Vern was allergic to peanuts, but she pretended not to remember that when she purchased the Skippy from the supermarket earlier that morning. Rhonda spread a thick layer of peanut butter onto the sandwich. Not thick enough that Vern would notice it, of course.
Rhonda was an old woman with a loud mouth. Throughout her lifetime, she had exercised great politeness. However, at the ripe old age of 85, she realized that manners had never gotten her anywhere. Therefore, Rhonda now made a talent of being unrefined.
She carried the peanut butter and jelly sandwich from the kitchen with the skill of a decrepit waitress. Her thoughts swirled faster than her feet shuffled across the linoleum floor. Accidents happened all the time, especially to folks the same age as her and Vern. No one would dare accuse her of murder. It would be insensitive.
She smiled at the thought of her husband’s passing. Rhonda fully intended to enjoy the remainder of her life without Vern. The money from his life insurance policy would certainly cover the cost of a tropical getaway.
Rhonda was mostly excited to see her adult children racked with guilt at the death of their father. Those greedy bastards would regret ever stealing a dime. She almost felt sorry that Vern wouldn’t be there to appreciate it. The only thing that the old couple still actually had in common was a deep hatred for their ungrateful offspring.
Vern peered over his newspaper suspiciously as Rhonda entered the room. For a moment, she feared that she had been plotting out loud again.
“Lunch,” she said coolly. To her relief, Vern set aside his paper and reached two thin arms toward the plate.
Aging had had quite the opposite effect on Vern as it did on Rhonda. As he grew older, he had less of a desire to speak. 87 years on Earth had taught him that the planet was crawling with morons and it was best not to engage with any of them, particularly his wife. She was the biggest idiot of all.
Rhonda handed him the plate. She no longer expected displays of gratitude from her husband. Dying was the only courtesy that Vern was still capable of. She determined that the armchair closest to him was the best vantage point for seeing her plan unfold.
Vern raised the sandwich to his mouth. Rhonda held her breath.
He stopped.
“Smells like peanut butter.”
“You’re losing your senses, old fool.”
He peeled back the bread, revealing the peanut butter. “Bah!” he spat. Vern set the sandwich on the table between him and Rhonda.
“Why won’t you die, old man!”
“I’m going to outlive you, even if it kills me! And I got vengeance keeping me alive.” Vern did not wait for her to answer. He picked up his newspaper and continued reading.
In his advanced age, Vern had become obsessed with taking revenge on the kids. He planned to recover every cent that they had pinched from his pocket. He wanted to see them penniless. Yet, he would settle for seeing them plagued by sorrow at the death of their mother.
Rhonda sighed and reached for Vern’s rejected sandwich. Scheming had worked up her appetite. She took a large bite.
She hardly ever made peanut butter and jelly sandwiches because she hated the way that the peanut butter stuck in her throat.
She tried to cough, but made no sound. Rhonda grabbed wildly at her throat. She would have preferred for Vern to remain occupied with the sports section, but he looked up from his reading and observed his choking wife.
Not wishing to give him the satisfaction of watching her die, Rhonda positioned her fist on her stomach and pushed down hard with her other hand. After one mighty gag, the bit of sandwich sailed from her mouth and landed on the carpet. Rhonda coughed and sputtered.
“Let me get you a drink,” said Vern. With some effort, he rose from the armchair and hobbled to the kitchen sink.
Once out of earshot from his wife, Vern began to grumble. Rhonda yakking on the living room carpet was another example of why she was the reason that the couple could not own nice things.
Vern added a touch of bleach to the tall glass of ice water he had poured. He garnished the concoction with a striped bendy straw before serving it to his wife.
Rhonda put the straw to her lips. Vern’s grip on his walker tightened.
She stopped.
“This drink smells like a goddamn swimming pool!” Rhonda placed the glass next to the sandwich.
“They don’t put bleach in swimming pools, you dolt,” said Vern.
Rhonda ignored him, checked the clock on the wall, and in a commanding voice she firmly said, “Shut up, and get your car keys. We’re going to be late for church.”
Vern grudgingly obliged. As he shuffled out to their old Buick, he considered how folks the same age as him and Rhonda often got into automobile accidents. He also reflected on the defective passenger seat airbags and, for the first time in 12 years, he smiled.
Alise Deveney is an undergraduate in the College of Communications pursuing a degree in film, with minors in both English and theatre. She is currently serving on the 2019 selection jury for the Lynd Ward Graphic Novel Prize, which is presented annually to the best graphic novel published in the previous calendar year. Alise is also a writer for Phroth, Penn State’s century-old humor publication.