sheer frock over herself. “No. I don’t need a robe. Nobody would look twice at me, even if I was naked.”
Ray let the remark pass. He was more concerned with breaking the bad information than with modesty. He gestured to the chair she had been sitting in. “Please sit down.”
Margie sat, and the peignoir opened. She made no effort to reseal it. Grandisha noisily pulled out a chair and sat next to her, half facing her. He took her hand and began, “Your husband was... Jason was killed tonight.”
She replied in a predestined monotone. “I know. I wished the car accident on him. Was he drunk?”
“No, Margie. There was no car accident.”
“Well then where is he?”
“He’s dead, Margie,” Grandisha repeated. “There was another Donas thing tonight. Whoever did it shot him. As he was walking out to come home to you.”
Margie was silent for a few seconds, then asked, “What time?”
“Between 10:30 and 10:40,” Ray answered.
A dry choking sound crept between Margie’s lips. She was trying to cry, needing to cry, but the well was dry. Grandisha stood, went to the kitchen sink and returned with a glass of water. She drank a third of it. A few more rasping noises emitted from her throat. For some reason she asked, “How do you know he was leaving?”
“We have a witness of sorts. He walked by your husband at 10:35. Jason was finishing his fifth drink. The witness heard the bartender comment on him leaving, after five drinks.” Ray paused, then was about to continue. He stopped, his mouth open.
Margie looked at Ray for the first time. “Go ahead. Tell me. Nothing else can hurt, not anymore.”
Grandisha took a breath and continued, “His body was near the back exit. The wounds indicate he was shot as he was walking to the door.”
An oddly focused Margie declared, “If only they would have waited till 11:00. But it doesn’t matter. I will not be cheated tonight.”
“What? I’m not following you.” Ray stammered.
“He was supposed to have been home at 11:00.”
The more she spoke, the more calm Margie appeared. Underneath the peaceful veneer, the aching began to rage. All her emotions fused into one hurt. She couldn’t separate pain from passion.
Ray recognized nothing but the pain. “What can I do to help, Margie? Tell me if there’s anything you need.”
Margie crossed her arms and rubbed her shoulders. She rocked back once and bowed her head. “I need to be touched. I need someone to tell me everything’s okay.”
Grandisha couldn’t find the right words to interject, so Margie kept going.
“Ray.... In an hour or so, I have to go to the Police Station, and probably the morgue, and God knows where else. I can’t do it. I’ll never be able to leave this chair, unless someone is kind to me...” She was staring at him, completely stripped of pretense. “Unless someone helps me lay back and sail off to some lush tropical island. Please Ray. I respect you more than anyone. Please, do it.”
“Margie, this is ridiculous,” Ray blustered. “I can’t. I’m your superior officer. I just told you your husband is dead. Your head is all screwed up. I’d shoot anyone who took advantage of you in this situation.”
“My head’s fine. I’m not screwed up.... Look, very soon, I’ll grieve properly for my husband and my family. But right now I need this.” Margie stopped talking, tipped the empty wine bottle over her empty glass, laid the dead soldier on the table, and then glared at Ray. “I told you I had to get laid. Tonight was my last chance. I’ll die in this chair. Please Ray. Don’t let me feel any worse.”
Grandisha continued to resist. “You’re a beautiful woman. Under any other circumstances, I’d chase you around like a dog in heat. But this isn’t right.”
Margie stood and grabbed his hand. “What’s right? What’s wrong? Neither matters in this microcosm right now. Later, we’ll go back to right and wrong, but please, right now, do it.”
All of a sudden it seemed natural. Ray stood and followed her to the couch. They both undressed. He was quiet and tender, more than he had ever been. She was finally able to cry, then sailed off to a place of complete and utter release. When they were finished, they dressed slowly, facing each other without shame, like Adam and Eve before the apple. Margie thanked him openly and sincerely, and convinced him she would be able to handle everything, now. He left, feeling decent.