Scruples

I was perched on an old wooden bench, facing away from a dried-up fountain, staring down in disbelief at the new entry in the little black book. The words that spelled out the next sinister proposition stared back at me, each letter accusatory and taunting.

Was I really surprised…?

I swallowed hard, because each carefully crafted challenge offered me one more step towards freedom.

A courier had discreetly passed me twenty-grand on the way here, payment for my latest misdeed. I had tucked it safely away in an inside pocket of my long coat. Another courier, one on a bike, had delivered the notebook. I tried asking who had given it to him, but he just shook his head, taking off like a frightened jackrabbit. It was clear the person pulling the strings would remain elusive, leaving no trail. I wondered how many others had been sucked into playing the game, ironically called ‘Scruples’.

It was a mockery to what was considered morality, because desperation doesn’t see things in black and white. In my world, one of desperation, the lines blurred, leaving only a bleak gray.

The puppet master had been exceptionally meticulous to this point, and I wondered if the contestants had been specifically targeted…

Because it had worked, hadn’t it?

I winced at the thought, feeling heat rising up my neck. I had already done things I never would have believed myself capable of; so yes, I was ashamed of my transgressions, but I was not sorry.

You see, everything I have done has been to protect my kids, to feed them, to keep our lights on.

And the twenty big ones would keep the bank from foreclosing on our house.

Almost nothing could make a person more desperate.

Which meant if I completed this next challenge…then it would be over. Because the next one was for two-hundred grand.

Sucking the crisp fall air into my lungs, I envisioned the difference two-hundred thousand would make. Undoubtedly, it would provide my children with a better life. My mind whirled, imagining the kind of home I could buy, in an area with better schools. Joy swelled within me at the thought that I might even start college funds.

The elation was quickly quelled as the words swam before me.

“Thou shalt kill.” Could I live with myself after committing murder?

For this mortal sin put before me, it was not the ‘who’ that gave me pause. Over the course of our twenty-year marriage, I had grown to despise my husband, Jack, with every fiber of my being. No, it was not the who…it was the ‘what’.

Darkness was already saturating my soul, but killing him…

The realization hit me that if I could bring myself to do this, it wouldn't be only about the money. It would be about watching my two kids grow up without cowering in fear every day.

My kids were my life. My son, J.J. was almost as tall as his father now. I feared the possibility of an altercation between the two. I had seen, smoldering in my son’s eyes, a hatred burning through that fear.

It was the same feeling towards Jack that I saw reflected in the bathroom mirror two days later, as I rubbed sore spots on my upper arms, where he had pinned me to the wall the previous night.

The repulsive stench of a drunk stays with you, as though it were a muscle memory. I swore I smelled the distinct odor in every corner of our small house.

A sudden need for fresh air overwhelmed me, bile rising in my throat. I flung open the window, sucking in the cool October air. Thoughts of more of the same, stretching into weeks, months, and even years…it was unthinkable.

Unshed tears burned in my eyes.

It was at that moment; a thought took hold in my mind. I had a few weeks left before the $200,000 would be forfeited. The annual Holiday party where Jack worked was always planned for right before Thanksgiving. He always drank and ate like a pig. I would need to do some research, but the timing would certainly be ideal.

I went about preparing for the holidays, sticking to the same routine. The turkey was in the fridge, and a few presents hidden in the same spot in the attic, just like every year.

I found myself trying to look extra nice for the party. I bought a slinky, but tasteful dress and carefully applied the right amount of make-up.

Jack actually whistled when he saw me. “Wow, Lillian…you look great,” he said. He grabbed me and pulled me into a big bear hug. For once, he didn’t reek but smelled fresh after his shower. I was hit with a stroke of nostalgia, and had to remind myself it would not last. “I don’t care how much this dress cost. It was worth it.”

“Thank you,” I said, unable to meet his gaze.

He kept an arm around me as we headed into an unusually balmy November evening, whispering, “I’ll show you just how much I like it later.”

My skin crawled at the thought.

He was in an unusually good mood as we headed to the hotel where the party was always held. I figured it was because he was looking forward to his upcoming vacation days. A wave of exhaustion ran through me, thinking about him home.

Finally, we arrived, and he came around to open the door for me, which he rarely did. He took my arm as we stepped inside.

I knew some of his co-workers, so I chatted with the women as Jack headed for the bar. I plastered a smile on my face even though my insides were churning. I followed as everyone made their way to the buffet, knowing I would be unable to eat much. I took some lighter fare and found the seats with our place cards, at a round table.

I was halfway through my meal when I felt hands squeeze my shoulders. I froze.

“Doesn’t my wife look gorgeous tonight,” Jack said. Murmured agreements went around the table.

He sat down next to me and began plowing through his food as though he was starving. Embarrassed, I stared down at my plate and picked through the food. At least he was at the happy drunk stage, but that would soon change.

When I saw him, my gut clenched, and I tried to duck away. After every dare, there was always something later to remind me of my iniquities. An employee following me around a store, where I had discreetly shoplifted. A police officer showing up at my door…collecting for a police fund, he’d said.

No…they always call.

It was too late; Trevor had already seen me. He strode over and grabbed my hand, planting a kiss on the underside of my wrist. I pulled it away.

“I thought I’d never see you again,” he said, looking hurt.

“Look Trevor,” I began, before being interrupted by none other than my husband. He was drunk now, really drunk.

“Hi, I’m Jack. Lillian’s husband,” he said, slurring his speech.

Trevor had seen the bruises during the night I'd spent with him. The challenge to get the twenty-grand was to pick up someone at a bar for a one-night stand. I had thought of him many times since...but knew I could never be with him again. Thankfully, he did not rat me out.

“Please excuse me, sir,” he said politely. “I was just asking the lovely lady if she was here with anyone.”

“Well, she is,” Jack spat angrily, grabbing me possessively. “No one takes what's mines,” he hissed.

My moment finally arrived right as we were planning to leave.

“Ugh,” Jack said, doubling over. “I probably have an ulcer,” he muttered.

I helped him over to a seat at the bar, closest to the door, and handed him some Rolaids. “Take a couple, darling. You’ll feel better,” I said softly.

“Hey,” he called to the bartender. “Bring me a shot of whiskey.”

When the young man brought it, I was certain to say, loud enough to be heard, “Jack, maybe you should drink water. Maybe you’ve had enough…?”

“I’ll say when I’ve had enough!”

The bartender briefly caught my eye.

“At least let me drive home.”

Jack laughed maliciously. I suppressed a smile, knowing several people nearby had heard the exchange. Alibis…in case they became necessary.

I was more than a little uneasy as Jack swerved out of the parking lot. Somehow, he managed to make it to the long stretch of road leading home. He always preferred back roads because he hated traffic.

I waited anxiously for it to hit him. My sister, a nurse, hated Jack’s guts. She had casually slipped in, during a conversation about his drinking and stomach trouble, that liquor and antacids don’t mix. She told me it raises a person’s blood pressure, and can cause tachycardia, mimicking a heart attack…

“Lil,” Jack said breathlessly. “My chest hurts. I think I…I might be having a heart attack!” He gasped and his head fell onto the steering wheel. I grabbed it, turning right into a big tree. I knew I would get hurt, and it would look like a drunk driving accident.

I made sure the tree crushed the life out of that son-of-a-bitch.

One year later…

I still don’t know if the baby is Trevor’s or Jack’s, but it doesn’t really matter.

I named him Boone, which means, ‘a miracle’, because it was miraculous he had survived Jack’s abuse, and the car crash. He was a happy, bubbly little boy. The older two kids lathered him with attention.

I'd been banged-up enough in the car crash that not even the medical examiner questioned it had been anything other than an accident. I hadn’t realized I was pregnant until I was hospitalized. By the time I was released, and we held Jack’s memorial, the tiny bump that would be Boone was noticeable. People flocked around us to offer support I did not deserve, but I hadn’t wanted to reject their kindness.

I managed to play the part of the grieving widow. Because…through all my guilt, and the anger I felt towards Jack for all he’d done, there was a piece of my heart that would always belong to him.

I'm aware that might sound odd, coming from the woman who had murdered him, but once, we’d been happy and in love. That is the part that made me feel genuine grief for the man who became my abuser.

When I moved to be near my sister, no one questioned it. Quietly, I let word seep out that Jack had had a large insurance policy. I purchased a recently remodeled home near the lake, with access to a private beach.

I'd never seen my kids so happy and free. Life had never been so good.

That is, until one day when, right before Christmas, an unmarked package arrived at my door. I opened it up, and that black, leather-bound notebook stared up at me with the next dare.

“For the amount of two-million dollars, you will hunt down and kill another contestant who has played Scruples. For each additional one killed, another two-million will be accrued.”

“Scruples,” I wrote under the entry, which was code for, “I am done.”

The next day, I left it in a blank manila envelope in front of my door, after the kids went to school. I breathed a sigh of relief as I watched, through a window, as a courier took it away.

It didn’t hit me until an hour later, when a glass ornament slipped from my hand and shattered against the hardwood floor.

I might be done with the game…

…but was the game done with me?