The Assassin’s Prayer

by Cindy Rosmus

Word is, even their wives don’t know.

He has no wife.  How pleased you are, when he moves in, next door.  Alone. No brats, screeching in the hallway.  No skateboards left by your door, so only you would break your neck.

Tall and lean, he wears suits of dove-gray, and cream.  Just his back, you see, usually, as he unlocks his door. You never hear him coming or going.  Like he trods on soft kittens’ paws.  Or slithers along like a snake.

You would never see him coming.

Lucky, you are, that you don’t stick out.  Are not that important. Dust, you are, cigarette ashes ground into a rug.  No threat to the President, or even the mayor.  Just dopey wives, who could never afford him. 

One night, you come home alone. So trashed, you can’t see straight.

In the hallway, you run smack into him.

How startled he looks, to see you this late.  With his sack of clothes and economy bottle of Tide. Since the laundry room is right under your bedroom, the washer’s chugging usually keeps you from sleeping.

But not tonight. You’re so bombed, you can hardly stand. You swear there’s two of him. Two sacks of laundry, two economy-sized…

He smiles. You’re cute when you’re drunk. Clutching your keys, one stuck between each finger, so nobody fucks with you, or you’ll gouge out their eyes.

But not his. His you wouldn’t want to. And as tall as he is, you’d never reach them.

You’re so drunk, you can’t find the right key to open your door. As you fumble with the keys, dropping them twice, he’s amused.

“Here,” he says, “Let me help you.”

English, he must be. In this huge drawing room you picture him, on a satin couch. Wearing a powdered wig, sipping tea, waiting for the hounds to rush home.

“This one?” he asks, about each of your keys.

Each time you shake your head, you feel dizzier. Finally there’s just one key left. 

A trick, he shows you. Something un-dignified.  Beside the keyhole he holds his finger, lines the key up with it, slides the key along his finger till it reaches the hole. As he unlocks the door, there’s this overwhelming urge to kiss him.

You can’t help yourself: you’re bombed. As you throw your arms around his waist, he stiffens, like a corpse.

“You’re . . . an . . . angel!” you slur.

“No, darling,” he says, patting your shoulder. “I’m really…not.”

It’s just not fair, you swear, each time you get hurt. Guys love smashing your heart to a pulp.

One morning, you’re out on the stoop, sobbing. 

Lucky you, to live by the park. People strolling by with poodles or babies in carriages eye you, nervously. Like you’re a danger to them . . . and their neat, pretty lives.

Then he comes home. From wherever he’s been. Long trips he takes, with almost no luggage. Always, he comes back, unexpectedly.

Wearily, he sits beside you. Like whatever he’s been doing took the stuffing out of him. Like he could never sleep long, or late enough.  Till he lays down for good. . . .

You sniffle.

A handkerchief, he hands you.  A scented one, with a monogrammed “S.” The name on his mailbox still reads “Croyden,” from the previous tenant. Smith? you guess, in the midst of your grief. Schelhammer?  Stone?

That he cares means so much, to a slut like you. A girl who sucks cocks behind bowling alleys. 

Above you, a warm breeze rustles the leaves. Spring should cheer you, slut or not. 

Nosy questions aren’t his thing. He just sits there, enjoying the fresh air while you cry, shamelessly. Like you have a right to somebody’s husband.

How he stares into space says he’s unhappy, too. Like he’d like to be tender, but it’s just not in him.If it was, he’d be tender to you.

What is in him might terrify you. Wherever he’s just been, whatever he’s done, weighs heavy on his mind. 

He distracts you. For a moment you stop crying, and just watch him.His dark eyes calculate; forehead wrinkles.

He’s way older than you, which means more years of pain. You wish you could take his away.

You’re thinking he’s got a kissable mouth, when he turns and smiles. “My dear,” he says, in his Olde Englishe way, “Everything will be all right.”

As he gets up, he seems as tall as that rustling tree. But much quieter. “You’ll see,” he promises.

One day, he’s gone. Not moved out, just gone. 

His door left slightly ajar. But you don’t snoop.In case he comes back, unexpectedly. A guy like him, can’t think you’re a pest. 

Like Betsy, the super, who’ll talk you to death. Who once made you pee your pants.

It’s Betsy, natch, who’s got the scoop on him.

Where he’d been, all those times he left town.

How he’d made his living since before you were born.

How he died…

You want to cry, but tears won’t come. Like that monogrammed handkerchief he gave you had soaked your tears for all time.

Real tabloid shit, this was. “CONTRACT KILLER GETS HIS,” says one paper. “STOCKBROKER HAD SECRET LIFE” says another.  A photo of him when he was young. Maybe your age. 

When he was your age, you think, how many people had he already whacked? Or was he a late-bloomer?

Police and reporters swarm this place. Your home that no longer feels like a home. Crowds, and questions, up your ass. 

“Did you know him well?” one reporter bitch asks you. A barracuda in spiked heels. “Did you ever suspect?” She tries following you inside. “Did he confide in you?”

You slam the door in her face.

It’s like a block of ice is stuck in your chest. 

Still, no tears will come.

You wonder…as he got into bed, every night, was he haunted?

Watched by the souls of those…strangers he’d killed? That teen who’d raped a little boy, or that famous cop who wouldn’t play ball with “Tony Soprano”?

As he set the alarm on his cell, was he alone? 

Was he ever…really alone?

On the other side of your bedroom wall, he slept most nights.  But how peacefully?

With a Glock under his pillow, crumpled newspapers on the floor around the bed… 

Did he ever pray?

Had a woman ever touched his heart?

Or just that bullet?

On your knees you are, but for once in church. That old one you haven’t been to in years.You’ve come to light a candle for him. 

The modern kind:you push a button, and the flame clicks on.Like with those fake fireplaces. The flame glows red, but you feel cold.  The coldest you’ve ever felt in your life.

Above you, the Blessed Mother smiles sadly.

You crazy? your own mother would say, if she were alive. Lighting candles for that monster?

She wouldn’t understand. Never understood anything about you.If she had, you wouldn’t be sucking cock outside City Lanes.

It’s too late! she would say about him.

From her you learned just one helpful thing:

Cold water is best for washing out blood.

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~ This piece was posted on Thursday, April 26th, 2007 and was filed under Blog, Featured, Short Story, Writing. You can make comments on it below. ~