Two people can keep a secret of one of them is dead (Russian saying)
It is an ongoing joke between my husband and son that I am probably in the CIA, living undercover in the suburbs of New Jersey with my Russian immigrant husband and son as cover. I’ve never understood what they imagine my assignment to be; nor what about me encourages their thinking. I am an African-American educator with a PhD in Hispanic literature. I am a devoted wife. An adoring mother. Indeed, it is so unlikely as to be far-fetched albeit quite amusing.
Until it wasn’t. I mean, if I tell you, I have to kill you is not merely a line of fiction.
It’s my life.
And so, the day they made the joke in front of my husband’s worthless half brother, Aleksandr, (“former” KGB, ha, unbeknownst to his family), and his gaze sharpened on me, and I knew he knew that I knew that he knew. And he had to die.
And it had to be quick, fatal and undetectable.
My specialty.
“I’ll be right back, guys,” I said, getting up from the dining room table. The cookies should be done.”
“Chocolate chip?” my son asked. I nodded. “I hope you made at least three dozen. I could eat them all. Although Anna’s cookies are great, too,” he added about his girlfriend of the moment.
“I can always bake more, sweetheart,” I replied over my shoulder as I went to the kitchen.
After removing the cookie sheets from the oven, I placed several cookies on three dessert plates: one for my husband, one for my son, and one for Aleksandr. Grabbing a small brown jar from the back of the spice cabinet, I added a drop of the contents to the top cookie on Aleksandr’s plate. I replaced the jar before I picked up the plates and re-entered the dining room.
“Here you go guys! Let me know if you want more” I said, placing an identical plate in front of each of them. “Milk?”
Mouths full, I got a nod of yes from my son, no from Aleksandr and my husband. I could feel Aleksandr’s eyes following me as I left the room.
Back in the kitchen, I took a glass from the cabinet and milk from the refrigerator. As I poured, I heard a chair scrape the wood floor and fall in the dining room.
“What are you three doing now?”
“It’s Aleksandr!” my husband said. “Something’s wrong!”
I ran in the room. Aleksandr was on the floor, clutching his chest. He looked at me in pain and bewilderment. “Oh my God,” I screamed, kneeling next to my husband. “Call 911!” I said to my son.
The EMTs arrived within five minutes.
He was dead within three.
The medical examiner’s report ruled it a heart attack.
My secret is safe.