Thirteen Crucifixions, 108

“Four months?  That’s not very long.”

            “It was long enough.  More Chardonnay?”

            “Yes please.  This is lovely.  I’ve never seen him get so obnoxious.”

            “He’s right, you know”, Sheila said to Persimmon.  “It does have something to do with this house.”

            “He said it’s haunted.”

            “I don’t know if haunted is the word.  A few nights ago I had a psychic over who gave the place a reading.  According to him, the apple tree in the back yard comes from Atlantis, and that’s why there’ve been weird goings-on here.”

            “You don’t honestly believe this, do you?”

            “I don’t know what to believe.  He gave some compelling circumstantial evidence.  You know that most recent painting of the tree I showed you and Bill last week—the one with all the symbolism—well, Ed, the psychic, without having seen the painting, described the whole thing to a “t” while he was looking at the apple tree.”

            “Brrr, that is scary.”

            “Yes, isn’t it?  Have another Triscuit with Camembert, will you?  There’s lots here.”

            “So you saved the good stuff for when Bill left?”

            “He knows that when I serve tea with digestives that he’d better make it a short visit. But thanks for staying behind.”

            “My pleasure.  What was it like being married to him?”

            “Like living in a state of suspended unreality.  He was adamant about keeping our fantasy romance alive.  It was really quite nauseating.  And I did get pretty disgusted with myself for playing along with him.  Once the drug of sexual euphoria started to wear of I was really finding him mediocre.  Stifling.”

            “You know he proposed to me last week?  I told him I needed time to think about it.”

            “And?”

            “I think I’m poised to break up with him. Enough’s enough.”

            “If that’s how you feel.”

            “Is it how you felt?”

            “Oh yes.  It just took Bill rushing at me with a knife to finally convince me that the marriage was finished.”

            “I never heard about that.”

            “Didn’t you?  Then he tried to gas himself to death in his car.”

            “What!”

            “And then he was certifiably mentally ill for several years.  Of course, he did snap out of it in time to dazzle and bewitch you.”

            “Why didn’t you tell me any of this sooner?”

            “You seemed very happy together.  You’ve each had a rough time in recent years. I didn’t want to spoil it for you.  But since you’re as you say poised to break up with him, then you’d might as well know.”

            “What did you see in him?”

            “Well, his dramatic good looks certainly didn’t hurt.  He was very charming.  He really treated me like a queen—much as I’ve seen him treat you.  And then I got all cozy and warm in this comfortable warm bath of the romantic illusion I allowed him to generate around me.”

            “He has a rare gift for that.”

            “Did you know that he was once a gigolo?”

            “No.  I didn’t.  But it certainly figures.”

            “Yes, it does, doesn’t it?  Would you like to stay here tonight, Persimmon?  Please, I would be honoured. There is lots and lots of room.”

            “I suppose I could.  I mean, I would like to. I really don’t want to see Bill again tonight, and he probably will be trying to reach me.”  She had another sip of wine, then peering over her glass said, “I really can’t believe that you want to sell this place.”

            “Well, I just might change my mind.  Shall we open another bottle?”

            “Oh yes, let’s.”