The Butcher of Meena Creek

Dianne Gray

Maggie Smithers yanked at the stiff oven door in the kitchen of the Meena Creek RSL. A gust of steam billowed upward, frosting her glasses and tightening her skin. Its hot misty breath brushed over her face like a runaway ghost.

Never in her thirty years had Maggie smelled a lasagne as rich and full-bodied as this. She stood for several seconds basking in the glory of her creation, tempted to have just one taste - but she was running late. The speeches were over and those who had paid twenty-five dollars a head to rub shoulders with the Mayor were hungry.

"Maggie, darling!" The voice bounced over hot tiles like an injured cat. "Are you having trouble?"

Maggie turned blindly toward the direction of the voice. Loretta Larson graced the doorway. Her eyebrows were pencilled over deep-set eyes, giving a look of permanent surprise. Her rancid green chiffon blouse was greedily stuffed into black leather pants that she pulled at the crotch to make walking bearable.

"You look terrible, darling," she mocked.

"Do I?" Maggie winced, scratching her glasses on a blue checked tea towel.

Loretta peered into the oven before turning a gaping red mouth toward Maggie.

"Tell me this isn't what I think it is," she demanded, pursing her mouth to a bud.

Maggie nodded, pulled her oven gloves over her small white hands and wiped her nose.

"How the hell could you do this after the lasagne incident last year? Are you mad?"

"I'm not mad," Maggie replied lightly.

"You're using my father's birthday party to make some ridiculous stand against your husband, aren't you," Loretta spat sarcastically, folding her arms to a knot at her chest. "We all know what he's like..." She stopped to leer at the bruise on Maggie's chin, "...another kitchen door named Larry?"

"I know he can be difficult at times," Maggie mumbled.

"Difficult!" Loretta mocked. "Honestly Maggie, the people in town think you're mad and this lasagne stunt proves it."

Maggie wiped the back of her hand over her small rounded chin. It had been a hard blow. Loretta was right about Larry - he detested lasagne. He made no secret of the fact that he was a real man and a real man eats real meat, not a load of minced crap smothered with pasta, tomato sauce and cheese. Larry was more than a difficult man. Larry was the butcher of Meena Creek. He let no one forget it.

Maggie tried to control her unsteady hands as she lifted hot trays onto the tray-mobile.

"Could you open the door?" she asked flatly, fighting to push shopping-cart-wheels over uneven floor.

"Are you kidding? I'm the Mayor's daughter not a kitchen hand." Loretta groaned and slammed the door behind her. She had a way of putting people in their place.

Mayor Larson tapped his short square fingers on the microphone at the podium, filling the crowded hall with annoying dull thuds and whistling speakers.

"I've just been informed that dinner is served and waiting at the smorgasbord table."

The air filled with the sound of squealing chairs as the crowd formed a conga line the length of the room. White plates and cutlery clanked down the line, followed by a Mexican wave of eyebrows at the rumour that Maggie Smithers had made the lasagne. The news consumed all else, its flames igniting dry throats and licking the ears of malevolence.

Maggie rested her elbows on the cold metal sink in the Ladies' room and splashed water over her flushed, dry face. She took a long grey look at the woman in the mirror whose stormy eyes reflected a thousand stories of fear and despair. Endless nights waiting for that car to choke from the pub to the driveway. Dragging tired feet through a marriage made in hell. They weren't the bright flashing eyes of the freckle-faced girl who had fallen in love with Larry the butcher. She looked old. Larry had taken her strength and ground it down like minced beef. She was the sawdust beneath his feet. She pulled back her fine auburn hair and pictured herself in the cheap blonde wig Larry had bought her for their last anniversary. In one hour she'd be free and out of this God forsaken place forever.

Everything had been organised for her escape. Her ticket was booked, bags packed and destination untraceable. The girl at the bank hadn't flinched when she'd gone in that morning to clear out the account.

"Thought I'd find you in here," Loretta smirked, placing her glass of champagne and cigarette on the edge of the sink. Maggie watched her in the mirror as she painted her lips, checked the back of her pants and splashed perfume over her thin aging neck.

"Did you make that dress?" Loretta asked stiffly, lifting Maggie's hand sewn frock.

"Yes I did," Maggie grimaced, noticing Loretta had smudged lipstick across the hem.

Loretta shook her head and frowned. "What happened to you Maggie? You used to be so beautiful and proud of your appearance when we were at school. Isn't it sad the way life is so fair to some and so cruel to others?"

Maggie padded across the pink and grey tiled floor and locked herself in a vacant cubicle.

"I was just talking to Sergeant Ritter and he's as astounded as I am that you had the nerve to make lasagne tonight." Loretta's voice echoed off chipped tiles. "He says Larry's unstable and you're just provoking him. He says you've made your own bed now..." Loretta's spite ceased as another woman entered the room.

"Have you tasted that lasagne? It's beautiful," the other voice gushed.

"Yes I have, Stella!"

Maggie opened the cubicle door and walked to the sink. They could smirk all they liked, she'd given up caring what they thought. There were no friends for her in this town. The smart ones had grown up and moved away. Now it was her turn.

"What time will Larry be here?" Stella grimaced, inspecting her teeth in the mirror.

"I'm not quite sure," Maggie replied evasively, twisting at the tap to wash her hands, wishing she could just turn to jelly and slide down the plughole. The mere mention of his name was as foul as the stale smell of beer on his breath. It gripped her shoulders and tugged at the hairs on the back of her neck. She couldn't get out of there soon enough.

The atmosphere was suffocating as everyone waited for the moment Larry would walk through the door. They were like children waiting for the playground scuffle, close enough to catch a piece of the action and removed enough to escape the blame. They had always been safe from Larry's sharp tongue and merciless fists, until tonight.

"I can't wait to see the look on his face," Loretta scowled to another woman after Maggie had left had left the ladies room.

Maggie swung open the kitchen doors to find the baker picking leftovers from battered metal trays.

"Going home before Larry arrives, eh?" he grinned, wiping sauce from his stringy moustache with his tie. His greasy blonde hair clung to his forehead like shark’s teeth, and his nose hung like a wet French-stick between drooping green eyes. She had the job of mincing the meat for his pies at five every morning then having to put up with his repertoire of creamed horn jokes. She swooped on her purse, turned on her heels and left the room. The baker staggered behind cradling his beer like a newborn meringue.

"I'll walk you to your car. Can't be too careful these days," he shouted after her.

"No thanks, I'm parked right outside," she quipped, dropping her head to the crowd in the auditorium.

Hot sweaty faces swam past the corners of Maggies eyes. She could feel Larry's presence in the room in the stench of stale beer and dank waft of leftovers. She skirted the dance floor, making her way between tightly placed tables before finally bursting out through a crowd of door smokers into the thick November night.

"Maggie!" The baker called from the door. "I just wanted to tell you I loved the lasagne. Come back for one dance. I can dance rough, just like Larry."

A group had gathered at the door, urging him on. Maggie stopped and turned around.

"You loved the lasagne?" she asked faintly.

"Yes, I loved the lasagne," he yelled. He lifted his arms in the air and spilled beer over his head. The others erupted in laughter. "We loved the lasagne too, Maggie," they chorused from the door.

Maggie stood in the moonlight. The sound of their howling and laughter echoed through the hall, across the road, through the trees, then away with the warm summer breeze. She stopped and watched. If they had any compassion, they disguised it well. They looked like a pack of hungry dingoes, waiting for something to die so they could fill their empty stomachs with another's misfortune. She had come to hate them as much as she hated Larry. She wished she could storm through that crowd, stand at the podium and hold up a mirror to show them there is no perfection - that there was a little of Larry in each of their ignorant selfish lives.

The group cheered the baker as he stumbled toward her car. Maggie opened the glove box and pulled out a pen and paper. He turned unsteadily to give the thumbs up to the crowd as she wrote a short note then sealed it in an envelope.

"Go inside and give this to Loretta. It's my birthday telegram to be read at the podium for the Mayor," she said. "I'll wait right here until you get back."

"Okay," he said thickly, closing one eye to focus on her face.

Loretta had kicked off her shoes and melted into the crowd on the dance floor. The baker dropped the note on her chair and headed back outside.

"She's gone," a man said as he walked to the door. "Took off at a hundred miles an hour."

"Typical stupid bloody..." The baker mumbled, making his way back to the bar.

He watched Loretta and the postmaster shimmy across the room, Loretta's mop of hair whipping faces, her enormous red mouth laughing at nothing.

A newly blonde Maggie buckled her seat belt as the flight attendants swayed gracefully in the aisles, pointing out exits and the location of life jackets. She felt the weight of ten torrid years lift from her shoulders as the massive jet finally cleared the runway.

Loretta flopped back into her seat and poured another glass of champagne. The baker squeezed himself between Loretta and Stella.

"You're sitting on the note Maggie left you," he slurred.

Loretta lifted herself, pulled out the note and laughed. "What the hell is this?"

"Some stupid happy birthday telegram for your old man. Maggie just said to give it to you to read at the podium, then took off.

"This'll be good," she groaned, tearing it open.

"Dear Loretta," she smirked, pausing to sip her champagne. "I guess everyone is still waiting for Larry to arrive, but he's been there all night..."

Loretta knocked over her chair and several dancers in her rush to get to the door.

"Give me a go," the baker snapped. He grabbed the note and headed for the podium. He cleared his throat, thumped the microphone and shouted, "Dear Loretta, I guess everyone is still waiting for Larry to arrive, but he's been there all night..."

A silence fell over the crowd as questioning eyes scanned the room.

"Hang on there's more," the baker continued, "...thinly disguised between layers of pasta, tomato sauce and cheese - Love Maggie."

The screams were momentarily drowned by the roar of a plane overhead.

Maggie lifted her double gin and tonic, tapped it gently against the window and whispered, "Bon appetite."

ã Dianne Gray 2002

Please note that permission to publish stories from the Scarlet Stiletto Awards 2002 online has been expressly granted to Sisters in Crime Australia Inc. You may not republish, reproduce electronically or in paper form, or otherwise make use of these stories without the permission of the author.

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