Cartimandua says she is not ready to address the man or men in her life. She is not not sure her father is the right person. She has no desire just yet to address her husband who became her political enemy or her lover who had little character.
She suggested I take this space and and share one of my stories. So I will give the beginning of a story I am working on. The end will come later.
Considering Murder
Part 1
I have always been hotheaded. I yell, I scream, I swear. But
I never considered murder.
I am a writer. A writer finally successful enough to quit my
day job. After two years of looking for my Eden I bought a small house off the
beaten path. From the yard I could see nothing in any direction but what I imagined - the day I bought it-
green in spring, deeper green in the summer, a palate of color in the fall. In
winter bare limbs peering out from the evergreens
.
The ideal place for solitude. On torrid summer days I could
walk my Eden in scant clothing. On some occasions no clothing at all. That was
the case on a hot humid day three weeks after I moved in. I had just shed my
shorts when from behind the dense pine tree hedge as the back of my house I
heard, “Yohoo. Mr. Murdock.”
Scurrying to retrieve the shirt I had hung on a tree branch
I tied it around my waist.
Pushing their way through the low hanging pine branches the
young couple appeared before me. “Welcome to the area,’ the young man said. “I’m
Harold Hayes. This is my wife Amy. We live just over there.” He pointed. “It’s
not that far, but you can’t see it for the trees.”
Before I could respond he continued, “My wife’s father is
the pastor of the church just down the read. We’d like to invite you to join
us. 10:00 every Sunday. 7:00 Wednesdays.”
Searching for a proper response which would not reveal my
atheism I said, “That’s nice, but I have mu own church.”
“Where?”
“In town. I try to go as often as I can.”
I had not set foot in a church for over ten years—except for
weddings and funerals. My evolution- or some might say my degeneration- had led
me from my Southern Baptist roots to Methodism to Presbyterianism to
Unitarianism and finally to no church but Nature Herself.
Would that that had been the end of my contact with the
Hayes. But it was not to be. The following days revealed an open view from
their mobile home of the pond below my house. The pond I envisioned perfect for
nude swimming. With resentment bordering on hatred I hunted the bikini I brought
from a recent trip to Munich.
Harold and Amy – no it was Amy who proved my nemesis. Days after
that first encounter and my finding the bikini I met another neighbor. She
appeared one morning at my door with bread (freshly baked if my smell was
good). “Welcome to the neighborhood”, she said holding out her offering. “According
to Amy you are totally lacking in decency. I knew immediately I had to meet
you. You may not know that you are not only godless, but most likely
licentious. That is not her word. I doubt she knows the word.” Her lips spread;
her eyes smiled. “Are you licentious? Or are you just wicked?”
I extended my hand. “I’m Connie Murdock. Connie for Conrad
and you're?”
“Jennifer Collins – down the road a quarter of a mile.
Yellow house on the left. Married. No children. Not a member of Amy’s church.”
“What a relief.”
“But I’m not as sinful as you. She says you’re downright
wicked. Your behavior leaves nothing to the imagination. She wants me to join
her in raising objections to your living here. Amid god fearing people. And I
assure you I am not the only person she has talked to.”
“What the Hell have I done to offend her? I only met her
once.”
“You wear the most scanty pants she has ever seen. Scantier
than her husband’s underwear.” Jennifer’s eyes shone.
“That little bitch.”
That little bitch. I should never have uttered those words –
then or later on. But I did utter them.
In quite respectable shorts I was weed-whacking the growth
around my pond’s edge whe I saw Amy coming my way.
“Mr. Murdock, I don’t mean to be unneighborly, but you are
cutting into our land.”
“But this pond in mine – or so I was told when I bought it.”
“So it is. But the line goes – “ She came closer. “Here, let
me show you.” She stood not a foot from the edge of my pond. “Right here—straight
line from that oak tree over there, through here, to the big pine up there.”
I smiled. “Then I offer my weed-whacking to you free of
charge.”
She did not smile. “We’d prefer you don’t mess with our
land.”
As she left my pulse raced, my face burned. I admitted I was
hot-headed. Never more than at that moment.
“You fucking little bitch,” I said,
unaware was still within earshot.
My hope that I could avoid any contact with her was not be
realized. Two days later I was not yet dressed when there was a knock at my
door. When in hastily donned shorts and shirt opened the door, I found myself
fact to face with the Sherriff. “Yes?”
“You’re Conrad Murdock?”
“I have a summons for you to appear in court.
*
* * * *
Neither the lawyer I engaged not the judge I faced showed
any concern for my plight. I was sentenced to probation pending refrain from inflammatory
remarks to or about the claimant and from wearing inappropriate clothing within
view of the claimant.
Now I was really angry. I was seriously considering murder.
Far too many people act out of anger before careful planning. I had some careful
planning to do. Thus began my entrance into murder.
