(Chirp, Zen, Bloody)
It’s like a scene out of a Stephen King book. Surreal, otherworldly. The kitchen is clean, spotlessly so. The counter top gleams next to the shiny stainless steel sink. A kitchen towel hangs from the oven handle, ends neatly together and unwrinkled. I stand in the doorway and look from one side to the other, seeing the old refrigerator, so old it has a hammered-metal freezer door inside. It has the old metal ice trays too, the ones where you have to lift the metal piece in the center to break the ice cubes loose. The overhead light is bright and white.
You might expect June Cleaver or someone to zip in every morning, cheery and chirping while they make coffee in the old percolator and fry up slabs of bacon and eggs for her husband and children. Walking into the house you could forget you were forty plus years old and once again be a ten-year old child, making sure to wipe your feet so that you won’t track mud on your mother’s floors.
I move through the kitchen and stand in the archway leading to the living room. The house is silent, zenlike in its calm. It’s a dry and cold silence, the kind when no one is nearby to disturb the air or breath into it. Why, you would just never know there is a dead body in the foyer with a bloody knife messing up that nice clean floor next to it. What have I done, and wouldn’t June be pissed?