Issue #87 -- May 2025

MY MOTHER'S KNIVES

Christina Hoag

 

I was glad when the downstairs neighbor moved out. I didn’t like Gladys. She’d make a face when she saw me and tell me I needed to go on a diet or take a shower. She was always complaining that I jangled my keys too loud and thumped up the stairs when I came home from work at two in the morning. It wasn’t my fault she was a light sleeper.

But I fixed her. I told Mrs. Priscoletti that Gladys’s son had moved in. If there’s one thing Mrs. Priscoletti hates, it’s “unauthorized residents.” I said he was smoking pot constantly and playing loud heavy metal music. It worked. Mrs. Priscoletti didn’t renew Gladys’s lease. Gladys tried to get back at me when she moved out. She took my “Welcome” doormat with the picture of the rose-covered cottage and the calico cat. I went to Wal-Mart and got another one.

Mrs. Priscoletti always moved fast to line up tenants, not like when she had to make a repair. So, I sat at my typewriter by the attic window, making up stories about the people on the street, and waited for my new neighbor. I’ve had this typewriter since I was a kid. I’m lucky my mother never threw it out. She tried to, but I hugged it so hard to my chest she couldn’t get my arms off. She ripped up my stories instead. I hid them after that.  

The new tenant arrived the Saturday after Gladys left. I leaned out the window to get a good look and caught sight of his bald patch as he unlocked the front door. A woman with mousy hair followed him. I rushed downstairs but stayed on the steps. They didn’t close their door so I could hear everything.

“Paul, this is real nice!”

“Look at the little back yard.” Their voices faded.

I ran to my bedroom and yanked up the window. Paul had black hair and a mustache and a belly hanging over his belt. She had a flat stomach. He pointed at a flower bed. “I can plant string beans and eggplant over here, put tomatoes here.”

“And I’ll sit right here and work on my tan!” He put his arm around her and kissed her forehead.

Paul didn’t have any furniture, just boxes. I waited until they almost finished unloading the car – I didn’t want to get stuck carrying stuff - and went downstairs. I poked my head in the door. Giggles and growls came from the bedroom.

“Yoo-hoo!” The sounds stopped and they came out, hair mussed, shirts rucked up. I put on my nice-as-apple-pie smile.

“Hi, I’m Mary Grace Nagy, I live upstairs.”

“Paul Ventimiglia, this is my girlfriend, Denise.”

“How are you settling in?”

“It’s just me moving in,” Paul said, “but I don’t have much to settle. My ex-wife got the furniture.”  He gave Denise one of those “in the know” looks. She rolled her eyes. He had a nice way about him, a warm smile and a gap between his front teeth. My father had a gap like that.

“If you’re getting furniture delivered, I can let them in for you,” I said. “I work nights, cleaning state offices downtown, so I’m home days.”

“Maybe you clean my office, the Department of Transportation,” Paul said.

 “I do Health and Human Services.”

 “Well, I might just take you up on your offer. Thanks.”

“You lived here long?” Denise said. She seemed nosy.

“I’ve lived in Chambersburg my whole life. We were the only Hungarian family around. It was all Italian back then. Now the Italians are old, like Mrs. Priscoletti. The young ones all move out of Trenton. I’ve lived in this place…”

Denise nudged Paul. “We better unload the rest, babe. We gotta be at Charlie’s at six.”

“Sorry, we’ll have to talk later, Mary Grace.”

“Nice meeting you.” Denise turned up the edges of her mouth.

I smiled at Paul and half-lifted my hand at her.

The following Saturday morning, a truck arrived with a couch, bed, table and other stuff. Paul hadn’t taken me up on my offer about deliveries. It must’ve been Denise who told him not to.

He went out that afternoon. I waited by the window til I saw him return. I was glad to see he was by himself. I raced downstairs and pretended like I was checking the mail in the hallway when he came in. He smiled at me.

“Hope the delivery guys didn’t wake you this morning,” Paul said. “They weren’t too quiet.”

“Oh, no, I didn’t hear a thing.”

“It was a hassle. The couch wouldn’t fit through the door, so we had to take the door off. We scraped the threshold pretty bad.”

“Mrs. Priscoletti isn’t going to like that,” I said.

“She doesn’t have to know, right?” He winked at me.

“Of course not. You know, when my mother and I moved in here, she’s dead now, but back…”

“Sorry, I gotta get ready, date with Denise.” Paul was unlocking his front door. “Catch you later.” The door closed.

She really had him on a leash.

Paul settled into his routine. He’d leave the house shortly after eight and sit in his car for a minute to warm up the engine before driving off. He’d return just after five. Tuesdays and Thursdays he came home for lunch and Denise would come over. She had her own key.

If I sat in my bedroom with the window open, I could hear dishes clattering, water running, chairs scraping. I often heard grunts and groans and rhythmic rocking. I’d slam down the window and pound my feet on the stairs to the attic as hard as I could.

Since I was home in the day, I’d always pick up the mail. The letters came through the slot in the front door and landed on the floor. I put Paul’s stuff in a neat pile by his door.

On my nights off, I’d listen outside his door to hear what show he was watching, then I’d run upstairs and tune in my TV to the same one. Soon, I didn’t have to listen at the door. I knew what he’d be watching. He liked cop shows the best.

I knocked on his door one evening. He answered in his undershirt. A gold cross glinted around his neck. My father wore a cross. I used to swizzle it back and forth on its chain when I sat on his knee. Paul caught me staring at it.

“Anything wrong?”

“Just remembered something.” I waved my hand. “Anyway, the gas man came yesterday and said he needed to get into the basement to read the meter. Something about too many months of averaging,” I said. “I told Mrs. Priscoletti years ago to have the meters moved outside but she says it costs too much.”

Paul scratched his chin. “Shit. I’ll have to call the gas company and see if there’s something else they can do.”

“If you leave me the key on the sixth of the month, I could let the gas man in. I’d be happy to do that.”

Paul’s face perked. “That’s real nice of you, Mary Grace. Thanks.” He smiled. “Mrs. Priscoletti is cheap, isn’t she? My tub needs to be replaced, but she’s sending her son to grout the crack.”

 “She’s always been like that. She did the cheapest job possible to convert this rowhouse into apartments. My mother always said Mrs. Priscoletti ending up paying double because she hadn’t done a proper job in the first place.”

“I’m sure. Well, I’ll get a copy of the key for you.”

“I took care of my mother til she died. That was five years ago.”

“I’m so sorry. Listen, I got a pot of sauce on the stove. I’ll catch you later.”  

A few days later, I found an envelope pushed under my door. It was Paul’s key with a note saying to keep it in case of emergency. I hummed all night long as I vacuumed my floors.

The next morning after Paul left for work, I let myself into his apartment. I grabbed a handful of candies from a bowl on the coffee table and sat in the recliner in front of the TV. I went into the kitchen and stuck my finger in the pot of tomato sauce left on the stove. Spicy. I opened the cabinets. He really liked pasta.

His phone receiver smelled of cologne. I spotted the bottle in the bathroom and sprinkled a bit on my neck. The medicine cabinet had regular things like aspirin and Tums. The best stuff was in the bedroom. It usually is. I found copies of Penthouse under his bed. His underwear was on the floor, size 38. It had a big heart you know where. I stuffed it in my pocket. He’d think he lost it at the laundromat or something.

Almost every day I hung out in Paul’s apartment. I watched TV and listened to his goopy music. I took off all my clothes and got into his bed so I could rub the smell from his sheets all over me. I flipped through his old photo albums, his wedding, and school pictures. I drained the dregs from the Bud cans in the recycling bin.

I was always real careful to leave everything exactly how I found it and to get out of there before he got home. But one day I slipped up. I fell asleep in the recliner, and it was a Thursday, one of the days he and Denise came home for lunch.

I bolted out of the chair when I heard the front door bang and voices. I raced to the bedroom and dove into the closet. They went into the kitchen. The fridge opened, the cutlery drawer rattled. Then I heard Denise giggling. “Stop, Paul. Oh, you!”

They thumped across the living room and crashed into the bedroom door, laughing. I opened the closet door a crack. Denise was sprawled on the bed with Paul on top of her. He was kissing her, pinning her arms above her head. I pushed the door open a little wider. He pulled the blouse out from her skirt and unbuttoned it. He pushed up her bra and squeezed her boobs. She was unzipping his pants. Then he spread her legs and moved on top of her. As he rocked back and forth, I watched the gold cross bounce off his chest. It was over pretty quick.

That night I dreamed of my mother sharpening her knives.

Not long after that, I heard knocking at the front door one Sunday morning. I looked out. Denise was on the porch. “Paul, it’s me! Answer the fucking door, would you?”

He didn’t answer. I looked across the street. His car was there. She hammered the door with her fist.

I went downstairs, planning to tell her to piss off. Paul obviously didn’t want anything to do with her. But he came out of his apartment at the same time, hair messy and eyes puffy. He opened the door, and she tumbled in.

“What took you? I’ve been out here for ten minutes already.”

“I took a sleeping pill,” Paul said. “Where’s your key?”

“I can’t find it.”    

She saw me and practically shoved Paul into the apartment.

“She gives me the creeps,” I heard her say. “Something …”

“Shh.” Paul shut the door.

I felt stabbed in the stomach. At least Paul tried to protect me.

I wasn’t careless like Denise. I got a copy made of Paul’s key in case I lost it. I kept the keys in the music box my father gave me for my ninth birthday. When you open it, a little ballerina twirls.

I made shortbread cookies a few days later and took a plate to Paul as a thank-you for sticking up for me against Denise.

“Want some vegetables from my garden?” he said. “I’ve had a bumper crop this year. I can’t eat them all.”

He loaded up a paper bag of eggplants, tomatoes and string beans and handed it to me.

“This is so generous of you,” I said. Tears scalded my eyes. I blinked them back. The last present I got from anyone was the music box. My father disappeared the day after he gave it to me.

 “Well, thanks for the cookies. They look real good.”

“I used to make cookies for my mother all the time,” I said.

“Thanks again.” He paused. I could tell he was embarrassed at my generosity. I told him I’d see him later.

I couldn’t eat those vegetables. I put them in a bowl and carried them upstairs to the attic, to my bedside table, to the living room. But after a couple weeks, they went moldy.

Paul left the empty cookie plate by my door. He clearly wanted more but was too shy to ask. I took him down another plateful.

“Oh. Thanks,” Paul said. “But you shouldn’t go to the trouble.”

“No trouble. I love baking,” I said.

“It’s just that I’m on a diet.”

“You don’t need to go on a diet. You look perfect. The eggplant and tomatoes were the best I ever had, by the way. And the string beans.”

“You want some more? I have plenty.”

“That would be great.”

“Hold on a sec.” He disappeared and returned with a bag. “I have to run. I was just about to go out.”

“No problem. We’ll talk later.”

“Sure thing.”

I liked the way he said that. Sure thing. I muttered it to myself as I went upstairs. This time I was prepared. I’d bought a couple dozen bottles of clear nail polish and I painted each eggplant, tomato and string bean so they would keep forever.

I moved my typewriter into the living room by the front window so I could get a closer view of Paul when he went in and out. He was inspiring me to write lots of stories.

One Saturday night, I heard yelling from downstairs. I tiptoed down and pressed my ear to the door.

“How do you think that makes me feel when you talk to her, when you have anything to do with her?”
              “She’s a part of my life, like it or not.”

“I know that, but you don’t have to rub it in my face all the time.”

“Jesus, Denise, I’m not rubbing it in your face, I swear. I’m sorry, okay?”

 They calmed down and I went back upstairs. My chest was bursting. They were fighting about me! Denise really was interfering.

I waited til it was all quiet downstairs, and the lights went out in the neighbors’ windows across the street, then I grabbed my mother’s carving knife, went outside and slashed the tires on Denise’s Honda. I slept in the living room, so I’d hear everything the next morning.

I woke up at the sound of Denise yelling. “Oh my god, Paul!”

I keeled onto the floor, laughing.

A couple days later, the car had four new tires. I went out again, this time with my mother’s paring knife, and scratched “Cunt” on the fenders. A police officer knocked at my door later and asked if I had seen anyone suspicious.

I shook my head. “Nothing out of the ordinary.”

“You sure? Mr. Ventimiglia says you watch everything that goes on in the street.”

“No, I really haven’t seen anything.”

He cocked his head at me for a second then handed me a business card. “If you remember anything, call me.”

“Sure thing, Officer.”

Paul knocked at my door later. I smiled my biggest smile, but he didn’t smile back.

“Mary Grace, I’m going to need my key.”

The smile dropped clean off my face. “Why? Is there a problem?”

“I think it’s safer with this trouble we’ve been having.”

“What about the gas meter? I was taking care of that for you.”

“Don’t worry about it. I really need the key.”

“Sure thing.” A rage rose in my throat like vomit. I fetched the key and handed it to him.

“It’s these kids round here, you know,” I said. “The neighborhood’s not what it used to be.”

“I’m thinking I might have to move out.”

“You can’t leave!” I said before I could stop myself. His eyes widened then fastened on something over my shoulder then he turned and left.

I closed the door and swiveled to see what he’d been looking at. It was the bowl of varnished vegetables.

Denise had totally turned him against me. He needed me to protect him. My mother’s voice echoed in my head. “People will corrupt you, Mary Grace, that’s why you have to stay close to me. I’ll protect you from evil people.” I closed my eyes and held my breath as she pushed up my nightgown with the blade of her knife. My lungs burned like I’d been running for my life.

I waited until late that night, then I threw a dozen eggs at Paul’s car from the living room window. His car looked like it was crying yolks.

The next morning, I woke up to banging at the door. It was Paul. His face was all twisted.

“What the hell kind of game are you playing?” he yelled. “What the fuck is your problem?”

“That was Denise. I saw her do it.” I wrapped my arms around his waist. “I’ll protect you. We’ll protect each other.”

He struggled to pull me off. I hung on, just like I hung on to my typewriter, and just like my mother, he couldn’t loosen my grip.

“You’re fucking crazy! You did all this shit. I know you did, you weirdo!”

Weirdo! That’s what they called me in school. I let him go and he staggered back. “Don’t you ever come near me or Denise again or I’ll call the cops!”

She must be really poisoning him to make him yell names and threaten me. I was losing him.

The next day I let myself into Paul’s apartment with the copy I’d made of his key and crawled into the closet. I sat there breathing in the leather scent of his shoes, the musky body odor on his shirts. I heard a noise at the door. My body tingled.

I didn’t have to wait long. The bedroom door banged against the wall. Paul carried in Denise and laid her on the bed. He pushed her skirt waist-high. I squeezed my eyes shut. I felt the prick of the knife as my mother spread my legs, the cold whisky bottle, the rough wooden plunger handle. The pain bolting through my body. Where was Daddy?

Paul groaned and Denise cried out. The knifepoint pressed into my thigh to keep me quiet. Why wasn’t Daddy here? Did he leave so she could do this to me?

“Could you get me some water, babe?” Denise said.

“Sure thing.” He padded out of the room.

When I heard the fridge door open, I lunged out of the closet and flung myself on top of her, plunging my mother’s knife into neck. She screamed and tried to push me off. I stuck my fingers in her eyes and swung the knife. I felt the power of making my mother scream. My strength doubled.

Blood was making her body slippery. Paul grabbed me from behind. I surged with anger. He should have been helping me. Daddy should have been there. I wrapped my arm around her neck, so when he yanked me, I pulled her with me. I stabbed her in the back, but the blade hit bone. Paul tried to pin my arm, but I moved too fast. I slid the knife between her ribs. She went limp. He seized my wrist. Paul didn’t appreciate anything I’d done for him. He was selfish, greedy, thoughtless. That’s what my mother yelled at me with each thrust of whatever it was she was putting in me.

With my free hand, I reached down to his balls and squeezed as hard as I could. He yelled and loosened his grip on my wrist. I yanked it free and sank the knife in his stomach. He fell back. I left it there and dragged myself upstairs. I was so tired. I didn’t even wash the blood off. I flopped onto the bed and slept.

***

I still sit at my typewriter at the window, but it’s a new view now. A grassy slope and trees with benches underneath. People stroll around. There’s the handsome Dr. Kramer. He has a tanned face that crinkles at the eyes when he smiles and asks, “How are you today, Mary Grace?” I asked the kitchen manager if she’d let me bake cookies. I think he’d like chocolate chip.

 

Christina Hoag is a former journalist. Her noir crime novel Skin of Tattoos was a finalist for the Silver Falchion Award for suspense, while her YA thriller Girl on the Brink was named one of Suspense Magazine’s Best of YA. The Blood Room, a detective mystery, is a police-procedural top seller on Audible. Her nonfiction book, Peace in the Hood: Working with Gang Members to End the Violence, is used in several universities. Her essays and fiction have been published in numerous anthologies and literary journals, including Lunch Ticket, Toasted Cheese, Other Side of Hope, and Shooter, and have been recognized with several awards.