Pane In The Neck

by Bill Bernico

"I'm leaving now, dear,” Natalie Broman announced, jiggling her key ring at the front door. “I'll be back a little after ten. Don't wait supper.”

Mrs. Broman was off to another of her art classes, as she had done three times a week for the past six weeks. The thirty-seven-year-old housewife had become restless and told her husband that she needed these classes to keep her mind active. It was her therapy, or so she told everyone.

Chester Broman looked up briefly from his newspaper and said, “have fun. See you later,” and lowered his paper again. He returned to the sports section of the paper and finished reading the scores from last night's game. He set the paper on the coffee table and shuffled into the kitchen to make himself a sandwich. He hated having to make his own supper but tolerated it, knowing that Natalie's art classes would end in two weeks. Chester brought his sandwich and glass of milk back to the living room and finished his meal while he watched the news. By nine-thirty he had nodded off with the television glowing in front of him.

It was a quarter past ten when the front door opened and Natalie entered, carrying one of her recent paintings. The slam of the door behind her startled Chester and he sat bolt upright in his chair, knocking the evening newspaper to the floor. The juice ran through his neck vein as he sat up. He clasped the vein in his right hand and winced.

What is it, dear?” Natalie said, bending over her husband to plant a kiss on his forehead.

“Hot juice,” he said, and the pain dissipated as quickly as it had come. Hot juice was the term he used to describe the pain in his neck when he moved too quickly and pinched a nerve in his neck. He rubbed his neck a little more before rising from his easy chair and joining his wife in the kitchen.

“Like it?” Natalie said, holding up another of her paintings for Chester 's approval.

“Very nice, dear,” he said in a voice that crawled up from the bowels of his throat. Chester had seen dozens like it over the past several weeks and feigning enthusiasm was getting harder and less convincing and Natalie sensed as much.

On the other hand, Natalie seemed to pay less attention to Chester 's responses and walked past him as if in a dream toward the spare bedroom door. There she selected the appropriate frame from the pile stacked against the back wall. She held it briefly over the picture and decided that this was the one. On one of the dressers sat two piles of plate glass. Natalie chose a piece from the left pile, held it up to her frame and smiled. She took the three elements to the basement door and opened it, switching on the light switch as she descended. Two steps from the bottom Natalie's heel caught on a carpet fiber and she stumbled, dropping her supplies. They hit the floor with a crash of glass and wood. Natalie screamed a high-pitched scream as she tried to maintain her balance and bounced against a wall at the bottom. “Damn,” she yelled.

Chester opened the basement door and looked down at Natalie, who was standing over the mess she'd made. Natalie looked up, her fists on her hips and a scowl on her face.

“How'd you manage that?” Chester said, trying not to smile.

“It's that damn step again,” Natalie screamed at him. “When are you going to fix that thing? I could have been killed. You hear me?”

“What are you talking about?” Chester said. It's the second one from the bottom. You can't die falling eighteen inches.”

“You can if you fall on that ,” she said, pointing to the shards of glass lying on the floor. “I want that step fixed tomorrow.”

“I'll take care of it,” Chester said, closing the door and heading for the bedroom. As usual, he went to bed upset over something Natalie had said, or done, or insinuated. This was not the same woman he'd married thirteen years ago. They had been happy, or so it seemed to him, but lately Natalie seemed to lose interest in him.

Natalie grabbed a broom from the work shop area of the basement and swept the glass pieces into a dustpan and dumped the mess into a trashcan under the stairs. She returned to the spare bedroom for another piece of glass and brought it down to her workshop again. The frame was still undamaged and it took her only ten minutes to assemble the three elements into a framed display. Such was the routine each time she had returned from another art class. The walls of her basement office were filled with such pictures.

Natalie stood back to admire her latest addition before turning off the lights and retiring to bed. She changed into her nightgown, slid beneath the covers and turned to Chester . “You haven't forgotten the party tomorrow night at the Stephenson's, have you?”

Chester let out a short snore and Natalie jabbed him in the side with her elbow. “I know you heard me.”

Chester turned over to face her. “What do you want? I was almost asleep.”

“Thursday. Eight o'clock. The Stephenson's. Chester , are you listening?”

“Yeah,” he mumbled. “Eight o'clock. Now go to sleep.” Chester turned over, pulling the covers over onto himself.

Natalie straightened Chester 's tie as they stood on the Stephenson's front stoop. “Now remember,” she said, “these are my friends. Don't embarrass me.”

Chester started to say something when the front door opened and Elaine Stephenson extended her arms to welcome Natalie. “Come in, come in,” she said, hugging Natalie. “The party's just beginning.” She turned to Chester , her arms extended again. “Come in, Chester . Don't be a stranger. Here, let me take your coat.”

Chester slipped out of his coat and handed it to Elaine. He helped Natalie out of her coat and handed it to their host as well. Elaine hung the garments in the hall closet and escorted her guests into the living room where a dozen other guests mingled and chatted and drank funny-looking drinks. Natalie drifted off with several other women while Chester stood alone, looking like the new kid in school when no one would play with him.

A man in a blue sport coat sidled over to Chester and extended his hand. “ Chester ,” the man said, expecting to be recognized. Chester shook the man's hand and stared for a moment, puzzled. “Jack,” the man said. “Jack Stephenson. Care for a drink?”

Chester smiled. “Oh yes, Jack. Sure, I'll have a scotch and soda.”

Jack mixed the drink and handed it to his guest. “You don't remember, do you? About four months ago, at the mall. Elaine and I ran into you two coming out of the restaurant.”

Chester 's mind clicked and his frown turned into a look of relief for having remembered meeting the man once before. “Sure,” Chester said. “I remember now. You two were just going in and asked how the food was and I said...”

Jack finished the sentence. “...Not very good but you should see the portion you get.”

The two men laughed and stood nervously, not quite sure what to say next. Jack broke the awkward silence. “So, old man, how do you like batching it three times a week?”

Chester put down his glass. “Huh?”

When the girls are gone to that dopey art class.”

“You, too?” Chester said. “I hate it. No supper on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays. She's always buying more frames and glass and the basement is getting to look like a frame shop. Not to mention the pictures.”

“I know,” Jack said. “Elaine's just as bad. And I tell ya, if I have to look at one more water color...”

“I hear ya,” Chester said. Just last night she came home with another of those monstrosities. I have to make believe I like it while she hangs another one on the wall. Well, she almost didn't get to hang last night's. She tripped on our basement step and dropped the whole mess on the floor. Glass everywhere. I thought she was gonna hit the roof. Unfortunately, the picture survived.”

Jack took Chester 's glass from him and mechanically filled it again with scotch and soda. “Look at the bright side. The classes end next Thursday and it's only two hours a night. I think you can...”

“What was that?” Chester said. “What was that you said?”

“The classes will be over next week,” Jack repeated.

“No,” Chester said. “The other thing about two hours.”

Jack looked puzzled. “I said it's only two hours a night. I can survive on my own until nine. Hell, I can do two hours standing on my head.” Jack snickered. “Why?”

Chester shook his head. “No reason.” He glanced across the room at Natalie, who was cackling along with Elaine and the rest of the hens.

Things seemed to be falling into place now, Chester thought. There were nights when Natalie had come home with a strange smell on her. She had laughed it off as having been in a crowded room with lots of people but Chester knew that smell. It was a familiar smell. The smell of an after-shave he'd smelled in the mall. There were the nights when Natalie had come home after ten-thirty when the classes were supposedly over at ten and they lived just ten minutes from the technical college where the classes were held. And there was Natalie's erratic and moody behavior lately. Now they all fell into place and Chester 's mind raced at the possibilities. She had another art class tomorrow night.

It was eleven fifteen and the party was beginning to break up. Half the guests had gone and the other half was standing around in the kitchen practicing their exit lines. Chester and Natalie retrieved their coats from the hall closet and said their good-nights at the front door.

“See you tomorrow night at class,” Elaine said, giving Natalie one more hug before releasing her.

Chester slid behind the wheel of his Lincoln and Natalie sat quietly beside him. He tooled the car down the driveway and turned left toward their house just five minutes down the road. A minute into the drive Chester said, “Jack tells me the classes are over next week. Does that mean we can get back to normal?”

“For a while,” Natalie said.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean there's another class I want to take next month.”

“What?”

“Another painting class,” Natalie said. “I need the practice.”

“No more art classes,” Chester said. “The house work is being neglected and so am I. You don't need any more stupid art classes.”

Natalie stared coldly at her husband, her arms folded across her chest. “We'll see about that,” she said. She didn't say another word the rest of the way home.

Chester 's exasperated sigh filled the car's interior. He drove on in silence, his mind racing with possibilities.

At quarter to seven the following night, Natalie stood at the front door, jiggling her keys as usual. “I'll be back a little after ten, dear. You still haven't fixed the basement step, you know. Could you have that thing fixed before I get home?”

“Yeah, sure,” Chester said, grabbing the evening paper and heading toward his easy chair. When he heard the sound of her car leaving, Chester threw down the paper and paced. He paced back and forth between the living room and the kitchen, his mind furiously working things out. The possibilities were staggering.

It was eight forty-five as Chester left the house and drove toward the technical college. He parked back two rows from the building and waited. At a few minutes past nine, fifteen or twenty people filed out of the building and into their cars. A few minutes later all was quiet again. There were only two other cars parked in the lot. He didn't recognize the Chrysler, but knew his wife's Chevy.

Chester waited a few minutes before walking to the school's side door. He quietly let himself in and soft-footed down the hall toward the sounds of two voices. They were coming from the last door on the left. The door was open a crack and the voices seemed to come from somewhere further back in the room. One of the voices was Natalie's.

“He told me no more classes,” she said. “Oh Chuck, I don't want to lose you now. These past six weeks with you have been heaven. I can't go back to the hell I have with him. I can't stand another week with him. Just the touch of his hands makes my skin crawl.”

“You won't have to,” Chuck said. “Come away with me. You can do it.”

“But how?” Natalie said.

“Just pack what you need and stay with me. I'll take care of you. We can be together always. Say you'll do it...for me.”

Natalie's voice answered, “I will, Chuck. I have to.”

Chester carefully peeked through the crack in the door. The couple in the back was locked in embrace; their faces had blended as one. Chester bit his lip and stepped back. He returned to his car as quietly as he had come.

Chester returned the Lincoln to the garage and killed the engine. He sat there momentarily, his mind struggling with several emotions at once. He bounced back and forth between rage, betrayal and the sad reality of what he knew he had to do.

Chester headed for the basement. Under the stairway he retrieved the wastebasket with the shards of Wednesday night's mishap. He slipped into his gloves and carefully picked through the rubble looking for something. He plucked it from the can and examined it. The piece of glass was about four inches long, shaped somewhat like a knife blade and came to a sharp, narrow point. Perfect, he thought, returning the trash can and setting his prize piece on the shelf under the stairs.

At ten fifteen Natalie's key turned in the door and she entered with another watercolor painting. Chester rose from his chair and kissed her lightly on the cheek.

“Let's see,” he said, pointing at the new painting.

Natalie held it up and smiled. Just as quickly, the smiled faded and she slipped out of her coat and headed for the guest bedroom for the same routine of picking out the glass and the frame to display her picture.

Chester retreated to their bedroom and yelled back, “good-night.”

“Night,” Natalie answered half-heartedly.

Chester tiptoed back to the basement door and quietly stepped down to the bottom. It was dark but he'd rehearsed this maneuver several times earlier in the evening and knew exactly where he was. He slipped into his gloves and waited. Like clockwork, two minutes later the basement door opened and the light shined above the steps.

Natalie's footsteps sounded as Chester counted. When her foot hit the middle stair, Chester reached around and grabbed Natalie's ankle and pulled. Natalie screamed, tumbled forward and fell face first toward the bottom of the stairs. The picture glided silently to the floor while the frame thudded off to one side. Just before the full sound of Natalie's body hitting the floor, Chester heard the sound he'd been waiting for--the glass. It shattered beneath his wife as she fell on top of it.

The air went out of Natalie's lungs with a loud “Ooof” as she hit the cement floor. Her moans filled the basement as Chester emerged from beneath the basement steps holding his prize piece of glass. Natalie lay there, unable to move. Her right hand had tried to cushion her fall and was crumbled up beneath her while her left hand twisted behind her and lay on her back. Her pinky finger twitched involuntarily.

Chester crouched next to his wife and turned her over. She stared up at him, still moaning but unable to move. Chester smiled down at her. Two small half-inch pieces of glass punctured Natalie's face while several small pieces were embedded in her right hand. She bled from the punctures onto the floor.

“Does this make your skin crawl?” he said, holding her arm. “How do you suppose Chuck would like your new look?” Chester held his prize knife-shaped piece of glass up to Natalie's face. He could see the carotid artery pulsing in her neck.

Natalie's eyes widened as Chester plunged the glass into her artery more than half way. An inch and a half of glass stuck out of the wound that was now gushing blood onto the floor. Chester released his wife's arm and the body flopped back over onto the position it had assumed when she fell. He stood up and stepped back, careful not to get any of the blood on him.

Chester stepped over Natalie's body, climbed the basement stairs and returned to the kitchen. He closed the basement door and stepped over to the bathroom where he stripped off his thin cloth gloves. One at a time, Chester flushed them down the toilet and smiled at his accomplishment. Now all he had to do was run through the expected routine and call it in.

In the master bedroom, Chester stripped out of clothes and into his robe and slippers. He returned to the basement door and threw it open, as if he'd just arrived and was reacting to the noise of his wife's fall. What would he do next, he asked himself. This was no time for slip-ups and he needed to go through the motions. He hurried down the stairs and crouched again near Natalie's body. She'd stopped bleeding now and a bright pool had formed beneath her.

He lifted the body by one arm, turning her as if to examine her. Then he released her and ran back up the stairs. Chester raced to the phone and dialed 9-1-1. His heart was still pounding from the race up the stairs and he used that to his best advantage.

“Nine-one-one,” the voice on the other end said. “What is your emergency?”

“It's my wife,” Chester said, partly out of breath. “She's had an accident.” He tried to interject panic into his voice. “She was carrying a piece of glass and fell with it.”

Chester gave the operator his address and a few other tidbits of necessary information before the operator assured him that help was on that way. He hung up and sat at the kitchen table, a sort of satisfaction encircling him.

Within fifteen minutes Chester 's driveway was a flurry of red lights and official vehicles. First on the scene was a county cop named Sprigget, followed by two detectives, Abernathy and Carson. Sprigget was questioning Chester , jotting down notes on his pad when the two detectives arrived. Carson joined the county cop in his line of questioning while Abernathy carefully stepped down to the basement to examine the body.

A few minutes after the arrival of the three police, a police photographer walked through the front door followed by the medical examiner. Carson pointed to the basement door. “Down there,” he said. “Abernathy's with her now.”

Chester lit a cigarette and nervously puffed at it. “I was sleeping when she came home and then I heard the crash. When I opened the basement door, there she was just like that.”

Carson made notes on his pad as he questioned Chester . “And you say this was her normal routine?”

“Yes,” Chester said. “After art class she always went to the basement to frame her painting. It could never wait until the next day. She always had to do it right away.”

The photographer took the necessary photos of the body as it was found before Abernathy turned it over for more shots. The medical examiner, a white-haired man by the name of Menning, made his initial notes, conferred with Abernathy briefly and returned to the kitchen while the two paramedics transported the body to the waiting ambulance.

There were the routine questions and answers around the kitchen table before the police were satisfied that they had all that they needed for now. Carson placed a police seal on the basement door before leaving and soon the house was quiet again and Chester was alone--literally.

The next day was Saturday and it felt strange to Chester to wake up to peace and quiet instead of the usual argument he had with Natalie. He made himself some toast and coffee and sat in the solitude of his kitchen. He'd just swallowed the last piece of toast when the phone rang. It was detective Carson.

“Mr. Broman,” the voice began, “could you stop in at headquarters this morning? We have just a few loose ends to clear up before we can close this case. Let's say eleven at my office?”

“That'll be fine,” Chester assured him and hung up. Soon this whole episode would be nothing more than a bad dream and he could get on with his life--his life without Natalie.

Chester eyed the basement door and the thought of what lay there the previous night made his stomach turn. He quickly continued to the bedroom to get dressed. He slipped into his blue jeans and sneakers and slid a sweatshirt over his head.

Chester entered the police station shortly before eleven and was given directions to detective Carson's office. He took a seat across the desk from Carson and waited while Carson finished his phone call.

“Mr. Broman,” the detective began, “I'm sorry about your wife's accident. I realize this must be hard for you but we have just a few questions we must clear up before we can officially close this file.”

“Certainly,” Chester said. “How can I help you?”

Carson leaned forward in his chair. “Mr. Broman, that was a pretty strange accident your wife had Friday night. I mean, it was just a strange series of events that caused your wife's death, wouldn't you say?”

“Somehow I feel it's my fault,” Chester said.

Carson looked puzzled. “How's that?”

“Well, it was that step,” Chester began. “She asked me to fix it Wednesday night when she first tripped on it and broke another piece of glass. I told her I would but just never got around to it.”

Carson added this information to his note pad before looking back up at Chester . He continued to question Chester for another ten minutes before he was satisfied. “Thank you, Mr. Broman. I think I have enough now. If we need more information, we know where to contact you.”

“What for?” Chester said defensively.

“Just routine follow-up, Mr. Broman,” Carson said.

The days flew by without a word from the police. Chester figured he had committed the perfect crime. He could relax now and start his new life. It was Tuesday when his quiet life was disturbed again by a knock on his front door. He peeked out past the curtains to see detectives Carson and Abernathy flanked by two uniformed officers. Chester opened the door and invited the men inside.

“Mr. Broman,” Carson said, handing Chester a paper, “we have a warrant to search your house. Would you step aside, please?”

“Search warrant?” Chester said indignantly. “What are you searching for?”

No one answered him. One of the officers remained with Chester while the other started his search in the living room. Abernathy covered the bedroom while Carson returned to the basement carrying a small black case.

Carson retrieved a small hand broom and dustpan from the case and began sweeping up the glass pieces into a pile. He pulled a brown paper bag from his pocket and deposited the pieces in it. He labeled the bag and placed it in the case. Beneath the steps he looked down at the trash can that held the other glass pieces. Carson pulled another paper bag from the case and emptied the trashcan contents into it. He labeled this bag and placed it next to the first and closed the case.

Abernathy emerged from the bedroom carrying a large paper bag. “Got ‘em,” he said to Carson . The officer returned from the living room shaking his head.

“Let's go,” Carson said, taking Chester by the arm.

“What is this,” Chester demanded.

Carson produced another document and held it out for Chester to see. “It's a warrant, Mr. Broman. You're under arrest for the murder of Natalie Broman.”

“Murder?” Chester yelled defiantly. “It was an accident. A stupid accident. It was her own damned fault.”

“Let's go,” Carson repeated amid Chester 's protests. “You have the right to remain silent.” Carson read the rest of Chester 's rights from his pocket card as they walked toward the squad car.

Chester sat in the interrogation room alone for what seemed an eternity. The door opened and detective Carson walked in. He took a pack of cigarettes from his suit pocket and shook it upward until one filter tip protruded. He held it out to Chester . Chester ignored it and turned away.

“Look, Mr. Broman,” Carson began, “we don't need to question you at all. We spoke with Jack Stephenson and he corroborated your story about Mrs. Broman's first accident on the stairs, but we still have enough evidence on our own. If you wish to make a statement, it could go easier on you.”

“I told you, it was an accident,” Chester repeated. “She tripped and fell on the glass. I had nothing to do with it.”

“That's all you want to say?” Carson asked. “Look, we advised you to get a lawyer and we advised you to shut up, but if you insist on carrying out this charade, you'll hang yourself.”

Chester repeated, “I didn't do it. And that's that.”

The door opened again and Abernathy poked his head in and whispered something to Carson and left again. Carson grabbed Chester by the arm and said, “All right, Mr. Broman, if that's the way you want to play this, I guess it's time to play our ace in the hole. Let's go.”

Carson escorted Chester to another room where Abernathy waited and where two card tables had been set up. On each card table there had been pieces of broken glass arranged to form a nine-by-twelve pane. Each was incomplete, some pieces still missing.

Carson pointed to the table on the left. “Mr. Broman,” Carson began, “this was the pane your wife dropped on Wednesday night. We recovered most of the pieces and reassembled them.” He pointed to the table on the right. “And this is the pane she dropped on Friday night--the night she died.”

“So what,” Chester said, uninterested.

Abernathy opened his paper bag and produced Chester 's dress shoes. He turned them over, exposing the soles.

Carson pointed again to the table on the right. “Mr. Broman, when we arrived at your house, you were in your robe and slippers. You told us that you had been sleeping when your wife died.” He held the shoes out toward Chester . “How did that glass get on the soles of your dress shoes?”

Chester looked confused and thought for a second. “I don't remember?”

“Could it be from Friday night when you crouched next to your wife's body, Mr. Broman? How do you explain the other pieces of glass?”

Chester 's eyebrows turned up and his face distorted. “What pieces?”

Carson opened the door to the room and Bob Menning, the medical examiner, entered carrying a small stainless steel tray with a few glass pieces on it. He set the tray on the edge of the first table and stepped back.

“Thank you, Dr. Menning,” Carson said to the medical examiner. Would you care to share your findings with Mr. Broman?”

The M.E. cleared his throat and pointed to several smaller pieces of glass. “These were removed from Mrs. Broman's face and hands.” He pointed to the larger, knife-shaped piece of glass that lay next to the other three. “This one I removed from Mrs. Broman's neck. I noticed as I was removing it that it felt a bit thicker than the other pieces and something didn't quite add up so I notified detective Carson.”

Carson picked up the smaller pieces and placed them in the unfinished pane on the right table, completing the puzzle. “These came from the pane your wife was carrying the night she died.”

Chester 's ears got hot and he began to sweat.

Carson picked up the larger piece of glass and placed it carefully in the pane on the left table. “This piece, the piece that was removed from her neck, belongs with this pane--the pane that she dropped and swept up on Wednesday night.” He completed the puzzle and stepped back for effect before glancing at Chester . “Can you tell us, Mr. Broman, how this thicker piece of glass from the trash can found its way into your wife's neck?”

Chester looked around him and then back down at the completed glass puzzles. He swallowed hard and licked his lips. “I guess I will take that lawyer now.”