Two for Atticus
written by: Rachel Armstrong
@armstrongauthor
It began with a newscast. Wearing a sharp red power suit, Illany Hightower stared into the camera, daring us to shoot perverts instead of paying them.
In truth, it might’ve started before that. A middle-aged photographer perched high in a maple tree, chubby fingers fondling an ultra-long lens. How had he avoided falling to his doom? That would’ve saved us all a lot of trouble.
Somehow, even with all that girth, he shimmied back down the tree. Army crawled under a fence—found a hole apparently. Maybe it was the groundskeeper’s fault, but I blamed rodents. They were always digging holes.
Either way, the result was the same: He shot his target, some tech founder’s wife lounging sans attire, and slithered away with the footage. He chose the wrong subject, that was his first mistake. Traded safe for lucrative. That part of his plan worked—he raked in serious cash. Papers said two million.
He must’ve expected some backlash—her Instagram followers, feminist pundits, religious folks opposed to obscenity of any kind. But people weren’t just mad, they were righteous.
What our rotund exploiter didn’t expect was punishment—his, not hers. He knew some would think his target looked improper. What was she doing, strutting around topless? Others would think her justified—honeymooning, and all.
The reprimand against him—that stupefied him. But then, voyeurs had been getting away with it for so long. How could he have guessed society was about to change? Perhaps that was the problem. Too many creeps without consequences. However it started, the world changed, and some of us failed to see it coming.
My name is Anemone Scarlette, and my husband is about to fry.
***
Three days ago, I sat perched in a vinyl booth, elbows on the Formica table, sipping a flat white in the West End—our first Sundays tradition. The coffee shop our usual meeting place. The clientele seedy enough that the drones left the spot alone, the coffee good enough to justify leaving the safety quadrant. Finding a dive with the best barista in town was just the kind of thing respectable New Republic of America women did for fun.
“How’s work?” I lifted my cup with two hands—more of a small bowl, really. The kind that said, this isn’t oat milk.
Hanging on the wall above my father’s white hair was a plain wooden frame displaying the progeny of that infamous photographer. Fitting. No, not the celebutante lounging. The rules his licentious photography engendered. A black and white lens reflecting back the indiscriminate figure of a woman, with a bright red X through it. No lewd pictures here. I suppose Illany had accomplished that.
“I don’t want to talk about washing dishes, Nene.”
My sigh dragged like a cough you’re too tired to cure. The collar of Dad’s shirt was frayed, which told me he hadn’t even bothered with the sewing kit I’d gotten him last Christmas.
Though perhaps he was on to something, attire-wise. The vinyl seat was making my silk skirt stick to my thighs, but when I twirled my straw, it clicked nicely against the walls of my mug-bowl. “Dad, you have to meet your hours. You don’t want to go back to the ward, do you?”
“I’m meeting my hours.” He sipped his coffee—black, no syrup, the cheapest drink on the menu. “How’s your mom?”
My blouse shifted under my cardigan. The sleeves were too tight, and I could feel the silk bunching into my armpits, perspiration staining it yellow.
“I just wanna know your mom’s doin’ alright, that’s all.”
I drew a figure eight with my straw—I liked how the end sometimes bent if the coffee was hot enough. “She’s doing good—happy, I think.” I never mentioned her new husband. It’d been six years now, what did it matter?
Dad reclined into the green backing of the booth where white stuffing clawed out like bacteria from a wound. “That’s good. You know I never meant to hurt her.”
I set down the cup, spilling coffee onto the Formica. She’s a fucking redit because of you! I wanted to scream.
Before the tanks rolled through the capital—back when photographers and film-makers were still getting away with their trespasses and men were still getting away with pretty much anything they wanted, we called women like my mother divorcees.
Not these days. Now we don’t refer to the offenders—or their absence—at all. Voyeurs were eliminated. Licentious husbands were deleted. Wives of adulterers weren’t ex-wives. Widows weren’t widows. They were redistributed. On Thursdays when the girls and I split a bottle of wine at the Arbury, we called them redits.
Women could get censored, of course, but when a woman cheated, or was photographed, there was usually a man to blame. Everyone knew that. They created the demand. Plus, lack of emotional support and all.
“Right, Dad, disappearing was the perfect way to make sure she wasn’t fucking hurt.”
“I’m here, aren’t I?”
I’d started noticing six months ago how bushy Dad’s eyebrows had gotten, especially when they v’d. Was it a sign of age? Lack of upkeep?
“Yes, that’s exactly my point! Mom was right to turn you in. You’re here in some—” I lowered my voice and hunched over the table, nails tapping the grimy surface—“some dingy coffee shop in the West End because you fucked up. You fucked everything up.”
“I know—shit.” He sat back. “I’m sorry. I would make it right if I could. I can’t see her, you know that.” He wagged his finger like I was still a child. “But I haven’t disappeared.” Exhaling, he laced his fingers over his belly and gazed out the yellowed windows to the parking lot. “Trust me, if I wanted to disappear, I could.” His round face was like an inflated balloon withering after a party. “I’ve got a guy, Atticus—”
“Shhhh.” I glanced around to make sure no one was paying attention. He was always going too far. “You want to wind up with your head in a ditch instead of a kitchen?” I snatched my purse and shoved in my chair. “You’re doing great, Dad. Just great. Glad to see you.”
The silicone tracking caught the door on my way out. It was a shame nothing ever slammed anymore.
***
Wednesday afternoon arrived with its usual cat-in-the-sun haste. That is to say, it took forever.
This Wednesday, I’d planned to spend the day finalizing the details for Pearce’s birthday party, so I wasn’t at the office. I’d traded shifts with a fellow technician. Maybe that was my first mistake. I wasn’t where I was supposed to be. When had I last done the laundry?
Still, it was careless of him, and sloppiness could mean only one thing: this was not his first time. Tangled in between dirty sheets in the hamper, I found a pair of panties.
If you had seen my face when I first picked them up, dangling them between my thumb and forefinger, it would’ve looked like I’d just opened Tupperware with two-week-old salmon.
They had the kind of stitching that made it clear they’d come straight off a conveyor belt, not out of a seamstresses’ hands, and my forehead wrinkled the way it does when you know it’s time for another Botox appointment.
Needless to say, they weren’t my panties.
My husband, apparently, wasn’t mine either. Just a bastard boning some slut. In. My. Bed. My fucking bed.
I stormed the bedroom next, half expecting to find the harlot stashed away somewhere. I even checked the closet, but she’d left no other clues.
I stopped to think. Maybe there was another explanation for the underwear? His mother’s?
No.
Just underwear, and no affair?
But that was worse. What kind of creep stole women’s panties? No, the idiot was sleeping around.
With the panties in hand, I stormed his office next. Drawers slammed. Closet organizers came undone. But then I found it. Bottom of the junk drawer. Two hard copy photographs.
Old school. He had actually printed photographs. What an idiot.
But then—I checked his computer—no electronic evidence. Smart.
Photos in hand, I plowed down the staircase.
The kitchen was quiet, so the trash can sounded loud when I pulled it out of its drawer and shoved them in. Next, I drew a knife from the block. Not the small, I’m coring an apple kind—the carving turkeys kind. Fuck the C.O.A. I was going to take care of this SOB myself. I grabbed the panties out of the trash and stabbed them in the back.
All the thrusting made me thirsty, so I put on a kettle and found the hidden bag of Newman’s Own fake Oreo’s. At one point, I picked-up Pearce’s espresso cup and sniffed, as if I’d catch a whiff of something revelatory.
Lungo? I should’ve fucking known. I laughed out loud. I’d finally become my mother, after all. All this progress, and what had it gotten me?
For the first time, I understood why people wanted to kill each other, because I wanted to kill Pearce. That was my first thought. It would feel good. Fucking incredible—and just.
It was comical, really, or maybe I was just becoming hysterical. Though we didn’t use that word anymore, either.
I stuffed another cookie in mouth.
When the kettle screamed, I poured boiling water over the tea, the thin porcelain sinking into the crater of my hands. And another, much more annoying feeling bobbed to the surface of my mind. I didn’t want Pearce gone.
And damned if I were going to become a redit.
***
In the quiet I heard the whizz of propellers clearly, so I kept still, sipping my tea. The hum grew louder as one of the C.O.A.’s white and green drones dipped into our backyard. The Citizenship Oversight Authority. How many times had one of them landed, and I hadn’t even noticed?
They monitored transgressions.
The floor to ceiling windows had always soothed me before, but now the hair on my arms stood up. What did we need so much damn glass for? The porcelain wobbled in my hands. How far could its camera zoom?
I made myself bring the cup to my lips, sipped like I normally would. Fake swallowed again just in case.
Gurgling, I rubbed my neck. What kind of woman fake drinks tea?
I needed to get a grip.
The drone hovered, click, click, click, then buzzed as it moved along to some other yard.
Relieved, I doubled over. An odd medical emergency seemed to be coming on—my breath faltered, chest tightened, then it passed. Just like the machine.
Citizens weren’t allowed to use drones anymore—too many voyeurs filming women sunbathing topless, taking a shower, shitting on the toilet—we’d all seen the YouTubes. They were vulgar. Something had to be done.
But this?
Now the C.O.A. operated all drones—faceless people in a dark room who had passed rigorous tests. Or robots. The bots were safe, they told us, not prey to the same perverse motivations as humans. But as the drone’s buzz faded, I had my doubts. Wasn’t a drone just a soulless voyeur?
What was my husband?
In the living room, I turned on the screen, waiting for the news. Pearce’s face wouldn’t be there, I told myself, but I had to be sure. The panel above the fireplace roared to life, colors and sound spreading across it. Every now and then, the broadcasters reported a philandering husband digging ditches in a gray collared shirt. Most of the time, though, when degenerates made the news, it was something more salacious—a pervert with a renegade drone taking pictures of nude women. Assaults were rare, they said, but they did still happen.
Then the screen would flash to the chamber, the electric bed. Nobody used chairs anymore. Too hard to get people to sit.
It was all very speedy. In bite-sized bursts, the journalists would splash the story across our screens—the accused’s forays, the trial, the execution. The coverage deterred predators, they told us, reminded everyone the program was working—that we were safe.
But the news stories reminded me of another truth, the one they didn’t want us to remember—that some men were too stupid to deter. That’s what made me nervous about Pearce. Was he thinking about consequences? Or was he thinking with his dick?
***
Two hours later, I’d formed a nice indent on the couch. Pearce wasn’t back, but the drone had returned. Behind the house, a slit of a window cut across the garage wall. My car was inside, but his wasn’t. Had the drone seen that?
My third cup of tea had gone cold.
He was fucking careless, that was the thing of it.
Eight years ago, I had trusted Pearce completely. He was smart, stable. With a lopsided grin. In gray trousers with a striped button down, his hair a little boyish still, he’d asked me out in a line at the butcher. I still remember his order—two pounds grass-fed ground beef.
Hamburgers, it turned out.
After our first dinner, he took me to this little dive bar where we kissed like teenagers on a paisley couch on the rooftop under a string of Christmas lights, though it was October. Was the bar still there? It’s not the kind of place we went to anymore.
Before long, we’d smoothed our differences into compliments. Pearce told jokes, and I laughed. They were never at my expense; that was the key. Pearce was irreverent, offending others more than once, but our relationship was protected, special. He always knew where the line was, and he never crossed it.
When had that changed?
On the couch, I folded the two photographs so many times the creases looked like children’s origami. Tossing it onto the table, I got up. Tidied the pillows, folded a blanket, while the evening drone clicked away in the yard. Tchk, Tchk, tchk.
When it was gone, I turned the brass knob until the fireplace roared to life. Blue and orange flames sprung up from the pipe, the colors reflecting on the crystal shards below.
I chucked the photographs into the flames and watched them curl and blister. For good measure, I stalked to the kitchen, removed the panties from the trash, and burned them, too. In the air, I could taste the acrid smell of ash.
***
When you’ve been waiting long enough, the waiting becomes something else. I’m not waiting, I’m organizing. I’m not waiting, I’m reading. But when the triple chimes of the doorbell pried me out of my reverie, I knew the waiting was over.
For a stolen moment, I considered my options. What if I didn’t answer? The drone had already photographed me, so they knew I was home. And the house left no way of egress that didn’t lead past the front porch. Unless I hopped our fence, which I wasn’t especially keen to do. Plus, getting caught escaping would be worse—what kind of woman ran from the authorities? In these days? I would probably be examined for psychological disturbance. Then charged as an accomplice.
So, I fluffed the couch cushion, karate-chopped the top, and made for the door. Wrinkles creased my blouse, but my dishevelment was explainable—I was worried about my husband. All I knew was that he hadn’t come home. I’d have to cop to that. The panties I’d taken care of—there was no way they could know about those. If they had other evidence, I would play dumb.
I opened the door to two officers in gray uniforms. Stared just a second longer than I normally would. “Good evening, officers.” I tried to sound concerned and a little confused—a befuddled wife.
“Ma’am.” The woman placed her navy cap under her arm, revealing a short, blonde haircut that reminded me of Meg Ryan in old movies. “May we come in?”
I showed them to the living room. “Can I get you some tea? I have chamomile,” I clarified, in case the idea of caffeine in the evening scandalized them. “I hope it won’t be a late night?”
“Chamomile is fine.”
When I returned with a tray, Meg Ryan straightened. “Ma’am, we need to ask you a few questions about your husband.”
I gestured to the couch, where they sat, while I settled cross-legged into the armchair.
“Is Mr. Scarlette at home?”
I shook my head.
“Has this happened before?”
“Coming home late? It’s…unusual.” I stifled back a genuine sob—though I’m not sure how I managed it. “He hasn’t called. He could be working late. Some of the roads are still under construction?”
They knew what this meant, and it was a valid concern—an accident. Thanks to a shortage of construction workers and the promotion of a few supervisors who were less skilled and more political, the neighborhood had a never-ending maze of reroutes and unmarked construction sites.
The quiet one nodded.
The blonde frowned, tapped her pen against a small pad. “Has he been staying out late a lot recently?”
“No,” I said. That wasn’t a lie. I hadn’t noticed anything different—not one single thing until today. I felt my heartbeat quicken, so I cleared my throat. “I’m just not sure where he is.”
She leaned forward, propping her elbows on her knees. “Mrs. Scarlette, I’m afraid we have some bad news. We received a call from an informant.”
I folded my hands in my lap.
“We are doing everything we can to bring the suspect to justice.”
The suspect. My husband, I gathered.
“We have verified information that your husband has engaged in unlawful conduct with a woman.”
Who was she? That was the one thing I still didn’t know, but we were supposed to focus on the man—the offender, not his victim. “That’s not possible,” I said. “We’re married.” I pushed up and marched to the bookcase. “Here.” I held out the silver frame as proof—me in a white gown, the suspect in a suit, his lapel pinned with jasmine.
The officers nodded. This poor woman, their faces said, she can’t even comprehend that a husband could cheat.
“We understand, Mrs. Scarlette. Please trust that a full investigation is being conducted. Unfortunately, we must inform you that, despite vast improvements—”
“Vast improvements,” the quiet one repeated.
“Yes, despite all of our . . . advancements, occasionally we discover violators.” She said the word like the syllables themselves were a sin to stamp out.
I stared.
The quiet officer shifted in his seat. “You see, we’re still not able to prevent licentious conduct—not entirely. What my partner is trying to say, ma’am, is that we have reason to suspect your husband is a voyeur.”
She opened the back flap of her notepad and pulled out a photograph.
My mouth dropped open. A voyeur? Impossible. The idiot was having an affair! An affair with a consenting, no doubt quite participatory, little harlot. He was not watching someone from afar. And I had the panties to prove it! I looked past my guests. Had. Behind the upholstered chairs where the officers sat fumbling with their caps, orange and blue flames danced, a charred pile of rubbish at their fiery feet.
The officer passed a photograph to me, and I took a little too long looking at it. Surprised. Because this photograph looked different. In the ones I’d found the woman stared at the camera, desire obvious in her slightly parted mouth. A hint of showmanship. These looked . . . ambiguous. It wasn’t clear whether she knew she was being photographed.
“We have questioned the target—the, uh, woman who was involuntarily photographed. She noticed his attentions but was unaware how far they’d gone.”
“Quite,” the other said.
“She is cooperating with the C.O.A. to bring him in. I assure you, she is a victim in this, too.”
I passed back the photograph, looking away, as I twisted the corner of a pillow in my hand. “Is she—is she okay?” I asked. Is she okay. That fucking whore.
The officer nodded. “Yes, we’ve moved her to a different employment post. One that’s safer.”
“Much safer,” the other agreed.
I choked back the howl threatening to erupt from my lungs. “That must be a difficult transition.” My voice was hoarse. I tried to sip the tea, but it tasted like grass.
“Oh, not to worry, there were plenty of accountant openings.”
Cheri. I fucking knew it. Cheri the CPA. I set down the cup and smoothed the wrinkles in my skirt.
“The evidence against your husband is quite strong.”
“I see.” I remembered that face now. I’d seen her at the party for the new launch. Noticed how she had smiled at Pearce just a little too long. But I had felt safe, knew my husband was smarter than that. I hadn’t worried. I believed my husband, no—me, us—I believed we were immune.
“We have a protocol in place, Mrs. Scarlette. You needn’t worry. Everything will go smoothly.”
“What do I do?”
“It’s important not to place yourself in any danger. If your husband comes home, do not confront him. Instead, simply press this button.” She handed me a silver card no bigger than my thumb with a blinking green light. “We’ll pick him up.”
I stuffed it in my pocket. “Thank you. What will you do then?”
They looked at each other as if this question was unexpected—one I wasn’t supposed to ask.
“Our redistribution group will be in touch.”
“Yes, once the investigation concludes, the counselor will contact you, and you can begin the redistribution process.”
Redistribution. I cleared my throat. A new life, all set-up by the C.O.A. New house, new crop of C.O.A. approved eligible replacements. I wouldn’t have much time. Standing, I dusted off my skirt. “This has been…a lot. Thank you, officers.”
“Ma’am.” The officer’s features drew in, like a kitten squeezing through a hole. “If you need anything, anything at all, just call us.” She handed me her card.
They picked up their caps, and I escorted them to the door. My purse hung on a peg, and I removed my pebbled leather card case.
At the stoop, the woman turned. “Oh, and, after the investigation, you can watch.”
“Watch?”
“The termination. If the investigation concludes in the affirmative.”
The termination—was this officer inviting me to watch my husband die? I had to strain to keep my hand still on the door’s edge. My fingers paled.
“Don’t worry. They usually do.” She tipped her cap.
“I’ll be sure to stay in touch.”
When they were gone, I walked back to the living room, picked up my teacup and hurled it against the wall—the crisp sound of porcelain shattering a balm to my mind.
In the corner, we’d had an architect carve a wet bar. We rarely used it—a Justice Day party once a year. This year would’ve been different. I walked over and poured a glass of bourbon, the angled facets of the glass reflecting the fire’s indifferent light. The burn of the liquor made me cough, and I wiped my mouth, leaving a trace of saliva on the back of my hand, before I poured another. Then I pulled out my phone, still holding the card case, and dialed.
“Nene?”
“Dad?” I pitched the officers’ cards into the fire, the last morsels for its unflinching flame. “I need that number. For Atticus.”
He cleared his throat. “How many?”
I glanced at the wedding portrait, at Pearce’s slim build, my satin gown. In the fireplace, the flames crackled, absorbing the cardstock like they were always meant to become one—heat and fuel, the delineation blurred.
“One,” I said. “One to disappear.”
- Two for Atticus - July 1, 2023
