Dry Heat

Satisfaction Guaranteed

 

by Shannon Fernando

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      Brett was naked, lying on the bed with Effie’s grandmother’s quilt in a sloppy pool at his feet. His burnished hair contrasted brilliantly with the white pillowcase. On any other day, Effie might have appreciated the picture he made. Today, she was distracted by the woman straddling him. The woman’s pink-tipped breasts, boasting bejeweled glimmers from the decorations in her nipples, bounced as she moved, the pounding of flesh on flesh emphasizing Brett’s betrayal. Up she went, then down, up, down, up, down. Cheat-ter, cheat-ter, cheat-ter.

      Both Brett and the woman grunted, eyes screwed tight. Brett stiffened, his toes curling, and emitted a deep groan. His eyes popped open as he climaxed. They widened when he caught sight of Effie standing in the doorway to his right. His slightly too-well-defined brows, victims of enthusiastic manscaping, drew together, and his mouth formed an obscene O. It was painful to watch, the horror of his wife seeing him and his inability to stop a climax in progress warring for control of his face. The woman continued her bouncing, eyes still closed. Cheat-ter, cheat-ter, cheat-ter. Oblivious to Effie’s presence, she mumbled a string of encouragement. “That’s right baby oh God yes come on baby.”

      Effie wanted to break this up. She wanted to scream, yell, rave, throw things, hit someone. But she just stood, astonishment running through her like ice, leaving her frozen and helpless in the doorway.

      When he regained control of himself, Brett grabbed the woman by the hips and pushed her aside. Her eyes and mouth opened in indignation. She seemed about to speak, but when she saw Brett’s face, she followed his gaze to Effie. The woman shrieked and bent down to grab the quilt, pulling it up to cover herself. My grandmother’s quilt, Effie thought. Her next thought was equally preposterous, but it slipped out anyhow.

      “Nipple rings? Really? Jesus, Brett. I thought you had better taste than that.” She spun on her heel and went through the apartment’s tiny living room and into the open kitchen, leaving her naked husband and his naked lover alone in the bed Effie and Brett had shared since they married three years ago. She turned on the sink’s hot water tap and wet her hands. A marble soap dispenser rested near the corner of the basin. Effie pumped it hard, filling the palm of her hand with bright green, apple-scented dish soap. She rubbed her hands together, methodically at first, then harder and faster, using her fingernails to scour her skin, scrubbing away her disgust.

      “Effie,” Brett placated as he came into the room, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. It’s not what you think.”

      At least he had the decency to dress first, Effie noted, not meeting his eye, not listening as he spoke, continuing to scrub. Brett wore rumpled khaki slacks, the ones they had picked out together at Banana Republic, and a patterned button-down shirt. The shirt was open, as was his fly, though the button at the waist was fastened. Effie could see his flacid penis through the gaping zipper. Overcome by sudden nausea, she bent over the sink, retching. Up came the Greek yogurt she’d snacked on midmorning. It tasted better the first time. She sensed Brett’s unwelcome presence, felt her hair being pulled back from her face while her own soapy hands clutched the lip of the counter.

      “That’s right, get it out. It’s okay, baby,” Brett crooned. That’s right baby oh God yes come on baby. When she finished vomiting, Effie turned toward him, planting her hands on his chest. She shoved as hard as she could.

      “Don’t touch me,” she hissed, teeth clenched. Brett stumbled away, narrowly avoiding a fall onto the kitchen table. Effie’s eyes glittered with hard fury. “In our home? In our bed? How could you? At least last time you didn’t bring her here.” Her head shook, seeking solace in denial. “You swore. You swore when I let you come back that it wouldn’t happen again.”

      “It’s not what you think,” Brett tried again.

      “Not what I think?” Effie shrilled. “What I think is that my husband fucked a blonde with nipple rings in our bed. How is it not what I think?” Her brown eyes narrowed. “How long?” she demanded.

      “Just this once.”

      Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice… “How long?” she repeated. Brett’s throat bobbed as he swallowed.

      “Just this once, I swear,” he said. His eyes found hers, beseeching. “I love you, baby.”

      “What the fuck, Brett?” a voice cried. Effie’s head snapped toward it. The woman was also dressed. She wore a black skirt so small and tight that Effie wondered if it was actually a tube top. Her sheer white blouse revealed a racy red bra that struggled to contain her bounty. One hand clutched a pair of red platform shoes by their spiked heels. The other held a tiny silver purse that bulged under the strain of its contents. Effie’s practiced eye noted that the shoes were scuffed and the bag was missing sequins, revealing small dull patches like spots of psoriasis. She’s so young.

      “You need to leave,” Brett said, propelling the woman toward the door.

      “You said you were separated,” the blonde continued, her hurt apparent even to Effie.

      “Shut up!” Brett snarled.

 

      “You said you were getting a divorce. You said you loved me.”

      Brett opened the front door and stood holding it, his gaze bouncing back and forth between the women like he was watching a tennis match. Cheat-ter, cheat-ter, cheat-ter.

      “What’s your name?” Effie asked the woman.

      The blonde tore her teary eyes from Brett and looked at Effie. She hesitated as if deciding whether Effie meant her harm. “Amelia,” she finally said. “Amy.” Amy’s heavy black eyeliner had run down her cheeks.

     “Amy,” Effie repeated. “I’m Effie. He and I are not separated. We are not getting a divorce.” She cut a glance at her husband. “At least we weren’t,” she amended, her voice venomous. She turned back to Amy. “My husband is a lying, cheating asshole, and you don’t want a prick like him. Go home.”

      Amy cast her eyes downward as fresh tears traced her cheeks. “I can’t believe I fell for this,” she muttered, head shaking. She walked through the gaping door, pausing on the far side to look back at Effie. “I’m sorry. I really am.” She left without a word to Brett. For an instant, Effie thought Brett meant to run after his lover. When he didn’t, she was almost disappointed. It would have been easier if he had left of his own accord.

      As Brett inched the door shut, Effie said, “Don’t bother. You’re leaving, too.” Emotions washed over his handsome face: disbelief (he never thought I’d have the guts), regret (over being caught, not cheating), even anger, though Effie didn’t know what he had to be angry about. His features settled on apologetic.

     “Effie,” he said, hand stretched toward her. “Don’t do this. Let me explain, please baby.” That’s right baby oh God yes come on baby.

      She held up a staying hand. “Don’t,” she said. “Don’t ever call me that again. You lost that privilege when you stuck your dick in another woman.” Her vulgar words hit as intended. Brett blinked and ceased his approach. “Get out,” Effie said. “Now.”

      Brett’s mouth opened and closed several times. Effie knew he sought words to dissuade her. He didn’t find any, so he went in silence to the bedroom. He returned with shoes on his feet, his shirt buttoned. His hands clutched wallet, keys, and cell phone. It was Effie’s turn to open the door. Her knuckles were white on the handle. Brett shuffled past, pausing before her, continuing on when she looked through him.

      After he crossed the threshold, Effie said, “Brett.” He turned, and their eyes met. His emerald ones lit with hope. She said, “Zip up your fly. You don’t want to make a fool of yourself,” and slammed the door in his face.

 

      Effie didn’t know how to feel after Brett’s departure. Was there a protocol for this situation? Was she supposed to be sad? Angry? She simply felt numb. Shock. The adrenaline is gone.

      Effie crossed to the refrigerator. A bottle of red, opened two nights before with dinner, chilled inside. Effie poured herself a generous glass despite the early hour. She took a sip. Now what? Eat the lunch she had come home for? Not hungry. Maybe a bath? Too much trouble. Take a nap? Nodding to herself, Effie made her way to the bedroom with her wineglass.

      The room smelled of sex, the musky scent reinforced by the damp, rumpled sheets. Her grandmother’s quilt lay on the floor. Oh. I can’t sleep here. Something sparkled on Brett’s nightstand. Closer investigation revealed a pair of horseshoe-shaped rings, each with a shimmering pink stone at the bottom of the horseshoe. Effie put down the wineglass and picked up a ring, experimentally pressing together the open ends of one. When they bent slightly inward, Effie dropped them as if they burned. Clip-on nipple rings. They landed on the bed. Her head swam with the swift return of her wrath.

       Effie moved to the closet, pulling out Brett’s clothes and piling them on the bed with the nipple rings. Into the heap went slacks, shirts, shoes, ties. Effie emptied his dresser drawers, too: briefs, socks, running clothes, pajamas. The suit he wore when they were married received the place of honor on top of the mound. “I now pronounce you a giant prick,” Effie muttered, dribbling her wine over the heap. It wasn’t enough to ruin everything, so she fetched the bottle from the kitchen and dumped that on Brett’s things as well.

       Filled with spiteful pleasure, Effie was eager for more. She returned to the kitchen and dug through the junk drawer, emerging with the long-necked lighter she used to light scented candles. She clicked it on, considering. Better not. Too dangerous. She put the lighter away and went into her spacious office.

       The room was larger than the master bedroom. A patchwork chair stood beside the enormous window. The wood-topped table beside it held a thick paperback and Effie’s tablet. Early afternoon sunlight reflected off the surfaces of the white lacquer bookshelf that dominated the opposite wall. A matching desk rested against the third wall. The overall effect was bright and welcoming. Effie sat at the desk and opened her laptop.

       How to get revenge, she typed into Google. The first result looked promising: 10 Ways Intelligent People Get Revenge. Effie clicked on it and began reading. Within seconds, she knew it wasn’t what she wanted. The suggestions were juvenile. Soak their game console, read one, followed by a photo of a Playstation in a water-filled sink. Sign them up for every spam email list you can find. Park his car in front of a hydrant and start a fire so the fire department will have to break his windows. Ridiculous. And anyway, she had already ruled out fire.

       She skimmed, uninspired, through the remaining suggestions and clicked the back button to return to the search results. The majority were similar in nature to what she had just seen, but near the bottom of the page, something different caught her eye. It was an advertisement, black script on a purple background. Man done you wrong? Let Mambo Bati help. Beneath that was an unusual symbol comprised of lines, stars, swirls, and plus signs. Effie clicked and found herself on a simple website, black on purple like the ad.

Mambo Bati’s Voodoo Emporium

Proudly located in New Orleans, Mambo Bati’s is an authentic, specialized house of voodoo. We focus exclusively on spells, all of which are professionally cast by Mambo Bati herself. Proceed at your own risk.

 

A large button labeled “Proceed” filled the space beneath the text. Effie snorted. Melodramatic, much? She didn’t believe in magic of any kind. Just a harmless diversion. She clicked the button.

            The following page catalogued all of the available spells, sorted by type: fertility, luck, love, passion, riches…the list went on. Halfway down, Effie found a list of revenge spells. Topping the list was Lover’s Revenge. Effie clicked the name for a more detailed explanation.

Lover’s Revenge is one of Mambo Bati’s most popular spells. Using a proprietary mix of potent herbs, powerful symbols, and ritual chanting, Lover’s Revenge is guaranteed to render an unfaithful man permanently impotent. Satisfaction guaranteed!

 

            A wicked smile stretched Effie’s cheeks as she added the spell to her shopping cart. A few more clicks, enter the number of Brett’s credit card from memory, and voilà! Revenge was hers. Well, not really, but I do feel better. She snapped the computer closed and went to deal with the mess in her bedroom.

 

 

            Effie sat behind her desk at Euphemia’s Closet, the resale fashion boutique she had named for her grandmother, performing routine bookkeeping tasks. The last three months had been tumultuous, and she was happy to embrace the mundane. Brett tried for two weeks to explain away his latest infidelity. Effie ignored him, and the divorce proceeded quickly once Brett accepted her resolve. The marriage was dissolved seven weeks to the day after Amy’s appearance in their home. Effie celebrated by getting drunk with her girlfriends at a neighborhood wine bar.

            The antique landline phone on the corner of the desk trilled, startling Effie.

            “Euphemia’s Closet,” she answered in her friendliest tone. “How may I help you?”

            “Effie?” Brett’s voice assaulted her. “It’s me. Please don’t hang up!”

            “What do you want?” she asked flatly.

            “It’s just…I didn’t know who else to call.” He sounded so plaintive that Effie struggled to remain aloof.

            “What is it?” she asked. “I’m busy, Brett.” To her astonishment, Brett began to cry, his sobs echoing in her ear.

            “I have cancer,” he choked.

            Half an hour later, Effie sat at a black bistro table outside a small coffee shop. Brett sat across from her, his face pinched. He was thinner. I still hate you. But I’m not a total bitch.

            “How did you find out?” Effie asked.

            “A couple weeks ago, I had a date,” Brett began.

            Effie rolled her eyes. “Didn’t waste any time getting back out there, did you?” Brett glared at her. “Sorry,” Effie grimaced. “Under the circumstances, I guess that was uncalled for.” Okay, I am a total bitch.

            “Anyway,” Brett continued, “I couldn’t…you know.”

            Effie shrugged. “Couldn’t what?”

            “You know,” Brett repeated with emphasis, raising his eyebrows.

            “Oh! You can say it, Brett. We were married. You couldn’t get it up?”

            “Shhh!” Brett cast a furtive glance at the surrounding tables. “Yes,” he admitted, leaning toward Effie. “And it happened again a couple days later. Then the next morning, there was blood in my urine. I went to the doctor and they ran a bunch of tests.” Brett’s voice changed from an enigmatic whisper to one full of despair. His eyes filled with tears. “It’s everywhere,” he said. “My lymph nodes, my lungs, my liver. They said they’ve never seen it move so fast without symptoms.”

            Effie was no longer in the mood to bait him. “So what’s the prognosis?” Her heart pounded.

            Brett’s voice cracked. “I’m dying.”

            Effie’s own tears dampened her cheeks. It wasn’t long ago that she loved this man. He didn’t deserve this fate. No one did.

            “What about chemotherapy?” she asked. He shook his head.

            “It might extend my life for a while, but I’d be so sick, it’s not worth it.”

             “Surgery?” she asked.

            “It’s in too many places.”

            “There has to be something we can do,” Effie lamented, unconsciously slipping into the plural speech of their marriage.

            “I’ve already discussed it with my doctors,” he said. “We’re just managing my pain and waiting.”

            Effie sucked in a breath. “You’re in pain?”

            “It’s awful,” he croaked. “It’s like pissing hot knives. And that’s when I can piss at all. There’s always blood in it. Sometimes clots. My back hurts, even my arms and legs hurt.” He looked away. “I’m scared.” He said it so quietly that Effie wasn’t sure she’d heard it until he met her eyes again. His lower lip trembled. “I’m so scared,” he repeated. His face collapsed and his shoulders hunched. Anguished sobs tore from him.

           Effie jumped up, bumping the table and toppling her untouched cardboard cup of coffee. Filled with pity, she knelt beside her ex-husband and held him while he cried.

 

           Brett died three weeks later. When Effie returned home from his funeral, she kicked off her black heels just inside the door. Her eyes swept the cramped apartment they had shared. Memories of happier times flooded her: Brett burning the cake he baked for her birthday; the two of them laughing as they incorrectly assembled the Ikea TV stand; the time they had sex on the kitchen table.

           Effie collapsed on the simple gray sofa in the living room, cell phone in hand. She scrolled through old photos that she had intended to delete, but was now glad she hadn’t. Her and Brett smiling on the beach in Maui. Eating dinner at their favorite Indian restaurant. Sweating and dusty, hiking in the woods.

           The phone pinged softly, indicating the arrival of an email. Effie opened the mail application. As she read the new message, a pit of dread formed in her stomach, spreading to her chest and forcing the air from her lungs.

Thank you for your recent purchase from Mambo Bati’s Voodoo Emporium.

We hope you were fully satisfied with Lover’s Revenge.

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