Death for Breakfast

By Jason A. Wendleton

Ruth Myers loved a good deal. That’s why she pulled her mini-van over the second she saw the “Estate Sale” sign. After reading its somber directions, she inched back onto the quiet country road. Finding the house where the sale was proved to be easy. All she had to do was follow the steady trickle of vulture-like cars down Maple Circle.

At the end of the cul-de-sac sat a morbid looking white house. Dual signs proclaiming: “Everything Must Go!” and “For Sale!” were firmly planted in the brown lawn. Because of all the people, Ruth ended up having to park a block over on Sterling Street. Death was not an uncommon occurrence in Smithville, yet estate sales and auctions always managed to cause quite a stir among the town’s frugal citizenry.

After the short jog over to Maple Circle, Ruth found herself winded.

“I must be more out of shape than I thought,” she said gasping for air.

Ruth wasn’t fat, but she wasn’t exactly thin either. Middle age had been relatively kind to her delicate frame—however the dreaded “Middle age spread” was beginning to soften her once chiseled features. She ran a slender-ish hand through her long, blonde hair (dyed to conceal the fact that she was a graying brunette).

The front yard of the white house was packed with numerous stay-at-home mom and farmer-types. No one seemed to be too interested in the odds and ends of whoever’s life this had been. She had the feeling that most of the people were there just to be nosy.

“All the prices are marked,” a kind-faced woman said. “That table over there is all under twenty dollars.”

Ruth nodded.

“If you have any questions or want to buy something I’ll be over at that far table.”

“Alright, thank you,” Ruth nodded. The kind-faced woman turned to walk away when Ruth blurted out: “What was the name of the person who died?”

Everyone present seemed to freeze and gawk at the two women. Ruth became red faced; she hated being the center of so much attention.

“Margaret Thompson,” the other woman replied.

Ruth nodded sheepishly, and then pretended to examine a gaudy lampshade. Most of what was for sale was junk: porcelain figurines, dirty looking linen, tacky wicker baskets, and a few racks of women’s clothing. The clothing was about three sizes too big for Ruth—and the styles were at least that many decades out of fashion.

A cream colored Oldsmobile with a bright orange “For Sale” sticker in the window was sitting in the grass adjacent to the driveway. A farmboy was hunched over it, drooling over its immaculate leather interior.

“Only fifty thousand miles…” he cooed to himself.

Ruth was about to give up and leave, when she noticed the boxes of kitchen supplies. There were pots and sauce pans of varying sizes stacked neatly on the ground next to one of the tables. Most were scorched pretty badly, though. There was also half a tea set, some lusterless silver serving trays, and half dozen boxes of plates.

“These plates, they look familiar…”

Indeed, the flowery yellow pattern that framed most of the plates was nearly identical to the pattern on her mother’s bedroom wallpaper. It twisted and turned at eccentric, almost nauseating angles. Growing up, Ruth’s mother had told her about a story she’d read in which a woman was driven mad by a similar type of wallpaper. Ruth often stared at her mother’s walls and thought about that poor woman, who had believed that there was someone trapped behind that stifling pattern…

Ruth looked down and realized she was holding a waffle iron. It was a filthy, metal and plastic monstrosity. The electric plug at the end of the power cable looked like the tail of a cartoon devil. Its three metal prongs looked like fangs.

There was an orange sale tag dangling from its gaping metal jaws: $20.00.

That’s not too bad for a waffle iron, Ruth thought idly. I bet Drew would like it…

She was interrupted by the kind-faced woman, “Find something you’re interested in?”

“Yes,” Ruth said handing the waffle maker over to her, “Will you take a check?”

*******************************************************************************

About a week later Ruth had forgotten all about the waffle iron. She hadn’t felt well enough to do much cooking. Her joints ached and her sinuses throbbed. Lately she’d barely made it out the door in time for work.

Her husband, Andrew Myers, was more than a little annoyed at having to eat cold cereal every morning for breakfast.

“I promise,” she croaked from bed, “this weekend I’ll make you a nice, big breakfast.”

“It’s okay…you don’t have to do that…” Drew grumbled as he poured skim milk over his Cheerios. “Do you want some orange juice, hon?”

Ruth gasped and choked as she nodded in reply.

“Vitamin C’ll do you some good,” he said handing her a full glass.

It tasted bitter.

“Ugh, you sure this stuff is any good?” she asked.

“Yeah, it’s fine,” he picked up his glass and took a few quick gulps, “Tastes good to me.”
Ruth chalked it up to her illness.

“You going to make it to work today?”

She nodded and crawled out of bed. After Andrew kissed her goodbye and walked out the front door, Ruth ran into the bathroom and promptly threw up.

**********************************************************************************

On Saturday she managed to wake up early. Yawning, Ruth threw on a tattered bathrobe and headed for the kitchen. While she was making coffee she remembered the waffle iron.

“Waffles…that sounds pretty good…”

After cleaning it up, she plugged it in and mixed up some batter. Once she’d picked out a few stray egg shells, she poured the goop into the iron’s metal mouth.

Sizzling, the waffle iron clamped down onto the gooey batter. While she waited for the first of the waffles to cook, Ruth started to fry up some bacon and eggs.

Within a few minutes Ruth and her kitchen were transformed—both frothed and sizzled with life and energy. This was the best she’d felt all week. Her head felt clear, she wasn’t nearly as dizzy as she’d been, and her throat was loose.

“I guess this little chore was just what I needed,” she said to herself.

Checking the waffle iron, she decided the first waffle was done. Popping open the metal hinge, she saw a perfectly formed, golden brown waffle. Smiling down at it like a proud parent, Ruth jimmied it from the iron’s multiple hippo teeth. She mechanically flipped it over and placed it onto a nearby plate. Then she filled up the waffle maker again with batter and returned to cooking the eggs.

Just before she took the second waffle out she happened to glance over at the waffle already lying on the plate. She did a double take. “YOU’RE GOING TO DIE” was burned into the top of the waffle. It made her skin crawl, and she croaked out a tiny scream. Hands shaking, she opened the waffle iron and took out the second waffle. Tossing it aside, she inspected the inside of the waffle maker.

But the waffle iron appeared to be innocent. There was no mold for letters inside its metal head—only the rows of square teeth.

Unnerved, Ruth looked over at the second waffle lying face down near the sink. Hesitating, she reached out for it, fingering it nervously. She flipped it over and saw that it was stamped with one word:

“MURDER”

“I’m losing my mind,” she muttered as she dropped the waffle into the sink.

“Waffles for breakfast?” Andrew said coming up behind her.

“No…no, I burned them all up,” Ruth said tossing them into the trash.

He looked at her, confused by her horrified expression.

“Oh well,” he said. “Maybe you can try again…”

“Maybe tomorrow,” she whispered.

Seeing her shaking hands, he helped her over to the kitchen table.

“Here, let me serve you my dear…” he took out two plates and heaped the eggs and bacon onto them. “Let me get you something to drink, too.”

She picked at the eggs and crumbled the bacon slices. Her appetite was gone.

“Drink your orange juice,” Andrew told her.

She made a face, “I’m not hungry.”

“No, drink your juice,” he laughed at her spaced-out expression.

“Ugh, it doesn’t taste very good to me…”

“Nonsense,” he said. “It tastes fine.”

*********************************************************************************

All that following week Ruth was bedridden. She had a fever that lasted most of the week. Calling in sick, Ruth found herself thinking about the mysterious messages burned into her waffles.

Maybe…

But she dismissed the notion as quickly as it entered her mind.

“Melissa, it’s me Ruth…I can’t make it into the office today…yeah, I’m still sick…probably all week…”

**********************************************************************************

That Sunday she awoke to find Andrew standing near the doorway of their bedroom.

“Hey honey, still feelin’ lousy?”

She nodded.

“Well I made us breakfast, I’ll go and get your tray.”

She sat up in bed, a few seconds later Andrew returned—a tray of food in his hands.

“I found that waffle maker you bought…”

Her eyes widened when he set the tray onto her lap. Next to a small mound of scrambled eggs was a stack of waffles. Each one, she discovered as she peeled them apart, had an ominous message burned into its crispy brown honey-comb.

“Oh crap!” Andrew said snapping his fingers, “I forgot your O.J.”

She started to protest, but before she could he was gone. Alone, Ruth examined the stack more carefully:

“YOU ARE GOING TO DIE”

“HE’S GOING TO KILL YOU”

The bottom of the stack of waffles read simply: “GO AND SEE.”

Without thinking she set the tray aside and hopped out of bed. In a daze, she walked down the hall to the kitchen. There, unseen and unheard, she saw her husband pouring her a glass of juice. Then another for himself. He quietly screwed the cap back onto the cardboard juice box and put it back into the fridge.

Ruth expected him to pick up the glasses, turn, and then see her standing in the door frame.

“What are you doing out of bed?” she could almost hear him asking.

Instead, he reached into his pocket—the pocket of the terry cloth robe she’d bought him for Christmas last year. He pulled out what looked like a small glass vial. It had a soft, bulbous looking top. Ruth watched as her husband used the eye dropper…planting the seeds of death.

Without uttering one word, she turned and walked back to the bedroom. She’d just climbed back into the bed when he came in, carrying both glasses.

“Here ya go,” he said.

Ruth took the glass from him, staring at him intently the entire time. He remained standing by the bed, eyeing her and the juice.

Reaching up, he started to take a sip from his own glass.

“Wait!” she cried, “Switch me glasses.”

“Huh?”

This had to be a mistake, it had to be.

“Why?”

There was no way her husband was really trying to make her sick…

“Just trade me glasses Drew.”

Trying to kill her…

“I just like that glass better is all.”

He scoffed at her, was he trying to hide something?

“They’re the exact same glasses Ruthie,” he was getting angry now—the care and affection were gone from his voice.

“Just give me the damn glass!” she gasped, tears starting to form at the corners of her eyes.

“Alright, fine…take my glass.”

They switched.

Ruth took a swig from the glass.

“This tastes much better today,” she said to herself.

Then she watched him, trying to be discreet. If he drank it, then everything was alright…and this was all some kind of mistake. Some terrible nightmare she was having…

He raised the glass to his lips, the orange liquid beginning to curl towards the lip of the glass.

I must be hallucinating, imagining…Drew isn’t trying to…

“Shit!” he said as the glass dropped. Ruth watched it tumble and fall, spilling juice all over the bedroom rug.

“Guess I’m going to have to clean that up,” he muttered to himself.

“And you’re going to have to get a new glass of juice,” she remarked.

He stared at her, “Well yeah…I guess I will.”