The note

“No, just press the home button,” Becky said as she pushed the bottom of the screen once more. Kenny nodded as he listened to her instructions. He had no intention to use this technology stuff. It was the millionth time they’d had this lesson and it wasn’t eight o’clock in the morning. Kenny tried to pay attention, but he knew he would try things his way as soon as she left for work. He didn’t need the internet. The kind of job he was looking for wouldn’t be ‘online’. The tablet was too much trouble to operate.

Kenny was trying to adjust to life on the outside, but prison changed a man. Some changes were for the better, others not so much. Kenny stared at Becky’s face as she explained how to set-up the Wi-Fi. None of the words she said made any sense. The world was supercharged now, with access to anything the heart desired, all with the click of a button. It felt unnatural. In his home, he felt out of place, like he didn’t belong.

Kenny’s wife of twenty-one years had enough patience to make Saint Peter drool. Over and over, she explained how to operate the tablet, not once raising her voice. Kenny admired that trait, wished he could replicate her resolve. But he was an old dog, uncaring about learning new tricks. It didn’t matter, she would leave for work in a few minutes. He could manage this charade for a little while longer.

“Now press the safari button. Yes, good,” Becky said as Kenny’s finger thumbed over the touchscreen. It was dumb luck that he touched the correct icon and opened internet explorer.

“I think I’ve got the hang of it,” he said, smiling, his attempt to reassure her. Becky stood behind him as he sat at the kitchen table. The kitchen was like Kenny, stuck in the past. An era of Formica, the kitchen looked the same way it had fifteen years ago when Becky inherited the house. It had belonged to her mother. Kenny never felt like this was his home, they hadn't lived there long. They moved in just a few months before the accident happened that changed the course of his life. The kitchen was outdated then. Over time, the morning sunshine aged the knotty pine cabinets the same hue as the daffodil wallpaper that hung on the walls. His life in prison lacked sunlight, had faded him away just like the wallpaper. Living in a six-by-six space had damaged his mind, stifled his heart. He never liked this kitchen and especially didn’t like the kitchen now.

Becky squeezed his shoulders, proud that he was trying to acclimate. She opened the kitchen cupboard to grab a travel mug and filled it with steaming hot coffee. Kenny stared at the screen. He didn’t want to disappoint her. She’d been his glue through the trial and then the sentencing. Becky stuck by him when he was a convicted felon. She’d stayed committed to Kenny for longer than anyone expected. Even him.

“I like job searching the old-fashioned way. With a newspaper,” Kenny said as he stared at the website that displayed the local weather. He must have touched another icon. This was not the job search page he needed. Maybe she wouldn’t notice.

Becky peeked over his shoulder; he felt her breasts brush against his back. “Touch the bookmark icon,” she said pointing to the screen. Kenny touched the little square where she pointed.

“I saved the site with the available jobs. If you get lost, tap the home button, then Safari, then the bookmark,” she reminded him.

“Got it,” Kenny said. He didn’t have it. He was lost, he had no clue.

Becky tilted her head. “Will you be all right? Home alone and all?”

Kenny nodded as he stood, sliding the chair under the table. If he didn’t let her hover, maybe she’d be on her way.

“I’ll be fine. I’m going to take another hot shower,” he said, motioning his hand towards the tablet. “Then figure this internet search thing out. That’ll keep me busy.”

Becky smiled as she gathered her purse and the travel coffee mug.

“I feel bad. Leaving you on your first day….out,” she said. “But we’ve got the bigwigs coming in next week. I’ve got so much to do at the office.”

Kenny wrapped his arm around her shoulder, gave her a tight squeeze. His gesture was platonic. He hoped that the internet lesson had wasted enough time to distract her from his lack of intimacy. She was late for work already. And he wasn’t ready for more physical contact.

“I’ll be fine,” he said. He was ready for her to leave for the day. He craved isolation, needed quiet unburdening expectations.

“OK. I wrote my mobile number down. It’s on the refrigerator. If you need me.”

Of course she left her number. He knew he wouldn’t be dialing it.

“I’ll use the home phone,” Kenny said as he walked her to the door. With one last look over her shoulder, she walked down the sidewalk to the carport.

Kenny watched her car back out of the driveway from the dining room window.

She was gone.

He strolled through the rooms of the empty house. Everything looked the same as he remembered it, like a warp in time. In the living room, the velvet sofa that was unbearable to sit on unless it was sub-zero temperatures outside remained. Becky hadn’t even rearranged the furniture. Becky wasn’t an interior designer. She wasted no money on material things. She had no interest in anything modern unless it was technology related. The yellow shag carpet smelled putrid from the lack of cleaning. Kenny assumed she was afraid to vacuum it, surely it would disintegrate if she tried. He noticed Becky had upgraded the television. It was hard to miss the obnoxious big screen that hung on the brown paneled walls.

He searched the coffee and end tables to find the TV remote control when he heard a buzzing noise.

Kenny looked at the popcorn ceiling. The buzzing was distant, but it sounded elevated. Something outside the dining room window caught his eye, the light reflected and bounced off the dark unpowered TV screen.

“What the hell?” He murmured as he opened the front door.

A small airplane contraption hovered over the sidewalk. In a fluid motion, the machine moved towards him. Its steel claw dropped a small cardboard box on the porch.

“It’s a drone delivery,” the neighbor, Mr. Walters, shouted as he waved and continued watering his rose bushes.

Kenny waved back. “Of course it is,” he mumbled to himself. The drone buzzed as it ascended in altitude and flew away.

“Probably the milk delivery,” Kenny yelled as he picked up the box. He noticed Mr. Walters confused expression as he closed the front door.

Kenny took the box to the kitchen. It was small and lightweight. He wondered if the box was from Becky. She hadn’t mentioned a delivery. Much less a drone delivery. Maybe she wanted to surprise him? She should have known that he’d hate something like this. He swore aloud, some things just didn’t make sense in this brave new world.

The cardboard box was plain, there was no writing on it. It was addressed to no one. No names, not even their address was written on the box. Kenny pulled the tape off the cardboard and opened the box lid. He stuck his hand inside and felt around. There was nothing there. No packing paper, nothing.

It was an empty box.

Kenny laughed. This was the most outrageous thing he’d ever witnessed. Why would someone send him - nothing?

He flipped the box upside down and shook it hard.

A slip of paper fell out of the box onto the kitchen table.

Kenny’s hands shook as he read the typed note.

There was one line, nothing more. It was an address, an address he recognized at once. He knew the place all too well.

12th and Main – Noon. Today.

That was all. An address and a time.

Kenny felt gut-punched. He was not expecting this.

He braced his weight against the back of the chair as he unclutched the piece of paper. It drifted in the air and landed text side up on the kitchen table.

The address was where the accident happened. The accident changed everything. Kenny felt dizzy. His stomach lurched as he remembered the events of that night. A bead of sweat formed on his forehead. He felt nauseous.

He and Becky had been out to dinner that night, splurged at a fancy new restaurant downtown. The bartender had a fat thumb, that was their joke. Seemed every drink they ordered was a double shot. They drank, danced, enjoyed a fine meal, drank some more. Kenny didn’t remember why they started fighting. He didn’t remember fighting with Becky at all. Sometime before midnight he took the car keys and told Becky to find another way home.

Kenny didn’t remember anything from that night. He didn’t remember driving. He didn’t remember getting in the car. Becky had explained to him what happened.

He paid the price for his actions that night with time served. The address on the note the drone delivered was under an overpass, just off the interstate on the outskirts of town. There was a gas station on the corner.

On his way home that fateful night Kenny lost control of the car. It flipped several times before it crashed over the guardrails, freefalling to the intersection below.

Kenny’s car landed on an unassuming driver. A young woman, seven months pregnant, was killed instantly. She had worked the late shift at the hospital and was on her way home.

It was a miracle Kenny survived the crash. No one could explain his minimal cuts and bruises. The prosecution’s expert witness testified his blood alcohol content might have impaired him to operate a vehicle, but it also saved him from serious injuries.

The trial took a year, the court backlog was significant. By a jury of his peers, Kenny was convicted of vehicular manslaughter on top of the DUI charge.

He had purged the nightmares. The guilt remained.

On his first day out of the clink and he gets an invitation to return to the scene of the accident. Who would want him to do that? After all this time.

He had fifteen years to think about that night. He didn’t know much, but he did know one thing. He wasn’t responsible for the accident. He felt it in his gut. He knew all along. He wasn’t going to let them get away with it any longer.

He just didn’t know who to blame. Maybe it was just like the prison chaplain always told him, that he was at fault. He should accept it and try to move on.

But someone sent him the reminder, an invitation to the crime scene.

Kenny grabbed the note and wrote some words on the blank side. He stuffed the note in his back pocket.

He poured himself a cup of coffee as he stared out the kitchen window.

There was always something fishy about that bartender that night. Why did he and Becky get served more alcohol in the doctored drinks? It was way more alcohol than required. Their drinks were loaded.

The first year of prison was the hardest. Becky visited him every month in the beginning. He had shared with her his suspicions about the bartender. Becky had been shocked, she disagreed with Kenny. The bartender had no motive to want to hurt either of them, she had said. After that conversation, Becky’s visits became less and less frequent. She always had some excuse why she couldn’t visit. She didn’t want to drive in the rain, or she had to work. That one grated his nerves the most when she guilt-tripped him for having to make end’s meat. He could no longer help with the bills, and they owed even more with his mounting legal fees.

He had his attorney drop the appeal.

Becky still didn’t visit him. She said it was too hard to see him ‘like that.’

It was hard for him to live that way. But she did keep in touch, sending letters and visiting around the holidays every year. No gifts were allowed to inmates.

Kenny had wondered many times about the girl he killed. If somehow, some way she was the real target. It was a far-fetched theory, but the timing of the crash had to be considered. For his car to hit the guardrail at precisely the moment she was driving under the overpass. He had ultimately negated it as a possibility. It would take a stunts coordinator to manipulate the feat.

The woman’s husband had not cooperated with Kenny’s attorney, threatened a civil suit if somehow Kenny was exonerated. That prospect had terrified Becky. Because they were married, she could lose the house, she could lose everything.

Kenny looked at his watch. He had one stop to make before the Noon appointment at 12th and Main.

~

It felt strange to be back at the crash site. Cars zoomed on the street, full of people going about their daily business. Kenny parked his old pickup under the bridge. He had a few minutes to wait. He had no idea what to expect at Noon, he felt like he was on the brink of the ultimate showdown. Shootout at high noon, just like in the western movies he loved to watch. He didn’t know what to expect, but he knew it would all be over soon.

He checked his watch. It was five minutes after twelve. A red Mercedes parked on the opposite corner. Kenny watched the driver get out of the car and start walking towards him.

“Son of a ….” Kenny mumbled. It was the restaurant owner where he and Becky had dinner that night.

The man walked with a slight limp on his leg, but he hobbled across the intersection as fast as he could.

He approached Kenny’s truck, but Kenny opened the driver’s side door. He wanted to have this conversation outside.

“Mr. Finley?” Kenny asked. He hoped he got the name right.

The old man shook his head. He looked nervous.

“Mr. Penley,” the man corrected Kenny.

“I’m sorry for the dramatics, but I had to speak with you,” Mr. Penley said.

Kenny nodded. “Speak with me about what?”

Mr. Penley sighed, his mouth set in a grimace, a preface of delivering bad news. “I had to warn you. About your wife. She’s been having an affair. For years.”

Somehow Kenny already knew. Becky was cheating on him. He had known for a while.

“With the bartender at your restaurant? If you recall, he served us drinks the night I crashed.”

Mr. Penley shook his head. “She may have had an affair with Tom. That was long ago. He died several years ago. She’s been having the affair with me. Until two months ago,” Mr. Penley confessed.

Kenny’s jaw dropped open.

Kenny shook his head. “Why are you telling me this?”

Mr. Penley rubbed his jaw with his hand. “Because she’s going to kill you. Make it look like an accident. She told me so. She wants to collect the insurance money. She’s as broke as a stone.”

Kenny always wondered if Becky had manipulated the bartender, Tom, to get him drunk and fake the accident. He had no doubt that was what happened that night. Kenny wasn’t supposed to survive the crash. But he did. And a young woman died.

“How did Tom die?” Kenny asked.

Mr. Penley shook his head. “It was a terrible accident. He was electrocuted. One of the old chap’s electronic devices zapped him at home.”

That explained so much.

“Why are you telling me this?” Kenny asked.

Mr. Penley’s face turned puce.

“She confessed her plan to me. When we broke it off, I thought you’d be safe in prison. Then I read you’d been paroled. So I sent you the Drone message. I didn’t think she’d ever think you’d come here. It’s a safe meeting spot.”

Kenny should have felt more than he did. He didn’t feel betrayed, he was sad. Anguished. That he had taken a life. And lost his doing so.

“Thank you for telling me,” Kenny said as he started to walk towards the highway.

“Where are you going?” Mr. Penley shouted at his back.

Kenny turned to face him. “It’s not your fault. There’s no saving me.”

Kenny looked up toward Heaven as he stepped off the curb into the path of a speeding eighteen-wheeler.

~

Three weeks later Becky received a letter in the post from the insurance company. She ripped it open, expecting a large check, payable to her. The letter read:

Dear Mrs. Cullen,

Your life insurance payment on your husband has been denied and the policy canceled with immediate effect. Mr. Cullen visited a doctor on the morning of his death and was deemed to be of clear conscious and good health. Evidence supports that his death was planned. We have enclosed a copy, front and back, of his suicide note.

Becky read the front of the note, the typed text:

12th and Main – Noon. Today.

On the back, in Kenny’s handwriting, he wrote,

I beat you to it.