A DAGGER FOR MY HUSBAND by Brenda Hill

Two years after my husband retired, I staggered out of bed, eyed him sitting at the kitchen table, and decided to kill him.

“Good morning,” he almost sang, looking up from his paperback with his usual smile.

Sloshing coffee into my cup, I didn’t answer, didn’t even glance at his smiling face. I was afraid I’d throw the scalding brew at him.

How could anyone be so bright and cheerful at six in the morning?

And why didn’t he sleep late at least once? A sane person who didn’t have to get up would be snuggled in a warm bed with the covers pulled up to their chin. If I didn’t have to meet a printing deadline for our town’s newspaper, I’d certainly be in bed.

When we married thirty years ago, I adored him. As a systems analyst for large companies in the Midwest, Nick traveled several days each month, and when he returned home, we played like newlyweds. I’d never been so happy.

“Want some breakfast?” He rummaged in the fridge for eggs and bread to toast. “I’ll scramble an extra egg if you want. I know you’re going to have a long day.”

Not ready to talk and certainly not able to stomach food so early, I shook my head and managed a grunt.

“You should think about getting to bed a little earlier.” He broke eggs into a bowl and whipped them with a fork. “Those late night writing sessions take their toll.”

I couldn’t take it any longer, so, sitting at the table with my coffee, I planned his demise.

How could I do him in? I eyed his sturdy physique as he moved around the kitchen, popping bread into the toaster and dropping a pat of butter in the skillet. At six feet, he could trace his lineage nearly to the Vikings. Plopping on his favorite Western hat and donning his leather vest and gloves, he loved to roam the woods surrounding our northern Minnesota property, building fences to keep the deer out of the garden and chopping wood for our fireplace. Even at sixty-two, he could outwork anyone, including my younger Southern cousins.

So what could I do? I wasn’t handy with guns, and with all the forensic technology, I wouldn’t dare try poison. A knife? I’d watched him dress a fresh deer and hang it from a tree. I could set a trap, gut him with my knife, and laugh as he swung upside down. But no, too much blood and gore.

When we were first married, we made a deal—I loved fresh fish, so when Nick caught a mess of crappies or perch from the lake, he’d clean them, and I’d gladly cook them any way he wished. The same deal applied when he went game hunting. Raised in Atlanta, I believed meat should come in nice little packages prettily wrapped in cellophane. But Nick handed me raw venison and expected me to cook it. Even though I had to quickly disguise it by rolling it in cornmeal, I got the job done, and now I’m considered one of the best cooks in the county.

“You have that look in your eye.” Nick sat at the table with his full plate, his hazel eyes full of laughter. “What foul deeds are you planning now? Thinking of dumping the printing press into the lake?”

I wanted to slug him. Years ago, not long after we’d settled into the house on the outskirts of Nick’s small hometown, we decided I wouldn’t work full time. That was fine with me—I wanted the freedom to be home when he had some time off. To help the days pass while he was away, I tried gardening but, raised in an urban condominium, I pulled vegetables as well as the weeds. Next was sewing. Several of my new friends tried to help me, but I hopelessly tangled every strand of thread I touched. When he helped by buying a sewing machine, I stitched his fly to his back pocket. I was so frustrated that late one moonlit night, I dumped the machine into the lake.

When I discovered that our town, population 735, didn’t have its own newspaper, relying instead on the one from the county seat thirty miles away, I started one. At first, I didn’t have much to report, but determined to find something, I started interviewing local residents about their lives. I was delighted to learn we had a retired school music director as a neighbor, so after I badgered him for a couple of years, he finally gave in and held auditions for a local band. Now, thanks to the local carpenters, we have a bandstand by the lake, and once a week in the summer, our town, as well as our neighbors, are treated to some good, old-fashioned concerts. The irregular lot of musicians, ranging from seniors to middle-school children, may not be ready for the New York Philharmonic Symphony, but when they strike up “The Stars and Stripes Forever” in honor of our armed forces, they bring everyone to their feet in pride.

After two more cups of coffee, I felt I could face my makeshift newsroom in the garage. Just as I stood, Nick, who had finished his breakfast and was back to reading his paperback, grabbed my arm and pulled me onto his lap. Just to hang on, of course, I slipped my arms around his neck. He gave me a nice kiss, but I was in no mood to dally. Dawn had not even cracked, and I had several pages of print to turn into a newspaper.

“I don’t have time to play this morning.”

“I happen to know you coerced my sister and several neighbors into helping,” he said. “The threat of no more home-baked peach pies is mighty powerful around here. Besides, it’s our anniversary, and I have something to show you.”

Thank God it was summer, because he pulled me out the back door and down the graveled lane toward the lake.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake.” I anxiously peered through the dark woods for black bear. Would they be out this early? Probably not. Any sane living thing would still be sleeping.

“Where are we going?” I asked, picking my way over the gravel. I eyed my husband, forging on ahead. The inconsideration of that man was beyond belief. Maybe I could get by with poison after all. Perhaps some vile potion smeared on his toothbrush.

As we neared the lake, I could smell the water, a slight fishy smell mixed with the scent of moist earth and rotting vegetation. Frogs croaked.   

When moving to upper Minnesota, I wasn’t sure I’d like living so close to nature. A lake instead of a shopping mall? And where were the fast-food restaurants? But I grew to love the water and adored spending a lazy afternoon in our motorboat, drifting along with my line cast for fish. I even learned to bait my own hook. I had to. My boorish husband told me very early on that if I wanted to fish, I had to learn to do everything by myself. Grudgingly, I did so, and now I can hold my own with the best fisherman.

The only problem was my porcelain skin. Even underneath a wide-brimmed hat and long sleeves, my skin burned and peeled. While I loved our fourteen-foot motorboat, I drooled over the big pontoons, the flat-bottom boats that floated on the water like royal yachts. Each time one drifted regally by, I lusted after the canopy-shaded deck. Some of the floating palaces even included iceboxes and gas grills. Oh, what an extravagance, one I’d happily indulge. If my husband had any regard for my skin, he’d make sure we had one. He was just worried that I’d go more often and catch more fish. Then he, the big game hunter, would wither in shame.

“Just a few more feet,” Nick said, picking up the pace. I almost stumbled trying to keep up with him. Perhaps I could climb a tree and jump him as he strolled below me. But then what? A dagger into his black heart? That’s what I could do.

We rounded the bend and arrived at the boat launch, the single lamplight burning through the morning fog. But my eyes were drawn to a beautiful twenty-five-foot pontoon, a big, silky red bow tied to one of the canopy’s supporting beams, floating on the water next to our motorboat. Strung across the deck was a sign that said, “Happy Anniversary!”

My eyes full of happy tears, I threw my arms around my grinning husband, gave him a big kiss, and climbed aboard. He escaped his demise after all.

At least for today.