I Know What To Do
a short story
by Yvonne Navarro
We moved into the apartment in March. I hadn't liked the place since the first
time we saw it, but I didn't tell Maggie until after it was too late to do
anything. I don't know why; maybe I wanted to have something to hold over her
head. It seemed like she'd controlled everything since we got married: the
money, where we lived, what we ate, everything. If I'd said how much I hated the
place -- and I think I did drop a couple of obvious hints -- she would have sat
across from me at the kitchen table with that "let's talk about this in a
reasonable manner" look on her face and explained how we were saving money
(twenty-five bucks a month, big fucking deal), the landlord at the old place was
going to sell the building and then the rent would go up, on and on, until I
ended up agreeing with her anyway. By keeping my mouth shut I had future
artillery if I wanted it.
Not that I don't love her, I do. I wouldn't have married her otherwise, not
after the shit I went through with my first wife. In fact, if you wanted to use
Maggie's psycho-babble, the ex probably had a lot to do with my attraction to
Maggie. Security, a sense of organization, her always knowing what to do --
sounds like a bunch of crap for a man to be saying, doesn't it? Like the old
expression goes, you had to be there. Spend a few years with my ex and you'll
understand.
The place was all right, I suppose. It was hard to compete with my old apartment
and its golden wood floors and wall full of unblocked east windows. The new one
was standard inner-city Chicago: dark and somewhat smaller, with a building on
the east and an alley on the west. It was a first floor too, and it made me
nervous to think how easy it would be for some punk to break in, whether or not
we were home.
We moved in.
The dog acted weird right from the start.
"Get out of there!"
At 5:45 in the morning I wasn't expecting any loud noises and I nearly
overturned my coffee when Maggie yelled. The small hallway that was the
connecting point of most of the rooms was mostly in shadows, but I could still
make out Chanci's gangly black shape with her head poked into the bathroom.
"What the hell is she doing?" I asked.
The dog made the mistake of stepping into the bathroom and Maggie was down the
hall instantly to plant a solid whack on Chanci's rump. "Out!" The animal
backpedalled and ran for the living room, nails slipping on the linoleum. For a
second I thought she was going to trip and fall flat and I groaned inside; the
dog was so clumsy it was embarrassing.
Maggie glanced into the bathroom and looked around, muttering to herself about
dog hairs. It was still early, so I decided to keep my opinion about white throw
