Kill You with Kindness

Kevin was a nice guy. He was the nicest guy around. That was his defining characteristic, everywhere he went. What a nice man. What lovely manners. He had heard those words said about him, when the speaker believed he was out of earshot, more times than he could count.

It was being nice, being polite, that was the key. There were desperate women all across the country, in every corner of every town. Plain women with peroxided hair and acrylic nails, eager for a little attention, for a kind word. The overlooked, the abused, the deserted, the put upon. Kevin could identify them a mile away. Easy prey. A little flattery here, a thoughtful gesture there. A please and a thank you, opening a door, pulling out a chair. All the little acts of chivalry that they had been longing for. Before they knew it, they were putty in his hands.

So even if an old lady couldn’t find the pearl earrings she always kept on her bedside table, she’d never suspect the lovely young man who had installed a fire alarm in her bedroom that morning. Even if there was less cash in the till than there ought to have been at the end of the day, the waitress never even thought of that charming man who almost leaped over the counter that afternoon to help her clean up a spilled pot of coffee. Even if some woman, somewhere, said something bad about him, intimated he’d done something terrible to her, no one would really believe that the man with the pleasant smile and impeccable manners would ever do something like that. She’s mistaken, they’d say. Or, she’s lying.

Yes sir, it was being nice that had gotten him this far.

#

Even still, things in the last city ended up a little messier than he would have liked. City folks were savvier than small town ones, Kevin had discovered to his detriment, and he’d had to get out of there quick, and as far away from it all as possible. There were questions being asked about that woman, the one who’d died suddenly after discovering that her life savings had been drained out of her accounts, questions about the man she’d been seen going to the bank with. For a minute or two he’d been worried, but now, as he sped along the highway, the distance between him and the dead woman increasing by the minute, his worries dissipated. Still, it was probably a good idea to lie low for a while.

He took the next exit on a whim and passed a sign that read, Welcome to Blue Vale. Blue Vale it was, then. He had never been this far south. He hoped it was true, what they said about Southern hospitality. He needed a hot meal and a warm bed.

He was well off the highway now, cruising down a narrow, dusty road with one hand perched lazily on the steering wheel of the old convertible he’d gotten from a brunette two towns ago: a car that had belonged to her father but that she’d been too scared to drive. When he knew he was ready to move on­, he’d offered to take it to the local mechanic to get it checked out for her. Kevin couldn’t help but smile as he wondered how long it had taken her to work out that he wasn’t coming back.

Kevin approached what appeared to be the town center, though it was hardly worthy of the name. A rundown grocery store dominated most of it. Other than that, there was a small pharmacy and a few shops displaying cheap polyester clothing and tacky furniture in their windows, surrounded by garish sale signs. Most of the shopfronts were empty, graffitied obscenities emblazoned across wooden boards nailed across broken windows, faded real-estate agents’ advertisements peeling off the grimy doors. Kevin began to wonder if he should get back on the highway and move on to the next town when a neon sign loomed up before him, bearing the words, Coffee! Food! beside an arrow directing him into the small carpark of a diner. Kevin knew the type — plastic benches and tables, linoleum floors reflecting florescent lights, and a menu consisting primarily of coffee, eggs, and bacon. Well, he was hungry, and in his experience, local diners and bars were the best place to scope out the prospects in a small town like this. He pulled into the carpark, parked, got out of the car, and walked into the diner, mopping sweat from his brow. It was oppressively, suffocatingly humid.

Once inside, Kevin hooked his thumbs into the belt loops of his jeans and walked slowly up to one of the stools at the counter in a manner that he knew showed off his tall, lean frame to its best advantage. He slid onto a stool and flashed the pretty waitress his best smile (he liked to call it his 100-watt smile), ordered a cup of coffee, and asked her what she recommended to go with it. That was one of his tried-and-true tricks, to always start out by asking the woman what she thought, so she felt like you respected her opinion. One day, he thought, he really ought to patent his methods.

“Depends how hungry you are,” the waitress said (the tag pinned to her dress told him her name was Abilene), smacking gum in her mouth. “The apple pie’s good, if you want something sweet.”

“Sweet suits me just fine. Apple pie it is, Abilene,” Kevin said, flashing her another smile as he handed her the menu, but she just turned and went into the kitchen. She wasn’t biting, probably due to the ring on her left hand. Oh well. Maybe he’d just hang around town for a couple of days, now that he was here, and see if anything good turned up.

She returned soon with his coffee and a large slice of apple pie. He thanked her, took a bite of the pie, and then said, “Say, Abilene, I was wondering if you could help me out. See, I’m just passing through, on my way to a job, but the job doesn’t start for a while and I’m thinking of staying here for a little while. Do you have any recommendations on where I could get a room?”

Abilene didn’t look very forthcoming, so he added, “Since this apple pie is so good, I figure I can’t go wrong with your recommendations.”

“This dump?” Abilene said. “Folks over here are tryin’ their best to get out, and you wanna stay?”

“Well, it can’t be all bad, I mean, you’re here.” He gave her another 100 watts, for good measure.

She softened a little. “There’s the motel on the side of the highway, they usually have rooms.”

He’d driven past it — a depressing assortment of small units, unlikely to have any good prospects. His disinterest in the motel must have shown on his face because she added, “I’ll tell you what. You like this apple pie? The girl who makes it­ — her name’s Marion Reilly — has a house not far from here and she’s always got rooms for rent. Big old place she inherited that she lives in on her own. Lots of men passing through stay with her, on account of the fact that she feeds ’em and does all the cleaning and laundry too. She is a kinda strange. They were all strange in that family, come to think of it. Probably would’ve called ’em witches a few hundred years ago. But she’s harmless, really, and a good cook. You just keep on drivin’ straight and take the third left. White house at the end of the road, you can’t miss it.”

Now that sounded promising. Big old houses in impoverished small towns were often filled with forgotten treasures from a wealthier era. Kevin drained his cup, thanked Abilene again, tipped generously, and headed back out to his car. The sun was lower in the sky now, but the humidity had only intensified, and there was a loud buzzing in the air. Cicadas. God, he hated the racket they made. You almost couldn’t hear yourself think over the noise.

The road grew narrower and dustier still as he went, the buildings trailing off until all he passed were empty, trash-strewn lots and ill-maintained houses. Many seemed abandoned, the plants in the front yards decaying, paint peeling, fences broken. Again, Kevin wondered if this place was worth his time, but he took the third left as Abilene had instructed anyway, and the house came looming up at the end of the street. It was certainly large, complete with a veranda and bay windows; in its heyday, likely the home of some Southern gentleman. It was better kept than the houses he had passed on the way, although that wasn’t saying much, just that the overgrown lawn was green rather than brown and all the windows were intact. Otherwise, the once-white exterior was a dingy shade of yellow, and the roof was missing some of its shingles.

Kevin pulled up in front of the house and turned off the ignition. As he did so, he thought he saw a curtain flutter in one of the upstairs windows. Experience had taught him that it was always safest to assume he was being watched, so the performance had to begin now. He got out of the car, stopped by the mailbox­ — which was leaning precariously to one side on a splintering wooden stake — and retrieved the catalogs and envelopes inside. Then he made a show of smelling, with appreciation, the neglected roses blooming haphazardly in the yard before walking up to the front door. The rotting boards of the veranda creaked uncertainly beneath his feet. A handwritten sign was propped up on the ledge of the front window and through the dust-streaked glass he could make out the words: ROOMS AVAILABLE. REASONABLE RATE. THANK YOU.

Kevin clanged the brass doorknocker, probably once shiny gold but now ensconced in cobwebs and patinaed a putrid green. She’d better open up soon. The heat and humidity were oppressive, and the screaming of the cicadas clustered amongst the plants in the unkempt garden was deafening. He rang again; if she didn’t come soon, he’d leave. The place was probably a dump anyway.

The door opened a crack, and half a small, pale female face appeared.

“Afternoon, sir, how can I help you?” The voice was low and gentle, the drawl thick.

“Hi there, ma’am. My name is Joe Peterson, and I was talking to Abilene at the diner back there, just off the highway, and she said you had some rooms for rent?”

The door shut for a moment, and Kevin heard a chain being dislodged. Then the door opened again, wider this time. A small, pale, bony woman stood in the doorway, wearing jean shorts and a tank top that only made her look even scrawnier. Kevin thought her skinny neck might collapse under the weight of the brown hair bunched atop it. He decided that it wasn’t worth wasting one of his 100-watt smiles on her, so he flashed her about 50 watts.

“Yes, sir,” she said. “Pleasure to make your acquaintance, I’m Marion Reilly.” She ushered him inside and stuck out a thin hand. Kevin shook it and was amused to see that she dipped her head and bent her knees slightly as she did so, almost a curtsey. Her face was small and pinched like the rest of her. She had nice eyes — big and dark — but they were hooded by eyelids drooping under the weight of cheap and heavily mascaraed false eyelashes. Her mouth was distractingly large for that little gaunt face, and her smile too toothy to be attractive. Kevin estimated her to be about his age, mid-30s, which was ideal for his purposes because he had always maintained that was the age when women were at their most insecure, youth having only just slipped through their fingers.

“Oh, and I got your mail for you,” he said, handing her the contents of the mailbox.

“Why thank you, Mr. Peterson, how thoughtful of you.” She closed the door behind him, muffling, although not completely blocking out, the sound of the cicadas.

Kevin stood in the foyer and took in his surroundings quickly with a practiced eye. The walls were paneled with dark, old-fashioned wood, and a staircase across from him, carpeted in faded crimson, twisted up to the next floor. An open door to his left provided a view into a living room with couches upholstered in tapestried fabric, lots of wooden display cabinets and tables, and — most importantly — small knickknacks covering every available surface: porcelain figurines, little crystal vases, enameled pill boxes, glass paperweights. Items that were easy to tuck into a sleeve or pocket, unnoticed.

“It’ll be $40 a night, which includes breakfast and dinner. Would that be all right with you?” Marion asked. She was clasping her hands together and watching him with some concern, as though anxious the price may be too steep. “I don’t have any other lodgers right now, so it’ll be quiet at least, and you can have the biggest bedroom and the hall bathroom all to yourself.”

Geez, Kevin thought, a buck went far here. Nevertheless, he pretended to do some mental calculations to see if he could afford it, and then said, “I think I can make it work. I guess it’s worth it, you have such a lovely home.”

Marion actually blushed. This was just too good to be true.

“I’m passing through on my way to a job, but I’d like to stay a week if that’s okay.” He glanced at the living room again and estimated that a week should be enough time to do reasonably well out of it.

“It’ll be a pleasure to have you as long as you like, Mr. Peterson,” she said. “Have you eaten? Let me whip you up something.”

Kevin followed her through the dining room — again packed with old wooden furniture and expensive looking knickknacks — and into the kitchen, which was clean but shabby and showed all the signs of being well-used. She sat him down on a small table at the side of the kitchen, covered by a cheerful floral tablecloth, which he made sure to compliment, and then she got to work. He made small talk as she cooked, the kind of chitchat he could do in his sleep by now, and soon she was taking a pot of hot chili off the stove and spooning it into a large bowl for him.

“Now do eat up,” she said. “Mama raised me to make sure guests are always well fed.” She sat down across from him, although she did not serve herself a bowl, simply looked at him and smiled that toothy smile as he ate. It was disconcerting, but he didn’t let on. He gave her 25 watts in return and complimented the food. It wasn’t a lie; Abilene hadn’t been kidding about Marion’s cooking. It was delicious, and Kevin found that he could not stop eating even though he wasn’t very hungry after the apple pie, and it was far too hot a day for a dish like chili. His hand kept automatically going back down to the bowl and bringing another spoonful up to his mouth, and he only stopped once the bowl was empty.

#

Kevin had made a good living off a lot of marks in his time, but he didn’t think he had ever had a mark quite as easy as Marion. She was painfully eager to please, positively glowing at every remotely kind thing he said. Even better, she wouldn’t let him do a thing. Usually, he had to do a little work to build up trust before going in for the kill. But Marion wouldn’t hear of it when he volunteered to mow her lawn or pick up her groceries. She’d say, “Now you just sit back down and make yourself comfortable. I don’t want you to lift a finger. My mama would never forgive me for making a guest work.” Obediently, he would sit down, and he really wouldn’t lift a finger, almost feeling that he couldn’t. It was the same at mealtimes. Whenever she served him a drink or a meal, she’d say, “Now you drink that all down” and “You eat that all up” and he’d do so, even if he wasn’t thirsty or hungry. He felt a strange, almost overwhelming compulsion to listen to her when she said things like that. Not that it was difficult. He was very content to be taken care of, and she seemed to enjoy it, so he didn’t bother offering to do anything for her after the first time.

The week was soon over, but he made no effort to leave. This was a pretty cushy deal he had walked right into, and he still had plenty of cash from the last woman. He told Marion that his job had been delayed, and she was delighted that he was staying longer.

On top of Marion’s insistence on waiting on him hand and foot, there was the house itself, which proved profitable beyond his wildest dreams. Valuables were stuffed into every nook and cranny, not just cluttering every surface but jammed into cupboards and cabinets and the drawers of desks and dressers. She’d never miss them. She didn’t miss them. Nearly every day, he helped himself to a few more small items which would likely fetch some cash.

Of course, there was plenty of junk around as well. Either Marion was a hoarder, or she’d never gotten around to clearing out the hoarding of previous generations. One cupboard was filled entirely with empty jam jars which ought to have been discarded, and another with mildewy old newspapers. He’d jimmied the lock on the drawer of the old rolltop desk in the corner of the living room while she was out and had found only battered wallets and watches that didn’t work, probably the possessions of the long-gone male members of her family.

Nevertheless, the treasures outweighed the junk. He’d sneak things out to the trunk of his car a few times each day, and once or twice each week he drove up to one of the bigger towns in the area and unloaded his wares at various pawn shops and antique stores.

“I’m clearing out my grandmother’s house,” he would say, assuming the solemn expression of the recently bereaved. “There’ll be a lot more where that came from.”

Marion Reilly was the easiest and one of the most lucrative jobs he’d ever pulled, and he didn’t even have to be all that nice to her.

#

Still, it couldn’t last forever. Even Marion would notice if one fine day, the living room was completely bare. That was another important thing about his business: you had to know when to pull out. Kevin figured two months was a damn good run, and it was time to get going. He didn’t hear anything in the news anymore about the dead woman. The overworked police department had clearly decided that the trail was now too cold to justify continuing an active investigation.

He told Marion over dinner, in between mouthfuls of shrimp and grits, that the job he had, the one with the start date that had been delayed, was starting up next week, so he’d be heading off soon. Marion’s face fell, but she said she’d make him a nice pot of chili for his last dinner, in reminiscence of his first afternoon. She really was in love with him, Kevin thought, and made a mental note to take greater advantage of it on his last night there.

#

The next evening, which Kevin had decided was to be his last at Marion’s house, was as humid as ever, even though summer was nearly over. As she had promised, Marion was cooking a large pot of chili, and she had flung the kitchen windows open in an attempt to dissipate the heat from the stove. It was so warm outside that it made no difference, and even as the sun set, the cicadas continued chirping in all their glory, the sound coming through the open windows louder than ever. Did they never shut up? If Kevin never heard another cicada again, it would be too soon.

Kevin sat at the little kitchen table as usual while Marion stirred the chili on the stovetop and chattered away about nonsense that he pretended he was listening to, when she suddenly said, “You make a lot off my nana’s little collections?”

“Wha—” Kevin cleared his throat. “Excuse me?”

“I asked you a question,” Marion said, sounding entirely unconcerned and continuing to stir the pot idly, not looking at him. “You make a lot off my nana’s little figurines and vases? Or my mama’s jewelry? Or my Granddaddy’s pocket watches? Do you think you’ll get a lot for the candlesticks you put in your bag this mornin’?”

Kevin had to get out before she called the cops, if she hadn’t already done so. He started to get up, but she turned towards him, wiping her hands on the front of her apron, and gave him her toothy smile. “Now you just sit right back down there, my mama’d never forgive me if I let you go without your dinner.”

Kevin sat. He couldn’t help it. It was like all the times before, when she’d told him to do something in that slow, drawling voice of hers, and he’d done it. Only, the other times he hadn’t wanted to resist, so he’d ignored the sensation that there was an invisible hand directing his movements like a puppeteer, forcing him to do what she said.

“That’s right, you just stay sitting there while I give you your dinner,” she said, still smiling away, taking the pot off the stove, placing it on the center of the dining table and heaping a bowl with steaming chili. She set the bowl down in front of him and sat down across the table, just as she had done on the first afternoon, watching him amiably.

“I don’t want—” Kevin began to say, but she cut him off.

“Now there’s no need for any of that. You just eat that all up. A big man like you needs his food, that’s what my mama and my nana would say. They’d never let you leave here hungry.”

His hand sprang into action, quite independently from anything his brain told it to do. It scooped up a spoonful of chili and brought it up to his mouth, though he’d never felt less like eating. He vowed to keep his lips resolutely shut, but they parted of their own accord, and his hand shoved the spoon into his mouth. It was far too much chili for one mouthful, and far too hot, burning the interior of his mouth instantly, but for the life of him he could not spit it out and he was forced to swallow, though it scorched his throat all the way down.

“M-Marion—” he stammered, with no idea what he was going to say, but it didn’t matter because her smile widened, and she said, “I don’t want to hear a word about it. You just do as I said and sit there and eat up.”

His vocal cords constricted. His hand continued its terrible routine of spooning chili into his mouth. She watched him in silence until at last—thank God—the bowl was empty. But Marion refilled the bowl immediately. “You liked that, huh? No need to be shy, there’s plenty.”

No more, he tried to say, please no more, but the words would not come, and again his hand was spooning the food into his unwilling mouth.

“Stealin’ from your host, that’s a little disrespectful, isn’t it?” Marion asked, absentmindedly twisting a lock of her hair around her finger. “Of course, I noticed right away, but I didn’t want to be rude. I knew just what kind of man you was when you walked in. We get a lotta men passin’ through Blue Vale, a lot of ’em who are up to no good.” She shook her head with mild irritation, as if they were discussing inflation, or the hot weather. “Smiles like wolves and eyes like the dead, my nana used to say. You just got to be nice to ’em, and they’ll leave you be, I was always taught. Wouldn’t you agree, Mr. Peterson, that I’ve been just as nice to you as peach pie?” She batted her heavy-lidded eyelids at him almost flirtatiously, the thick fake eyelashes swopping through the air as she did so, like two black moths.

Kevin nodded. He was feeling sicker and sicker with each mouthful, his mouth and throat on fire from the heat and the spice, his legs going numb. But he could not stop eating, and he could not move, other than to continue shoveling food into his mouth. Sweat dripped down his face and the food from his overfull stomach rose up his esophagus.

“You know, you’ve been here two months and you never wanted to know a thing about me. Don’t you think that’s a little rude? I kept waitin’ for you to ask, you bein’ such a nice guy and all.” She signed, almost sadly. “But since it’s our last night, I’ll tell you anyway. I was born and raised in this town, as was my whole family before me. I’m the last one of ’em now. I never was good at school or any of the jobs I tried out. Not good enough to go to the city like some of the girls. And none of the men worth marryin’ stick around here for long.”

The cicadas were louder than ever, it was almost difficult to hear her voice over the noise and the pounding of his own heart.

“I don’t have much, but I have my home, and I have some talents, talents I got from my nana and my mama. You know, in the olden days, they used to call my ancestors witches? Silly, when all it really is, is just a talent for…for domesticity. We’ve always known how to treat our guests. Why, we just kill ’em with kindness.”

Kevin thought, suddenly, of the drawerful of battered wallets and old watches.

“Now you just go on sittin’ there and keep eating. There’s no hurry at all. When you’re done with that pot, I’ll whip you up some more. No need to lift a finger.”

Marion smiled again, another one of those smiles that was too big for her face, crammed with way too many large, shiny white teeth. The room around her seemed to dissolve; she seemed to dissolve, too, other than that wide smile, smiling at him as he ate himself to death.

Outside, the cicadas went on chirping.