Obviously it wasn’t the first time Shana had fantasised about her husband’s death. A gruelling, slow demise: undetectable quantities of concrete dust in his morning oatmeal. Maybe a tragic car crash, brakes mysteriously failed. Or something out of her hands entirely—a heart attack or opportune bullet to the head. It could happen (though admittedly, not likely in their neighbourhood). Then Shana wouldn’t even have to feel bad about him being dead, just relieved.

Yes, Shana had spent many a day-dreamy hour fantasising about the ways in which Ephraim might die, while she calmly washed dishes, folded boxer shorts, sweated over the stove, packed lunch kits, and worked her mind-numbing HR job. Tonight, however, was the first time she could make it happen. 

It was all up to her. Her and a bat. 

Shana had a vast knowledge of bats thanks to their eldest son, Marlon. At age four, he’d been a bat enthusiast and had forced Shana to read aloud the 200-page Big Fat Bat Encyclopaedia countless times, which had only confirmed Shana’s initial view: that bats, no matter how integral to any ecosystem, were disgusting. Eleven years later, Marlon was more of a porn enthusiast than a bat aficionado. Shana was, unfortunately, up to speed on this after sending Marlon’s laptop for repairs, whereupon she received an alarming report on the myriad sources of malware responsible for its breakdown: mostly sites with names that featured words like pink and gaping. 

Shana had a vast knowledge of bats

Regardless, Shana had retained most of the bat knowledge she’d been forced to digest all those years ago. So she knew that the fist-sized creature (that was another word that had featured in many of Marlon’s preferred searches: fist) comically hopping from foot to folded wingtip, and foot to folded wingtip, was a vampire bat, the only bat capable of stealthily walking toward its sleeping prey. In this instance, prey that presented itself in the form of her husband’s exposed toe poking out from beneath the sheet, a ripe bulb of callused flesh. 

Shana held her breath until her lungs burned then exhaled and inhaled in the tiniest possible increments. This was exactly what it must be like to be a National Geographic cameraman squatting in the Serengeti, watching a lion stalk an oblivious gazelle, waiting for death to unfold. Because if that bat bit into that crusty toe, Ephraim could indeed wind up dead. Of rabies. Exactly like Megan Fung Kee Fung from the down the road, also now dead, and no doubt from rabies—at least as far as Shana was concerned. 

A fortnight before Megan Fung Kee Fung was admitted to hospital, Shana had seen a dog stumbling along the main road on stiff jittery legs, spittle gathering at the corners of its mouth. Right away, she’d called the TTSPCA.

“Good-day. TTSPCA.”

“There’s a rabid dog on the loose!”

“Hello?”

“There is a dog WITH RABIES on the loose! Near St. Ann’s!”

“Trinidad doh have rabies, miss.”

“Well I just saw a dog that is indubitably rabid.” Shana mentally patted herself on the back for whipping out indubitably.

“Nah, man.”

And he’d hung up! 

Shana had been so incensed she’d resolved to take matters into her own hands. She’d executed a flawless U-turn, tyres screaming as she’d raced back toward the dog, intending to run it over, protect society. Instead she’d seen Megan Fung Kee Fung standing by her gate in a nipple-y tank top and pum-pum shorts, showing off the type of legs that filled Shana with self-loathing, while loudly calling the stumbling, frothing, unquestionably rabid dog inside. Which is how Shana learned that the dog was named Dildo, which she thought cruel to the animal until she read Megan Fung Kee Fung’s obituary that named her a loving dog mother to Bilbo, as in The Lord of the Rings. 

Two weeks after the day that Bilbo-not-Dildo narrowly escaped being crushed under the wheels of Shana’s SUV, Megan Fung Kee Fung was in a coma. 

In the Neighbourhood Watch WhatsApp chat, Shana learned that it had all started with flu symptoms. Which is exactly how rabies starts, as Shana discovered via Bing (never Google; Shana always tried to root for the underdog). Now Megan was dead, her prominent nipples and shapely hamstrings fated to never again see the light of day.

The worst part, Shana thought, was that Megan could’ve survived, but no one had tested or treated her for rabies because “there is no rabies in Trinidad”, the line they kept drilling into Shana, who eventually gave up stating her case after several impassioned yet futile calls to the Ministries of Health, the Environment, and National Security. 

Now a vampire bat—likely riddled with rabies—was circling her spouse’s toe. She knew, from The Big Fat Bat Encyclopaedia, just how it would happen. The bat would, ever so gently, make a puncture wound in the toe then it would crouch there, lapping at the blood oozing out with its filthy little tongue. Ephraim, a dabbler in Ambien, wouldn’t feel a thing as he contracted rabies. Then he’d be dead. Dead! Because no one would  treat him for rabies because THERE WAS NO RABIES IN TRINIDAD. 

Shana’s throat tightened as she pictured herself an elegant widow, dignified in her sorrow as she still found a way to make it to Pilates as a healthy coping mechanism, maybe sending the three children to boarding school with the life insurance to give them a change of scenery and give herself a chance to heal. She’d go out for the occasional drink with consoling girlfriends who would set her up with a handsome prematurely widowed man, a Pierce Brosnan or George Clooney type. Someone with erectile dysfunction who wouldn’t constantly pester her for sex, who loved to cook and was an amateur masseur. 

She’d never stopped loving him, she knew that, but the love had become like a cup of strong morning coffee.

Thinking about her new future husband, Shana found herself getting emotional. Oh, Ephraim. Always on his hands and knees in the earth, excited over some new vegetable or ground provision. The way his broad back narrowed to a trim waist, even at middle age. When had she started hating him, exactly? She’d never stopped loving him, she knew that, but the love had become like a cup of strong morning coffee. Distinctly and unavoidably bitter, yet something she couldn’t do without. 

She’d just gotten burnt out after decades of running their household, fulfilling the sexual contract implicit in the marital vinculum (the sexual contract no one talked about beyond monogamy; sure, you had to sleep with only one person forever—so what? The problem was, you had to sleep with him when you’d rather punch him in the ball sack or get an early night or binge whatever was showing on Bravo. That was what they should warn you about at Engagement Encounter, not ask who was going to scrub the toilet and cook the meals. Be prepared to fellate and fornicate when you’d rather stick something sharp in your own eardrum, that should be the takeaway.). 

The double standards of Caribbean marriage had worn her down. They both worked full-time, yet somehow he’d come home at five p.m. and put his feet up or go running—hence the still trim waist—while she’d be in the kitchen scrambling to figure out a dinner combination to satisfy four people, helping the kids with homework she could never figure out (Who the hell could remember how to long divide?), folding laundry, and remembering everyone’s appointments, play dates, extracurricular activities and all the rest of it. 

The resentment had mushroomed, naturally, until it had calcified into a true and steady hate. Then the death fantasies began. Divorce fantasies, too, of course. But then she’d start picturing the invariably young, sexy new girlfriend he’d bring around and she imagined all the Conscious Parenting methods New Girlfriend would spew at Shana as a way of proving she was a better stepmother than Shana could ever be. It would be hell. Death was, without a doubt, the better option.

Could she really live without him, though? Letting that rabies-carrying bat bite Emphraim would end it all. He wasn’t just a cancerous mole she could remove from her body and then continue with her life. He was like a misshapen facial feature she couldn’t stand yet couldn’t do without. 

Lost as she was in her thoughts, Shana almost forgot to remain perfectly still, until the moment was right there, in front of her, about to occur. The bat pulled its snout back to expose tiny fangs, white in the darkness. Now was the time to cough, kick the creature off, scream, wake Ephraim. Now, Shana, or he’ll die! She froze. It was going to happen—and she would be implicit, guilty of man slaughter, a step away from a murderess, a—

Ephraim rolled over and farted in his sleep. Knocked aside, the bat hit the floor with an unceremonious thump. 

And that, as they say, was that.

 

*

 

“Well, as always that was a thorough account, Shana.”

“I don’t like to leave anything out. I think it’s important for the process.”

Dr. Maharaj flips back a few pages in her notepad. “You mentioned a few weeks ago that you’ve also noticed parallels in dosage increases the more you share. With prior practitioners at least.”

“It was an observation, yes. I was being honest.” She turns up her palms. “For the process.”

Dr. Maharaj knows this will only go around in circles. She wants a few tokes on her vape pen and a KitKat. She doesn’t have time for Shana’s bullshit. She is also not upping Shana’s dosage again, no matter how many absurd details of her brain’s inner workings she decides to share. So, time to dig into this rabies thing and wrap up the session.

“Shana,” she says steadily, “are you aware that Megan Fung Kee Fung died of meningitis?”

“Meningitis?” Shana grinds her molars together, briefly. “You know that for a fact?”

“This is a small society. Word gets around.” Megan was actually an old flame. (Those nipples! Those legs! Such a loss.)

“She didn’t have rabies.” Dr. Maharaj softens her tone. “Which I suspect you knew. I also suspect you knew, really, that that bat wasn’t going to infect Emphraim.” She pauses here but Shana only blinks impassively. Poker face. Dr. Maharaj crosses her legs, Sharon Stone-style (though much less sexy with her Ann Klein slacks), and leans forward.

“Was there even a bat, Shana?”

 “I do think about Ephraim dying a lot, you know. Sometimes about the ways I’d kill him.”

“So do lots of wives. It’s fantasy.” Dr. Maharaj flutters her hand. “Escape. We’ve talked about this. Once the fantasies don’t become consuming…”

“They’re pretty consuming.” 

They stare at each other until it becomes a stare-off.

Dr. Maharaj knows a doctor shopper when she sees one. North West Trinidad is a small society, and the psychiatric medical community is even smaller. She knows Shana has seen a handful of psychiatrists already and that she knows her way around a prescription pill.

“Regardless,” she says finally. “I’m not increasing your dosage.” 

She’s about to continue unpicking the bat story, but Shana cuts her off. “What if I just want it increased?” 

 “I can’t just up your meds because you want me to. I’m not a drug dealer.”

“Not technically.” Shana half shrugs.

“Not at all!” Dr. Maharaj feigns more indignance than she feels, hoping this offence will be a good excuse to terminate the session early so she can get to her vape pen and her KitKat. “Shana, I think it’s time to wrap up…”

“You said it yourself.” Shana leans back into the buttery brown leather of her chair. She’s about to proselytise, Dr. Maharaj can tell. This tends to happen with the smarter patients. So much for the KitKat. “I want to escape. Everyone needs a way out, something to keep them numb and functional. People drink, overeat, get stoned, binge Netflix, play videogames all night …”

And what could be more absurd than marriage and motherhood and all the ways it crushed a woman? 

“Then play videogames. Binge Netflix. Don’t ask for prescription medication you do not need.”

“You think I have time for videogames and Netflix as a working mother?” Her eyes pool. “I need something to get me through the day, to help me escape the day while I’m getting through it, while I’m meeting everyone else’s needs before I meet my own.” She starts sobbing.

Dr. Maharaj clenches her jaw at the obvious manipulation. She almost tells Shana she won’t be bullshitted into giving her more drugs and to please leave and don’t come back. But then she feels it: that tug. The reason she became a psychiatrist. The desire to help people navigate the human condition in all its absurdity. (Yes, sometimes with drugs–but the right ones.) And what could be more absurd than marriage and motherhood and all the ways it crushed a woman? 

Exhaling, she plucks a tissue from the box on her coffee table and leans over to hand it to Shana. She takes it and blows her nose. 

“You’re not getting a new script from me, you know.”

Shana nods, seemingly defeated, but Dr. Maharaj doesn’t miss the determined hardening of her patient’s delicate features. She resists the urge to smile. 

“So let’s get back to this story you told me about the bat.”

“I don’t want to get into that again.” Shana dabs at her nose with the tissue and arches her head back to blink at the ceiling, showing the full scope of her red-rimmed nostrils, the length of her brown throat. “I just want a release. From the strain.” 

“That’s completely normal, Shana. Working motherhood is extremely difficult.” Dr. Maharaj settles into her chair, flips open her notepad. The KitKat can wait. It’s time to get down to business and help Shana Boodoo feel like life isn’t quite so shitty–even if it is. “Let me help.” 

Shana opens her mouth, eyes instantly bright and wide, but Dr. Maharaj flashes a hand at her. “Without increasing your dosage.”

Shana turns her face toward the rain-streaked window spanning one wall of the office, looking out onto the hills cupping Port of Spain, thickly green and barnacled with zinc-roofed slums. It’s a long couple of minutes before she speaks again.

Finally she glances at Dr. Maharaj then settles back into her chair, a sudden lightness to her demeanour. “Did I ever tell you about the time I met Richard Branson? When I was working in hospitality?”

Thrown, Dr. Maharaj frowns slightly. “You haven’t, no.”

“Well,” Shana begins, sliding her feet out of her shoes and tucking them underneath her. “Obviously it wasn’t the first time I’d thought about having an affair.” 

As she begins telling her story, the transformation is instant. Her cheeks are flushed a girlish pink. The downtrodden working mother and embittered wife is gone.

“But that was the first time I could make it happen. It was all up to me. Me and Sir Richard….”

 

 

∞

Caroline Mackenzie is a writer and translator living in Trinidad. Her sensational debut novel, One Year of Ugly, was published in 2020 by The Borough Press.