The Voices of Reason Her hand trembled only slightly as she moved the center piece of red roses, irises, snapdragons and summer chrysanthemums a fraction to the left. She touched a match to the red tapered candles and they flickered to life, casting a soft romantic glow about the room. She stood back and surveyed the table set for two. “Perfect,”  she breathed, “simply  perfect.” The grandfather clock in the hall chimed the hour and her stomach drew itself into a knot. Steven would be here soon.  He was coming home at last. After Steven walked out on their marriage, a year ago she kept telling her family and friends repeatedly that he would come back to her.  They all looked at her with pity in their eyes.  They didn’t believe her.  But she knew.  After twenty-five years of marriage and two children it would take more than a twenty-one-year-old child to hold onto Steven.  Angel!  What kind of home-wrecker would be named Angel?  She almost laughed at the oxymoron. Yesterday, she watched Angel at the lawyer’s office. She watched her squeeze out huge glistening teardrops that dripped with practiced ease down her unlined cheeks. She also watched as Mr. Linquest, her attorney, fawned all over the poor distraught young lady, attempting to soothe her distress with comforting words and a protective arm draped across her bare, young  shoulders. Why were men such fools when it came to young women?  She hadn’t been fooled for a minute by Angel’s  little sniffling act. Now she walked to the mirror and studied her own reflection. Green eyes glittered back at her from above the fireplace. Steven had always liked her eyes. The red satin dress she wore went well with her dark auburn hair.  Red was Steven’s favorite color.  She glanced once more across the room to the small table in the corner, resplendent in its creamy lace covering. The rose-patterned china and the crystal wine goblets gleamed in the dancing light from the candles.   The entire room was blanketed in a warm rosy glow. Steven would be here soon.  She must tell the children.  She walked to the foot of the stairs. “Rob! Teresa!  Your father will be here soon.” Only silence came from the top of the stairs.   She listened to the increased pounding of her heart, the sound echoing like a drum beat in her ears; the room lengthened, descending farther and farther away from her. Where were those ungrateful brats anyway, she wondered? Probably sulking in their rooms, determined to ruin her evening no doubt.  Since the day Steven walked out on her they acted as if it had all been her doing.   They believed she had driven him away. “Rob! Teresa! Did you hear what I said,” she screamed up the stairs once again. “Get down here this minute.” Why must they spoil everything for her?  Why was everything always working against her? She felt the familiar band around her forehead;  gripping, squeezing, tighter and tighter until it threatened to crush her skull. The white-hot pain began gouging at her eyeballs from the inside.  “Not tonight,” she pleaded. “Not now!”  She staggered toward the kitchen. Where were those wretched children? She sank to her knees upon the cool kitchen tiles. Her head cracked and splintered into the silence surrounding her.  Then the voices returned. The voices.  When they first began six months ago, she tried to make them go away; she tried to ignore them; she tried to run away from them, but they continued to pound at her temples like tiny little drummers, demanding her attention until she gave in. In the end they proved to be her salvation. Now they spoke to her in comforting tones, soothing away her anxiety.  “Calm down, Laura” they said. “Remember the plan?  The children are at your sister’s house. Martha -- your sister. Remember...?” She gripped her head with both hands. “Oh, yes. The plan,” she whispered.  Of course they were at their Aunt Martha’s house.  How could she have forgotten?  She sent them there herself last week.  She told her sister she needed to rest.   In fact, the voices had told her to do it.  She had learned to obey the voices, to allow them to guide her.  The voices knew best. “Take some medication, Laura;  Steven will be here soon. You must make certain that everything is perfect for his homecoming.” “Yes of course,  Steven will be here soon,” she whispered. She rose to her feet and staggered toward the bathroom.  In the mirror above the sink, she watched as the woman with the paper-white face and glittering eyes swallowed the pills.  She pinched the pale cheeks until some color returned, then wandered back into the living room to wait. She sank down on the sofa and picked up the newspaper, dated over a week ago.  She had read it several times.  Once again, the headlines screamed at her; Local Police Say They Have No Leads On Recent Murder Of  Prominent Businessman... She shook her head.  “Ah, such incompetence in our  local police department,” she said aloud to the empty room.  “They’ll never find the killer.  They never do.  There's crime on every street corner.  A person could get away with murder these days.” Laughter at her own joke echoed throughout the empty room. The candles flickered.  Shadows crawled along the walls. “Steven’s on his way,”  the voices soothed.  “He’ll be home and you can rest, Laura.” The jangle of the doorbell brought her to her feet.  She glanced nervously at her at her reflection in the mirror above the fireplace.  She patted her hair in place and smoothed her dress. She pasted on her favorite smile, opened the door and held out her arms toward the dark figure framed in the light from the candles.  She took the package from his hands and watched him as he turned and walked away and disappeared into the shadows.  Still smiling, she closed the door and walked toward the lace-covered table set for two.  Her fingers trembled as she unwrapped the package and lifted the delicate urn from the mounds of paper.  She turned it around lovingly, admiring the swirling designs of red and green.  She ran her fingers softly across the gold nameplate near the base, then raised the urn to her lips. Her eyes glittered and her teeth flashed white in the glow from the candles as she walked to the far end of the table.  With great tenderness, she placed the urn beside the plates set for Steven.  Still smiling to the empty room, she seated herself at the opposite end of the table. She uncorked the bottle of wine and poured herself a glass of the blood red liquid.  She had been so right in allowing the voices to guide her.  The voices always knew best. "To the two of us... together forever," she whispered, raising her glass. "Welcome home Steven..." *** Copyright© Leeuna Foster all Rights Reserved