Civilized

A story about adultery.

The second time He went out, He was struck�"even more than before�"by the close proximity of what most people would consider "civilized" and the vacant desert: raw, hostile, and withered.

The soft neon dome of the city was easily visible in the distance. Light...and life...ambition...and chatter. Twenty minutes from that He was here on his own: carefully backing up the car to the mouth of the mine shaft. Leaning out twice to make sure the tires weren't too close to the edge.

When He couldn't risk getting any nearer, the blue beam of the headlamp amplified his movements as He took care of things outside: harsh light sweeping over the rocks and dirt�"now bouncing over the shiny flanks of the car�"now lost in the omnivorous darkness that led up to the stars.

The headlamp was expensive, but thoroughly defeated by the open sky: which absorbed the beam in the same way as the deep void inside the mine shaft. He'd noticed this the first time: how light just seemed to go up to the hole and stop.

Something that Stephen Hawking could look into, He thought. An honest-to-God black hole on Earth. Not in some unreachable location light years away. A black hole in front of him, and many, many more out here where prospectors had worked for years: the landscape honeycombed with hard luck attempts to locate some sort of metal. Gold. Silver. Lead.

Monuments to careless greed.

The ore was underground�"so people had dug holes. But there was nothing that said they had to fill the holes back up again. So far from traffic or civilization, it was assumed that open pits wouldn't be dangerous.

They were dangerous, in fact: which was why no sensible person would be here in the middle of the night. But they were also useful: specifically for the job He'd driven out here to do.

After the trunk lid pivoted up, and away, getting the body out required at least four distinct movements. He couldn't do a "dead lift" because of the depth, and the bad angle that created. He had to be very cautious in his movements. The mouth of the mine shaft�"three shades blacker than black�"was just a few feet away. It was easy to imagine how foolish He would feel if He lost his grip on the package, lost his balance, and went over.

Awareness, and caution, were essential. No lifting. More in the nature of dragging, and then tipping. Arriving at a last gentle push when She was positioned at the very edge of the hole: an unceremonious nudge, since He had no words to say over Her. No prayer to make. No urge to offer a moment of silence.

She went over�"and in�"with a soft pop, a few seconds later, marking Her impact at the bottom: coming to rest on top of the other one.

Both of them together: although not quite in the same way they'd been together in all their motels...in what He'd considered to be His bedroom...in what He thought was His hammock...and even in His laundry room. He had plenty of evidence that they'd been intimate, at least once, in just about every part of His house.

Now the bodies were together at the deepest reach of this forgotten hole.

Together again �" with Her on top (always Her preferred position during the sex act).



The drive back to the city, from the desert, was uneventful: giving Him a silent interlude to recall that it was while driving that He'd put it all together.

With a little help. Because He hadn't been driving alone, that day. She'd been over on the passenger side: behaving, in retrospect, as though She couldn't wait for Him to find out. Worshipping Her phone�"gazing at the screen�"Her facial expression constantly changing as she read the constant stream of messages.

Now aroused. Now tender. Now smiling. Now sly.

On another planet. One, perhaps, where He didn't live at all.

�"Those must be some messages you're getting, He'd said to her.

She waved it all away.

�"It's nothing. Just some chit chat. Girl-type stuff.

She'd wanted everything, then. Not just continuing Her affair with another man in the car�"with Him an arm's length away�"but reckless enough to make it clear that, even if He knew, She didn't care that He knew.

She was going to do what She was going to do.

Arriving home, that day, She'd gone upstairs and closed a door to continue the conversation on the planet She was living on�"while He sat at the kitchen table, putting together a Project in his mind.

He was a very highly organized person, and�"when He estimated that He would be able to put something together in two weeks�"two weeks was what it took.

She didn't like the basement, and had no reason to ever go down there. That was His domain. "The Kingdom of the Trolls" She'd called it once. So the noise and the clutter of the Project didn't matter. She didn't go downstairs, and wasn't even home that often: honeymooning with whoever it was who was dropping all those messages into Her phone.

When the time came for their "serious conversation" about the third person in their marriage, He wanted it to be in a public place. She was sensitive to the opinions of other people, and her response to questioning in a public place would be muted and controlled. If there was lying to be done, they would move through it more efficiently during a nice dinner in an expensive place.

Not a special occasion, He told Her. Just something that a man in love with his wife might do on the spur of the moment.

A nice bottle of wine got Her in the mood. She'd never been much of a drinker. He started out playful. Teasing. Bantering.

�"You're always looking at your phone. What is it that's so fascinating?

�"Nothing! I keep telling you! Nothing!

�"It's obviously something.

�"It's just the little things that come through for everyone who has friends. Friends who see things, and think things are funny.

�"Seems like there's more to it than that.

He didn't let up. As the meal continued, He could plainly see what He'd already seen: Her eagerness to let him know. Her eagerness to share. To spill the whole thing, and get it out into the open. He even knew what argument She would turn to after She'd confessed. After She'd told Him everything, and they both understood exactly where they stood.

He could see it coming. He knew just what She would say.

�"Surely we can be civilized about this!

Aside from whoever She was having Her affair with, she was in love with the idea of being "civilized". All their furniture was civilized. All their books. Their friends. Their neighborhood. Their car.

Their marriage was a display case of civilized life: up to, and including, the bone china dinnerware She'd bought from England. So thin, and light, it was like congealed breath, painted with a delicate and civilized design.

They continued their special dinner in civilized way: during which He learned that She'd been unfaithful for almost three months, and desperately in love with Spenser. Someone He knew. (Or thought that He knew).

She was tearful with relief.

�"I'm happier now that you know. It's nothing personal. It really isn't.

�"And what's Spenser giving you that I'm not?

She'd taken most of the bottle of wine, Herself, and was slurring her words a little.

�"I don't know...or maybe I know. No one can explain these things.

He persisted: �"And what about Spenser's wife? Is she an odd one out, too? We don't seem to have places to sit, now that the music's stopped.

�"He's working himself up to tell her.

�"But he's already worked himself up to f**k you.

�"Please! Was her only response to his edge of temper. Meaning: we don't use the word "f**k" in civilized company.

She leaned on him a little as they left the restaurant, since She was cordially drunk, and felt that confession had been good for the soul. She was certain that everything had been talked through, and went�"unsuspectingly�"down the basement stairs when He said He had something He'd like to show Her.

Putting His foot in the middle of Her back, and sending Her flying down to the bottom of the staircase wasn't part of the original plan.

It was just something He felt like doing.

It all worked out, though. She went into the cage drunk, and bruised, and dazed �" without a fight, without a struggle. Beginning Phase One of the Project: which went pretty much as expected.

Serious noise, at first. But it was a detached house. Their neighbors weren't close: either in personality, or in distance. She was just hurting her throat, crying out for help. As far as his daily routine, amazing things were being done with earplug technology, and�"if necessary�"He had the noise-cancelling headphones She'd given him for Christmas.

Those worked beautifully.

There was one, indispensable job that needed to be done during Phase One of the Project: so he was a little pressed for time at the beginning.

He had to arrange for that�"and then was busy fielding so many inquiries from people who couldn't mind their own business: wondering where She'd gone...why She hadn't told them She was running away with someone not her husband...why She hadn't told them where She was going.

The note that He'd written usually shut them up. Early in their marriage he had diligently worked to duplicate her rounded handwriting (just in case he might need to forge something). Dripping some water on a piece of notebook paper gave him a tearful message that he could show around: explained that She was running away for "love".

It was short on details. It didn't say where She was going. Just that she was in a hurry, and might disappear for a while.

Thus: Phase One.

Quite a bit of effort, but�"after the first flurry of activity�"some calm returned as He picked up the threads of his routine and tried to keep life inside the house civilized.

He'd purposefully built the cage around the basement bathroom. It was a spartan facility, but it meant that hygiene wouldn't be an issue. He gave Her three meals a day. Plenty for anyone. He even came home from work to arrange the tray and slide it under the wire�"coming back silently to collect it after half an hour, or so.

Phase One of the Project meant screaming, and then talking. As with all the other times She'd fallen short of expectations, She wanted to talk Her way out of His disappointment.

Talking was Her thin end of the wedge: to separate Him from His resolution. Conversation, once it became two-way between them, would eventually end His resolve to complete the Project. And He knew it.

As the days passed, He tried to make it clear�"in every way possible�"that no more words would ever be exchanged between them. He had to pretend not to hear her. The moment He answered would be the moment She would start wiggling out of Her situation.



He moved to Phase Two of the Project more quickly than He'd planned. Just to get Her to be quiet.

He thought 11x14 would be the best size for the placemats He'd made, and one of those started to appear under Her plate at every meal.

They all featured Spenser: her partner in the affair. Spenser having coffee alone. Spenser in his car. Spenser in the park with his wife.

She looked at each one when She picked up the tray. Then looked at Him: wondering what those pictures could mean.

But the answer to that had to wait for Phase Three: when the placemat under her cost-no-object English bone china dinner plate was a portrait of Spenser deceased: his face a mask of blood, and the zipper of the body bag just visible below his chin.

Also new for Phase Three was the amber bottle of pills He placed on the tray before He sat down to watch His wife's reaction to the picture.

He'd been looking forward to an emotional hurricane. The payoff for all His effort.

Now She was going to storm and rage, while he showed no emotion at all. He would show her how icy he could be

Instead, all of that was stolen from Him. As she held the photo in both hands, what he got was the sorrowful tilt of the head familiar from pictures of the Pieta, the Madonna, before she slid the picture back under the wire.

�"I know how eco-friendly you are. I imagine I'll be seeing this at every meal, and I'll save you the trouble of printing any more.

As She started at Him, it was difficult to meet Her eyes steadily. He could only look at Her off and on.

�"A good, and loving man. But a death sentence, because I loved him. Isn't that right?

Ignoring the food on the tray, She examined the bottle of pills.

�"And a death sentence for me? Isn't that right? Isn't that what these are for? A living death in here? Or giving you a perverted little victory by taking these? Isn't that right?

She gave the bottle a shake.

�"Seems like plenty. You must have been saving up. A death sentence for me. And all because I loved you for five minutes. Because I felt sorry for you. Little boy lost.

Without a word, He stormed upstairs�"brought a garbage bag back down�"and dumped the whole contents of her meal tray into it: including all the pieces of her cost-no-object china. Since She had no choice but to watch, she saw Him stomp it all to fragments �" until the only sound in the basement was His labored breathing.

She was the one who was cool. She was the one who was icy. Holding the bottle of pills in Her fist, She smiled at Him.

�"You're wrecking your own things, now. Ruining what will belong to you. I won't need any of that stuff where I'm going. Isn't that right?

Then Her voice followed Him as He hurried back to the stairs.

�"Little boy lost. Who on earth will pay any attention to you after I'm gone?



He thought that Phase Three of the Project would be a highlight for him, but She took away a lot of that satisfaction.

She may have thought that She had options, after that. But She had only two choices left, and breakfast�"about three weeks later�"found Her unmoving on her cot. She wasn't visibly breathing. But He trotted back up the stairs to get His softball bat, just in case she was trying to pull a fast one.

Going into the cage, He was able to confirm that Phase Three of the Project was almost complete. No pulse at the neck. No vapor of breath on a mirror.

Moving on to Phase Four: he wrapped the body in a biodegradable way, and wrestled into the car in the dead of night...then the long, anxious drive out into the desert (He could not, under any circumstances, take a chance on being stopped by a suspicious trooper)...then the heavy labor of putting the package into the mine shaft...then dismantling the cage, and taking all the components of it out to the landfill.

It was another week before He got Her out of His life completely. Before He could turn His attention to online gaming every minute He could spare from work.



He'd only met his mother-in-law a few times, and had never gotten the impression that His ex-wife and Her mother were that close. He assumed there wasn't much of a bond between them, since it was three months after the completion of the Project when the older woman e-mailed Him to say that she would be in town. She would be attending some sort of conference, downtown, and she wanted to drop by His house for a few minutes�"if that would be convenient.

He could have said "no", but didn't: opening the door as she arrived.

Once again, as they talked for the first time in a long time, He got the distinct impression (similar to all the other times they'd met) that He amused her, somehow. But not in a comic kind of way. She seemed surprised that he could have been married, had a house, had a job�"just like a normal person.

He gave her coffee in His kitchen, and she also seemed bemused by the impossibly delicate English cups. She held one up to the light.

�"She left these behind, did she?

�"Of course. I explained all that.

�"It cost a small fortune, she said. The set of them. All the way from England.

�"So she said, He replied.

�"And she left the whole set behind? All of her clothes? Everything that you said?

There was nothing He could do but shrug. He'd played dumb for months, and it had worked so far.

�"I guess her decision was very sudden. Spur of the moment kind of thing.

He knew that His mother-in-law held some sort of executive position�"was some sort of manager�"even though, that afternoon, she seemed very blue collar. Blue jeans, and even a blue denim jacket that emphasized her broad shoulders and set off her gray hair.

He knew she was quite proud of the fact that she'd never needed glasses. So there were no lenses between them as she looked steadily across the table. Not amused, now. Not amused. Not bemused, at all.

�"I'm not the brightest bulb in the box, and time is not my friend. I also don't have as much money as I'd wish.

He shrugged off all that: annoyed that he was shrugging again.

�"I'm not sure what you mean.

Now she found him comical again.

�"I don't know how you did it. But it's not done.

�"What's done? What's not done?

�"I want you to understand. You'll pay the price at some point. In some form...in some way. It's force of habit, you know, maybe the way any mother would think...to blame myself...even though I did everything I could. Everything I could do to keep her from ruining her life by mingling her future with yours.

The woman leaned closer to Him.

�"You're not a mystery to me. And you never will be. But I will be a mystery to you. All you need to remember is that you're not getting away with this. The books will be balanced. Somehow. Some day.

Disoriented by her vehemence, He began to stammer.

�"Can't we...can't we be civilized?

With majestic calm, she took one of the heavy, sterling silver forks from the tabletop and�"before he could react or even imagine�"drove it into his hand, lying on the tabletop.

Every ounce of her strength was behind the motion: and the tines of the fork went almost completely through his hand. Driving him up out of his seat and across the room.

�"You f*****g c**t! You f*****g c**t! What are you doing?

His mother-in-law looked back at him as though nothing had happened, at all.

�""Civilized" is our word. You don't have the right to use it. You never will.

Filled with pain and fury, He pulled the fork out of His hand as the woman rose from her chair. He awkwardly flung the silverware in her direction�"and missed.

�"Get out of this house! Get out of this house!

She made a vague gesture toward his hand.

�"You'll need to get that looked after. Who knows where that fork has been?



If would have been more civilized, He thought, if she'd driven him to the hospital.

Instead, she left without another word, and he was forced to drive himself just one hand on the steering wheel, and work his way�"alone�"through the comic opera sequence of the nearest emergency room: explaining that He'd been injured in a freak accident, and watching nobody there believe Him.

Making it back home, one-handed on the wheel again, He mixed the pain pills from the pharmacy with some wine he had lying around and hoped that the mood of pain and limitation that had come over Him would brighten a little.

It did make Him feel a little better to load all of the English china into a duffle bag, and beat it into hopeless confusion with his aluminum bat. Yet�"even after that�"sundown found Him back in His kitchen with the recognition that Phase Five of his Project was underway.

As complete as he had thought his Project had been, now his Phase Five was someone else's Phase One. The machinery of what they had planned was just starting to turn: and it was impossible for Him to say what might come next.