Listen for the Lie

by Amy Tintera

(A side effect of being accused of murder is that you spend a lot of time thinking about it. You get used to it.)

Let this be a lesson to all the men out there who can’t handle conflict—man up and dump your girlfriend, or you might end up living with a suspected murderer indefinitely.

“Are you drunk?” “Lucy, it is two o’clock in the afternoon. Of course I’m not drunk.” She pauses. “I’m merely slightly tipsy.”

“You do know that it’s tacky to tell me I’m your favorite when you have three grandchildren?” “We both know that Ashley and Brian are assholes.” “I think we’re supposed to pretend to like them anyway.” “Well. I can’t have a birthday party with only the assholes.”

Well, I’ll just buy you a plane ticket then. You okay to leave this weekend?” “You don’t have to do that.” “Nonsense, I want to. I’ll be dead soon anyway.” We might all be dead soon, but that seems like too much to hope for. “Sure, this weekend.” I reconsider her last statement. “Wait, are you sick?” “Not that I know of, but my friends are dropping like flies, so really, it’s only a matter of time.” “That’s the spirit.”

“Going somewhere?” I drop the bag on the floor. “No, it’s for a dead body.” His lips part. He looks from me to the suitcase. “What?” I glance down at it. “You think I should have gotten a bigger one?” He stares at me for several seconds before letting out a long, annoyed breath. “Jesus Christ, Lucy.”

For fuck’s sake. Men are such babies. They’re too scared to actually break up with you, so they just get mean or fade away until you get mad and dump them.

I’ve never liked men who can be described as having boyish good looks. They’re always smug.

Of course, most emails about Savvy don’t require a response. They’re usually some version of “How do you live with yourself, you heartless bitch?” or “You’re going to hell,” except almost always with the wrong your, which is extremely distracting. An insult doesn’t have the intended impact when spelled incorrectly. I’d reply to let them know, but, in my experience, dumbasses don’t appreciate having their spelling corrected.

I should have pointed out to Grandma that my presence at her birthday will likely ruin the whole thing. I’m the relative that you tell everyone about at parties, when you’re comparing fucked-up families. I make for a good story. You don’t invite me to the party.

Norma: And don’t go to the bar on Franklin, that’s where all the tourists go to get sloppy. A bachelorette party was throwing around penis confetti last time I was there, if you can believe that. I was finding penises in my hair for hours. Ben: That’s … unfortunate. Norma: Go to the bar down the road a bit, on Main. Bluebonnet Tavern. Ben: I’ll keep that in mind, thank you.

It’s six o’clock in the evening, still light out, and still hot as balls. The heat’s relentless this time of year. It was a real dick move on Grandma’s part to be born in August.

Dad’s so good at that Texas thing where you act polite to people’s face and then talk shit behind their back.

I recently admitted to my latest therapist that trying to avoid murdering people in my head has just resulted in me murdering even more people in my head. She was very supportive of my idea to just let the thoughts fly and see what happens. So, I imagine Dad’s brains splattering across the couch again and head upstairs to see Mom.

“Your grandmother is being impossible about this party. The woman won’t even let us take her out to dinner for most of her birthdays and now she suddenly wants a huge shindig with the entire family? And she tells me two weeks beforehand? I think she’s trying to kill me just so she can brag about outliving her daughter.” I don’t argue, because that does sound like Grandma.

I offered to pick up Grandma so she could join us, but she claimed exhaustion and told me to come over in the morning. “Exhausted means drunk,” Mom helpfully explained when I got off the phone.

People like to claim that food tastes better when it’s made with love—like how their grandmother’s pie didn’t taste right when they made it, so it must have been the love that made it good. This is bullshit, in my opinion. It was probably just extra butter or better-quality sugar that made it good. Dad’s cooking is proof of this. It is not made with love; it’s made with resentment and disappointment. And it still tastes fucking great.

They replaced Jan after I pointed out that she’d used pubic instead of public in the newsletter. My youth group lost it. Plumpton Baptist Church Pubic Events was the funniest shit we’d ever seen.

“You’re not just my favorite grandchild, you’re also the most attractive one by a mile.” “Mom.” Mom stops next to me with a grunt. “I wish you would stop saying that. It’s so rude.” “It’s only rude if you tell the other ones.”

“I seriously don’t understand developing a drinking problem in your seventies,” Mom says. Grandma sits at the head of the table. “Why not? Way I see it, seems like the perfect time to develop a drinking problem. It’s dull as hell around here.”

I guess it’s mostly women who do it. But sometimes you meet a girl who is just, like, your soulmate. Not in a romantic way, but in a friend way. Which can almost be more intense. You could tell that Savvy and Lucy were in one of those intense friend-soulmate relationships.

(sugar is my main weakness, unless you count my inability to stop murdering people in my head),

“You’re sure you don’t want roses? Your mom said pink roses.” The florist frowns at me suspiciously, like I’ve come into her shop with the intention of ruining my grandma’s birthday party. I press the call button on my phone and put Grandma on speaker. She picks up right away. “Hello?” “Grandma. Opinion on pink roses?” “Tell your mother I will vomit on her pink roses.”

I take Grandma off speaker and press the phone to my ear. “Party planning is going terribly and your birthday is going to be a disaster.” “Can’t wait.

“I’m riveted. Can’t wait to find out if I did it.” Janet’s mouth drops open. “Lucy, stop trying to shock people,” Mom says pleasantly. “I don’t really have to try, Mom.”

“Why do you look so surprised? My grandma planned an entire birthday party just to get me here for this. You didn’t think she’d convince me?” “Honestly, no.” “I’m going to tell her about your lack of faith. She won’t be pleased.” “Too late, I’m already texting her.” He glances up briefly from his phone with a shit-eating grin. “You’re texting my grandma?” “We talk often.” “Jesus Christ.” “Beverly loves me,” he says smugly. “I’m well aware.” “The feeling’s mutual.”

My entire fucking life for the past few days is a serious error, starting with my decision to fly across the country for my traitorous grandmother. My traitorous grandmother who spends about 80 percent (conservative estimate) of her day drunk. Her judgment clearly can’t be trusted.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake!” Mom yells. Everyone freezes. “Yes, I had sex with Colin in my car the night of the wedding! Are you happy, Ben? You got me! I slept with the twenty-year-old, and to be honest, I enjoyed it.” “Wow.”

“The truth doesn’t matter.” The voice—Savvy’s voice—is so clear now, clearer than it’s been in years. It’s always been Savvy talking to me. Since the first few days after she died, when her screams were so loud I thought my head was going to explode, to later, when she quieted to a murderous constant companion. To now, when she’s apparently had enough of me ignoring her. “Let’s kill—” I close my eyes, willing the memory away, but it won’t go. She’s been there for days now, on the edge of every thought I have, yelling at me to notice her. The memory forms, bright and clear, like it sharpened over the years instead of fading.

“I should have controlled my temper,” I said softly. I should have just cried. Taken the hits and crawled away to show my scars. I should have been a better victim. The truth doesn’t matter if you fight back.

“I have an idea.” Savvy leaned closer to me. She met my eyes. Her mouth was set in a hard line, her gaze steely and serious. “Let’s kill your husband.”

I’ve always admired the way kids unabashedly stare at you. They don’t care whether you’re uncomfortable. Kids have zero fucks to give about your feelings.

I can see the tiny house up ahead. Grandma steps out as he slows to a stop, hands on her hips. “What are we doing here?” I ask. He unbuckles his seat belt. “I didn’t want to just leave you alone after that, and your parents are assholes.” “Wow, tell me how you really feel, Ben.” He gives me a look like “you know it’s true,” and I almost laugh. I hate how delighted I am that he thinks my parents are assholes. I need a drink. At least we’ve come to the right place for that.

Men don’t protect us, not really. They only protect themselves, or each other. The only thing men ever protected me from was happiness.”

“Have you finished episode five?” “No, I only got about halfway before I had to meet you.” “Oh.” He’s watching Grandma and her suitor. She laughs at something he says. “You should finish episode five.” “Why? What’d she say?” He takes a long sip of his drink. “She thinks Matt killed her.”

She was a real no-nonsense girl. Just didn’t have time for any shit, you know? I’ve always admired that about her. I was so concerned with whether or not everyone liked me at that age. And people hate that quality in a young woman, don’t they? They don’t know what to do with a girl who isn’t looking for their approval. They feel like they have to bring her down a peg.

In the end, life is just sweatpants and children who resent you and all your choices. But no one wants to hear that.

“It was years ago, and it was once, and—” “Was it good?” Grandma interrupts. “Mother.” “What? Young men were not great at sex when I was—” “Please don’t finish that sentence,” Mom says, face scrunched up like she’s in pain. “I’m just saying. Some things get better with age.” I snort-laugh. Mom crosses her arms over her chest and shakes her head. I lean closer to Grandma. “Savvy had no complaints,” I whisper. She cackles. Mom’s cheeks turn pink as she shoves the rest of the donut in her mouth.

Remember that time you found me in the parking lot of the Charles? That guy had me bent over the hood of his car, my naked ass in the air, and you rushed over because you thought he was raping me? And I had to be like, oh no, honey, this was my idea.”

“Men are lying when they say they don’t like fruity drinks. That guy over there with a beer wishes he had my cosmo.”

“Did you guys get into it or something?” “Not that I know of. But I offend a lot of people, so who can say?”

We didn’t even use a condom, which is really just the icing on my bad-decision cake. I’ve had an IUD for years, so there are no smug babies in my immediate future, but who knows where Ben has been sticking that thing. He fucks like he gets around. A little podcast souvenir. I should get a T-shirt: I was the subject of a true crime podcast and all I got was this T-shirt and gonorrhea.

“It’s rude to leave a guy in bed, you know.” “Is it?” “I think so, yes.” “Do you usually sleep with the murder suspect of your podcast?” “The suspect in season one was a man.” “Is that a no?” “It’s a no.” He sounds amused. “Do you usually forget the condom?” “No. Uh, I’m sorry about that, I don’t—” “It’s fine, that’s my fault too. I have birth control covered, I was just sort of hoping you hadn’t been raw-doggin’ it all over Los Angeles.” He lets out a short, startled laugh. “I have not been raw-doggin’ it all over Los Angeles. Or anywhere. Usually.”

“No. I think the self-defense argument would have looked a little thin, given how many times I stabbed him.” “How—how many times did you stab him?” My voice was a whisper. “Maybe a few more times than was strictly necessary. Plus a couple more for good luck.”

“I thought the blood would bother me more, honestly.” Savvy shrugged. “It was a mess, which was annoying. This guy saw me coming out of the restroom with blood all over my hands, and I panicked for a minute, and then just went, ‘Oh my god, my period is so bad today!’ You should have seen the look on his face.”

“I’m sorry that happened to you.” She shrugged. “Seriously, Savvy,” I said softly. “You don’t have to pretend with me that it wasn’t a big deal.” She nudged her glass with her finger, glancing up at me briefly. She lifted one shoulder, like no big deal, but her eyes told a different story. She squeezed my hand tightly. “He deserved it,” she whispered. “And so does Matt.”

You can’t make people accept that they have a problem, you know? They have to come to it themselves.

At first, it was throwing glasses at walls and taking out his anger on stuff around the house. Then it was me. Slapping and pulling my hair and shoving me into walls. He was always yelling at me about how I’d hit him too, how it was my fault too, and I was just like … what are you talking about? I haven’t touched you. Ben: To be clear, he was hitting you—abusing you—but telling you that you were hitting him? Julia: Yes. Constantly.

It ramped up really slowly, and so there was only about half a year of me going, am I really doing this? Is this my life? How have I wandered into this abused-wife narrative? It almost felt unreal. I think I might have left earlier, had I not been so confused about how I ended up in that situation.

Grandma throws her hands up in the air. “What the fuck? Are we going to talk about the fact that it was probably Matt who killed Savvy?”