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"I'm still going to kill you, Arnold," Rhonda stated from out of nowhere, as plainly and matter-of-factly as if she were informing him that she was stepping out to buy a quart of milk.
It was late evening. Outside the Sunset Arms was a brisk fall Friday evening. Somewhere inside was a suite in which a couple was sharing a relaxing soak in a generous Victorian-style bathtub.
Rhonda Wellington Lloyd. 24.
Arnold Philip Shortman. 23.
It had been a busy day and their daughter Arnda was fast asleep in her room. Just the excuse for a little us time for the young adult couple. So there they were. Rhonda had her back towards her beau, the better for him to sponge her shoulders. Judging by her moans of relief, he'd been doing a cracking good job before and during the death threat.
"Oh really?" Arnold replied, knowing that this wasn't the first time his live-in girlfriend was making that particular threat, nor would it be the last. "And how will my demise come about this time?" he asked, not in the least bit concerned by Rhonda's intentions.
"Later," she promised. "Right now…a little lower, please!"
She leaned forward to expose more of her back for his convenience. He obliged and worked his way lower down along her spine. The result was profound. "Oh yeah!" she grunted in contentment. "Right there…a little harder…right there!"
He kept obliging, and in no time her throaty grunts became a sustained, husky purr as she was relieved of the mother of all knots in her back muscles. "God, Arnold!" she proclaimed as soon as she could enunciate again. "I swear your hands are magic!"
"Too bad I must die," Arnold reminded her of her nefarious intent. "You're still going to kill me, remember?"
"Not now!" Rhonda insisted. "Sponge first, murder plot later!"
Against that, he could not argue.
It had been a long, busy day, but not an unusual one. As ever, it began with Arnold and Rhonda waking up before the latter would coax their seven-year-old daughter awake. This was how it had to be, for the kiddo had over time determined that Daddy was the softer touch when she wanted "just five more minutes" and she would play this advantage for all its worth. Mommy was a different story; she heard no such pleas. As a result, her gentle, soothing "Wake up, my precious" could just as well have been a sudden thunderclap for the ease with which it got the little sprog out of bed.
With the awakening successful, the rest of the pre-school rituals fell into place: ablutions, dressing, feeding. And after kissing Rhonda/Mommy goodbye, Arnold and Arnda would set off for P.S. 118. After successfully escorting his little princess to her destination, Arnold continued on his commute to college where he was well on track to his Master's Degree in Psychology.
That left Rhonda, at home but far from idle.
Her day was no less hectic as she tended to her boutique. Today comprised many a consultation, together with a few unexpected alterations. There was also a pickup by a particularly difficult client notorious for choosing the last minute to find some or other grounds for a discount. And here was where Rhonda positively excelled: not even the most demanding and capricious diva wannabe was a match for her shrewdness, her social grace, and her flattering prose. Even Brooke was in such awe of her success that she would often send referrals to her daughter. Buckley too would assist her through incentives: whatever profit her business made by the end of each financial year, he'd promised to match as a bonus to her. Good news for Rhonda, pride for her parents.
Anyway, come late afternoon and she was done for the day, for it was time to pick up Arnda from school. Mother-and-daughter quality time was of supreme importance and being late for her little munchkin would just not do! Arnda had soccer practice twice a week, during which Rhonda would be impressed by her scion's speed (from Mommy) and her ability to read a game (from Daddy). On other days a visit to Rhonda's parents was in order, for homework, and for bonding.
Fridays were always special because Daddy got home early for his special ladies and today had been no exception. Today was a perfect afternoon for flying a kite and for climbing trees and for hot cocoa before returning to the Sunset Arms to reunite with the Shortman clan over dinner.
By evening, the young family was exhausted.
By late evening, Arnda was fast asleep and…
"Now are you going to tell me how you intend to kill me this time?" Arnold resumed his questioning. "I think it might help me plan for the occasion."
He was done sponging his dearest's back and had been lounging against the back of the tub. His dearest, in turn, had been reclining against him. "Oh, if you insist," Rhonda relented. "It involves an overdose of a certain blue pill," she added, rather cryptically at that.
"You mean those pills for which I get ten ads every day in my texts promising new low, low prices?" queried Arnold.
"Hey, what gives?" Rhonda queried back. "I only send you eight!"
"Yeah, I know," replied Arnold. "It's the two I get from your mother that has got me freaked out."
At that, Rhonda let out a most undignified snort and doubled over in stitches. Arnold didn't mind the diversion. Rhonda was usually restrained and formal with her laughter. When she cut loose with it, as she was doing now, the spontaneity was heady on the ear and worth savoring. He didn't have the heart to stop her, so he let the laughter run its course.
"But joking aside, you're seriously not suggesting…" Arnold continued, remembering that he was supposed to be indignant over Rhonda's little conspiracy.
"Perish the thought," assured Rhonda as she decided she'd had a long enough bath and exited the tub to towel herself off. Arnold continued with his interrogation from inside the tub while he gazed at her in admiration. Admiration of her figure, a perfectly proportioned mixture of svelte and curvaceous. Add to that her long black hair, damp from the environment, and it became clear why moments like these were to be forever prized.
"So then what would you need the pills for?" he asked.
"Oh, they're a crucial part of my plan," Rhonda explained amid her toweling ritual. "They're so that you can keep going whether you want to or not. Right until your ticker overloads and poor little old you kicks the bucket with the biggest smile plastered all over your face."
By this time, she had enrobed herself in her towel. She paused for a brief intermission during which she dropped the towel and flashed him full-frontally with the comment: "And don't flatter yourself, Mister! There's no way you're not smiling at this, and you know it!"
While Arnold was deeply considering the truth of the matter, Rhonda reapplied the towel on her body and resumed explaining her master plan. "Anyway, after the deed is done, I'll play the role of the distraught widow and call the authorities in uncontrollable tears. I'll be sure to act absolutely beside myself with grief and shock as the police rule it natural causes."
"Why not faint when they make that ruling?" Arnold offered. "You know, for added effect."
"Good idea," the budding femme fatale concurred after some consideration. "When I come to, I might even suggest it was my fault for not stopping you. And I guarantee you this, Mister Shortman!" – she smiled a smile usually reserved for a campy criminal mastermind – "One look at me and they'll say among themselves that there's no way the poor schmuck would have wanted to stop! They'll see your expression and say at least this guy died doing what he loved most. Case closed."
With that, she exited the bathroom and left Arnold to mull over her devilish designs.
Rhonda's murderous intentions were not playful at first. They go way back to when she was well into her third trimester with Arnda. By that time, she had already developed some unique food cravings that could best be provided by the Shortmans, hence her decision to move in with Arnold at the newly renovated Sunset Arms. After all, who better to provide her with a constant supply of pickled herring sandwiches (Grandpa Phil – Rest in Peace) or preserved lemons (Stella, channeling a recipe from Morocco)?
That was the setup. The fireworks began in the middle of one fateful night when Arnold woke up to find Rhonda not beside him. He surmised correctly that she was up raiding the fridge again, an act she was loath to admit because of how unladylike it made her look. Indeed, that was exactly her appearance when he found her mid-raid. Then and there he decided in a fit of mischief that an opportunity had arisen that was too golden to pass.
Quickly and silently, he retrieved his camera and with two words – "Hey Rhonda" – proceeded to change the course of history. The photo captured Rhonda at what she considers to this day her most ignoble. Sure, there's the half-eaten sandwich in one hand and the plastic juice container in the other from which she'd been heartily chugging away. To say nothing of the crumbs and the flecks of pickled herring that had accumulated at the sides of her mouth, and the hamster pouches that were now her cheeks. Plus, her mouth itself, partway through the mastication process and unable to issue any coherent reprimand.
Those items alone would have been damning enough for one as hung up on appearances as Rhonda, but the coup de grâce was still to be captured. Her heaving belly spilling out of her sleep shirt and flowing over her plus-sized sweatpants. All of these features, captured in a side profile that cared naught for discretion.
It's an event that today is looked back at quite fondly, even if back then the immediate fallout was biblical.
Rhonda's threats of violence woke up the entire Sunset Arms. Eavesdroppers would later express how impressed – as well as frightened – they were with how imaginative her homicidal scenarios were. Said eavesdroppers would further elaborate how said scenarios included but were not limited to, the use of:
1) Rusted fishhooks and molten lava enemas
2) Welding torches and pruning shears
3) Vice grips and Yoko Ono records
Logic and common sense dictated that Arnold leave the building and spend the rest of the night at Gerald's. A distraught Rhonda would spend the next two days with her family, which is also how long it took the women of the families to convince her to forgive Arnold. The first day was spent detailing to the mother-to-be that Arnold had been severely and appropriately censured for his actions (he was). The second day was spent telling her how Arnold meant her no ill will with those same actions. To prove their collective point, each of the women proffered a decidedly unglamorous picture of them during their pregnancies.
Rhonda was particularly shocked by her mother's picture, "taken during my waddling phase". The sullen, bleary-eyed subject, indifferently dressed and purporting to be Brooke Lloyd proved quite the eye-opener. Her captured expression spoke of wanting to murder the photographer but not having the energy to follow through with the intent.
Stella's was not much better, if at all. Her contribution was a polaroid taken by Miles. Somehow, he'd captured her as she lay almost wantonly spread-eagled on a glorified wheelbarrow, mere hours before Arnold's birth. Her countenance in the photo suggested that she was smiling only to make him go away with the camera, while inside she was wishing that a fair and just deity would strike her husband down where he stood.
Gertie's was not so much 'unglamorous' as it was perhaps 'unusual'. At first glance, it looked like any other photo of a heavily pregnant woman in her fifties. That is…if one were to ignore the two would-be thugs lying unconscious at her feet who seconds earlier thought it would be the height of comedy to ask the old biddy if that was a raisin bread in her oven. "And honest to god," she reminisced, "Phil swore he'd never seen me more beautiful…"
Stella and Brooke also confessed to – eventually – coming around and seeing their significant others' acts as ones of unconditional love. All three elders even congratulated Rhonda on joining a great maternal pantheon and becoming "one of us now!" The centenarian among them then sealed the deal for Rhonda by stating how much the President must have loved his First Lady to want to capture and cherish her forever, "regardless of your appearance, Jacqueline". (Grandma Gertie – Gone but never forgotten.)
Rhonda and Arnold eventually patched things up between them, and all was well with the world. Rhonda even mellowed out enough over the matter to show Arnold's picture to her friends. Nadine howled from laughter upon first seeing it, while Gerald claimed it as new material for his latest comedy tour. Phoebe and Helga, married and now living in San Lorenzo, were also most amused.
Arnold would over time repeatedly compliment Rhonda on her creativity in planning his termination, and how some of her plans scared the bejeezus out of him. Since then, she'll occasionally joke about her latest scheme for doing him in. And since she's such a good sport, she allows him to pick holes in her candid conspiracies.
Tonight was no exception…
"You won't get away with it!" Arnold announced as he marched into the bedroom clad only in a towel. Rhonda had changed into silken pajama shorts and an oversized tee. She was sitting on her side of the bed, applying moisturizer to her face. Still, she wasn't too distracted to hear him out.
"Oh really?" she queried. "Are you saying your ticker will be able to take the strain?"
"That's not it," he replied as he strode over to his cupboard. "I'm assuming your plan will work." As he spoke, he opened the cupboard and started fishing for his sleepwear. Doing so, he let the towel slip to the floor, exposing his buttocks to his girlfriend. "I'm even assuming you won't even miss me when I'm gone," he continued.
Rhonda's eyes were firmly on him as she replied. "Well, there may be a few things about you that I will miss."
"Nevertheless," Arnold resumed explaining as he found a pair of boxers and put them on, "your plan is far from foolproof."
"And how come?" asked Rhonda, having to settle now for only the sight of her boyfriend's wiry upper body.
"Because," Arnold replied as he retrieved a vest from the cupboard, "there's no way you'll fool the cops!"
Rhonda's interest was as piqued as ever. She followed up his assertion with: "And why is that, pray tell?"
He slipped into the garment as he walked over to his side of the bed. "Because," he beamed triumphantly once at his destination, "the detective on the scene will note the smokin' hot widow at the scene – I'm talking SSSMOKING! And I guarantee he'll put that in his report. He'll then note the poor bastard lying dead in her bed and say, 'No way!'"
"No way?" queried Rhonda again as she slipped under the sheets.
"Exactly!" Arnold resumed as he too climbed into the bed. "See, he'll see the dead guy in the bed and reckon no way would such a fine, sexy" – he lingered on the adjectives as if he needed to emphasize his point – "gorgeous woman ever admit to being married to such a – what was it you said? – poor schmuck. They'll peg you as some wicked, depraved black widow and before you know it, you'll be in cuffs and on your way straight to death row."
By this time, he too was under the sheets, gazing across to Rhonda, waiting for her response. She put on an arch display of defeat and spoke with similar melodrama: "Curses! Foiled once more!"
"Better luck next time, you devil woman, you," Arnold pretended to console her as he leaned across to her, his lips pursed and ready. Rhonda reciprocated and their lips pressed together for a loving goodnight kiss. "Good night, Arnold," she smiled at him before their heads hit their respective pillows.
To sleep then, perchance to dream sweetly.
Then a sudden return to wakefulness.
"Wait a minute!" Rhonda spoke at the same speed with which her eyes shot open. "Did you just imagine us married?"
Her question caught Arnold unawares. His mind briefly flew in all directions as he scrambled for an answer. The best he could muster was a deflection.
"Well, we'd have to be for you to become my widow, wouldn't we?"
They turned to stare at each other. A very significant discussion was about to commence, though neither Arnold nor Rhonda was sure of exactly how to start it.
THE END