Part one can be read @Margaret Atwood http://www.wattpad.com/story/23381058-the-freeze-dried-groom-one-of-the-nine-tales-in
Her breath mingles in and a faint taste of wine lingers on her tongue as it tangles around with his. He thinks that maybe he shouldn’t go too far. Not with her. Not this one. But now her hands are all over him as she grabs and claws at his back. He wants to lose control? But where would that lead him? Tied up somewhere, gagged with a wadded up cloth stuffed into his mouth, or worse, rolled up in a cheap rug, stiff and dead. Yeah, I heard um in the next room. They sounded like they were having a good time too. Poor guy. She must have been some kook. He thinks this over in his mind. His inner monologue becomes a tangled mess of should and should nots, but the more she gropes and claws the easier the gnarled vines dissolve into lust. But he can’t let her catch him. He has to regain the lead. Sam tosses out the worry, the guilt, dead Clyde, and Gwyneth, and takes control. He would make her chase. Faster! Her black dress discards to the floor, his shirt and pants rip away as their bodies pour onto the bed and the look she wears says she wants him. A look Gwyneth once had ages ago, but sadly, nowadays, it has become a look of disappointment. I was wrong, please come back, we can talk it through. The nostalgic tug loosens its grip. Here in the dark, with this strange woman, her face a porcelain cup, blonde hair wildly disheveled about her head. We can talk it through. Please come back. And soon, he and she begin to melt into each other like voices in a ballad. A wicked ballad. The headboard raps away like a hammer, sending rhythmic taps into the room next door as she moans and claws at him within the darkness. Clyde, now a faded memory, as daylight slips in through the drawn curtains and the sky spits frozen rain from the sky like lead.
Sam doesn’t know why he agreed to help Bethany, if that is her real name, move Clyde’s cryovaced body along with her wedding memorabilia from the storage locker and dispose of it. He hadn't really thought it through as he drove the rental truck through falling snow and slippery ice, to the storage facility. Bethany would be waiting there, teeth pressed along her bottom lip in worry, probably hoping he hadn't freaked. He pulls into the driveway, the gate is drawn then he crosses through. He backs the truck against the storage door and Bethany stands by, waiting. Her coat is wrapped tight, one hand shoved into a pocket, the other grips a handheld lamp, as a thick floppy hat is drawn over her locks like a lampshade. "Worry much?" Sam queries, an arrogant smirk stitched in his lips. "A little," she smiles wanly. Sam fishes for the key, undoes the lock and rolls the door open which seems to trundle up in a loud roar. “You ready,” he asks, his blue eyes melting in to hers. Her answer seems to take an eternity and finally she nods, yes.
"Clyde first, no need to have him waiting all day," Sam says dryly while pushing a dolly loaded with a wooden crate upon its metal lip through the storage locker; the odd wedding scene relived. He can't stand seeing him back there, trapped behind plastic like a creepy Ken doll. "Right,” Beth answers, businesslike. They cross the storage room towards the back as plumes of frozen air waft from their mouths like cigarette smoke. They lift Clyde’s body and place him into the makeshift coffin, the plastic makes sick crinkling sounds as they squeeze him in. Sam begins to ask her if she used glue on the eye lids but decides against it, not the right time, then he shuts the crate and loads it into the truck. Now the rest —the dress, the cake, the dishes, the champagne and the luggage, all packed and loaded on the truck. Sam steps down the ramp and sees Bethany waiting near the edge. “Easy Peasie pudding,” he says, a savvy look draped across his mouth. She wraps his arms around her body and bites down on her lip. Sam can feel her body through the coat; it’s voltaic. Come on Sam, you better speed up, her breath is on your neck again.
The truck rumbles along the back roads trailing a path of thick tracks, soon covered by the cavalcade of falling snow. Exhaust spews from the truck’s tailpipe as the wheels slip and jounce across the frozen ground. Sam sits behind the wheel watching the wipers fight against the falling snow in monotonous sweeps and wonders what the hell he is doing here. He feels Bethany’s warm hand on his thigh as the radio creaks out a love song through static do to the weakening signal, and he likes it. Almost there he thinks. Dump her shit and head back to town. He wants to play this game. This silly little game. His wet daydream is interrupted when suddenly out of nowhere she says, "I love this song.” Her voice is low and sedate as if singing a seductive number. “It makes me want to dance. Do you like to dance Sam?" His name sounds unreal in her contralto voice. "Sure,” Sam smiles. “We should go dancing Sammy baby, just you and me.” Queer giggles spout from her mouth as she cups it like a school girl caught with her fingers in her pants. "Sure, that sounds nice," Sam lies. He doesn't like to dance. Couldn't even remember the last time he did. “You some kind of gangster Sammy,” she asks flipping down the passenger visor and checks her reflection. "Gangster…," he laughs, his voice sounding simulated in his ears, "what makes you say that?" She paints on a thick coat of red lipstick without answering, while her hazel eyes dance back and forth between Sam and her own reflection. “Well…,” he says, but she only smiles and her hand is back on his thigh. She likes to play games, Sam thinks, as he jerks from her tickling fingers. I can play it too and better than you. She smiles as she continues to slip her hand across his lap, playfully and he wonders if she played this wicked game with Clyde. Faster! She's still in the lead Sam. Where are you?
Ned was glazing the legs of some pink chase lounge when Sam walks into Matrazzle; his shirt decorated with a few splotches of his own handiwork. “Any action?” Sam asks, crossing the storeroom. “Finally got rid of that wardrobe,” Ned says. Sam’s brows rise, “That blue hunk of junk…thought we’d never get it out of here. We make good on it?” Ned answers: “Six hundred,” then Sam lets out a fine whistle. “ …and Gwyneth called,” Ned adds, “said she couldn’t get you on your cell.” Sam checks his phone. Bad reception from this morning. “Return the truck before eight Ned, will you. I think she wants to straighten things out.” Sam fishes the rental key from his pocket and tosses it behind the counter. He leaves Matrezzle’s and heads back to Gwyneth’s.
In less than half an hour, the Audi pulls up; he sees her car. There’s a hump of snow on its roof drooping over to one side. After he parks, he slides out and heads in and as soon as he steps in through the door he can smell it. She cooked. Roasted chicken probably, her best dish. Sam walks through the kitchen and glances in. She set the table too. Candles erected on a white tablecloth, wine glasses, flowers, the works. Soon, a pair of slippers whisper against the floor from behind him and he can smell White Diamonds just before she wraps her arms around his body. “I’m sorry Sam,” she says, her voice soft in his ear. “You cooked,” he replies. “I thought I’d make it up to you,” her hands now in his hair as Bethany quickly becomes a fading dream.
Upstairs the bed is warm and soft as Gwyneth lies naked upon the sheets allowing Sam to rake his teeth across her skin lasciviously. What was she thinking? She loves him. Yesterday morning, two hours after he had gone, she decided it had been a mistake. She needed him to come home. Their bodies begin to wrestle on top of the Victorian bed like two wild kittens, legs wrap and clutch against one another, un-tamed. The room becomes like a wavering fever, forcing the pipes of an invisible calliope to whistle and shoot out blistering steam as Sam makes her scream, madly.
In the morning the light shines through the bedroom curtains while Sam lies half asleep and naked while Gwenyth showers. Then he hears something. He stirs, then sits up and listens again. Rap, rap, rap, rap…someone’s knocking at the front door. Sam hops out of bed. They found Clyde! His heart races as he peeks through the curtains expecting to see some man in a long trench coat; a Detective Somebody, silver badge in hand raised up towards the window at him. No one there, not the cops, just a car. The rapping grows louder with urgency as he quickly slips on his pants and shirt and hurries down the stairs. He twists open the front door and pulls it open. Bethany. His eyes bulge with sickening surprise. “What are you doing here? How did you—?” “I had to come.” “What…why?” Sam steps out on the crusted snow with bare feet and pulls the door shut. “What happened?” “Nothing happened.” Her eyes bright and bat-shit crazy. “Then what is it? What the hell are you doing here,” he asks agitated and stressed. “Well, I thought maybe we could go dancing tonight.” Sam grits, “What the fuck are you talking about?” Suddenly her crazy smile wanes into a childish lip-poke. “You have to go, now.” He grabs her arm and turns her into the direction of her car but she snaps back around. “Where is she…inside? You smell like her.” “Bethany, leave now or I’ll…” “You’ll what,” she says, staring up into his eyes. His grip softens. She’s right. What can he do? Call the cops? Yeah, I helped her dump her dead fiancé, what about it? A staring contest starts and he’s losing; somehow she's slipped into the lead and is running around him in circles, making his head spin. “Ok baby,” he relaxes, “you win.” “Yaaay,” she blurts out like a callow brat, “do I get a surprise now?” Sam feels the voltage building dangerously. How in the hell did she find him, Internet, private investigator? What a pot. He thinks it’s best to save the line of inquiries for later and to get this crazy bitch out of here before Gwyneth sees her. “Look baby,” he lays on the charm, “tell you what…” He’s back to helping her to her car, most likely a rental under her phony name. “Go back to the hotel, order up some room service, some champagne and I’ll see you in a few. ” Her smile broadens, “That sounds perfect Sammy baby.” She pulls the driver side door open and slides inside giving Sam a questioning look. “Don’t I get a kiss too?” His face pulls into a pretentious smile, his head hazy, but he leans in, dipping in under the roof’s frame and plants a kiss on her sickeningly soft lips. Why is her mouth so marvelously warm? When it’s over he watches her car back out of the driveway, then head north and drop out of sight.
Room service had come and gone. Two bottles of Champagne had been uncorked, poured and drank. The guilt that ground and groaned within Sam’s mind, before Bethany opened her door wearing nothing but black underwear, had ceased its terrible drone. Gwyn, Gwyn who? The game was back on and he was back in the lead. The room was dim, candles had been placed and lit and the bedspread was peeled open like a mouth. He wanted her. A strange piece of work who likes to stick her finger into live sockets and feel the buzz. Soon the smoke fades and they lay naked and intertwined; their racing hearts’ speed cranks back on the odometer. Bethany’s eyes are glued to his when she says, “I want to show you something.” “What?” “Close your eyes, it’s a surprise,” she commands. Sam obeys and hears her prance across the room and into the closet, then imagines himself back on the cold examination table. A buxom redhead this time. She stares down at him with a head lamp attached to her forehead. “Poor guy, what a way to go. Sexia Overdocia.” She lifts him down there then lets it drop against the cold table in a hollow thud. “What a shame.” Moments later, Bethany fades in prancing back; an odd tissue paper sound rustles in the air. “Surprise!” Sam opens his eyes and takes several horrified blinks. Holy fuck! It’s the wedding gown! What has he stepped into and who let it hit the fan? She stands at the foot of the bed, the wedding gown resurrected, her hair pinned up as a tiny tiara sits upon her head. “What do you think Sammy baby?” The bells begin to ring loud as mania floods in, and confusion, then strangely, humor. A rolling bout of laughter escapes his mouth then Bethany’s begins to twirl. “We should dance Sammy!” She spins and spins like a child’s quick pulled top and Sam wonders how long she could turn before she hurls. His laughter roars out loudly as he climbs out of bed and grabs her by the waist, pulling her against his naked body. “Then we shall,” Sam says, swaying her left to right to the rhythm of her electric heartbeat.
At Matrazzle’s a large vanity table sits behind a Japanese room divider as Sam sees the package taped under its middle drawer. It’s pushed back in then he begins to wrap plastic around the table in thick layers. He hears Ned sanding in the background, always working. Today he found an Early American chest and was now giving it a nose job. Sam pulls a thick strip of tape from its dispenser and tags the parcel. He checks the time, 5:07. Ned could close up; he promised Gwyn he’d be home early.
On the drive home the sky sits ominously. The snow has stopped for now and the sinking sun hides behind a thick blanket of clouds. Music from the radio becomes nothing but white noise as Sam drives through the slippery streets, he has a strange feeling. In less than twenty minutes he is pulling into the driveway. He puts the car in park, pulls out the keys and climbs out with that odd feeling clinging at the back of his neck now. Was he being watched? He reaches the front door and sticks his key in the hole and notices that it isn’t locked. He turns the knob and heads in. "Honey, I'm home," he goofs, then pulls off his coat, hat and scarf, making sure to hang them along the wooden knobs just like Gwyn likes it. He heads upstairs and enters their bedroom. "Gwyn, babe..." no answer. That odd feeling now begins to dance along the back of his neck hairs. He approaches the bathroom door and knocks gently. "You in there little piggy?” Quiet. He jiggles the doorknob, it’s locked. "Hey Gwyn..." his tone serious now. Why isn't she answering? He knocks again this time harder, then reaches up above the door frame and fishes out a tiny bathroom key. Sam pushes the key into the small hole and turns the lock; the door opens. "Honey..." he walks over to the tub, its curtain drawn shut. Sam’s heart races as that odd feeling is now like an ice slick pressed against his spine. His arm pulls the curtain open and instantly his face pales. She’s here under the water, in a lifeless slumber. Gwyneth’s eyes bulge out like two clouded marbles as she stares up at him. "Shit..!!!” he yells stumbling forward and begins to pull her body out of the cold water. "Gwyn..., wake up...!” She slumps in his arms, her body slipery as he drags it from the tub. Water soaks his clothes as he holds her tight against him. She’s cold. "Dear God...” he cries. Gwyneth is dead.
Sam paces back and forth within the bedroom as Gwyneth lies, growing stiff, on the bathroom floor. His mind is filled with disbelief. How could this have happened? She must have drowned. But how? Drank some wine, doze off, it doesn’t add up. He debates whether or not to call the cops as he rubs at his face and tries to think. Come on think of something Sammy boy. You can’t just leave her lying there! Suddenly his phone vibrates in his pants pocket startling him. He scoops it out, hands quaking and studies it. A text from Bethany. “Hi Sammy baby, like the surprise?” Her words written in thin italic letters followed by a yellow happy face emoticon. Sam reads the text over as a qualm wave sweeps over him. Did she do this? How? He thinks it over as another text comes in. It reads, “Come over tonight I have another surprise for you,” followed by a red heart emote. What the fuck! He punches in a text message, while a face drenched in horror, is silhouetted upon the screen. “What did you do you!” he means to add “you crazy fucking bitch” but doesn’t, and hits send. He waits impatiently for her reply and when it finally comes in he quickly reads it. “What are you talking about? I didn’t do anything Sam. Are you coming over or should I come to you?” His eyes gleam unnaturally as anger begins to spark from his eyes like flint rock. He reads her text several times over and knows that this was Bethany’s doing, her name is scribbled all over it. No, he can’t call the police. Nothing good will come of that. The game is still on and he has to play until it ends. And he wants it to end, now! The crazy bitch is sprinting now; she knew the twists and turns before the game even started. Sam draws his hands over his face and lets out a cupped roar. He has to think. Think Sam think. Play the game, play the game. You know it well Sammy boy, dig the claws out of your eyes and play the fucking game! He punches in another text, it’s his turn. “Sorry baby, I’ll be over in a few. Hope you’re wearing nothing but red lipstick.” Send. I can play it too and better than you, his mind sings while the veins pulse hard along his temples. The claws are out and his vision is clear, he sees the twists and turns now and he can even see the drop off. She dealt the cards but he holds all the aces. Bethany, he thinks, if that’s even her goddamn name, will be the one left spinning in circles as she cartwheels right over the edge.
Ned is face deep in an old weathered book when Sam unlocks the door and rushes in. “Shit man, she threw your ass out already?” “Can’t talk now, Ned,” he almost barks as he beelines towards the back of the room and slips in behind the Japanese room divider. Sam’s eyes frantically search around for something then he sees them. He grabs a large pair of scissors and stabs the blades through the plastic wrapped vanity. He pulls the plastic sheets away in vicious yanks until he can reach the middle drawer. Sam snaps it out and tears the package away from its underside. The scissor blades slice through the package and he draws out two tiny blue vials with red plugs shoved into them, then drops them inside his coat pocket. He places the package back into the middle drawer slams it shut. It will have to wait. This has to be done. He heads out of the room divider and to the closet at the back of the store. He swings it open as his eyes race down the closets contents: cans of solvents, paint thinner, acetone, gels and turpentine, no. Plastic bottles of liquid sander, liquid polishers, glass restorers, polishing foams, the wood milk, no…no. A half used bottle of Kruckenbergs Gourmet and then his eyes finally freeze on the small glass bottle of Potassium Ferrocyanide. He grabs the bottle and gently shakes it, letting its yellow liquid slosh against its glass wall. Sam’s face lights up, Bingo. His legs carry him back across the store towards the front door and Ned glimpses up at him from his book, “Everything ok, boss?” he asks. “It will be,” Sam answers. “And Ned…” he turns at an angle allowing his feet to side step forward while he spoke, “I’ll be back in the morning to finish that vanity. Don’t let them take it if I’m not back by then. Have 'em wait.” Sam whips back towards the door, his speed uninterrupted. “Will do,” Ned answers plunging his face back into the book as Sam reaches the door and yanks it open. “Lock it behind me.” It snaps shut and Sam blinks away.
The Audi drives through the streets speeding past the yellow lights as snow drops heavily onto the glass, overworking the wipers. The car’s hood is like a thick white blanket. Sam’s heart chugs like a maniacal turbine while his hands tightly strangle the steering wheel, paling his knuckles. He wished it were Bethany’s neck he had his hands tightly wrapped around at the moment, he would squeeze down hard until her body went limp. But he can’t. It had to be done this way. He finally reaches the hotel and parks in the underground parking. His fingers jitter as he pulls the blue vials from his pocket along with the glass bottle of Ferrocyanide. After he yanks the red caps off and twists open the bottle, he pours the vials contents into the yellow liquid and recaps it. He gives it several shakes, and drops it back into his pocket. It’s Showtime. Bethany’s hotel room stands before him as he adjusts his face and slips on his disguise. His baby-doll blue eyes step into their roles as the opening credits scroll across the screen, the scene fades in with a close-up on Sam’s right hand as it lifts and knocks onto Bethany’s door. The brass knob turns and he wonders what sick and twisted game she’ll have tucked up her sleeve for him this time. She draws the door open, slowly, and stands in the doorway dressed in a simple pink nightie. He didn’t see that coming. Her hair is swept back and pulled into a messy bun, her face naked, she looks like a teen. “Hey baby,” she says through a brief yawn as if she had just been awaken. “I didn’t think you were coming.” She slips away from the doorway and heads over to the sofa couch and plops her feet up onto the glass coffee table. Sam shuts the door, “Why wouldn’t I come baby,” he asks, then carefully slips off his coat and hat and gently drapes them across the couch making sure not to spoil the surprise. He sits down next to her. “I don’t know,” she shrugs, “I thought maybe you had better things to do.” Lip-poke again. What can be better than this, he thinks. Dumping his dead wife’s bloated body before she starts to smell up the house is no fun. How about giving you your surprise now? That’s seems fun. What do you think Beth, dear? Honey? You crazy fucking bitch! “Better...there’s nothing better than being here with you?” he says, cupping her chin in his hand. He stares in her eyes until she livens up and her mouth curls upward into a kooky smile. “That a girl, he says, “now how about you order up one of those fine bottles of champagne,” he gently squeezes at her chin while his other hand gently sweeps across her right breast. Her smile widens as she grabs the phone from the side table and dials in the numbers.
Once more Sam is stuck within her static. She straddles him against the couch and their tongues coil around each other like wet snakes. His chest is bare and her pink nightie lay in a loose mass near his feet. Beth’s hands fidget with his belt buckle and begin to slide it lose when someone knocks. Finally, Sam thinks, escaping her electrical field. “The champagne,” Beth announces in a celebrated chirp and slides her pink gown back on and crosses over to the door. A room service kid balances an ice bucket, the champagne bottle stuck inside, and two glasses along a tray. Bethany takes it; her lips say, “thank you” then she shuts the door. Sam hopes the attendant didn’t get a good look at him; didn’t need him giving out facial descriptions to go along with the dead woman’s corpse by the time they find her body. She pops the cork, it soaps her thin fingers and their glasses are filled. Here we go, Sam gleams. Let the festivities begin. They sip their champagne in between soft lip bites and necking as Sam counts the seconds, his urge under control. “You still have that wedding dress,” he asks after taking another small sip. “Uh huh,” she replies. “Go put it on Baby, I want to see you in it again.” Her hazel eyes become screwy as she pops up like a jack-in-the-box, “Ok Sammy,” she says, then places her glass on the table. Naked legs cross the room and she disappears into the closet. Sam waits for the ruffling sound of the wedding dress to begin and when it does, he hops up and feels through his coat pocket for what seems like an eternity. His fingers snag the bottle and he quickly removes the cap. He gives her glass a small helping, recaps the bottle and returns it to his coat pocket. Sam's heart thuds in his ears as he snags the champagne bottle and tops her off, “How’s it going in there?” he calls towards the closet door. His voice alien in his head as the sound of tissue paper fills the room like shattering glass. She was probably pulling it over her head by now. “Almost ready,” she replies, her voice soporific. She’s almost ready Sammy boy, but he’s sprinting through the final lap. He’s leaving her in his dust and she’s choking it down. He can almost see the finish line. Faster! She won’t catch up, not now, not ever. Sorry Bethany baby, your time is finally up. Sam returns to the couch, chest pounding with sweat slick on his face. Then he hears Bethany say something from the closet, but he can’t make it out. “What’d you say...?” he asks, smiling apathetically. She speaks again but her words sound warped as if she’s speaking underwater and when Sam opens his mouth to ask again his voice clogs tightly inside his throat. He clears it and tries again. “What’d yy–…” his voice, weak and stifled, falls flat into a breathy whisper. Beth steps out of the closet and strolls back to the couch, she stares down at him. “I said… how–do –you– feel?” Sam rolls his eyes up, they feel like boulders and when he sees Beth, she’s as tall as a giant and blurry. Then she splits into two, then three, all standing in a wavy line like daunting triplets. They aren't even wearing wedding dresses; just jeans and sweatshirts. Sam manages a few hoarse words, his mouth heavy like a cinder-block. “Wh... di... yy... doo... Beff...?” Lips gone numb. “Oh Sammy,” she giggles as he slumps over onto the seat cushion. A thin clear fluid escapes his slack lips as he lies their, stiff and paralyzed. A long list of questions unrolls through his mind like a carpet and he wonders how she did it. Was it the champagne? How? They both drank. HOW? HOW? HOW!!! The bitch poisoned him and now has taken the lead.
Bethany unlocks the latch on her new storage locker and rolls the gate open. Her thumb clicks the lamp on and she pulls the gate shut. A jaundiced glow is cast throughout the dim locker as she steps across the hard flooring and sees her white dress placed over the metal cage, back behind its plastic. She runs her hand across the synthetic surface in slippery strokes. Then her legs move over to a small round table, covered in opal linen, with a cake on top. The three tiered masterpiece sits under a glass dome with a plastic bride and groom stuck down into the icing. She removes the lid, plucks the groom out and licks him clean —and when she's done she slides him back in. Lastly, her body makes its way towards the back of the storage, her hips sway left to right as she strolls to her groom propped up against the wall. Sam’s body stands stiff, zipped inside multiple layers of thick plastic. His blue eyes shut tight, his skin pale like a wax dummy as a dead smile lies over his face. Sam is dressed to the teeth; black tux, bow tie, the whole lot. There’s even a red rose pinned through the lapel. Bethany knew he’d love it. She slides her hand along her plastic-wrapped Sam. “We’ll always be together baby,” she says, stroking him up and down. Her contralto hum begins as she wraps her arms around his plastic shoulders and rocks her hips gently from side to side in a slow dance. She has him now; her breath agaist his neck for all eternity, she's won.