Kevin Sandefur
The Magic of Giving
3rd Place, 2021 Short Story Award, Winter 2022 issue
Donna nicked her finger while peeling the last apple. It wasn’t a deep cut — more of a shallow scallop, really — but it bled far out of proportion to its size, and she had to suck on it for several minutes before it stopped.
She hadn’t cooked much lately, and she was out of practice. In fact, she hadn’t baked anything for the better part of a year — not since Jasper had left.
Rosencrantz and Guildenstern were fascinated by the process. Both cats spent the day sitting on the counter, taking tongue baths and watching Donna roll out the pie crust by hand before preparing the filling and topping. Dutch apple had been Jasper’s favorite, and as she worked, she wondered why she was going to so much trouble.
It wasn’t like he’d shown her any similar kindness. Their final year together had been excruciating. They’d argued more and more, at first about money, but then about increasingly trivial things, until finally they spent more time scoring points on each other than anything else. Towards the end she’d begun to suspect he was having an affair.
He’d finally disappeared Super Bowl weekend. She didn’t see him again until he came to collect his things a week later, just before Valentine’s Day. He didn’t say much, because he didn’t stay long. She’d already packed his belongings and left them sitting inside the door.
They’d barely spoken since. After a month or so, once the shock began to wear off, she started thinking about divorce. She couldn’t afford a lawyer, but there was no way she was going to ask any of her attorney friends to take the case.
She’d been in that limbo for months, feeling her way around the edges of her pain, refusing to let herself think about where he was, or who he was with.
His call had been a complete surprise. She was even more surprised to hear herself invite him over for dinner. He’d started by asking how she was, but it felt perfunctory. Then he told her he was calling because his uncle had died and left him a substantial sum of money — nearly a million dollars — and that it was probably time to sort out the legal status of their marriage. She agreed and suggested it might be more productive to have the conversation in person, over a meal.
He’d hesitated briefly, but then told her that yes, he’d like that. She wasn’t sure at the time what possessed her to extend the invitation. In the few days since, after she’d had time to reflect, she decided this was all for the good. It might even be her best chance for closure. She put the pie in the oven.
***
Jasper had to lean to one side to see past his own reflection in the shop window. He turned slightly in order to get a better angle, forcing the flow of Christmas shoppers on the sidewalk to move around him. He was looking for a specific dessert wine to take to dinner, but he couldn’t remember the name. It’d been Donna’s favorite. He was hoping he might recognize the label, but there weren’t any bottles in the window that looked familiar, and he was running late.
He went inside the shop to throw himself on the mercy of the salesclerk. “I’ve been trying to remember a particular dessert wine,” he said. “I think it had a purple label, with apples and cherries on it?”
“That could be any of a number of our wines,” the clerk said apologetically. “Perhaps if you could describe its qualities, I could find you something close to it.”
Jasper had never paid much attention to the qualities of wine. That’d been Donna’s domain. He did have one thought. “It needs to have a very strong flavor.”
“Your taste is for the more robust vintages, then?” the clerk asked.
“It’s actually for … my wife,” Jasper answered, “but yes. Robust would be good.”
“With apples and cherries, of course.”
“Yes, of course.”
“Let me see what I can find,” the clerk said. “I’ll just be a moment.”
While the clerk looked, Jasper questioned why he’d hesitated to call Donna his wife. They’d been separated for ten months, but neither had brought up divorce until now. He wondered if there was still any chance that she’d take him back, then quickly dismissed the thought. That ship sailed long ago.
“I think this might meet your requirements,” the clerk said, holding out a small, red bottle.
Jasper looked at the price tag. It was more than double what he’d hoped to spend, and he hesitated. He’d signed all the paperwork for the inheritance and the money was now his, but it wouldn’t be in his account until the middle of next week. Think of it as an investment, he finally told himself. Besides, he was already late, and he still had one more stop to make. “I’ll take it,” he said.
***
The dinner went better than she’d expected, all things considered. They’d been understandably awkward when he first arrived, but she appreciated the gesture of the dessert wine. She’d tried to keep the menu simple to avoid mistakes: chicken fried steaks, potatoes au gratin, steamed vegetables — all favorites of his.
“It’s delicious,” he told her.
“Thank you. Rosie and Gildy helped.”
“Cats make good helpers,” he agreed. “Thank you. For all of this.” He gestured at the remains of the dinner spread across the table.
“You’re welcome. I didn’t see any reason to make this harder than it already is.”
He dabbed at his mouth with his napkin. “I know this hasn’t been easy for you.”
“It is what it is,” she said. “I’m guessing divorce is never easy.”
“Then we agree that’s where this needs to go?”
She nodded. “I think that’s pretty obvious. It’s just a matter of working out the details.”
“Which I think you’ll also agree just got more interesting. The inheritance is a lot of money; so much that I think we probably should leave all that to the lawyers.”
She ran a finger around the rim of her water glass. “I’m not sure I can afford an attorney,” she admitted.
“I can cover all the legal fees for both of us now,” he said, waving his hand dismissively.
“That’s very generous of you. As long as I get to choose my own lawyer.”
“Of course,” he agreed. “I’m sure we can come to some mutually agreeable arrangement.”
“In that case,” she said, “I think it’s time for dessert. Why don’t you pour the wine while I bring in the pie?”
***
He scraped the last crumbs from the plate with his fork. “That was amazing,” he said. “Dutch apple is still my favorite. Thank you for remembering.”
“I’m just glad we did this.”
“Me, too.” He raised his glass in a toast. “Here’s to being civil.”
“To civility,” she agreed, and drained the remainder of her glass. “Good choice on the wine, by the way,” she added. “I love the way its warmth spreads all the way down.”
“I’m glad you like it.”
She looked around the table. “Time to clean up, I guess.” She started to stand but only got halfway up before sitting back down abruptly.
“What is it?” he asked.
“I’m not sure.” She seemed genuinely confused. “My legs don’t seem to be cooperating.”
He nodded. “That would be the neurotoxin.”
“What?”
“I put it in your wine while you were fetching the pie. The paralysis is very quick. It begins in your arms and legs and then spreads, gradually slowing down your heart and lungs until they stop. It’s supposed to be relatively painless; rather like going to sleep.”
She stared at him blankly without speaking.
He shrugged and continued. “I assure you it’s no longer personal. You of all people must know that I’ve never been much for sharing.”
She looked down at her unmoving legs as though willing them to stand. Then she began to laugh.
He hadn’t expected that. “What on earth?” he asked.
She didn’t answer, but just kept laughing.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” he said and started to stand, only to pitch forward, barely catching himself before he fell onto the table top.
She thought that was the funniest thing she’d ever seen.
“What have you done?” he whispered.
“Your pie,” she said, smiling. “I poisoned your damn pie.”
“But wh–?” he started to ask, but stopped when she raised one eyebrow.
“Seriously?” she asked and started laughing again.
“Okay, I get it,” he agreed. “You’re right. We should probably call an ambulance.”
“Ya think?”
“My phone is still in my coat pocket. Hanging by the door.”
“Mine is probably on top of the wine rack. Sitting by the door.”
They both turned to look into the next room. The front door seemed miles away. He pushed away from the table and dropped to the floor. Only his arms were still working as he dragged himself towards the proscenium arch separating the rooms. She slid down out of her chair and pulled herself forward by the most direct route, under the table.
“My arms are failing,” he said.
“Mine, too. I can’t feel my fingers.” She was dragging herself by her elbows.
He used the last of his arm control to roll over onto his back. Wriggling just his shoulders, he managed to move another six or eight inches before he had to give up and lie helplessly in the archway. She tried to pull herself over him, but could only get halfway across before her arms failed. She collapsed, spent, her head resting on his chest. Both of them were breathing heavily from the exertion.
“Maybe someone can hear us,” he suggested and began to yell. “Help! Somebody help in here! Anybody?”
She was barely able to shake her head the tiniest bit. “It’s no good. All the windows are closed, and Mr. Patterson down the hall is gone for the weekend.”
“What about Mrs. McGillicuddy downstairs?”
“She can barely hear you when you’re in the same room.”
Their breathing began to slow. “So, this is it, then?” he asked.
“I guess so.”
“Aren’t we a pair?”
There didn’t seem to be a good answer to that question.
“Was it really all that bad,” he finally asked. “I mean, back when we were still together?”
“Not at first,” she admitted. “But at the end? Yeah, it was pretty awful.”
“I guess so.”
Neither spoke for a while after that. In the silence, with her head on his chest, she could hear his heartbeat. “It’s been a long time since I listened to your heart,” she said.
“What’s it doing?”
“Slowing down.”
He sighed. “It shouldn’t be long now.”
“Are you sorry?” she asked.
He had to consider that. “Strangely, no. I don’t think I am. You?”
“No. Me either. What the hell is wrong with us?”
He chuckled.
“What on earth are you laughing at now?” she asked.
“This is how they’ll find us,” he said, “in each other’s arms.”
“Well, that’s ironic. Plus, it’s a locked room. They’ll probably think it was double suicide.”
“Is that so bad?”
“Better than double murder, I guess. In some small way, maybe even kinda romantic.”
“Do you really think so?” he asked.
“No,” she decided. “Not really.”
“Me, either.”
“How long do you think before someone comes looking?”
He mapped the calendar in his head. “Not before Monday night. At least two days. Maybe longer.”
“Damn.”
“I know, right?”
“No, you don’t understand. Who’s gonna feed the cats?”
There was a long pause. “I guess we are,” he said.
“Well, isn’t that special?”
“Merry Christmas.”
She giggled at that. “You always could make me laugh.”
“I always enjoyed doing it,” he admitted, and smiled. “I still love the sound of your laughter.”
“Merry Christmas,” she said, and closed her eyes.
Kevin Sandefur currently works as the Capital Projects Accountant for the Champaign Unit 4 School District. His first published stories recently appeared or are forthcoming this year in aftermath Online Magazine, PULP Literature, and the Bath Flash Fiction anthology, Restore to Factory Settings. He lives with his wife and two cats in Champaign County, Illinois, which is a magical place where miracles happen almost every day, and hardly anyone seems to find that remarkable.