A Knife to Remember

remembering what had followed the taping. She kicked it under the bed. She didn’t even want to touch it now. When she felt better, she’d pull it back out and destroy it.
     
    There was a furtive tap on the door of the bedroom an hour later. Jane had stood under the hot shower until the water had started to run cold and her skin looked like a sunburned raisin. Then she’d dried her hair and put on fresh jeans and a clean white blouse. At least she was cleaner, if not exactly calmer.
    She opened the door.
    Mike slouched in. “I’m sorry, Mom. I acted like an asshole.“
    “It’s okay. You’re entitled.“
    “No, I’m not. It must have been just as awful for you as it was for me. I just wasn’t thinking.“ Jane hugged him long and hard.
    When he finally let go of her, he said, “What did you mean about suspecting that was what she was going to say?”
    Jane sat down on the edge of the bed and patted the spot beside her. “Sit down, Mike. I didn’t want any of you children to ever know this, but I think I’ve got to tell you now. That night when your father was killed in the car wreck—he wasn’t going on a business trip like I told everybody. He was leaving me—leaving us. For another woman.“
    “Jesus, Mom! You knew that? And you never told us?“
    “Why should I have? Look at how angry and hurt you are about it now. I never wanted you kids to feel as awful as I did. I didn’t know until today that there had been others, although I’d figured that there probably had been.“
    “Oh, God! What a jerk! And I thought he was a neat guy! I mean, he was my dad!“
    “ He was a neat guy, Mike. In a great many ways. I just wanted you to remember all the good stuff and not know about the bad. What good does it do you, knowing? None. It’s just a truth that you’ll eventually get used to. Believe me, as horrible as you feel this minute, it will fade. You won’t stay mad forever. I know you can’t imagine that right now, but—“
    “I dunno. You’ve stayed pretty mad yourself.“
    “Why do you say that?“
    “Well, I mean—the mess you made of the kitchen—“
    “Kitchen?“ Jane shook her head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
    Mike stared at her for a long moment. “You, uh—you didn’t kick things around the kitchen after I left?”
    Jane stood suddenly. “I didn’t go back downstairs,“ she said very quietly. “What are you talking about?”
    She ran down the steps with Mike close behind her. The kitchen was a wreck. Cabinet doors were flung open, drawers were pulled out and gaping. Silverware was strewn around the floor; several broken dishes were in shards. And somebody had upended the wastebasket, which had been in dire need of emptying, in the middle of the room and scattered the trash—gum wrappers, the contents of an ashtray, the husks of the corn on the cob from last night, discarded rice mix packages, everything was everywhere! Max or Meow had walked through some spilled flour and tracked it into the living room.
    “You didn’t do this?“ Mike asked.
    “Are you crazy? I’m the one who cleans the kitchen! Would I do this to it?”
    Mike reached for the phone. “Mom, go stand outside in the driveway. I’m calling the police. Somebody’s been in the house and might still be here someplace.”
    Jane started to tell him he must go outside and she would remain behind to do the calling, but recognized immediately that Mike needed to be in charge right now and was obviously more capable than she at the moment. It hadn’t even crossed her mind that the maniac who did this might still be close by.
    She waited for Mike in the driveway for what seemed like hours, but was only a minute or two, then the two of them went and sat together on the curb until two patrol cars arrived. Jane was first furious, then frightened, then furious again. It was going to take her forever to clean up the mess—and longer still to get over the sheer “violation“ of it.
    “There’s a prowler in your house, ma’am?“ the first officer to emerge from his car asked.
    “We don’t know,“ Mike answered.
    Both officers went inside, hands on their holsters.
    While Jane and Mike waited, a red MG came tearing down the street and lurched to a stop. Mel Van Dyne leaped out. “Jane! Mike! Are you all right? I heard the call at the station. What’s going on?“ His usual cool sophistication, while not missing, was distinctly frayed around the edges.
    “Somebody wrecked my