Page 61 of Too Old for This

Skin makes a popping sound. They don’t show that in the movies or on TV, but it’s true. When you first break the skin—when you stab someone—it pops.

Everything about using a knife is bad. That damn sound, the heat from the body when it’s opened up, the mess of the blood. Most of the time, it’s not worth the work.

I only used a knife once. Archie was in high school and didn’t need me around all the time, so I decided to take a little vacation alone. I rented a small cabin in the mountains. Three days to myself, no work, no bills or car problems or laundry. No one to talk to or deal with.

Then, Monica. The backpacker.

She came to my door in need of help. And while I am not against helping someone, I do think it’s important that they help themselves. Put in a little effort. Monica, on the other hand, was just so needy .

She showed up at my door, lost and sweaty and in need of directions.

“Please help. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know where I am.”

It was all so dramatic, especially since my car was parked near the house. The dirt road was right there . If she had stopped to think for two seconds, Monica would’ve realized it must lead to some other kind of road. She just didn’t want to walk the four miles out.

I did make her ask. I wasn’t about to offer her a place to stay unless she had the nerve to ask. It took her an hour, during which she rambled incessantly, recounting every minute of the time she spent being lost.

“Would it be all right if I slept here tonight?” she asked.

“Of course you can. Now let’s get some food in you.”

We made dinner together. I sliced up fresh tomatoes for a salad while Monica washed lettuce in the sink. She still would not shut up. She told me, yet again, about how she got lost.

“…and there was this rock. I didn’t realize I passed by it twice.

I don’t know how that happened, but you know, I was really trying to concentrate on the nature.

That’s why I came out here, to disconnect from all the tech and reconnect with the natural world.

So I passed right by that rock twice. The fourth time, though.

That’s when I realized I was walking in circles… ”

“You told me this already,” I said.

“Did I?”

“Yes.”

“I guess I’m just venting because this day has been so traumatic and I’m trying to deal with it.”

I lost my patience and stopped slicing tomatoes.

“What else would you like me to do for you?” I asked.

She recoiled. Her mouth twisted up like she had sucked on a lemon. “I thought you would listen.”

“I have. Several times.”

“When you first offered to help, you reminded me of someone.”

“Who?”

“My mom,” she said. “But you’re not like her at all.”

“I have one child. I don’t need another.”

She scoffed and stepped back from me. “I thought you were nice. But you’re just a mean, bitter old woman.”

I gave her a place to stay, I was cooking her dinner, I listened to her long, boring story about getting lost half a dozen times, and she still insulted me.

With that attitude, Monica was never going to make it through the night.

The surprise was the knife. Initially, I had no intention of stabbing her. My plan was to knock her out with one of the cast-iron pans in the kitchen. They really added to the rustic feel of the cabin.

I cut her throat clean through. Ear to ear. There was no sound at all until the gurgling started. In seconds, blood spewed everywhere, reminding me why it was a bad idea. And I was stuck with it.

I didn’t have a lot of options at that point. No way to clean it all up, not with her bleeding all over the kitchen counter, cabinets, and hardwood floor. My quiet evening turned into a very long night.

By morning, it was all gone. The cabin and everything in it burned down, nothing left but a hollowed, blackened shell. And buried somewhere inside, a toaster oven with a badly frayed wire.

The owners of the house refunded me for the entire stay.

But knives do have one purpose. They’re good when you want it to hurt.

—

“Move, Grandma.”

I can’t decide if it’s better to be seen or to be invisible. Depends on the location, I suppose. The tool section of a big-box store isn’t a likely place for someone like me. I’m only here because of another text from Burke.

Burke: I won’t be down there until late tomorrow night.

I push my gigantic cart over to the kitchen aisle. It’s not much better here, too many parents around. Though no one is overtly rude, I do get a lot of nervous looks. Like I’m going to ask someone for help. All of these parents are too busy to help themselves, much less a stranger.

The knives are spread out before me, lined up from most expensive to least. I pass by all the fancy knives made of titanium and tungsten and ceramic, and go all the way down to basic steel.

The most common utility knife is eight inches long with a black plastic handle.

I put one in my basket next to my new hammer.

A knife is not ideal, but I need to be prepared. Adaptable. Both weapons feel good in my hand. Strong and sturdy, unlike my body.

I pay cash for both and get out of the store, then the parking lot.

Before heading back to the Dew Drop, I go to my house and head straight for the kitchen. My phone is taped to the counter. I wake up the screen to check my messages one last time for the day.

Archie called.

“Hi, Mom. It’s me again. I know you’re angry, and I completely understand that. I also want you to know that I wasn’t trying to pry into your life. That wasn’t my intention. All I wanted to do is make sure you were okay, because I love you and I worry about you. Call me when you’re ready.”

I save the voicemail.