The Final Chamber

THE FINAL CHAMBER

Cynthia Tottleben

Published by Cynthia Tottleben at Smashwords

Copyright 2011 Cynthia Tottleben

Cover art by Ann Pierson D’Angelo

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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CHAPTER ONE

Three years later I loaded the gun.

The final bullet only took two seconds to find the chamber. No hesitation. No fear, no sense of self pounding away inside at the terror my actions could cause. Not even an explosive, life-saving guilt trip from my mother-in-law streamed through my mind. A twist of the key and the safe was unlocked. The revolver, polished and eager, wrapped in my great-grandmothers embroidered tea towel, removed in one easy swoop. The cloth dropped to the floor. My hands so familiar with the cold steel, I just popped it open and inserted the last piece of the puzzle.

But the first time I toyed with loading my weapon twelve hours stretched past before I placed the bullet. The image of Jacob’s mother successfully interfered that time, along with my husband’s reasoning skills and my overwhelming sense of responsibility.

You had lived here for eighteen months, of which only about the first two weeks were even remotely pleasant. The honeymoon phase, the case workers called it. Not that we hadn’t had good times, because we always managed to squeeze some fun between the hours of peel-the-paint off the walls tantrums and abuse you wielded. At that point the adoption was still delayed-much to my pleasure- and I wasn’t certain it would go forward. The doubts you had planted in my mind the day you first showed your true colors had grown remarkably well in my veins, vining themselves around my heart, holding it in a vicious grip.

The day leading to my twelve hour crying jag had been awful. You had always been especially keen at detecting this; my worst days away from home usually wound up dropping a boulder of devastation on our doorstep, where you stood with pride and said, look what I brought home. More hatred.

My work day had begun at five in the morning, where I delivered a final warning to one of my favorite managers over breakfast. Usually confrontations about work performance don’t unnerve me in the slightest, but this woman bordered on being a good friend, in the way that a subordinate can. We had shared much of our lives together, with twenty years under my belt at the company and thirty two for Agnes. In fact she had hired me, promoted me twice under her management, seen me rise to a position as her peer in another dormitory. In many ways she had served as a substitute parent when I lived so far from my own and had even seen me through some disturbing times in my early twenties.

I came in at five so we could share some quiet time together. The coffee was fresh, and one of the cooks whipped me up some scrambled eggs and toast. I watched as Agnes’s hands shook. She knew my visit was more than a friendly one, although I didn’t hesitate to ask about her grandchildren and the goats she kept on the acreage behind her house. She cupped her palms around her mug but still couldn’t disguise the tremor. Tiny drops of coffee flipped onto the table long before the liquid made it to her lips.

We had had closed door conversations about her drinking in the past, and this wasn’t our first foray onto paper over the matter. Agnes had always been one to drink and dine, but not to excess. Until two years ago, when her husband had left her- again- for a woman my age, and this time actually rounded out the treachery with a full serving of divorce papers. Agnes, who had stoically handled his cheating for decades, totally collapsed with the end of her marriage.

But I run a business. As a clandestine friend (I do not believe in fraternizing with the employees), I helped my old boss as much as I could. I listened to her weep and fling her grief for several months. And when the divorce and subsequent issues challenged Agnes’s work performance on a regular basis, I had to take action. First, I confronted her behavior. The attendance issues. Her disheveled appearance. The rumors that she was partying with some of the college students who closed the kitchen with her at night.

After she confided in me the extent of her transgressions, I was literally stunned at her transformation. Hitting the bars at night, picking up strangers for sex, even driving under the influence with her oldest granddaughter in the car- none of these were activities the Agnes that had made me her sidekick twenty years before would ever have considered doing. I asked her to get help. She didn’t. For about a year she had tried to keep it together and failed.

This matter stemmed from an accusation that Agnes was not only drinking at work, but had a vast supply of alcohol hidden throughout the kitchen. I had slipped in after her shift the night before and toured with her next in command, taking pictures of the booze hidden behind the bags of rice in dry storage and the bottles tucked in her snow boots in a downstairs locker, a winter hat and scarf shoved on top for added disguise.

Even sitting across from her so early in the morning I could barely maintain my posture when she spoke. The stench of mints covered her morning alcohol breath. Each time Agnes opened her mouth I wanted to dive for cover. At one point we let silence thread between us like little cobwebs. We both knew her gig was up but neither of us was ready for action.

I issued Agnes her final warning, with instructions for completing rehab. I placed her on a leave of absence pending the results of her urine test and subsequent medical release, took her keys to the building and walked her outside.

I called campus security and had Agnes driven to the clinic where we do our drug and alcohol testing. All a formality, but I couldn’t skip this step just because of our relationship.

What a horrible feeling, watching her in the back of the patrol car, the stab of guilt leaving me breathless when Agnes turned to look at me before they drove off. I could feel my twenty year old self, fresh from an argument with some guy I’d been screwing who was such a loser I couldn’t even remember his name, seeking comfort in the warmth of Agnes’s home. Crying into the mug of tea she had prepared me. The nostalgia of that moment finding me again on the back dock of a dorm kitchen, as familiar as the breakfast smells that crept out the receiving doors and wrapped around my shoulders, just as her arms had so many years ago.

When the taillights trailed out of sight I wiped my cheeks and shook off the moment. I thought of the Agnes I had known in my early adulthood; the woman adorned with patience who had kept me in her house for nearly a week after my breakup, teaching me to can the spoils of her garden, the artistry with which she approached each meal, the comfort that comes from working in a kitchen. I wanted that woman back.

But all I could do was be the best boss Agnes could have. At least she hadn’t lost her job.

Yet.

After Agnes I