Spilt Salt

Warning: Story contains some profanity.

I wasn't trying to be an asshole. It's not like I went out of my way to spoil anyone's fun. But I was through celebrating all these damn holidays. Every one of them was just another excuse to sucker a man's wallet. If the bankers and postal carriers weren't taking the day off, then I'd have to endure tacky displays of plastic crap everywhere I looked.

And I didn't even want to think about the ass-widening, tooth-rotting piles of garbage the stores pushed on everyone.

Besides, the livestock weren't going to give me a day off. They'd want their hay, grain, and water morning and night regardless. They were a bit like me that way. They put up with no bullshit.

On the plus side, I didn't have to waste time carving pumpkins or stretching fake cobwebs all over the place. There were no inflatable vampires, werewolves, or Frankensteins in our yard, and definitely no plastic skeleton tableau.

Marge disagreed. She was into some hippie-dippie shit, though; always going on about the veil being thinnest and such.

I suggested she get busy if she was really worried about thin veils. “Make something thicker,” I said.

Before sunset, I swept the porch clean and put the broom away. Marge had spilled salt all over and left the broom sitting in the doorway. Typical.

The porch lights were turned off, the door closed and locked, and inside, I pulled the curtains shut. The house was dark enough to look deserted or empty, and that was just what I wanted.

With the outside locked out, our night proceeded as it always did: chores, dinner, and ignoring the tripe on the television. Marge spun on her wheel while I wrote in my journal with blocky letters straining for legibility.

When the clock on the mantel clunked and tried to chime nine times, we brushed our teeth, shucked our duds, and climbed under the covers. Marge listened to some fantasy garbage on Audible — elf and troll smut or some such. I read digital newspapers on my Kindle.

Fucking Amazon had me by the purse strings.

But the dry newspaper stories and the quiet goofy voices of her audiobook always lulled me to sleep quickly.

Before I was out, Marge always rolled over and planted a soft kiss on my lips with a whispered, “I love you.”

I was pretty sure I responded in kind, but I was also just as sure it came out as a mumble that turned into a snore.

Knocking on the door woke me up. No. It woke up Marge, and she woke me up.

“Could you honey?” she mumbled as she nudged me.

“Huh? What? Sure,” I replied, trying to come around.

“Someone's at the door.”

As if on cue, the visitor knocked again. Rap-tap-a-tap-tap, tap tap

“Garglefragginschlumpter,” I said. “You expecting someone?”

“No,” Marge answered. “Maybe the police?”

“For what?” I sneered as I pulled on my britches.

“Maybe something happened nearby?”

I hmphed, stuffing my feet into the slippers Marge insisted I wear inside. “And it will still have happened in the morning. Ain't no need to be rousting folk at…”

“Midnight,” Marge supplied, looking at the luminous dial of her watch.

“Midnight!” I agreed.

The shirt went on last, buttoned crookedly.

Marge rolled over while I cussed the buttons and the dark, and her breathing deepened. I held the doorknob turned as I left to muffle the click.

The rapping came again.

“I'm coming,” I hissed. “Keep it down. Hold your damn horses.”

The peephole revealed nothing, unless just knowing the visitor had hair on the back of their noggin was important.

I opened the door a crack.

“Do you have any idea what time it is?” I asked. “What do you want?”

“Hi Robert,” the visitor said, turning. “How you doing?”

“Carl?” I gaped. “I thought you bought it over in Afghanistan.”

“Well,” he said. His breath was bad. “That last tour was a killer. You going to invite me in, buddy? I'll tell you all about it.”

“I would,” I said, looking at the threshold. “Marge is asleep.”

“Well, wake her up,” Carl replied, smiling. “It’d be great to catch up with her, too.”

“Um, Carl,” I said. “I married Marge after I got out. You re-upped. You've never met Marge, and there ain't no catching up to do.”

“Aw, buddy. You got me all wrong. I want to tell her all the stories of basic training. You remember? We did some awesome shit back then.”

“She's heard enough.” I pointed to the faded metal chairs on the porch. “We can catch up out here.”

“But I'm cold, Robert.”

There was a rack behind the front door, and I tossed him my old barn coat. I put on my go-to-town jacket and stepped out.

“Tell me about that last tour,” I said, lowering myself into the chair. It scraped over the concrete.

Carl joined me, but his chair didn't scrape.

“Oh, you know.” He waved his hand. “Bombs, bullets, and blood. The usual.”

“The news stories said your convoy found an IED.”

“C'mon, Robert,” he laughed. “You don't believe everything you read, do you? Didn't Sergeant Culp warn you about that?”

“Yes, he did,” I replied. “And I don't. Still doesn't answer my question, Carl. Why are you here?”

“Maybe I'm just another warning.”

“I ain't Scrooge, and I don't need any warnings.”

“Oh, Robert.” Carl grinned now. He never used to have that many teeth. “I don't want you to change.”

“Glad that's settled,” I said.

“I like you just the way you are.”

Great. Mr. Freaking Rogers with fangs.

“That's fine, Carl,” I said. “You come banging on my door at midnight to tell me you like me. Drop me a postcard next time.”

“Now, if you don't mind,” I snipped, standing and not really caring if he minded at all. “I have to get up early.”

“But Robert,” he said, rising. “I'm hungry.”

Pulling a wad of crumpled cash from my pocket, I tossed him a ten-dollar bill.

“Get a sandwich or something,” I said as I opened the door. "Bone appetite and bon voyage, Carl."

I sniffed a little. That rotten smell wasn't coming out. "And, Carl... Go ahead and keep the coat."

Through the peephole, I watched him wait, drool dripping from his teeth. He glared at the door for minutes before tearing his eyes away to look at the crumpled bill at his feet. Finally, he stooped, picked up my offering, and left.

Marge, bleary-eyed in robe and slippers, surprised me with a tap on the shoulder.

“Is everything okay?” she asked. “You've been gone a while.”

“Yeah,” I said. “Everything's hunky and dory.”

“Oh, good,” Marge said through a yawn.

“Come on.” I put my arm over her shoulders, leading her back to the bedroom. “How you coming along with that thicker veil?”