Losing Your Little Girl By Len Kuntz
June 2, 2011 Comments Off on Losing Your Little Girl By Len Kuntz
I catch them kissing. It feels perverse, but I watch for a while.
I’ve been doing yard work and I’m looking through the window and my t-shirt is soaked and I can’t believe how livid I’m becoming.
Jared is his name. He shares my daughter’s birthday. He’s a dope of a guy, dull and rashy. My wife keeps saying, “She could do a lot worse,” as if that’s supposed to settle it, her comment feeling incriminating, as if she really means, “Look who the hell I ended up with.”
I started sun-burning two hours ago and now my skin feels lit on fire. I can’t take it any more, not the heat or this kid all over my baby girl so I take the garden sheers and stab them through his car tires. They explode, make tiny canon pops. It feels better than anything I’ve experience in years, the relief the same as a prodigious orgasm.
The next week I take a baseball bat to his windshield, only I do it at his place, in the apartment lot.
He won’t stop coming by or touching her, so I break in. It’s easier than I thought, about as hard as pumping gas.
I bust up stuff real good. Smashing his wide screen feels best. My calling card is the urine I leave on his sheets.
Turns out, though, the insurance covers it all, plus stuff he makes up, adds in. In the end, Jared gets rich off the vandalism and, to celebrate, proposes.
They set a date, pick out invitations.
I buy a gun and ammo, decide on Friday, and leave the weapon in my bottom desk drawer, right where the police find it after my boss calls them.
On top of that, the security cameras caught me busting up the kid’s car and they have another homemade spy cam video of me breaking into Jared’s apartment, demolishing everything.
When he visits, Jared’s jaw looks preposterously long. He says, “I had hoped it wouldn’t come to this.”
In a low, controlled voice that won’t arouse the guard’s suspicion, I curse and call Jared a bastard into the phone receiver. The prison plate glass is thick, yet in my mind I’m cracking it open with Jared’s skull. “When I get out of here,” I say, “the first thing I’m going to do is kill you.” This makes him sprout a greasy grin. “Go ahead,” I say, “keep smiling, because I mean it. I’m going to kill you.”
Jared opens his jacket, pulls a running tape recorder out of his pocket and says, “Now we’re talking.”
© 2011 Len Kuntz
Len Kuntz lives on a lake in rural Washington State with his wife and son. His writing appears widely in print and online at such places as Blue Stem, The Wrong Tree Review, Clutching At Straws, and also at lenkuntz.blogspot.com